Holy Ground

Paris, 2014
       Charles Feldsome made his way through the large, open office space, delineated by glossy, glassed-in offices and individual cubicle partitions. At the back of the room, he pushed through frosted glass doors to a plushly carpeted executive reception area where he nodded to his secretary (well, actually the man was the assistant to all four senior managers of the Watcher Financial Division) before turning the corner and punching the private security code to his office.
       The large office decorated with gleaming, sleek modern furniture was a far cry from the battered antiques, drafty hallways and tiny cubicles of his early years in the Watchers. The tradition of buying up a huge old chateau and converting it for Watcher use had finally fallen by the wayside as the costs of building had gone down and the complications and expense of refitting a 15th Century mansion for modern technology had gone up. Now they had their own modern office building in downtown Paris, replete with the latest wireless technology. They even had their own satellite connections that kept them in reliable, secure and constant touch with the various regional offices all over the world.
       He shut the door behind him, slipped off his coat and settled behind the desk, calling up his email and slipping a disk out of his pocket to insert into his datapad. The private cache of information the disk contained gave him a small thrill each time he viewed it, and a smiled played around his mouth.   All that money at his fingertips. Through the centuries, the Watchers had gathered together every tidbit of information they had found about Immortal finances, and in the past five years Charles had made it his business to put all those pieces together like some vast electronic puzzle, tracing back the origins of their wealth, the movements from one account to another.
       Charles rubbed the tips of his fingers together in anticipation. The longevity of Immortals was their greatest economic strength, but could also be a hidden weakness that he had been ferreting out with the tenacity of a man with a sacred mission. Patterns of behavior followed over decades or centuries could, over time, be discerned and anticipated, codes learned, account accessing habits deciphered. For Immortals to whom the Watchers had paid particularly close attention, Charles knew their solicitors' and banker's names, had eavesdropped on their conversations, learned or guessed many of their passwords...Oh, yes. Charles had toiled for years, watching other peoples' money. It was his job after all.
       But much of the more personal information he had gathered he had kept to himself. And the time was getting close when some of those vast fortunes might just be pricked, and like a balloon full of water, that magic elixir would leak quietly, unnoticeably...elsewhere.
       There was just one more piece of the puzzle necessary.

Seacouver, USA
       Dr. Adam Pierson, tenured Professor at the University of Seacouver, scholar and preeminent bachelor about town, let himself into his apartment, hung his coat on the hook in the hallway and dropped the mail on the kitchen counter as he opened the refrigerator door. Beer in one hand, he sorted through the mail with the other. A few of the usual ads, a flyer for some conference on new trends in linguistics, his bank statement, his brokerage statement, several bills, and an invitation. A rather fancy engraved invitation by the looks of it. He took a long slug of his beer before he put it down, wiped the condensation off on his pants and ripped open the elegant velum envelope.
       "The Trustees of the Seacouver Museum of Fine Art cordially invite you to a reception and preview viewing of a new exhibit of the works of Tessa Noel." The artist's name rang a distant bell, but he couldn't quite place it. He'd probably seen her work in a catalogue somewhere, or read it in a review.
       He took another long swallow of beer and picked up the rest of his mail, wandering into the living room to turn on the news. The invitation only bothered him because he couldn't think of a reason why he would be invited to a special viewing. He was not the public philanthropist that MacLeod was, couldn't afford the luxury on a professor's salary. While he had developed a pleasant circle of friends and colleagues during the last decade or more, and was a respected scholar in his field, he was hardly considered among the city's social elite.
       The other possibilities were more troubling. That there might be some trap hidden in the otherwise innocent social event, someone who wanted to get him to a particular location under particular circumstances. At least in the Seacouver area, the Gathering had calmed considerably after MacLeod had sold the dojo and begun wandering the world, never staying in any one place long enough to call home. Staying on the move had slightly diminished the challenges for himself, and considerably reduced the jeopardy to those around him. Methos hadn't faced a challenge in almost six years, and had taken only two in the previous five.
       Sometimes it grated on him, the hunger -- those insidious tendrils of the call of the Gathering fed by the Quickening addiction he had worked so hard to master over so many, many centuries. Then he'd find himself on a trip, tracking down the Highlander wherever he happened to be, taking a few weeks to reacquaint himself with the man, basking in the tropical warmth of his power, his aura, his glorious body. Or usually if he let Mac know he wanted to see him, Mac would find a reason to come to town. Not only did proximity to Duncan MacLeod seem to soothe the edge of hunger for a Quickening, he always felt more alive when he was with Mac. The light was brighter, the wind fresher, the colors sharper.
       Twice he'd even seriously considered taking Mac up on his standing offer to become an official couple, to live and work and travel together, to share their lives on a permanent basis -- or as permanent as anything could be in lives that transcended governments and civilizations. But Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was like a walking rift in the space-time continuum. Wherever he was, so chaos followed, and the oldest Immortal couldn't live like that and have any reasonable hope of long term survival. It was one of the great conundrums of his long life, that the one person in whose presence he found the greatest joy and the most stimulation was the one person he could not live with for any length of time without threatening his very existence.
       And then there was Duncan's damnable devotion. The man always wanted to take care of him, like he was some treasured antique. While Mac managed to avoid overt expressions of his compulsive caretaking most of the time, Methos knew it was always lurking just beneath the surface. A touch there, a look, a small gift, a solicitous question. It eventually made him feel....unworthy, although he would never admit it to Mac, not if he lived another 5,000 years.
       MacLeod said he understood, and always smiled that sad, sweet smile and gave him a lingering goodbye kiss when Methos left. But Duncan MacLeod, the inveterate, tireless and giving lover, a man over whom women swooned and on whom even men cast covetous looks, had taken no regular mate, male or female, in almost twenty years. And Methos knew it was because Mac considered his heart taken, and that organ was now locked and stored away for safekeeping against the day its owner might actually come and take permanent possession. In the meantime, Mac would have his flings, his brief liaisons, always keeping his calendar open against the day Methos might call.
       It was an insidiously heavy responsibility.
       He reached into his pocket for the phone, suddenly wanting to talk to Mac, but stopped with the instrument halfway to his ear. It was a bad idea. Mac was on an expedition to climb Mount Everest, had trained for six months, and now as they were approaching the last leg of the climb, any attempt to reach the team would be expensive and distracting when Mac would need all his energy for what lay ahead. Local authorities had long ago stopped allowing climbers not of professional caliber. Even though they now had pressurized tents that could ease some of the breathing problems caused by the altitude, it was still a difficult and dangerous climb. Every year someone lost his or her life in the attempt.
       Mac had just approached it as a physical and mental challenge, like so many he had faced in his four and a quarter centuries. He was a man on a never-ending quest to be as strong, as fast, as quick, as tough and agile in mind and body as he could be. It wasn't a contest with anyone except himself, but the extraordinary effort had catapulted him in strength and skill past Immortals many times his age, and put him in the first ranks of those who might just win the ultimate Prize -- whatever that was.
       Methos had long ago passed through enough physical trials and tribulations not to ever want to deliberately subject himself to them again. He had nothing to prove, to himself or anyone else, and was content to stay in good physical shape and let his tried and tested reflexes do what they had always done -- respond instantly and appropriately to virtually any threat.
       While standing at the top of Mount Everest was an appealing notion, the painful and risky method of actually climbing the peak on his own two feet seemed far more effort that he wanted to put into the goal. Especially when someday, in another fifty or a hundred years, he would be able to hire a conveyance up there, sit in comfort to look out at the view from the highest point on earth, drink a glass of champagne, maybe share a moment or a memory with his lover, and ride away when the weather got too nasty and began to obscure the view. Much more civilized.
       Another advantage of living a very, very long time. And here he was, Methos thought with a smile, once again ruminating over his strange, complex relationship with Duncan MacLeod.
       He left the invitation on the counter, noting the date of two weeks away. Without additional information, he was unlikely to attend the mysterious, if intriguing, social event.

