There was quite the reception committee waiting for them at the small private airport constructed on what had once been the Mid-town area. During the earlier, more violent confrontations between the Eastern Dawn and the defenders, a good portion of the city had been near-leveled. Hartsfield, once the busiest airport in the United States, had been wiped out in a single blast. Now it now resembled nothing so much as an enormous burial mound, uneven landscape overgrown by grass and vines until little or nothing of the airport could be seen except what was left of the control tower. It stood erect at the center, like some helpless titan struggling to escape the living green bindings of the invasive kudzu.

Kir was startled to find her brother among those waiting to greet the team but she didn't question his presence, only met his open embrace willingly, able finally to breath a deep sigh and release some tension. She was home and the solid feel of her brother's arms around her was proof enough.

"Quite the adventure," he murmured on releasing her, turning with his arm still around her waist as the team disembarked to meet the waiting force. Medic's checked but found little wrong except some already healing bruises. The few days of rest at Constantine's estate, however tension-filled, had still left them all in better physical shape than Hawk had expected.

His black eyes scanned each of the team carefully and some might have been incredibly flattered by his attention. Hawk of Moons took his position very seriously. A burly man with long black hair streaked with gray, and a proud nose that pronounced his pure blood heritage, for the past decade he had been the Elder Chief of the Combined Tribes. The one man in whom all the tribes found enough integrity in to trust, to acquiesce to on most occasions. He was not so much dictator as coordinator, but he was good at it and half his appeal was in his ability to see the individuals as well as the big picture. What he saw now both reassured and disturbed him. Reassured because the team seemed to be in relatively good health, the Trans little worse for the wear and the mission, for all its desperation, successful and then some with the promise of weapons on the way.

But he also noticed the distance, physical and emotional, that now existed between the Immortals and the mortal members of the team. That Sean MacLeod should be the closest thing to a bridge between them did not particularly surprise him but the distance seemed to grow exponentially the older the Immortals got. He was almost certain he saw real fear in Tulsa's eyes and in Revas every time their eyes managed to look at the eldest and there was a certain hostility aimed at the two elder MacLeod's as well that had not been there when the team left.

"I think you have quite the story to tell," he said carefully to his sister and then pulled away, coming to where Sean and Duncan were helping Methos down the ramp. Hawk had to do some quick exercises in control on seeing the oldest Immortal. The last time he had seen him Methos had been healthy, laughing, wry humor apparent in every glance and glimmer of the gold-green eyes. He had expected some physical changes, that was inevitable given the privations he had suffered. But what was truly disturbing were the dulled eyes, the halting, uncertain movements. Uncertainty was not an emotion Hawk had ever associated with the Elder. The two of them had not always agreed but Methos had ever been definitive and assured in his speech and manner. This frail looking haunted creature in no way resembled the man he had known and come to admire over the last fifty years.

"Welcome home, Grandfather," he said, a formal tone and cautious.

"Hawk of Moons," Methos acknowledged, sounding almost surprised that he remembered the other man's name.

"We are glad Duncan was successful this time," Hawk said. "He's a very determined man. You are blessed to have such a friend."

Hawk did not miss the fact that Duncan's expression tensed before he looked away, for all that he had hovered close, ready to lend physical assistance to his friend as necessary.

"Yes," Methos said softly. "I only wish the prize had been worth the effort," he murmured and managed a faint smile. "As much as I would love to catch up," he said a little more strongly, some of the trademark sarcasm creeping into the tight notes of his voice, "It has been an incredibly long day already. I am sure you have questions. I probably do as well," he added as an afterthought. "But right now, I want a shower and a bed and about three days of sleep."

He stepped away from his brother and friend, catching Hawk's arm to steady himself. It was so unlike Methos that even more alarms went off in Hawk's head but the Elder did look close to collapse from fatigue. "As you will, Grandfather. Mac," he addressed the middle MacLeod. "I know you all need sleep and food but I'd like to have a debriefing of sorts in a few hours. Can you manage that?" Hawk asked, too well aware that there were undercurrents he didn't understand. He really wanted to talk to MacLeod and Kir alone, before they spoke to the council but there wasn't a lot of time before the council started demanding a report - as it was their right to do.

Duncan understood and managed a smile, slipping his arm around his son's shoulder and nodding. "Let me get a bath as well and I'll give you a call," he said and Hawk nodded. Kir checked her team as they were loaded into the buses for the drive back to the barracks then moved to go with MacLeod only to have him meet her eyes. He inclined his head to where Hawk was leading Methos to a more comfortably appointed car. She bit her lip and then nodded, following her brother and getting in the car as well.

"Come on, Duncan!" Connor called, waving he and Sean to the bus.

"Go on, Sean, "Mac said. "I need to walk. It's less than a mile."

Sean stared at his cousin then at his father. "Want some company?" he offered, smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

A smile, broad and full eased the tension in the dark face. "Yeah. If you are up for it."

Sean nodded and waved the bus on, glancing back as a mechanics crew secured the trans. A touch on his shoulder and they were moving, following the bus along the broad avenue that had once been Atlanta's main thoroughfare. It actually felt good to be stretching his legs, Sean realized.

Mac walked along in silence for a few minutes resting his hand lightly on Sean's hard, lean shoulder. He felt solid, real, an emotional rock on which he could rely - always. Sean paused, looking up into the wide scattering of stars in the night sky and Mac's throat closed, seeing himself and Methos in that profile. He knew now why the Danaa, in their wisdom, did not allow Immortals to raise their own children. It was one thing to grow up, to come into adulthood as your parents reached their zenith of life, then to mature while watching them decline in vigor and health, a reflection of the child's own mortality. That parental decline and death was a right of passage itself, allowing the parent to let go, allowing the child to finally and fully establish their independent identity.

To have a parent in perpetuity, to have a child in perpetuity - for those relationships were immutable - was a special kind of blessing and agony for both. Being the son of Duncan MacLeod was a particular burden, Mac knew. One which Sean had borne with more grace, maturity and fortitude than he had any right to expect. It had been the greatest gift life had ever given him. But Sean had more Danaa blood running in his veins than all save one being in the world. His was a unique heritage and destiny which would never be realized with the heavy hand of his father holding him back.

So it was time for both of them to let go, each of the other.

"Sean?"

The face that turned to him was a man's face, calm, intelligent, caring.

"I made a promise to Methos, a promise that was born in anger but, ultimately, is the right thing to do."

Sean took a deep breath, letting the chill that came at his father's words wash over him. This was not going to be good news. He waited.

"It's time for you to take an active role in the Community, son, to take on the responsibility you were meant to bear. I have avoided this, I originally thought, because you were too young, that you needed more time, more experience, but I was wrong. I protected you, shielded you out of some misguided effort to keep you from suffering the pain and loss that were the hallmarks of my own life. But you're much stronger than I am, Sean."

"Da, Methos is so full of pain and anger right now that what he says doesn't . . ."

"This isn't about Methos, Sean. It's about me and about you. You need to at least share and, ultimately, take over my role as catalyst and conduit for the Community. No, hear me out," he insisted over Sean's protest. "There have always been problems with my being the Community's guardian. That role needs to be filled by someone with patience, with compassion, someone who wasn't raised thinking of a sword as the answer to life's problems, someone whose primary talent in life isn't in taking life."

"Stop it!" Sean growled, stopping and turning his back, arms crossed in angry denial. "Nobody could have done what you did! You spent 400 years earning the trust of Immortals because you lived a life of integrity and honor, and refused to kill unnecessarily. You have power and gifts that arise from both who you are and from more ancient Immortals than anyone who ever lived, including Methos! I could take the head of every remaining Immortal left alive and still barely manage to match you. And you're wrong!" He turned to his father accusingly.

"This is about Methos! He has always known how to press every guilt button you have, and Lord knows you have plenty of them. He manages to inject just enough truth in his words to make you believe every hateful accusation." He stopped and looked the older man dead in the eye. "I love Adam, Da, but he can be the most manipulative SOB that ever walked the face of the earth, but after over a hundred years I would have thought you were at least a little less susceptible than this!"

Mac sighed, trying to remain patient. "It doesn't matter, Sean," he insisted. "Whether I couldn't or wouldn't break the connection out of personal concerns or practical ones is irrelevant. The simple fact is that being connected to me has become an agony for him. And if it's an agony for him, then it must be broken. I owe him that. The only way to break it is for me to pull out of the Community completely, to hand what I carry off to someone else. That someone else has to be you!"

"And what happens to you then? And what happens to Adam?" Sean said, his voice tight with unshed tears. "I know you. You'll join some front-line guerrilla team, throwing yourself in harm's way until someone finally finds you and kills you, permanently." He was pacing now, waving his arms to make his point. "And Adam will withdraw into some cynical, detached hole that serves only to alienate him from everyone and everything. This isn't the answer! What he wants from you - what he's always wanted from you - is love! You rejected him and he struck out to hurt you as much as he was hurting. But even he realizes he was wrong, Da. Now all he feels is...is shame. The only person he hates right now is himself. And if you walk away from him he'll have nothing."

Mac looked at his son speculatively, a slight smile on his face. "So you knew, too? Christ, is there anybody who didn't know?"

"No one with eyes in their head," was the sardonic reply. Sean sighed. "I don't really blame Adam for being angry, even though, in his insane rage and frustration he chose to completely misinterpret your actions. I've watched him watch you for over a hundred years. Women flock to you like bees to honey and you lavish your affection and love on them without reservation. And Adam can only stand by and watch, waiting for the day when you were finally ready to give that same kind of intense physical love to the one person who had stood by you for all these years."

Mac's face closed down and grew hard and Sean feared he had pushed his father too hard in a direction he was unprepared to go. "And I've always been there for him, Sean. A friend. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Sean shrugged. "That's something only Adam can answer. You two are like one soul in two bodies, forever divided, forever joined. Forever opposite, forever the same. I only know that breaking the connection will likely irreparably harm you both. I am happy to try to take some of the burden from you, Duncan MacLeod, but I will not lift it entirely from your shoulders for it is part of what defines who you are and who Adam is, and I can't live with losing either of you."

He clasped his hands behind his father's neck, ensuring that their eyes met. "And no matter what Adam accuses you of, Da," he whispered, "I know you have always acted unselfishly. That is your nature, to a fault. If there's one thing you do that drives me batty it's to constantly question your own motives." He cocked his head. "Well, it's not the only thing you do that drives me batty, but it's certainly one of the big ones."

MacLeod chuckled and circled his son's waist, and the two approached the Nation's multi-story headquarters and housing complex, Sean's arm draped around his dad's shoulders. "So, when do you want to start taking over some of all the stuff that I carry around in my head?" Duncan asked.

Sean sighed. "You don't give up do you? I know, silly question. How about next Christmas? Things are kinda' slow around that time of year."

"Sean!"

"Oh, I don't know. Let me think about it. It's not like learning a new language or something, you know. It's kinda' permanent, and it didn't sit very well with you at first, and you were over 400 years old at the time."

"True, but I didn't have such a stellar parent to teach me how such things should be handled."

"Yeah, right."

"And Sean," he paused, looking at the younger mortal again, "I'm not saying you're right about this, just that I'll think about it. I made a promise to Methos, after all."

"Shit. You and your promises!"

The two separated a little and walked into the light of the building's entrance in silence.

Whatever other words might have needed to be said between Sean and his father were forestalled as one of the council aides met them at the door, informing Duncan that the council had requested a debriefing almost immediately. Despite Hawk of Moons position, it was obvious that in this, the council would not defer. He had just about enough time to grab a shower and make himself presentable.

Sean reassured him that he would check on Methos and was as good as his word. His brother had been taken to the apartment they once shared and he wasted no time in getting there. He was certain that Methos had not been left alone but to be left with a guard of sorts would be more humiliating than being left with someone who cared enough not to mind if his fears and anxieties got the better of him.

He should have known better. Hawk of Moons could be a cold and decisive bastard at times but he was not indifferent or cruel. The door to the apartment was unlocked and Sean was greeted not only by the sound of Connor's voice but to the smells of food cooking.

"Oella?" he questioned, seeing the elder woman in the small kitchen, stirring something on the stove.

"There you are!!" the Mother said with a broad smile. Sean felt his tension level drop about three notches and shared a grin with Connor. Oella was his mother, an elder woman, one of many, who adopted the single men attached to the Nation's military forces. It was a traditional role and one the women valued as much as they were valued for performing it. Oella had been mother to he and Adam for years, making sure they had food to eat and their quarters were kept up. More than maids, never servants, they scolded and cajoled and cosseted and lectured like...well, mothers.

A quick glance and a sniff revealed that not only had Oella arrived to fix a hot meal, but that she had probably been seeing to the apartment during his absence. When Adam had been lost, she had been a much needed, neutral and objective friend, helping him share the grief of losing someone. Time passed and Sean found himself spending more and more time in the field or staying with his father and Kir until Oella had turned to others that needed her caring. For her to return...it was a very much a welcome home. The apartment had been aired and cleaned and after planting a kiss on her weathered cheek and taking a sample taste of the corn chowder she was fixing he went to his room. She had been here as well, the bed freshly made, his clothes cleaned. The sound of water drew him on and he hesitated at Methos' bedroom, hearing the shower. There were fresh clothes there as well. Not military issue but real clothes, worn jeans and, Sean grinned, a hand woven sweater. Another gift from the mothers. Adam's fondness for the warm clothes had prompted quite the teasing among the mothers. Knowing him for the ancient he was, they found a real delight in gifting him with sweaters of every color, of various weights and weaves. Adam had always made it better still for them by remembering who made each one, causing the elder women to blush and fuss over him.

The water fell silent and Sean hesitated then almost made it out without Methos thinking he was checking on him -- which he was.

"I didn't drown," Methos said with a faint smile as he emerged from the bath. He had knotted a towel around the too bony hips and another was draped across his shoulders.

"How are you feeling?" Sean asked cautiously.

"Just tired. So I said but I think Oella is determined to feed me anyway. It was good to see her again but I scared her."

His voice had dropped to almost a whisper as he sat on the bed, pulling his clothes across his lap. He fingered the blue and black patterning on the sweater Oella had laid out for him. "I don't remember this one," he said, thin face knitted in concentration.

"It may have been made after you...after we lost you," Sean said, sitting beside them. "The mothers kept making them...they were sure we would bring you back soon and it was getting close to winter."

His brother nodded, the lines easing as the explanation was made. "I'll have to ask then."

"They may make you guess," Sean teased with a smile. Another game of the Mothers, to make his brother match sweater to giver.

Another small smile and Methos shrugged the soft fabric over his head. Sean was guiltily glad. The loose sweater hid the gauntness of his brother's body, putting more distance between his ordeal and the present, if only to Sean's sight. "If you want to sleep I am sure Oella will understand," he offered.

"No. I should eat. Dry rations aren't exactly known for their nutritive values," Methos said. "I'll be out in a minute," he said and Sean nodded, then reached out to pull his brother close for a moment. Methos returned the hug, but his hands patted Sean's back, offering comfort instead of accepting it. When Sean pulled back the mask on his brother's face, the faint smile but the lack of emotion in his eyes, was still painfully obvious. Given the conversation with his father, Sean wasn't sure what to do. With a nod and a light touch to the damp hair he rose. He paused, still fingering the dark brown strands. Methos' hair was longer than Sean had ever seen it, brushing the base of his neck.