       "I can do it myself!" Joe Dawson snapped, then instantly regretted his tone. His 12-year-old grandson, Peter, was only trying to be helpful. The ramp that had been installed into the entrance in Joe's bar was getting a little worn and the boards were uneven, requiring a little effort to get Joe's wheelchair up the incline. But Joe Dawson had always had enormous upper body strength, and even more stubborn independence, and preferred to push himself. The very fact that hip and back problems had finally made using his prosthetic legs too painful, confining him to the chair, was bad enough. Being pushed around like an invalided old man was intolerable.
       "Sorry, Gramps," Peter apologized, and stepped back.
       With a grim clenching of his teeth, Joe muscled the chair up to the door and into the welcome dim interior of the bar that had borne his name for twenty years and become a local institution. The arthritis in his hands made grabbing the wheel rims painful, but he was damned if he was ready to become dependent on anyone. "Getting old is a bitch," he murmured to himself for the umpteen thousandth time.
       He could hear Amy behind him, herding Peter and his younger sister, Beth, inside and towards the back. The kids were discouraged from hanging around inside the bar, and most frequently ended up playing on the computer terminals in the extensive offices now built onto the back of the building. It was practically their second home. Joe's Bar, known throughout the city as a great place for a shot of smooth scotch and even smoother jazz, was also Northwest Watcher District Headquarters.
       "Hi, Adam!" Joe thought he heard Peter's young voice pipe up, as the youngster scrambled to be the first to get to the back of the room.
       "Hey, Squirt," came the answer in a familiar voice.
       "Pierson?" Joe peered in that direction. "Is that you?"
       "How are you, Joe?" Methos answered, strolling out from the shadows.
       Joe instantly felt better, his aches and pains fading into insignificance. "Well, well. What're you doing here? Run out of beer at home?"
       "Dad, you know we shouldn't be..." Amy began, a frown marring her attractive face.
       "Amy, don't you have some work to do?" Joe asked with an irritated scowl. Sometimes Amy treated him like one of the kids.

       Methos watched the by-play between father and daughter in amusement. Amy had aged well over the past couple of decades, and while she wasn't the reed-slender woman he had first met back in 1998, she had developed an air of authority and strength. Unfortunately, she had never really approved of her father's close friendship with the Immortals the Watchers were tasked with anonymously tracking. She was a by-the-book type, barely tolerating the presence of most of the myriad Immortals who looked on Joe Dawson as a loyal friend, confidante and drinking companion.
       Amy sighed, shaking her head in resignation. "He's impossible," she muttered as she swept by Methos, heading towards the back offices. She had ended up as Adam Pierson's Watcher for a few years, until she was promoted to Assistant District Director, and they had developed an uneasy, respectful acquaintance despite the Watcher's reluctance to be friends with any Immortal. And despite the fact that she was one of the few Watchers who knew his real identity and his true age, she remained stubbornly unimpressed by the 5,000 year old man. Probably a Dawson genetic trait.

       Amy made sure Peter and Beth were settled and not bothering any of the staff. The two-story building they had tacked onto the back of her father's bar was as inconspicuous as they could make it. The space held a few private offices and conference rooms, but the rest remained open, with the ubiquitous modular furniture and computers creating a bit of a rabbit warren effect. Watchers came and went at all hours, dictating or transcribing their notes, feeding the voracious appetites of the Home Office in Paris. Seacouver had five or six Immortals in the metropolitan area, none of them actively hunting, or actively hunted. But Joe, with Amy's assistance, helped direct the research activities and the field work teams for all of Northern California, Oregon, Washington and Southwest Canada.
       Joe was definitely of the hands-off management school, giving field workers far more discretion than Amy was comfortable with. She settled into her desk chair, tabbing through summaries of the various daily field reports she monitored. Being a field agent was the glamour job of the Watchers, but she had not found it at all to her taste. Her first assignment had been an unmitigated disaster, requiring her father's intervention to save her life and prevent further revelation to Immortals about what and who the Watchers were.
       Between that unnerving experience, and the constant exposure to Immortals from her father's eccentric friendships, Amy found comfort and solace in the routine of coordinating assignments and overseeing long-term research projects. Her current interest was in creating a statistical database of Immortal movements and battles in an attempt to analyze the subtle shifts of power and activity among the active participants in the Game. She believed it might just be possible to predict the outcome, if they had enough information.
       In minutes, she was totally absorbed in the facts and figures of the day's reports, eagerly sending emails to her fellow researchers in Paris and London.

       Methos waited until Amy and her two children had disappeared, then ambled over to his old friend, hands in his pockets. "Giving them a hard time?" he cocked his head towards the back.
       "It's one of the most entertaining things I do these days." Joe wheeled himself up the ramp that had been built behind the bar, so he could still serve drinks. "Can I get you some coffee?"
       "Just coffee?" Methos asked with a smile.
       "Hey, its eleven in the morning, and Saturdays last 'til two a.m. for me. If I start drinking now, I'll be worthless by midnight." Joe poured himself a cup of coffee, but pulled a beer out, popped the top and put in front of the oldest Immortal.
       "You know, you could turn this over to someone else, Joe. Running the Watchers and this place is more than a full time job."
       "And you think I ought to slow down, right?" Joe pursed his lips, and gave his old friend a hard glare.
       "I think you've earned the right to do exactly what pleases you."
       "Which is another way of saying I ought to slow down, turn the Watchers over to Amy so she can run the field agents like a drill sergeant, taking all the joy and interest and fun out of it," Joe snarled into his coffee cup.
       Methos laughed softly. "Okay. You will do what you think best. Amy's not so bad, though. Face it, Dawson, there's nobody quite like you and there never will be. Take it from the expert, change can be difficult, but it's not always bad." Then Methos took an envelope out of his pocket a placed it conspicuously on the bar.
       The harrumph from Joe was predictable, but done with a twinkle in his eye. "So, you got one, too?"
       "Then maybe you can tell me why I've been invited to an art show at a museum I don't contribute to, by an artist I've never met."
       "Tessa Noel? You may never have met her, but surely Mac's told you about her."
       Methos closed his eyes in sudden enlightenment. "Of course. Tessa. Mac's Tessa. How did they get my name?" Methos asked, his natural paranoia immediately kicking in.
       "Same way they got mine, I guess. Shandra Devane is the show's curator. She's known Mac for a long time and knows who his closest friends are. He donated most of Tessa's works to the museum and some to the University Art Department, then funded a big scholarship in her name. And you are on the University faculty. The invite may even have gone to the entire faculty. What, did you think this whole thing was some nefarious plot for some immortal to take your head?"
       "So call me...careful," Methos smiled.
       "So, are you going?" Joe asked.
       Methos snorted. "It's black tie. You know how long it's been since I've worn a tuxedo?"
       "Yup," Joe answered with a sharp laugh. "That Millennium New Year's Eve party fourteen years ago. You and Amanda put on quite a show, with Mac smack dab in the middle. He didn't know whether he was coming, if you'll pardon the expression, or going."
       "Amanda doesn't concede defeat easily, even though the only reason she was so determined was because she was drunk and totally twisted up in her knickers over her baby Immortal, Mr. Wolfe," Methos mused.
       "As I recall, Mac finally got pissed at both of you and went home alone," Joe grinned. It had been one of the more amusing evenings in his life, watching MacLeod's increasing discomfort as his two best friends simultaneously vied for who was going to take him to bed that night.
       Methos chuckled. "Well, we did get a little carried away. Got so busy arguing that we didn't even notice when he'd left the party. But it was still quite an entertaining evening." He shrugged and winked. "MacLeod's loss."
       "And you and Amanda ended up in the Seychelles for over a month, I believe."
       "And a good time was had by one and all," Methos sang in an exaggerated Irish lilt.
       "Except Mac. And that gets me back to the original question. Are you going to go?"
       "Why should I?"
       "Because it would be nice for Mac to have his friends around," Joe responded evenly. "Especially you."
       Methos looked up from his beer. The two men rarely discussed the complex relationship between he and Duncan MacLeod, but Joe had known about their intimacies almost from the moment they had begun back before the turn of the century. "I suppose," he sighed, "if it's important to Mac, I'll make an appearance. But I am surprised they didn't confirm the date with him a long time ago. Right now he's somewhere halfway up the side of Mount Everest."
       "I know. Shandra called me last week. She had been trying to reach him for over a month. Seems this is a supposed to be a bit of a surprise put on by her art students as a tribute to Mac for all his contributions, and she wanted to make sure everything was going to come together before she let him know."
       "So he's going to walk into this thing cold? Oh, perfect!" Methos snapped. Mac, like most Immortals, preferred keeping a low profile, among mortals at least. "That's assuming he'll even get word in time to make the party. Wouldn't that be amusing? She gives a party and the guest of honor doesn't even show."
       "I know, which is why Shandra was getting a little frantic. I finally told her I'd let Mac know about the date by email, so I expect he'll do his best to make it."
       "Yeah, fresh off the mountaintop, frostbite and all."
       Joe grinned at his friend's sardonic comments. "You don't fool me, Methos. You're delighted to have the chance to get him here. I can always tell when you get that wandering, speculative look in your eye. If he hadn't come here, you would have suddenly found a reason to take a trip for yourself."
       Methos finished off his beer before he met Joe's eyes. "What can I say?" he smiled. "I'm addicted, just like some other people I know."
       Joe actually blushed at the inference. "I don't think it's quite the same thing!" he snapped.
       "Well, maybe not quite the same thing, but you've been dogging the man's footsteps for over 30 years now and haven't seemed to get tired of him yet. Lord knows why, since he's such an infuriating bastard," he added, just because it was expected.
       "But I haven't seen much of him these past few years, now have I?" Joe's expression turned wistful. "You know, if you asked, he would move back here in a heartbeat. Make my life a whole lot easier."
       Methos rolled his eyes. "And you think I live to make your life easier?"
       Joe smiled. "Not so far."

       Methos waited for the van's hydraulic lift to whine to a stop, lowering Joe's wheelchair to ground level. Joe expertly maneuvered the platform to the pavement, ultimately making Methos and Amy step smartly to keep up, until they all had to slow down as the sidewalk became more crowded at the impressive approach to the entrance to the museum. Everyone was decked out in formal attire, and Methos could hear the strains of a live string quartet as they stepped into the marble foyer.   They weren't fifteen feet inside when Dr. Shandra Devane, Dean of Seacouver University's Department of Fine Arts, pounced on Joe like a cat on a mouse
       "Is he with you? Have you seen him?" she asked anxiously, ignoring the rest of the party as she scanned the crowd.
       "Good evening to you, too, Dr. Devane," Methos responded. He had always had the impression she didn't quite approve of him. She probably thought Mac was a sexual straight arrow, and eminently available until he had been seduced to the dark side by the young linguistics professor, thereby spoiling the romantic fantasies of many a young coed and perhaps a professor or two
       "Oh, hello, Dr. Pierson...Adam. Don't you look elegant tonight," she smiled up at him in mild surprise. "I was hoping Duncan would be with Joe. I really must speak to him before the presentation tonight, and he never called me." She was nervous, almost wringing her hands. "This isn't how I wanted this to happen, you know. I can't imagine why he didn't return my calls."
       "Perhaps the phone service at the top of Mount Everest leaves something to be desired, even in the 21st Century," Methos answered, but relented at her flush of consternation. "I wouldn't worry too much. His plane was due in about an hour ago, and might have been delayed. Joe tells me he may be coming here straight from the airport. He's been flying for the last 20 hours or so," Methos explained. "I certainly wouldn't take his not calling personally."
       "I'm just concerned that he not be taken by surprise," she answered, her eyes searching the crowd again. "I mean, I'm sure he'll be pleased, but I really wanted him to know what was happening."
       "I wouldn't worry, Shandra. It's not easy to take Mac by surprise," Methos tried to reassure her. The attractive golden-skinned woman, now in her fifties with an elegant streak of white in her otherwise coal black hair, was dressed in a beautiful sari of blue silk shot through with golden threads. Over the years, she had taken on more and more of the trappings of her mother's Indian heritage, but she had never shed her essentially American outlook, and had become a master at fund raising and networking to the benefit of the University's Art Department.
       "Oh look, there's the Chairman of the City Council," she was watching the crowd anxiously. "Adam, be a dear and bring Duncan to me just as soon as you see him?" she instructed over her shoulder with a wave of her hand, then advanced on the politician with a winning smile on her face and her hand outstretched.

       Mac checked his pocket watch again with a silent curse. The last three months had been a blur of training and more training, culminating in an enormous physical trial, replete with near-tragedy, ultimate success, wonder and triumph, but he was exhausted and not thinking as clearly as he should. But Joe had sent a message that it was really important that he attend this stupid reception, and he owed Joe more than he could ever repay, both in friendship and loyalty.
       He dumped his suitcases in the back of his rental car and considered his options. He could go straight to the affair and change to his tuxedo in the museum's restrooms and be more or less on time, or he could drive to the hotel, take a quick shower, shave and change, and be about forty-five minutes late. If he really hurried and got lucky, maybe he'd be only a half-hour late. Considering that he had been sitting in airplanes or airports for almost the last 24 hours and could hardly stand to be in the same room with himself, being a little late seemed the vastly superior alternative.
       By the time he managed to pull into the museum parking lot, forty-five minutes had turned into almost an hour and he went up the long entrance incline almost at a run, but stopped cold as he felt the wash of Immortal presence against his skin. Then smiled. Methos was here. That put a whole different light on the evening. He found his way inside, checked his overcoat and smoothed back his long hair that he had carefully streaked with gray at the temples to add a little age to his appearance, automatically checked to make sure his ponytail was outside of his coat jacket, and stepped toward the crowded room, looking for his longtime, sometime and absolute favorite lover.