"I need to cut it," Methos said. "Oella can do it. That will make her happy," he added with a glint of humor. Sean chuckled.

"You know she sews your hair into medicine bags for long life?"

"Sympathetic magic," Methos acknowledged and rose, showing no modesty at all as he shed the towel and pulled the jeans over his lean flanks. They were huge. Without a word, Sean found a belt in his brother's drawers, but he couldn't watch the man cinch the belt tightly. He slipped out of the room and into his own. Closing the door behind him for a few minutes of much need solitude.

He gave himself that much. Changing clothes without showering and emerged feeling more in control of himself. Methos was already sitting down and was eating under Oella's watchful eye, but he was alone.

"Where's Connor?" Sean asked as Oella set a bowl and bread in front of him as well.

"He said something about a debriefing," Methos said when Oella shrugged and began gathering her things.

"You leave those dishes in the sink and I will be back tomorrow," she said and then stopped beside Methos to touch his shoulder lightly. "You rest, Grandfather. Tomorrow I will bring my scissors," she promised and squeezed his shoulder before leaving.

Left alone, Methos managed another spoonful or two of the chowder before pushing it away. He did nibble on the cornbread Oella had made. "A little rich for me right now," he said when Sean eyed him. "I'll eat, Sean," he said and broke off another piece of the bread chewing it slowly. "Right now, though I need more sleep than anything," he added but he finished the bread and then waited until Sean finished eating. To his credit, Methos made some effort at a conversation, inquiring after changes to the city, to the team, until Sean realized that with a single question, Methos could keep him talking for five minutes or more.

"Stop," Sean said at last, when Methos asked him how the reconstruction of the Atlanta library was going -- a project Methos had started. "What are you doing?" he asked with an exasperated smile.

Methos dropped his gaze to his arms where they lay crossed on the table. "Trying to prove to you I'm all right," he said, tracing his fingers across the wood grain of the table top.

"And are you? " Sean asked softly, pushing his own dishes away and leaning closer to his brother.

"I'm working at it, Sean," Methos said in a voice so strained had Sean not seen his brother's lips move he might have thought someone else was speaking. Suddenly Methos pushed back from the table, picking up his dishes. "I am truly tired," he said, carrying the plate and bowl into the kitchen and set it into the sink. He paused as he emerged again and touched his brother's shoulder. "If you like, we can set up a session, a daily one...and I will talk..."

"Is that what you want?" Sean asked seriously. "Or are you doing it for me?"

"I think...I may doing it for both of us. For all of us," he added almost as an afterthought. "It can't hurt. Goodnight, little brother," Methos said patting his shoulder gently.

Sean returned the wish and sat for awhile, wondering if he should talk to his father. In the end he called only to find that neither Duncan nor Kir had been released from the debriefing yet. Unwilling to leave Methos alone he finally sought a book from the well-filled shelves and sat down to try and read but he was too anxious and fatigued to concentrate. He fell asleep on the sofa without noticing.

Kir closed the door to the apartment behind her, watching Connor head tiredly for one of the spare bedrooms as Mac headed into the living room. It felt good to be home. Some knot between her shoulders that had been so tense for so long she had accepted it as background noise suddenly began to unravel and her knees almost gave out from under her. She leaned heavily against the closed door as though it could somehow keep all the troubles of the world away.

Finally, reluctantly, she moved through the living room and out onto the patio, where Mac was standing, staring off into the distance. She stood beside him, leaning up against the railing, watching the comforting, familiar lights twinkle out of the darkness.

"It's late, Kirin," Mac said. "You should go to bed." His hands moved up to her shoulders, pushing her braids out of the way as they dug into stiff, tense muscles. She leaned into him as a sound escaped from the back of her throat, sort of like a purr. He kissed the back of her neck lightly. "You can't be mother to the entire Cherokee Nation."

"Did you feel it, though? The distrust? Emma and George were both suspicious of you for doing something against the Nation, even though they have absolutely no reason. You've worked tirelessly for years and years . . . They even had the gall to question my own motives!"

"Easy, Kir. People distrust that which they do not understand and no matter how much they try, mortals can never completely understand us. It's to their credit that they even try. As much as I hated having to lie about who and what I was all the time, I think it was better when no one knew about us. Now they either hate us, worship us or use us. Or, if we're lucky, tolerate us."

"That's not good enough," Kir said, anger making her voice tense and low. "You deserve better. We all deserve better than just being tolerated."

Mac pushed her gently towards the patio door, walking closely behind her, using his thumbs to keep up a constant gentle barrage of sensation on her neck and shoulders. "Tell you what, Silent Storm," he whispered in her ear. "If you will tolerate me, I will do a great deal more than tolerate you." As they passed the room where Connor had sacked out, the vibration from his snores could be heard halfway down the hall. They shared an amused look and Kir almost giggled, but Mac covered her mouth to keep her quiet, then replaced his hand with his lips, backing her slowly into the master bedroom where they stopped worrying about making excess noise.

Mac lay beside Kir long after she had fallen asleep. Her braids had loosened and long strands of hair had fallen like lace across her face and shoulders. He gently moved them out of the way. Asleep, Kir looked so young and vulnerable. It was only when those dark eyes opened that her strength and character positively filled the room. His protective instincts made him want to stay with her, but as much as it bruised his ego to think it, she really didn't need his protection. She had strength and power of her own. And some obligations in life could not be ignored or avoided. He lay down with a resigned sigh, doubtful that sleep, or even rest, would come.

...she was there again, but he had known she would be, lifting those marvelous eyes to his with only the faintest, shyest of smiles. As usual, she said nothing, only extended a hand and he took it...holding for a moment to examine the slender, graceful fold of her fingers against his. She tugged and he went with her, grinning like a schoolboy at the twist of her slender body, accented but not hidden under the oversized folds of her sweater. Her jeans outlined her long legs and molded to her backside, the sweater bunched up over her slender hips. She pulled him up beside her, sweeping the silky strands of her short dark hair away from her face to reveal the sharp curve of her cheek and jaw.

An impish grin and they were running, the streets empty but so reminiscent of Paris it made him ache. Suddenly it was dark as they made their way under a bridge, tension in her body, in his. A shadow emerged, the glint of steel and Mac found his katana drawn and ready as the shadow lunged forward, awkwardly, stinking of river water and turned, the sharp features in stark relief under the street lamps.

Methos. Shortly after they had first met, exhausted and frightened by his encounter with Kalas. Mac dropped his sword, reaching his hand out to his friend.

And the girl stepped between them, her back to Mac, a sword in her hand and tension radiating from every slender line. Methos fell back, eyes lifted to Mac's in such a look of betrayal he could not breathe. Then the pair of them were engaged and Mac could not intervene. He could not move and his protests were silenced by a dread he could not name.

She was good, extremely good, and Methos was tired, worn...Mac dropped to his knees as the girl's blade sliced through the neck of his friend and the body dropped...

The Quickening arced from the fallen form, stabbed through the girl as if she were a ghost and hit Mac with such force he did find his voice, lifting up a wail of protest. His eyes locked with the regretful shadowed ones of the girl as she stepped back. He could not hear her but her lips formed the words, "I'm sorry," before she faded to nothingness leaving Mac to face the brutal agony of Methos' five thousand year old soul alone and knowing the girl had stepped in to protect him for unknown reasons of her own....

He surged off the bed, in a panic... reaching out for anything solid and found only the blankets. Kir shifted and woke, seeing only his form outlined in the moonlight. She turned on the lamp and slipped out from the warm covers, saying nothing, simply laying her hand on his arm, drawing him back down to the bed.

"A dream..." he murmured, the reality of it fading, quickly under the bedside lamp and Kir's concerned but oddly quiet gaze.

"Do you want to talk about it? Is it the same?"

"No...and yes...same girl....but..." he couldn't go on and moved off the bed, parts of the dream still clinging to him as he slipped into a robe and went out into the living room. He poured himself a drink and felt Kir come into the room behind him.

"Where's Methos?" he asked.

"He's staying with Sean," Kir replied. "Was the dream about him?"

"Sort of. . . . yes . . . I think. I don't know. Was he okay when you dropped him off?"

"Okay? No, Mac. Methos is definitely not okay. He is close to madness, eaten up by despair. But you are not the cause of this, Duncan MacLeod. Punishing yourself will only hurt both of you." She laid her hands on his back, resting her head between his shoulder blades. "Patience, Duncan. He needs a little time and distance." But Mac only moved away, out onto the patio and into the night air. Kir watched him standing there, the emotional walls almost visible around him, and headed back to bed. It was pointless to try to talk to the man when he got like this.

After a few moments he returned. "Go back to sleep, Kir," he murmured and brushed her forehead with a kiss. "I am going for a walk."

Kir made no response only giving into small sigh after she felt him leave the apartment. She pulled Duncan's pillow to her, smelling him in the fabric but even that familiar comfort did not lull her into sleep. She feigned sleep when he returned an hour later knowing both of them were wide awake. When the phone range, it was a relief to have an excuse to get up.

When Sean struggled awake, it was full dark outside. The clock revealed it close to midnight. Someone had spread a blanket over him as he lay on the sofa and pulled off his shoes to make him more comfortable.

Wiping a weary hand across his eyes he sat up, then stretched, feeling tight and tense. He had never quite been able to achieve his brother's boneless sprawl across any available piece of furniture. He got to his feet, stretching again and headed to his room, pausing by Methos' room to listen but heard nothing. He started to move past to his own room but he hesitated then carefully opened the door, not wanting to wake his brother.

The dim light from the kitchen spilled across the room, providing enough illumination for Sean to realize the bed was empty. The sheets and blankets were twisted but there was no sign of his brother. He reached, automatically bringing those senses to bear. But it was more instinct than anything that led him to the bathroom.

"Oh, Christ," he murmured and crouched carefully beside the tight ball of human flesh and muscle curled on the floor in the corner. Methos might have been made of stone his musculature was so contracted. He reached out to touch the taut back and got no response at all nor was there any reaction to his repeated calls to his brother. Moving him he found the thin face, tucked as it was against his knees, cold and strained, only the tiniest of breaths escaping him. There was no way he could know how long Methos had been like this. Without thinking any further about it he rose, sprinting to his own room to pull out his medical bag. He loaded a powerful muscle relaxant into a syringe, doubling the dosage. He didn't care if he stopped his brother's heart at this point, needing to relieve the horrible rigor in his brother's body. The syringe went in through cloth and into muscle. Another sprint and he had the infirmary on the phone. The second call went to his father.

The injection had little or no effect that Sean could see except when he pulled Adam toward him, pulled at the folded limbs, they did move but on release they tightened again with a jerky, almost unwilling, movement. He heard the door open, the spill of voices and the steady presence of his father.

Duncan led the way, Dr. Surat behind him, her face pinched with uncertainty. Immortals were not her specialty. Hell, they weren't anyone's specialty as far as she knew and she was all too willing to let Sean MacLeod direct her efforts. Another injection, Surat clamping down on her protest that so much would kill him, would stop the heart, and it did.

What could not be accomplished in life was no effort at all in death as the thin body went lax. Duncan lifted the limp body while Sean ran water to clean up his brother where death had released all bodily controls.

"He may wake up and go back into the same state," Surat cautioned Sean.

Leaning wearily against the door frame of the bathroom Sean nodded, chewing his lower lip as he watched his father strip Methos down again. "I know. I can't help him unless I know what triggered it. I know the cause...Can we hook up an IV? Maybe keep him mildly sedated?"

"At the rate Immortals build up resistance to drugs, that would only be a stopgap for a few days at best," she said, almost apologetically. "Your best bet is to keep someone on hand, keep an eye on him -- if he starts to show signs of retreating into catatonia, see if you can arrest the progress then. That is, if he comes out of this in any shape to be watched. Sorry, Sean. You are just going to have to wait. I can and will set up an IV for you, though...maybe a couple. If we are going to make a pincushion out of him we might as well make sure it does some good. Get some supplements into him and fluids?" She smiled at him, resting her hand on his arm and he nodded.

"Thanks, Elizabeth," he murmured with a faint smile of his own.

"All right, then. I'll be back in five minutes with my bags of tricks," she said and left them.

Sean moved to the bed with a bowl of water and a cloth and began washing the cooling skin as Mac rummaged through drawers for clean clothes. When Duncan returned to the bed he found fresh splatters of moisture on his friend's chest and arm.

The source was easily identified and without a word Duncan pulled his two hundred year old son into his arms as if he were a child of ten. At the feel of his father's arms around him, Sean buried a sob against the broad shoulder.

Duncan held on, his own grief and fear held at bay while he offered what comfort he could to his son. It was too much to ask of Sean to be his brother's caretaker, to bear the brunt of the responsibility to correct a situation he'd had no part of making. Added to that Duncan had tried to make Sean take on more.

He didn't know what to say to his son, what words to offer, what reassurances he could speak that wouldn't sound immediately false. In the end, he didn't need to say anything as Sean regained some control over himself, lifting his head to his father's anxious gaze.

"I think I have done with the hysterics for now," Sean said with a wry grin and a sniff. He disentangled himself from his father's arms, giving the muscled arms a brief squeeze as he turned his attention back to the cause of his outburst.

"I'm surprised we're not all screaming in the dark," Mac said and lifted the still limp body so Sean could slip a heavy robe over the thin frame. "You can't do this alone," he added, coming to a decision. "And you shouldn't have to. I heard what Elizabeth said. Do what you need to for now and then we'll take him and you back to the penthouse. You need sleep as much as any of us."

"It'll be okay, Da," Sean said, his voice calm once more.

"Probably," Mac said and caught his son's chin. "But you aren't in this alone anymore than he is or I am," he said earnestly. "Connor can give up the second guest room and stay here -- then you can have a place to escape to if you need it. I can't help him work through this trauma, Sean -- but neither can you if you are worn to nothing with worry."

"I don't have a market on it, Da," Sean said but the protest was token. "The Mothers will help."

Mac smiled and nodded. "With great delight. Get some things together. I'll get him upstairs and you and Dr. Surat can do whatever you need to there." With that, Duncan gathered Methos up in his arms. The flesh was warming and an irregular heartbeat had started. Sean added a sedative to ease his brother's return from death and then sat down as he watched his father leave with his brother cradled in big strong arms, just as Sean had been cradled as a child. If only Methos were awake at that moment, Sean wished. If only he realized how much Duncan MacLeod loved him, treasured him, even if he wasn't able to give the kind physical demonstration Methos craved as proof of that love.

He leaned back with a huge sigh. Letting Da take over, even for a few minutes, was a tremendous relief. Whenever he did it always seemed like everything was going to be okay, even now that he was grown and independent for almost a century and a half. But this wasn't going to be okay, he knew. Ultimately Methos would wake and his demons would still be haunting him, waiting for something he knew he couldn't have and hating himself for it.

It went far deeper than that Sean knew. Methos was neither particularly demonstrative nor physical under normal circumstances. That he had become even partially fixated on some kind of physical expression of Duncan MacLeod's love baffled Sean to no end. The initial deprivation had launched it but now, with that demand behind them on the surface level, Sean wasn't sure what could or would reassure his brother that Duncan still thought him worthy of his affection. Or even if Methos would accept it were it offered. That his father was still disturbed by the demand bothered Sean as well.