       Methos was having a much better time than he expected. Not only was the food delicious, and the champagne nearly adequate, but a lot of the art and history faculty were there. Seeing them and their mates dolled up in rented or seldom-used finery was a new source of amusement. There were also a surprising number of students there, beneficiaries of the Tessa Noel scholarship or art students who had helped with the exhibits. Most didn't personally know Duncan MacLeod, but they were enthusiastic about Noel's work, and Methos was beginning to feel he had learned more about Tessa by listening to them discuss her work than he had ever learned from Mac's terse comments.
       The sketches were flowing but precise, capturing their subjects with a wonderful economy of line, but it was the sculptures that were entrancing. The reception was half inside and half-outside, despite threatening rain, because Noel's vision was too expansive to fit indoors -- smooth flowing forms that triggered all sorts of imaginings, from children playing to entwined lovers. She had used all kinds of medium, from burnished, soldered metal to cast bronze and sculpted marble, and her works were full of life and vision. One large piece dominated the sculpture garden, but was covered in white parachute silk. It was clearly the focus of the evening's events, and the timing of its official presentation, and the requisite remarks that were, no doubt, designed to solicit additional donations to the museum, were now what was giving the show's curator an anxiety attack.
       "I don't think we can wait for Duncan any longer." Shandra was clearly distressed, pacing back and forth in the garden and nervously looking up at the threatening sky. "The Director wants to go ahead and make the presentation even if Duncan's not here. He's afraid it will start to rain soon." She was now literally wringing her hands.
       "Look." Methos attempted to be placating, planning to offer to accept any presentations on Duncan's behalf. "Why don't you..." he stopped, a sudden chill washing over his shoulders.
       "Adam? Is something wrong?" Shandra asked, putting her small brown hand on his forearm.
       At her elbow, Joe Dawson coughed to get her attention. "I think Mac may have just arrived," he advised with a smile.
       "Oh?" she turned to Joe, both relieved and curious, when Methos attempted to pull away, the woman's grip on his arm tightened even as she sighed with relief. "I'll ask the Director to wait for ten more minutes, then we'll do the presentation." She stepped away to deliver her message.
       Methos's long legs took him toward the front door and the tall, tuxedo-clad man standing by the coat check counter. He drank in the sight and his heart surged in his chest, as it did every single time he saw Duncan MacLeod. He was like a rock, imposing, devastatingly handsome, frustratingly stubborn, insidiously deadly and wonderfully, maddeningly noble. My magnetic true north, Methos thought to himself, then almost laughed at his mental imagery. He must be feeling carried away by all the artwork, the champagne, and by the sudden wash of happiness that made his skin tingle.
       Mac stepped up to him, his eyes shining with welcome. "Adam!" he breathed. "I didn't know you'd be here." As though he couldn't help himself, he grabbed Methos's shoulders and drew him in for a quick, discreet hug.
       Methos returned the embrace, taking the opportunity to whisper, "How could I not? It's been too long, Mac. I hope mountain climbing didn't use up all your energy." He pulled back slightly, meeting Mac's warm gaze with a raised eyebrow. "I have a few marathon activities of my own in mind, now that you're here."
       Mac's dark complexion flushed just a little and his smile broadened into a grin. "Oh, I think I've a little energy left over, for you. Although it would be nice to get some sleep sometime soon."
       The two men turned and walked slowly towards the crowd, intent upon one another. "You do look a little the worse for wear," Methos commented, letting his eyes travel up and down a body he knew extraordinarily well.
       "Climbing at that altitude uses up enormous calories," Mac advised. "And the last couple of days have been a bitch, trying to get back here in time. I would have called, but I must confess I was really bushed and not thinking about much except getting here on time."
       "Mac!" Joe Dawson had found them.
       "Hey, Joe," Mac grasped Joe's forearm firmly, carefully examining his mortal friend. Joe's hair was completely silver now, but still thick and unruly. The pepper from his formerly salt-and-pepper beard had disappeared, and the lines and creases on his face had deepened. But it was still Joe, the gray-blue eyes still sharp, missing absolutely nothing, and they were warm with regard and welcome. Mac felt a sharp pang of guilt and regret. Joe didn't have very many years left, and Mac needed to spend more time with the man. He owed him that.
       "You're looking...trim," Joe observed, his eyes sliding critically down Mac's frame, and he was suddenly even more self-conscious about the toll his recent adventures had taken on his body.
       Mac shrugged uncomfortably. Everyone always seemed to take stock of his physical condition, as though he were a public commodity. He supposed it was a natural reaction, given that his readiness for mortal combat was a matter of day-to-day survival, but it was discomforting, nevertheless.
       "I suppose I better see what this reception is about, since I'm so late and Shandra was so anxious for me to be here," he replied, changing the subject.
       Methos touched his arm. "It's Tessa Noel's works, you know. I think Shandra was a little nervous about your reaction to the show."
       But Mac just smiled and shrugged. "Joe told me about it in his email. Tessa's been gone for twenty years, and I've seen all her works before."