I've always been there for him, Sean. A friend. Doesn't that count for anything?

I don't know, Da. I would have thought so. Sean let his brain jump through its mental hoops trying to ferret out the heart of the issue. In all the years he had spent living with his father and brother, the dynamics of their relationships with the lovers in their lives had always seemed casual, affectionate and happy, but not permanent -- until Kir came into Duncan's life. She was, by far, the longest relationship his father had ever had to his knowledge -- his on again off again relationship with Amanda notwithstanding. But even Amanda had more or less yielded the field to her younger rival. Methos had as well, Sean realized with the urgency of someone who nearly had the answer to a tricky question only to have it slip away again.

Methos had had any number of lover's over the years...always mortal, never very serious, friends and companions rather than deep emotional entanglements. Sean knew about Alexa, as well as Tessa, both women dead before he was born. Since Alexa, however, Sean could not recall his brother becoming that emotionally involved with anyone. Since Kirin had entered Duncan's life, Sean could not even be sure his brother had sought physical companionship from anyone although he knew it had been offered. Some offers had been rejected because the obvious allure of bedding the oldest Immortal had been obvious in the offer -- just as Duncan routinely turned down offers made because of his reputation. Both men so cautious for different reasons and Sean had inherited that caution.

It was a conversation worth pursuing with his brother if they could only get Methos in any kind of shape to discuss his fears and his doubts. Sean felt he had to find an answer, for both men, if not for himself. Some way for Methos to know love again, to recognize it, to accept it, however it was offered. With an exhausted sigh, he struggled to his feet to gather enough clothes for himself and his brother to move, at least temporarily, into new quarters.

~~~~~~

Once they'd settled him into one of the penthouse spare bedrooms, Methos slept through the rest of the night peacefully with the help of various pharmaceuticals. Dr. Surat watched for awhile, then Kir, with Mac appearing in the doorway every few hours, while Sean conked out completely in the third bedroom. One benefit was the opportunity to pump the thin man full of vitamins and sorely needed nutrients, and when he woke about dawn he didn't even recall what had sent him into his panic.

When Kir told him what had happened, Methos got very quiet. He had quickly removed the IV's and found his way out onto the balcony off the bedroom. Kir followed, watching from the doorway.

"This is ridiculous," he finally said. "I can't keep on . . . leeching off of everyone like this, like some sickly, dependent child." His voice was filled with self-disgust. He tensed at Kir's gentle touch on his shoulder.

"You are in pain, grandfather. In great need, and those who love you only want to help. Rejecting that help is to reject their love."

"Love? Or pity," Methos asked, not expecting an answer as he turned abruptly to head back into his room, moving with careful, deliberate effort to strip off his robe and change into street clothes. "I don't want anyone's pity, Kir. And I don't need it. I'm Immortal. In a matter of weeks I'll have all the strength I need," he said, slipping on a sweater that effectively hid his gaunt frame. "Now. What's for breakfast?" he asked with a grim smile.

Kir didn't really know whether to rejoice or be concerned about Methos sudden obsession with independence and gaining strength. That he might be doing so for the sole purpose of eventually challenging Duncan was a very real possibility. At the same time, seeing him strengthen almost by the hour was a gratifying change from the weak, skeletal wraith that had haunted them since his emergence from his entombment. Ultimately, she had little time for speculation as to outcome or motivation as messages began to pour in, confirming a new aggressive initiative on the part of the Eastern Dawn.

Evidently, the spread of the news of Methos' rescue had been thought to be a strategic and public relations setback sufficient to need a very harsh, and very public response. Bombing runs hit Charleston, Tampa and Norfolk, doing only moderate damage except in Tampa, where they managed to hit a munitions storage area.

Kir, Hawk, Connor and Duncan were up most of the night coordinating the redeployment of resources, defenses, technology and personnel to protect key vulnerable areas such as airports and major rail lines. Maps were studied, lists were made and re-made, long hours were spent on conference calls as new information and rumors poured in - although it was hard sometimes to tell the difference between hard fact, fearful speculation and simple hysteria.

At last most of the damage had been assessed, and it appeared to have been a hit and run action across a few fronts, more for appearance than for real damage caused. The Eastern Dawn was stretched thin and Kir knew they could not sustain an action without amassing enough personnel and firepower to telegraph their intent. At least that's what she hoped, as she sighed and sat back, belatedly noticing that dawn was creeping into the windows, throwing the lightening sky into a graduated scale of blue to navy to black.

"Well," said Duncan, hovering over a datavoice terminal, "I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"I don't want any news," Kir growled tiredly. "I can't think of anything I want to hear. As a matter of fact I can't think at all. We lost 23 people in the last 36 hours, Mac. All I want to do is sleep."

"You mean you're not interested in the arrival of an entire shipment of high tech weapons from our dear friends, Amanda and Marcus Constantine?"

That got the attention of everyone in the room.

"When?" Hawk demanded.

"End of the week. In D.C. as promised."

Kir hit the com key on her terminal. "Revas." It took a moment, but he responded sleepily.

"Yeah, Commander. Sorry, I just got to bed. What's happened?"

Ignoring the stress she knew she was putting on the overtaxed mortal, her instructions were precise. "The weapons Sean and Connor liberated are coming in to D.C. Duncan is going to send you the details. Use the minimum number of people necessary. In and out fast, Revas. Minimum exposure."

"Got it, Ghost. Consider it done." Revas clicked off.

Kir sat back with a small smile. "Well, that ought to help replace some of the stuff we lost or used during the E.D.'s little public gesture." She rose and stood behind Duncan, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," she whispered. "I guess I'm a little tired."

He squeezed her hand, then finished sending Revas the details of Constantine's message. He turned, pulling her into his lap. "Gee, I can't imagine why, Storm," he said with a smile. "You lead such an uneventful life."

Kir thumped him on the forehead, but followed it by a kiss, then leaned against his shoulder with a sigh. It felt good to think about something besides death and war and a bleak and uninviting future, just for a moment. But her own nature wouldn't let it rest. "And what's the bad news, Mac?" she finally asked.

He didn't answer, just pulled her close. "It can wait," he said quietly.

"No it can't, Duncan, or you wouldn't have mentioned it."

"You are a stubborn woman, Kirin Storm," he sighed.

"You're the expert, Duncan. You certainly ought to know."

After a moment of playing with her long fingers against his hand he responded. "The Charleston team reported seeing a stocky, bald man in charge of the Eastern Dawn ground assault. They think it was Bar Abbas." He felt her muscles tense under his hands. "They could be wrong," he added hastily. The thought that the E.D. had now sent its chief henchman to the States could mean a number of things, none of them good for the Cherokee Nation. "Look, the whole Virginia-North Carolina area is thin with leadership right now. It could be just some panicked young lieutenant believing the worst."

She pulled herself out of his arms, pacing the room. "And it could mean that now that they know we've got Methos back, they figure you will turn your energies to a new direction, like leading the Community and the Nation in a more aggressive and direct attack on the E.D."

"If they are, then they are assuming I have more of a leadership roll than I do, Kir. You know that. You and the Council and Hawk of Moons decide what the Nation does, not me."

"You haven't been reading your own press, Duncan MacLeod," Connor said from the corner with a low laugh. "You should hear some of the crap they say about you. And the E.D. is just as susceptible to rumor as anybody else, maybe even more so, because they want to believe Immortals are their biggest threat."

"And if you chose to take full leadership, Duncan MacLeod, there are few who would challenge you as not having both the experience and the talent for it," Hawk of Moons added quietly. "Distrust of Immortals aside, Mac, you know if . . ."

"Stop it, Hawk," Mac growled. "Running wars is Marcus Constantine's calling, not mine. Just because I can doesn't mean I want to. Besides, your people trust you."

"They trust my judgment, but I'm not a warrior, Duncan. And in my judgment, if this develops into full scale war, we will need the experience of you and Kir and Connor to even have a chance."

Duncan shook his head tiredly. "I've seen too many wars, Hawk. Far, far too many." After a long contemplative pause Duncan rose and stretched tired, cramped muscles, yawning hugely, then scooped Kir up in his arms while she gave a squeak of protest. "I think a little sleep would put a different perspective on the problem. I'm going to get a couple of hours of sleep. And so, I think, are you, young lady."

"Oh, you brute," she said playfully, pretending to struggle. "But I do love a manly man," she grinned.

"Now children," Connor said reprovingly, "If you can't play nicely we won't let you play together at all."

Kir slipped out of Mac's arms, grabbed his hand and led him out the door. "Playing nicely wasn't at all what I had in mind, Connor MacLeod."

But for all their tension relieving banter, the best the two of them could do was to peek into Methos' room, where he was sleeping amid a tangle of bedclothes, attesting to a restless night, before they fell, exhausted, into bed themselves.

For it was only a few hours before more messages came in, more resource reallocations were necessary, more reassurances to the leadership of enclaves throughout the south were necessary as the ramifications of the Eastern Dawn's strikes were felt throughout the Nation.

If it were dreams or nightmares that woke Methos, he could not recall them and the disorientation he felt upon waking faded mercifully quickly. Perhaps because he had been awakened on and off all night by the comings and goings and quiet mutterings of his hosts. He had stayed silent, listening, catching the gist of the conversations, of the hurried communiqués. He had managed to stay out of the way, remained out of the loop deliberately, letting Oella bring him his meals and remain with him as he tried to manage some routine in his day, working out as much as he could manage until Oella scolded him. He had barely seen Sean before his brother, as part of the mobile medical team, headed for Charleston where there were any number of terrified civilians needing medical assistance or even more to the point for Sean, someone to help them work through their fears.

Observation was still his best tool and it was on the tip of his tongue to call Hawk of Moons and give his assessment of the reasons for the sudden flurry of activity. Three years ago he might have, whether Hawk asked him or not. Three years ago Hawk would have asked him. No longer it seemed and while he thought his insights accurate, the end result would have not been much different than the plans being laid out by the best of the Nation's strategists. With that much more on their minds, his keepers needed none of the uncontrollable hysterics he had been exhibiting of late to divert their attentions.

That decision didn't stop the waves of panic that assaulted him, however. Exhaustion was as good as a preventative as anything and he managed to work himself toward that end with a certain amount of success. And when that wasn't enough, well, what sedatives were left over in Sean's bag from the last panic attack could be as easily self-administrated as calling Dr. Surat. The problem with pharmaceuticals and Immortal physiologies, unfortunately, was an annoyingly short duration of relief.

When not in the workout room Kir and Mac had set up in their spare room or being fussed over by Oella, Methos contented himself with trying to work through the translations of the texts rescued first by him and then by Sean from beneath the Vatican. Three years in that tiny damp hole had done them no less damage than the stay had done him. Amazing that the three volumes had survived nearly three thousand years only to begin a terminal deterioration after three years under his protection. It was, to Methos' mind, ironically apt. He had contacted the library and historical society he had helped organize, planning to make a trip there in a few days and see if they could help halt the deterioration -- and to give himself some time away from Duncan, from the confines of the residence quarters. The Library was housed in Callaway Gardens, an hour or so south of Atlanta, still a lovely place if no longer a tourist attraction. He planned to ask Sean to go with him, hoping a change of venue, a place where he could concentrate on the translations rather than the uneasy truce or whatever he had managed with Duncan would be good for both he and MacLeod. Asking Sean was an effort to keep his promise to his younger brother -- to allow Sean to reassure himself that his brother was recovering -- whatever that meant. But that concession was all he was willing to make. He was selfishly unwilling to let anyone else translate the volumes in his hands. With any luck he might be able to leave them a viable translation before he....

He snapped the thought off with viciousness. Being suicidal was not a new experience for Methos but it was a rather unrealistic goal for an Immortal. Although, as he recalled from a prior bout some thousand years before, there was a certain shocking change of heart that came from flinging oneself off a cliff. That usually cured him for a century or two -- even knowing that he would get up again. Somehow he didn't think anyone would appreciate his unique cure should he jump from the top of the building.

And no one, not Kir, Not Sean and, God help him, certainly not Duncan, deserved to be exposed any further to his weakness of will or his depression.

He was torn from his self-pity by a familiar presence, one that normally several lifetimes ago soothed his spirit. Only now MacLeod's presence was like salt in a raw wound. Methos schooled his features, pulling up his masks and his armor, not surprised when MacLeod eased his door open. The brown eyes widened on seeing Methos awake, the awkward silence almost as painful as the caution Methos saw in the silent gaze.

"Knocking would be nice," Methos said, cursing himself immediately for an opening foray that sounded both hostile and scolding. He knew why MacLeod was here, knew it was concern that drove these obsessive checks.

"I'm sorry. I thought you might be asleep," Mac said in apology.

"I do seem to do a lot of sleeping," Methos acknowledged, forcing his tone to be less emotional, communicating nothing but information. "How goes the fight?" he asked trying to evince some concern.

"Mostly clean up. The attacks have stopped. Sean should be back tonight or tomorrow," MacLeod said, still hovering in the doorway. He looked tired, Methos noted. Tired and worn and worried and a good portion of that anxiety Methos had helped place there. "I was going to heat up some food," he began carefully and Methos shook his head.

"Oella makes sure I don't starve to death," he said and almost felt Mac flinch under the words -- reading an undertone that wasn't there. How thin my control has gotten, Methos thought even as that control slipped form his grasp. "I wasn't accusing you of being the cause of my starvation, MacLeod," he snapped. "It's past. I've starved before -- it is, for us, a condition easily overcome."

MacLeod nodded, lips tightening as he started to withdraw. Methos almost let him go, not wanting his friend to see him break down again. "I'll have some tea," he said suddenly, unfolding his frame from the bed to rise almost flinching himself when he saw MacLeod step back as if expecting a blow. Duncan recovered and turned away, leaving the door open. Distantly, Methos heard the other shower. Kir, no doubt. He could sense no one else which meant Connor, thank God, was not on hand as well. Mac and Kir's apartment had begun to feel like Immortal central. Had he not known it would cause even further concern, Methos would have gone back to his own apartment, only that would have meant additional work for Mac and Kir -- to check on him as they had been. At least here, they could reassure themselves and get a shower and some sleep while they did so.

Leftovers from lunch suited MacLeod fine as Methos set the kettle on to boil. Whatever guilt the Highlander had faltered under was carefully set aside as the two men literally and figuratively danced around one another in the kitchen.

"I should tell you," Mac began having eaten half the food he had put on his plate. "There are reports that Bar Abbas may be here...in North America."

It should have shocked Methos but it didn't and he managed to nod, measuring out tea leaves as the kettle began to sing. "Calling their dog to heel," Methos commented, "since he made such a poor showing in Europe."

"Or because they know you are here," MacLeod said cautiously. "We...Kir and Hawk and I and the council want you...to stay close, Methos. Put off your trip to Callaway for a few days until things are more stable."

Methos stared at him, the kettle in one hand. "It's an hour away, MacLeod. I sincerely doubt the Eastern Dawn is going to make a try for me this deep into the Cherokee stronghold."

"Maybe not. But they managed to pin their targets so easily and we still don't know how they knew we were on our way to Rome...not with enough accuracy for Bar Abbas to be practically waiting for us. Just a few days."

"And if I refuse?" Methos said evenly. "Did you just yank me out of one prison to put me in another, MacLeod? Granted the accommodations are nicer..."