       Despite Mac's reassurances, Methos kept a close eye on his friend as the three men went purposefully into the display area, and Mac stopped briefly at a picture of Tessa Noel at the gallery entrance. It showed a luminously lovely woman in her mid-thirties, her wispy blond hair catching the light around her face, an expression of wry humor playing around her delicate features.
       But before they had an opportunity to see the show, Mac was inundated with well-wishers. He made his way around the room, the epitome of gracious diplomacy, glancing briefly at the displayed works, but mostly nodding and shaking hands, now with Shandra hanging on his arm. Methos doubted if anyone but he could see the hidden tension in Mac's posture, the one closed fist, the tight neck. Mac would edge towards one of Noel's pieces, his eyes straying in that direction even as he mouthed polite words to students, to other patrons, to faculty members he had known from his days as an art history professor, only to be pulled away before he had a chance to really contemplate the works.
       A few minutes later an amplified voice called for their attention, and everyone was drawn out onto the patio of the sculpture garden where a podium had been set up near the mysterious, covered shape.
       The silver-haired, distinguished looking Museum Director began with the usual greetings and thanks as the assembled party gathered. Methos took the opportunity to get Mac a glass of champagne and put it in his hand before he moved to stand close behind him. Mac shot him a grateful look and took a long swallow, then surreptitiously wiped away the dampness gathered on his forehead.
       "We are here, of course, to honor Tessa Noel, an artist of great gifts, of wonderful vision, of life and humor, who contributed so much to the artistic life of this city during the brief years we were graced with her presence. The tragedy of such a talent cut short before its time makes this exhibit all the more important."
       Methos decided he didn't care about public propriety when he saw the muscles in Mac's jaw bunch and loosen as the Scot unconsciously ground his teeth, and he put his hand on Mac's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. Mac felt the touch and glanced back at him with a wan smile.
       "But we are also here to honor Tessa Noel's benefactor, and ours, in recognition of his great generosity to the Museum and to the University's Art Department, Mr. Duncan MacLeod." The Director gestured towards Mac and the crowd applauded. Mac nodded politely in acknowledgment, but by now Methos could feel the tension thrumming all the way through the fabric of Mac's coat.
       The Director turned over the podium to Shandra Devane, who waxed poetic for a few minutes on how many students had benefited from the Tessa Noel Scholarship, introducing them one by one, and Methos just wished she would hurry up and get this presentation over with. Touching MacLeod, even through his coat, feeling his warmth and strength had sparked all kinds of sensuous memories. All he wanted was to get Mac alone and...
       "...and the students who have gotten so much from this unique scholarship program felt that they wanted to do something special to recognize both the artist in whose name it was given, and the donor who made their education possible. All of Tessa Noel's sculptural works were realized in full size except one, and for the past six months, the senior art students of Seacouver University have toiled to fully realize her final work in the manner she would have wished." Shandra was warming to her subject and raised her hand to indicate the hidden shape underneath the parachute silk.
       "It has served as a learning tool, a wonderful collaborative effort and a goal that will, hopefully, provide inspiration for others for generations to come." Shandra nodded to the students standing by the hidden form and they dramatically swept the silk away. "I give you Tessa Noel's last work, "Holy Ground."
       Mac had gone absolutely still underneath Methos' hand as Shandra had described the project, but now jerked slightly, with a sharp intake of breath. Methos moved to Mac's side. His face had gone white.
       "Duncan?" Methos whispered. "You okay?"
       But Shandra had swept away from the podium and was now pulling Mac toward the fifteen foot high mobile sculpture, explaining excitedly that she had wanted to tell him ahead of time, but he had been out of touch...and Methos lost track of the conversation in the applause and appreciative babble of voices from the crowd.
       Methos stood back and examined the work as a cool evening breeze caught one of the movable sections and gently altered its configuration. It was of burnished, twisted multi-colored anodized aluminum and steel of various shapes, individually mounted on a base so that each moved slightly in relationship to the others. While Methos was no expert on American Indian culture, he recognized the highly stylized versions of their ancient glyphs. He had even visited Mac's cabin several times over the years, and they had hiked to the site where Mac had first decided that this was where he wanted to build his retreat, in the shadow of the writings of the land's first people which had clearly served as Noel's inspiration for the piece.
       This incredible sculpture managed to capture the both weight of ages carved into that rock face, and the sanctity, the freedom and living spirit of the surrounding unspoiled forest. It was stunning. He elbowed his way through the crowd, trying to get to Mac, but there were at least ten people surrounding him, almost all of them talking at once, slapping his shoulder, shaking his hand, congratulating him. Mac had a tight smile on his face and Methos could tell he was making stiff, monosyllabic responses.
       "Can you see him?" Joe's voice asked behind him. Methos turned. Joe was pushing his wheelchair forward, also trying to reach MacLeod. "What's going on?"
       "I don't know," Methos answered. "Listen, you have a phone on you?"
       "You need to make a call now?"
       "No, I need you to call me on my phone, so I can have a pretense to get us all out of here."
       Joe reached into his pocket, but both men turned as they heard the crash of broken glass and a murmur of dismay from the tight knot of people. By the time Methos had rudely elbowed his way into the center of the group, Mac wasn't there, but there was a wide circle of broken glass and spilled champagne, tinted pink.
       "Where's Mac?" Methos demanded of Shandra, who had been waving over one of the waiters to clean up the mess. "Where is he?!" he grabbed her elbow, pulling her around to face him.
       "Dr. Pierson, please!" she yanked her arm out of his tight grasp. "He just broke a glass, cut his hand a little, I think. Must be all the excitement. I believe he went to the men's room."
       But by the time Methos had found and searched the bathroom, the sense of Mac's presence had faded completely. He trotted out to the front of the museum, looking out over the parking lot, but could neither feel or see anything other than the cold spatters of rain that were finally beginning to fall.
       "Did he get away?" Joe asked, and once again Methos turned to find that Joe, with Amy right beside him, had followed him out the door.
       "Yeah." Methos pressed his lips together and stuck his hands deep into his pockets. "Damn! Can't we ever have an evening without some kind of ugliness from our past mucking things up?"
       Joe looked at him with a sad smile. "You guys have a lot of past," he reminded him. "And not a lot of it is very pretty."
       "Yeah, but Tessa was one of the really good things in Mac's life. Shit!" Methos snarled as he went back in to get his coat.
       As Joe and his chair were lifted back into the van, Joe and Methos went over the various places Mac might go.
       "You know, Adam, he might just prefer to be alone," Amy offered. "Having you chase him down could be the last thing he wants right now. Tell you what," she offered. "I'll put the word out and we'll track him down before the evening's out. In the meantime, I think we could all use a real drink." She climbed up into the driver's seat and waited, expectantly.
       Methos sighed. Trust Amy to come up with the most practical solution. Having Mac in town, so close after almost a year of not seeing him made him feel restless and uneasy, like a hormone-crazed teenager, but the woman had a good point.

       The car was stifling with the sterile pine scent of old deodorizer and Mac rolled down the window to let the rain splatter his face. He just drove around for awhile, responding to traffic automatically, not really seeing anything but images in his mind of the wonderful sculpture and of Tessa. He could almost hear her laugh, just as though she were right there in the car with him. He had thought it would be okay, that after over twenty years the anguish of her sudden, violent death would fade, that he had set aside his grieving long ago. But that sculpture. That damnable, incredibly beautiful sculpture was a knife that sliced open the old wound to right to his heart.
       He pulled into an alley and stopped, realizing he had driven back to the old shop he and Tessa had opened together. It was a pawnshop now, and the alley was strewn with trash, but if he closed his eyes he could hear her, feel her, how much she was a part of him, how he had never doubted her absolute acceptance. And how much she loved being loved. The little gifts, the small moments, the lovemaking itself were all made possible because she gave every bit of herself, unselfishly, to being part of a whole. Their whole. She accepted his caring, his protection in the loving spirit they were intended, and gave back so much more. Slow tears slid down his face until he wiped them away in irritation.
       "Get over it," he whispered to himself. "She's gone. She's been gone for a long, long time." But the stark contrast the evening had revealed between the two greatest loves of his life was presented to him in a way he had not previously acknowledged. Or perhaps he had simply ignored it, because to do otherwise was to acknowledge his own failure.
       With Tessa, all the cards were always on the table. When she was angry, he knew it. When she was sad or upset, she turned to him for solace and comfort; and when he was feeling sad and desperate, when the memories would overwhelm him, she would hold him, comfort him, listen to him and wait for him to work it out of his system with infinite patience and love. But Methos?
       Methos never showed those kinds of weaknesses or displayed that kind of dependence on the caring of another person, never allowed Mac to see his true self, his real feelings. And whenever Mac got tied up in knots over some emotional or ethical dilemma, Methos would tease, deride, irritate or, if Mac was unable to let it go, just leave and wait for the Scot to come to his senses.
       He needed a drink, he decided, and started the car again.

       Amy hung up the phone and maneuvered in between the tables of the evening crowd at Joe's. Her father and his old Immortal buddy were huddled together, talking animatedly, but quietly. If anyone had asked her opinion -- which she knew no one would -- she would tell them that Duncan MacLeod had been taking care of himself for a very long time and would inevitably survive whatever emotional upheaval tonight's events aroused. She tried never to get personally involved in the trials and tribulations of the Immortals she watched. She had seen what it had cost her father, and felt the price was just too high.
       Joe had long defended his near hero-worship of Duncan MacLeod by citing all that Mac had done to try to deal with the worst of the out-of-control Immortals, as well as to defend mortals from the thoughtless excesses and cruelty of other members of the Immortal race. That was all well and good, and perhaps MacLeod was a better candidate than most, if there truly would Be Only One, and if the legendary Prize lived up to its billing. But she never forgot that they were, in essence, alien beings. Even after two decades of living with her father's easy camaraderie with his Immortal friends, she could never see them as entirely...human.
       Of course, Joe didn't even bother to defend his friendship with Methos, or Amanda, or Carl Robinson, or a half-dozen other MacLeod groupies who seemed to delight in dropping into Joe's like it was an Immortal watering hole rather than a front for Watcher Regional Headquarters. It was an irony they seemed to enjoy, especially one Dr. Adam Pierson. Amy smiled as she approached Joe and Methos. The incredibly ancient Immortal was hunched over his beer, leaning in, waving his hands at her father in the midst of some bizarre tale, no doubt. Her father was leaning back, his eyes alight with fascination and humor, always entranced, but ever suspicious that "Adam" was just spinning a lie of such enormous proportions that it was almost believable.
       Somehow, she found it easier to forgive Adam Pierson's Immortality when she saw that fascinated joy in her father's eyes.
       Joe and Methos looked up expectantly as she sank into a chair at their table.
       "MacLeod was spotted driving down Market Street, and our man followed him over to the store he used to own. He sat in the alley awhile, then stopped at a liquor store in a strip mall in the Westover suburbs, but we lost him right after that. It's pouring down rain outside, and I think the man will probably go back to his hotel and drink himself into a stupor," Amy advised.
       "If that were the case," Methos observed tersely, "he wouldn't have driven all the way out to Westover to get a bottle of booze. Where do you think he might be going?" he asked Joe.
       "Westover? I can't imagine," Joe shook his head. "He hasn't lived here in decades. I can't image he knows anyone out that way. Wait a minute!" Joe raised his finger, his eyes almost shut in concentration. "Oh, Lord, I think I know where he's headed." He pushed his chair away from the table. "Come on. If I'm right, and if we don't get to him, he'll likely end up spending the night in the City Jail."

       Amy cruised slowly down the dark street as her passengers peered out of the rain-streaked windows.
       "There he is," Joe observed.
       Amy pulled over and turned off the engine. MacLeod was about 50 feet away sitting on the curb. It was an incongruous sight, the tuxedo-clad gentleman in his elegant cashmere coat, sitting in the drizzling rain periodically sucking on a bottle of scotch. He seemed totally absorbed in his own thoughts, oblivious to the weather, oblivious to traffic, oblivious to curious onlookers as they peered out of the windows of their safe, dry, suburban homes.
       "That's where she died." He sighed, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "I should have stopped it."
       "You?" Methos asked in surprise. "That's a new one. I thought you never interfered."
       "Adam," Amy snapped softly, ever protective of her father.
       "It's all right," Joe smiled. "It's an old joke." But despite his assurances, this time, Joe felt the barb's bite. "It was a renegade Watcher, one of Horton's converts. He had taken Tessa as bait to pull in Mac and kill him. Mac dealt with the man, released Tessa and went back in that house to see if there were any computer records to trace any other members of Horton's army, trusting Richie to get Tessa home safely."
       Joe pointed about a half-block further down, to a small grove of trees at the corner. "I was down there. I had just gotten the word from the Regional office whose place this was when Tessa and Richie came out. Everything seemed fine. Normal. Then this punk kid came up, and I heard three or four shots, I guess..." his voice trailed off for a minute. "Tessa screamed..." Joe scrubbed at his beard and took a deep breath. "She was a beautiful woman. Real special. And Mac loved her more than life itself. He came running out of the house." The words seem to come more and more slowly. "Richie came back. She didn't."
       The two Watchers and the Immortal observed as MacLeod took another swig from the bottle, letting it dangle between his knees while he stared at the pavement. Methos got out of the car, buttoned up his raincoat and turned up the collar, then walked around, stopping at the driver's window and leaning in. "I'll get him home. You two go on and get some rest, it's been a long night."
       Joe looked at the oldest Immortal, then over at his best friend, both of them many times his age, but he was the one who felt very old and very tired. "Yeah. Call me, okay?"
       "Yeah, Joe. Goodnight, Amy."

       Methos turned and heard the car pull away, then walked slowly over to sit beside his friend of twenty years. "Care to share?" he asked.
       MacLeod wordlessly handed over the bottle, which was already two-thirds empty. Methos took a small sip, letting it rest in his mouth a moment before slowly swallowing it. When he handed the bottle back, Mac took a large gulp, almost finishing what was left.
       "That's awfully good scotch to guzzle down like that," Methos observed mildly.
       "I can get more," Mac replied, his voice so low it sounded like a growl.
       "Mac..."
       "Leave me alone."
       "I wish I could, but you're scandalizing the neighbors. If you weren't in an Armani overcoat and a tuxedo, I'm sure they would've called the police by now."
       "So what? Let 'em!" Mac staggered to his feet and turned. "Go ahead, call the cops!" he bellowed to any neighbors hiding behind their curtains. "They weren't there when I needed them before, so why not call 'em now. Nobody here but us chickens, after all." He finished off the bottle with a few long swallows, turned and threw it end over end down the length of the deserted street, to smash noisily 20 yards away. A remarkable throw, given that he could hardly stand up straight.
       "Mac, give me your keys," Methos was now trailing behind the drunken Scot, who was weaving unsteadily down the middle of the street.
       "Go 'way."
       "Afraid not, MacLeod. If you get arrested, I'll just end up having to bail you out, and that takes hours of dealing with lots of very unpleasant people. Besides, I'm considered an upstanding person in Seacouver, a pillar of the community and I don't wish to be seen consorting with common drunks. Now give me the goddamn keys."
       "Don' have any keys. I don' live here anymore." Mac stumbled and Methos had to grab an elbow to keep him from landing face first in a puddle.
       "Your rental car, you Highland git!"
       "Used to live here," Mac went on, ignoring Methos' demands. "Had the nicest place. It was a store. Tessa could arrange things, put anything together and make it beautiful, you know? Richie lived with us for awhile. Was really...nice. Like a family." Mac's voice trailed off, but he kept stubbornly moving forward through the now-pelting rain to an uncertain destination.
       "Enough, Mac," Methos slipped in front, forcing Mac to stop. "It's cold and it’s wet and you're seriously drunk." He reached into the sodden depths of Mac's coat pocket and found a set of car keys, easily pulling out of the man's clumsy grasp. He found the security button, and blessed modern technology as a sedan halfway down the block made a chirping noise and automatically flipped on its lights. He grabbed Mac's coat lapel and propelled him towards the vehicle.
       "Hey!" Mac batted at his hand, pulling away. "Lemme go. I don' need you or anybody else to take care o' me. I'm Duncan MacLeod o' the Clan MacLeod, an'" he fumbled for his blade. "An' I..." the fight seemed to quickly leech out of him, if there had ever been any to begin with. He stopped, his face raised to the rain. "I'm s'posed to protect them, but I can't, Methos," he whispered. "Not any of them."
       "I know, Duncan," Methos said quietly. He tugged on Mac's elbow, taking the katana out of his hand and guiding him towards the car. "I know."