"Don't!" Duncan snapped, shoving his plate away. "We don't want to lose you...not to chance...not by carelessness."

Methos set the kettle down, keeping his face and voice carefully, tightly controlled. "And what exactly do you think you might lose? Did I become a national treasure when I wasn't looking? A public commodity? Is this the Nation or the Community?"

"Both," Mac said tensely. "They want you, Methos. As a symbol, as an experiment, as a victory. It's not one we can afford to let them have."

"As oppose to letting the Nation have the victory instead?" Methos said slowly, voice dropping. He heard Kir enter, peripherally saw her emerging from the room she shared with Duncan, drying her hair. "Let me guess. The recommendation came from the council," he said and turned to look at Kir. To her credit, Kir did not drop her gaze but she pursed her lips, not denying his words.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Duncan asked, confused by the silent exchange between his friend and his lover.

Kir remained silent, dark eyes challenging Methos to speak of what he knew -- or thought he did. "Bar Abbas does not want me as some symbolic victory for the Eastern Dawn," Methos said, letting the silent challenge go unanswered. "Abbas wants me dead. And he knows that is the only way he will ever get me again, so you needn't worry about my being taken," Methos said, turning his attention back to Duncan.

"That's a brilliant pair of choices. We don't want you dead either, Methos!" Duncan said flatly.

"So I am a prisoner. Answer me this, Mac? Did you surrender to this captivity willingly or did you get a better selection of enticements," Methos snarled, glaring at Kir. "Remember this if you ever decide you want a vacation, MacLeod. You might find yourself shackled more tightly than you think."

"Methos, it's not like that!" Mac said, voice almost pleading.

"Isn't it?" Methos demanded. "So what happens if I decide to take my trip anyway? Do I get denied access to transportation? If I decide to walk, do I get shot in the back and dragged back to the solicitous care of my captors or did they burden you with that duty as well, Duncan? From rescuer to jailer in a few short days. Quite the career move, Mac."

"It is only for a few day, grandfather," Kir said quietly then stumbled back as Methos turned on her.

"Don't call me that, damn you!" he snapped. "I am not grandfather to you or any of your people, Kirin Storm. I am in no way connected to you except by choice and I may have changed my mind about that choice. You tell that to your fucking council!" His voice raised, his anger masking all else, including any concern he had for how his display of temper might appear -- more hysterics. Kir had not told MacLeod why the Nation thought Methos worth risking so much for. He knew the legends, he had heard those voices. They were no part of him and never would be if he had anything to say about it but this was his fight with the Nation, not MacLeod's. He fought to regain some control, as unwilling as Kir to drag MacLeod into a realm that was as much myth as reality. Too many more outbursts and he would find himself confined to a padded room rather than under house arrest. "And now what do they do?" he asked Kir, taking a step toward her only to find Mac holding his arms, gently but firmly.

"Methos, calm down. You are not a prisoner -- not if I have anything to say about it. This is a precaution. That's all. A few days. Please," MacLeod said, his voice gentle, soothing, placating a cranky child.

Is that all I am to you now, Mac? Methos fought to keep breathing evenly though his chest had constricted, his heart pounding until he thought it would burst. This wasn't even claustrophobia. From friend to responsibility to burden with a few well placed words and better placed misunderstandings. From master manipulator to fool extraordinaire in just three short years and a nightmare. Letting Bar Abbas have me might be a blessing at this point, my friend. At least I know where I stand with him. Methos said nothing, going still under Mac's restraint, his eyes still locked with Kir's.

MacLeod suddenly realized that Methos' advance had not been meant as a threat and he released him. "I'm sorry. I promise, Methos...a few days."

"I know what your promises are worth, Mac," Methos said softly, believing him but not even caring that MacLeod would misunderstand him again. "A few days, a few months...it doesn't really make any difference does it? We are Immortal. We have all the time in the world to do what we want, be who we want to be -- a beheading now and then notwithstanding."

"Spirits above, Methos! This isn't a death sentence," Kir snapped, her eyes on the wash of pain crossing Duncan's face. "We want you alive, is that so hard to understand? To accept?"

"Yes, well, according to your council's concerns, Bar Abbas wants me alive, too. I don't happen to agree, but would you care to tell me where the difference is, Kirin?" he said and glanced at the kettle and cup. "Water's hot. Please feel free. I can wait for my regular rations to be brought on a metal tray. Don't forget the tin cup. It's every prisoner's right to rattle his jailer's cage now and again. Although, I am sure you make a far more attractive jailer for MacLeod than he does for me."

Kir flushed, mouth opening at the insult and the implication. Damn the man! He was an expert with an emotional blade. Duncan just looked shocked and hurt and confused. Well, she thought, her own anger rising, at least he isn't going after Mac any longer -- far too easy a target, no challenge at all, really. Amanda, damn her, might well have been right in her approach.

"I'm not your rival, Methos," she said evenly, braced for the comeback. She could spar with cutting words as easily as Methos.

"No. You're not," Methos said. "There was never any contest," Methos said so softly Kir took a moment to hear the words. Worse, what lay beneath them. Not a parry, a surrender. If she could only understand his motives, or, ancestors lend her strength, keep up with these mercurial mood shifts.

But the moment was past, Methos was moving back toward his room and Duncan was so stunned, he could do nothing but watch them.

At first. When the door to Methos' room closed his gaze was fixed on Kir. "What the hell was that all about?" he asked.

"Which part?" Kir said wearily, tossing the towel across the kitchen island. She stared at the kettle and the cup for a moment and then poured the water.

"The part about Methos being a Victory for the Cherokee. Does the council see him that way? He's not a prize to be won, Kir," Mac said. "Is that why Hawk finally gave me the support I asked for...begged for for three years?" his tone was taking on that cold edge, anger burning through the confusion. "So we could find Methos before the Eastern Dawn did? Not to rescue him -- not to free him from that...hell, but so the Nation could be held up as the saviors of the oldest Immortal?"

"No!" Kir said, appalled that Mac could think such a thing of her, or of her people, even as some small part of her shrieked that Immortals were her people as well. It was why she had joined the community. It was why the council insisted she join the community. "Duncan, until this last go round you yourself could barely find him and the times you've gone that area has been so tightly held by the Dawn, you couldn't get in. Neither Hawk nor the council were likely to support a suicide mission." She kept her tone reasonable, reaching out to stroke the tense muscles of his arms gently.

"How fortuitous that the Dawn happened to withdraw just as we decided to go in," MacLeod muttered then sighed rubbing his eyes. "I meant what I said, Kir. He is not a prisoner. He has a right to live his life, start his life all over again if that's what he wants. How ever he wants it."

"Even if he challenges you?" she asked. "Mac, the council's concerns for his safety is very real. Just as it is for yours or for mine. But even without that, can you honestly tell me you would feel comfortable letting him strike out on his own as he is? He is irrational and angry and yes, sick -- as an Immortal should not be. Not just physically injured but emotionally and mentally as well. You know it. Sean knows it and even Methos knows it when he is not trying so desperately to pretend he's fine if a little more caustic than usual."

"It's still his life," Mac said stubbornly. "He has the right to choose how and where he lives it."

"I don't disagree, but if we love him, we also need to make sure he isn't operating out of fear. A few days or a few weeks may make him more resentful but he will be healthy, as recovered physically as he can be and among people who do give a shit if he lives or dies, regardless of his age. Please don't let his anger blind you or guilt you into doing something you know can only hurt both him and you in the long run."

She waited until she felt him force himself to relax and smiled at him faintly. "Wait until Sean gets back and talk to him -- If Methos is still determined to go to the Library I will personally make the arrangements. There are people who would think it a great honor to accompany him and die to keep him safe."