       Mac was a little more steady by the time they got to the hotel, but the doorman still made it a point to walk them all the way to the elevator, and Methos had to again go into Mac's pockets for the room key before they were finally safe inside. He pulled the sodden, dripping coat off Mac's shoulders and found the rain had soaked through to the tuxedo beneath, and plastered the man's shirt to his skin. Mac broke away from his friend's attempts at valet service and went to the bar. The lavish suite was fully stocked and while Methos looked on, Mac slugged down another two fingers of scotch and poured two more into a glass.
       "We going for full alcohol poisoning tonight, or just a complete drunken stupor?" Methos asked, shedding his own dripping raincoat and suit jacket.
       "What's it to ya?" Mac perched on the loveseat, leaning forward, clutching his drink in both hands, staring at the floor. "Oh," he looked up with a quirk of his lips, "I forgot. You're here to comfort me in your usual way, right? Harder to do if I'm not, uh, up to the task."
       He lifted his drink in a small salute and sat back with a sigh, then shivered as the movement of air against the wet fabric of his shirt caused a chill.
       Methos went into the bathroom and found a couple of towels, tossing one to Mac while he used the other to dry his own dripping face and hair. "Is this your private pity party or is anyone allowed to join?" he asked.
       With a nod towards the bar, Mac invited Methos to join him.
       "You're ruining the couch, you know," Methos observed after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Mac was definitely leaving a large damp spot on the upholstery, and his hair was dripping a steady trail of rain water from the end of his ponytail.
       Mac took another swallow from his drink. "So sue me."
       "My, aren't we being eloquent tonight," Methos muttered, almost to himself. That only garnered a dark look.
       "Sorry I'm not being en'ertaining. If you wanted en'er...entertainment, you should have hired a rent boy."
       Methos' lips thinned briefly, but then he put down his drink and went behind the couch. He pulled the silver tie out of Mac's long hair, and used the discarded towel to dry it in long strokes. It was always a sensual pleasure to sort through the silky hair, and at last Mac leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his face still tense with repressed emotion. Methos retreated briefly to the bathroom and found a brush in Mac's dopp bag, returning to run it through the wet tangles until the dark, thick tresses lay smoothly over the back of the couch and some of the set, hard look around Mac's eyes had eased. The silence was broken only by the gentle sounds of their breaths, and all the desire Methos had kept banked since the moment he had seen Duncan in the museum resurfaced, and his cock swelled and grew warm and tight in his pants.
       "You're still chilled," Methos observed, whispering close to Mac's ear. "But I know a sure-fire way to warm you up." he leaned over and let his lips caress Mac's brow, his closed eyes, a cheekbone, before he reached the lush mouth that he was certain would suck him down like a drowning man pulls down his rescuer. At first Mac seemed reluctant, but when Methos pressed, Mac opened his lips at last, inviting Methos in, and he leaned over further, feeling Mac's hands travel up his arms to his shoulders, then suddenly he was pulled, tilted forward over the back of the couch and into Mac's lap.
       "I do so enjoy an aggressive lover," Methos smiled, slightly breathless. He could smell rain and scotch, and feel the cool, damp fabric of Mac's shirt as he fumbled with the onyx studs fastening the front of the formal attire. Mac's clothes were awkward and clinging and difficult to shed, and it occurred to Methos that the studs and cufflinks that they were so blithely tossing to the floor were probably worth a small fortune, but Mac seemed unconcerned.
       They fumbled their way into the bedroom where Methos ended up on his back, blanketed by a suddenly aggressive Scot who nibbled and sucked at his neck, his nipples, hands kneading and pinching his arms, his ass, his dick until he was gasping for air, his hips grinding upwards, seeking friction to relieve the burning tension building in his gut.
       "God, Mac, why do we always wait so long?" he whispered as his nipples were being rolled and pulled, becoming sharp points of need that radiated out to his whole body.
       Mac reared back, his eyes big and almost black, pupils dilated until there was only a thin brown circle in each. His oversized hand closed around Methos' neck and squeezed slightly, holding his lover in an iron grip. "Your choice, Methos!" he grated out. "Always your choice, don't ever forget that."
       The hot acid of need and passion swirled and blended with the tremor of fear that fluttered in his chest, but Methos' cock didn't seem to know the difference. Actually, it seemed to like the additional stimulation, and despite the dark, impenetrable look in Duncan's eyes and the near strangle hold on his neck, Methos' hips surged hard into Mac's groin, grinding them together.
       "Turn over," Mac ordered, his scotch-scented breath warm on Methos' face. He released his hold and backed off only enough to allow Methos to comply. Methos closed his eyes, willing himself to let Mac take control of his whole sensory system.
       He had submitted to other lovers over the centuries, but for some unknown, dark and probably dangerous reason, only with MacLeod was the surrender willing, complete and unconditional. In a life that stretched backward too far to see, and forward into infinite possibilities, this was the one man, the one person, the one Immortal he would trust with his life, even if he should decide to take it. It made it all the more erotic to lie there passively, the quilted fabric of the bedspread pressed against his cheek, his chest, his groin, waiting for whatever Duncan wished to do with him, to him. He couldn't help pushing his hips into the bed just to generate a little friction, a little heat, in anticipation. After a minute he felt the bed dip, felt his legs being parted by a knee, two knees. His heart was starting to pound and he felt sweat gather in the creases of his skin, already so aroused it was painful.
       Big hands, cool with lotion, spread across his ass, parting the cheeks to let air brush his most private places. A broad palm splayed across his back between his shoulders and Mac leaned on it, pressing him deep into the bed, restricting Methos' ability to breathe, but he was already gasping as thick fingers invaded, stoking the heat that was already building that eerie sense of distance from his body, when the need overcame all other sensations. It was so intimate, this stroking inside his body. The sound that rolled out of his throat was completely involuntary, an animal response to the intense sense of Duncan taking over his whole existence. It built into an almost unbearable tension until finally, slowly, Duncan pushed his engorged cock inside, hard hands on his hips to hold them still for a long, breathless moment. Then Mac pulled almost all the way out, again with maddening slowness -- and slammed in with enough force to throw Methos hard into the covers and generate a startled grunt. Then he did it again, and again. The strokes were brutal and way too slow to bring Methos to orgasm.
       Methos tried to push himself up to hands and knees, to change the rhythm, but Mac's hand again pressed down hard in between his shoulder blades, pinning his chest and face to the bed. "Mac, what...!" but another stroke stopped his voice before he could ask what the hell was going on. It was starting to really hurt, even while some part of his body pushed up to eagerly meet each punishing thrust. Mac was huge, and was pushing deep, deep inside until he could feel the pressure up against his diaphragm, where his breathing was already a painful, grunting effort. He squirmed, he struggled, but Mac was exerting his superior strength and weight with a vengeance. The more he tried to escape, the harder Mac pounded, finally speeding up until it was like a jackhammer inside. Then Mac yanked him off his chest and sat back, pulling Methos into his lap until his own weight impaled him even further.
       He barely heard his own cry as he arched back, his head lolling on Mac's shoulder. Then a hand folded around his erection, and his whole body reacted, generating a new gasp for air as, with a few more strokes inside and out, he erupted in a violent orgasm that was almost unwilling and totally unexpected. Semen gushed over Mac's hand, the smell only adding to the sense of violence in the room. Another push upward from Mac's hips and Mac shouted his own release at last, his cock shoved so far inside that Methos thought it might just tear right through his flesh.
       Mac let him go and Methos fell forward onto his hands, sucking in air in noisy gulps. He felt the bed shift as Mac got off. "What the fuck was that all about?!" Methos finally got enough breath to ask.
       When he didn't get an answer, he managed to turn his head to see MacLeod's naked back stopping briefly at the bar to pour himself another large scotch before retreating to the bathroom. Methos lowered his body carefully to the bed, avoiding the damp, sticky mess they had made. He checked his thighs for blood, but Mac had initially prepared him, and while the sex had been brutal, it appeared no physical damage had been done other than internal bruising. Methos closed his eyes, trying to calm his heartbeat and settle his emotions. Never -- not in almost twenty years of being Duncan MacLeod's lover -- never had Mac been anything but the epitome of thoughtfulness and consideration. Even after a Quickening, Mac had been almost paranoid that he might get too rough, and Methos was always the one who wanted to push the margins.
       He lay on the bed for a minute, staring at the plaster patterns on the ceiling. Now he supposed Mac would be wallowing in guilt. Not always a bad thing. Guilt was a useful tool in extracting information, or for other, more pragmatic advantages. He slowly stood up, wincing as he did. His ass would be sore for awhile. "Mac?" He knocked on the bathroom door. "You okay?"
       "I'm fine."
       Methos could hear the shower running, and opened the door, letting some steam billow out into the bedroom. "Can I join you?" He waited for some guilt-laden response.
       "Suit yourself."
       He pushed back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub. It was a tight fit for two six-footers, but Mac was standing still, letting the warm water wash down his chest as he leaned against the tile wall with one hand. The glass of scotch was in his other hand, now half empty. Methos unwrapped the soap and lathered his hands before he moved them over Mac's back. It was a routine they had established long ago, and it frequently ended up with more sex, gentler sex, sweeter sex, than their creative but sometimes frenzied couplings on the bed, or sofa, or floor, or up against the wall.
       When the silence grew oppressive, Methos broke it with a quiet observation. "That was different. I guess we've never had sex with you quite that drunk before."
       Mac took another long swallow of his drink. "I thought you liked it rough." Mac finished off the scotch and set the glass in the corner on the tub's edge.
       "Oh, I get it," Methos stopped his soothing motions, letting the soap wash away. "You're punishing me for what happened tonight."
       Mac swept back the curtain and stepped out, grabbing for a towel. "Right. Whatever."
       "Mac!"
       But once again the Scot had retreated, slamming the door behind him. Methos sighed in frustration and washed away the evidence of their activities and toweled off, now thoroughly mystified. Duncan was not the world's most communicative person, but he was rarely deliberately rude and never abusive. He donned the thick terrycloth hotel robe he found hanging on the back of the door and stepped out to confront his lover, only to find him fully dressed, carefully folding his clothes away into his luggage, another glass of scotch in easy reach.
       "Duncan, what the hell is wrong? I know you're upset about tonight. I understand why you would be, but why are you taking it out on me? That's not like you. And its not like you to drink like this!" he snatched the glass away as Mac reached for it.
       Mac grabbed for it, and stumbled, but when Methos reached out to steady him, he jerked away. "What're you now, my mother?" Mac sneered. "Since when have you gotten to be such a prude? Seems to me I've carried you home dead drunk more than once."
       "You did not carry me home," Methos sniffed. "More like...mutually supported, that night in Edinburgh when you got all sentimental about the disappearance of the clans. Stupid of us really."
       "Stupid of you to try to drink an entire bar full of Scots under the table. Seems to me I stayed relatively sober that night."
       "Anyway, why are you packing?" Methos changed the subject, putting the glass of scotch carefully out of reach. "It's one o'clock in the morning."
       "I changed my reservation. I'm taking the redeye back." Mac bent to pick up his tuxedo studs and cufflinks that had scattered across the floor.
       Methos had had enough. "Alright, Mac, just stop. We've known each other too long for this kind of crap."
       "That we have, Methos. That we have. That's why I'm leaving."
       There wasn't the slightest slur to his words this time. Methos realized that, however much liquor Mac had swallowed, he was now quite sober. And that made the situation much, much more troubling. He reached for Mac's drink, swallowed the rest of it in a couple of gulps and sat carefully on the couch.
       "Okay. You've got my attention. Now sit down and talk about it."
       "I don't think so, Methos. I'm done talking. We've had this conversation at least fifty times. I've bent over backwards to give you all the freedom you need to come and go as you like, served as your periodic boytoy for a couple of decades now. I'm not saying we're not friends, the very best of friends, I hope." Mac had paused in his packing, but never looked up to meet Methos' eyes. "But sometimes it's not enough for me. This is one of those times."
       Methos closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had always known this day would come, when the differences between them would become irreconcilable. His throat tightened so hard that for a moment it was too paralyzed even to swallow, much less speak. "Tell me what you need, Duncan," he managed to say at last.
       Mac zipped up his bag and moved it to the floor. "Let's not do this," he replied shortly. "What I need, you can't give. I thought I could live with it forever, and I suppose twenty years can be counted a pretty good run." He pulled his leather jacket out of the closet and slipped it on. "I'll leave a message with the hotel to take my tuxedo and coat to the cleaners and ship it to me. You can just leave them hanging in the closet. The room is paid for through tonight."
       Methos was on his feet. "Goddammit, Duncan, you know I care about you! Isn't that enough? Does it have to be this all-or-nothing crap? Aren't both of us a little old for romantic fairytales?"
       Mac paused, but didn't turn around. "You care about me?" he repeated wistfully. He set his bag down and leaned a palm up against the door with a sigh. "I realized tonight that what I miss most about Tessa, more than her sweetness and courage and love of life, her intelligence and humor and talent, was that she let me care about her. Let me love her, see all of her, the good and the bad. That piece she did, the one they did full scale? It was a mess the first time she tried it. She threw a terrible temper tantrum, tossing things around, screaming in frustration. The whole workshop was in chaos. It took me days to straighten it out, and she was never really happy with it. Maybe it was the trauma of that ugly business with the Immortal that kidnapped her in the woods, but she ultimately put the sculpture away and never went back to it. She considered it a terrible failure, and couldn't see how beautiful it was no matter how many times I told her."
       Mac turned, stuck his hands in his pockets and looked Methos in the eye with a defiance he had not seen since their terrible days with the Four Horsemen in the previous century. "The point is, she shared it all with me, the pain, the sense of failure, the outrageous, sometimes childish behavior. She let me into every corner of her life, and it was the joy I felt in loving her that I miss the most. But you can't do that, Methos. You can't let me love you. You show me the face you want me to see, and I never know whether its real or just a façade put on for my benefit. I don't know whether its because you don't trust me not to judge you, or reject you, or simply because after all this time you are simply incapable of letting anyone get that close. But tonight, I needed to love and feel loved, and just as you always do, you reduced all that to wanting to fuck." He leaned down and picked up his bag. "So that's what we did."
       "Duncan, please don't leave!" Methos' heart was pounding hard. He recognized a seminal moment when it came, and this was one. "We can talk about this. I didn't mean to diminish the importance of your feelings about Tessa. I was just trying to distract you a little, is that a crime all of a sudden?"
       "Not at all. I know you care, Methos. But when you never let me see into your heart, never trust me enough to let me share any of your sorrows or bad times, then I feel like I don't have the right to ask you to put up with me during my bad times. I told myself that I could live with whatever you were willing to give, and I still want to do that. But tonight--tonight I just can't." Mac choked on the words, and snatched the door open at last and was gone.
       Methos followed him out, standing in the hallway, propping the door open with his foot. "Duncan, damn you, don't walk away like this!" he shouted to the man's retreating back, then realized that shouting in the hallways of a hotel in the wee hours of the morning was certain to generate unwanted attention.
       But at least it got Mac to stop and turn. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he observed quietly, then disappeared down another corridor toward the elevators.