A rough laugh escaped MacLeod. "You tell him that and we'll find he's tied bed sheets together and escaped in the middle of the night. He has enough problems with the fuss the Mothers make over him. Kir, whatever else is going on in his head or in his soul, being the center of so much attention can only make things worse. Ever since his existence was revealed to the Immortal population at large he had been fighting to stay in the background. He came out of the stuff of myths for me, using his position to gather Immortals together. But it was hard for him then -- it won't be any easier for him now. You told me what Marcus said. Is it really any wonder that he values his freedom so much? No matter our good intentions." He fell silent and then pulled her against him. "Don't think I don't know this is hard for you as well, Ghost. You have always had such reverence for him, but its not what he wants or needs. He needs friends, not worshippers. He is not History personified. He is just a man who has lived through a lot of it."

"I know," she said pressing her cheek against his shoulder. "And I am as guilty of letting his anger get to me as you are," she added scolding herself. "The wretch. How does he do that? He knows just which buttons to push...just which words make us say things we wish we hadn't. I am not your jailer."

Mac laughed at her, pushing her damp hair back off her face. "I can only hope," he said and then sighed again. "I don't know how much of his resentment is real. Sean said I would have to be blind not to see it. I love you, Kirin Storm. Don't doubt that."

"And you love Methos as well. Don't forget that no matter what he says or how he acts. You are infinitely capable of loving any number of people, Duncan MacLeod. Not all the same way, but it's never a lesser or greater love. He'll remember that as well."

"Eventually, I hope," MacLeod said and bit his lip but any further thoughts were silenced as he saw Kir tilt her head in the manner she always did when she was contacted on her sub-cutaneous implants.

"How many missing?" he heard her ask, and then she swore. "All right, give me thirty minutes to get a bag together," she said then flexed her jaw to shut the mic down.

"What?" he asked.

"Norfolk...they had a building collapse after the raid. We thought the area was stable. Search and rescue is on call. The locals don't have the equipment. We do. Sixteen people trapped," she said, her brain already changing gears. "Should take us a day or so."

"Do you want me to come?" he asked.

"Yes, but you can't. Or you shouldn't. This isn't a military mission, Mac. It's straight S&R. Besides I am not sure you really want or need to leave Methos to Connor's careful care. The will both end up half-way to Tijuana."

"And Sean will be back," Mac agreed. "Having just dealt with that kind of trauma, I don't want him to have to step in immediately to deal with Methos as well. All right. Finish you tea, Storm. I think I can manage to get your kit bag together," he offered kissing her nose and releasing her.

Five minutes of relaxation, Kir promised her tired mind and body and then once more into the fray but she couldn't stop her own twinge of guilt from surfacing at the thought of being away from Methos and even Mac for a bit. No matter her words to Methos, she knew there was more truth to her statement about rivalry than she would willingly admit. She couldn't surrender the field to Duncan's heart as Methos had done but she could not say whether that meant she loved Duncan too much or too little. And wondered if she might not have been on the other end of that statement had Methos been born a woman, rather than a man.

That thought hit her so suddenly she almost dropped her cup. Son of a bitch! She found her eyes going to Methos' door. Mac's description of his dreams surfacing unbidden and with a whole different interpretation.

Was it possible that Methos was somehow influencing Mac's dreams, or was it Mac trying to rationalize, come to terms with his own feelings about the older Immortal? Or could they be, and her mouth suddenly went dry, mirrors of one another? That Mac had dreamed of a woman, that odd sylph like woman killing his best friend...if Methos was having images or nightmares of Mac taking his head or allowing it to happen it would explain much.

She could make no guesses but it was definitely something that Sean should be consulted about. She doubted Mac had told his son of his own restless sleep, unwilling to any further burden his son. She made a mental note to talk to Sean on her return.

Which reminded her that while Mac was packing her bag, she couldn't very well head up a mission in her bathrobe. She finished her tea and headed for the bedroom and habit made her check on Methos, listening for a moment before easing the door open. He was asleep again, curled on the bed in that odd and compact pose. She moved silently, to pull a blanket over him.

I am not your enemy, she whispered silently and withdrew, wondering what it would take to prove she was, as Mac said, a friend.

Sean had the transport drop him off at the front of the building, pulling his ID for the night watch as he entered. His pack felt like it weighed a ton and his body reflected the weariness his mind was trying desperately to stave off. He entered the elevator, slumping against the wall and closing his eyes for the ride up. It was after three a.m. and as much as he wanted a meal and a shower, mostly what he wanted was a bed. The elevator stopped and he opened his eyes then cursed silently to himself. He had punched in the code for his father and Kir's apartment, rather than his own floor.

Oddly enough there was a light on. Curious despite himself he peered in and found his brother peering back at him. "Well, you look like shit," Methos observed softly and Sean chuckled in his weariness.

"Such flattery, Adam," Sean returned and then stepped into the apartment as the doors began to close. "Missed my floor," he said.

Methos moved toward him and held out the mug he had been sipping from. "Here."

"I want sleep," Sean started to protest but the mug contained soup and his stomach growled in anticipation.

"You can have that too," Methos said and exchanged the mug for Sean' pack and then pushed his brother toward the sofa.

"If I sit, I won't get up," Sean warned.

"So don't," Methos said. "Room enough here," he added and sat down on the coffee table in front of Sean to take his shoes off.

"I can do that," Sean said trying to pull his foot away. Methos retained his grip.

"So can I. Drink your soup," he said in tone Sean didn't even have to work hard at dragging from his childhood. He smiled faintly and relaxed. Half the mug was gone when he realized no one else had emerged. His presence should have alerted at least his father.

"Where is Da?" he asked, perplexed.

"He left about ten minutes ago...should be back soon. The council have had he and Kir jumping like kangaroos all day. Kir is in Norfolk, search and rescue," Methos said setting Sean's boots aside.

"Are you going to tuck me in as well?" Sean teased as Methos rescued the mug and pulled him to his feet once more, propelling him toward the bedroom.

"I might," Methos murmured. "Go to sleep, Sean. You look like you need it," he murmured, touching his brother's arm lightly.

"You too, Adam. How are you sleeping?"

"Fine. Like a baby." Methos said and pulled the blankets back as Sean stripped off his clothes, down to his underwear. Once settled, Methos did indeed tuck him in before turning the lights off and retreating to his room.

Sleep came so swiftly, he barely acknowledged Methos leaving and he came out of it later, feeling his father return then slipping again into dreams even as Mac checked on him. Movement scattered through his dreams and then sound, a low thrum, not quite like a moan or has high as a keen. He stirred, tried to shed dream and sound and failed, coming to a groggy wakefulness trying to identify the sound.

The direction was indistinct, seemingly surrounding him and he sat up, trying to source it. He finally got up and went to the door but it faded. He retreated, hearing it again as he came to the bathroom door connecting his room with his brothers. The bathroom was empty but the sound was more distinct and he padded through the connector to push at his brother's door.

Methos was still asleep, the soft sounds escaping his throat softer without the echo of the bathroom to amplify them. Sean moved silently, hoping to hear words but the sound was not of any language but despair. He relaxed his perceptions, hoping to get something from his brother's powerful signature and found that signature as tightly controlled as Sean had ever felt. How his father and brother managed to accomplish that, Sean had never understood -- perhaps self preservation from the odd Quickening they had once shared. Crouching beside the bed, Sean reached out to touch the curled finger gripping the sheets.

The sound ceased immediately without Methos ever waking. Sean waited but whatever had been haunting his brother seemed to have faded under his touch. He rose, stiff muscles protesting and faltered, reaching out to steady himself against the bedside table, knocking something off the table. He tried to catch the object in the dark and heard it hit the floor. Methos moved restlessly but remained asleep. Sean felt for whatever had fallen then hissed softly when something pricked his fingers. He reached again, recognizing the feel of a syringe. More forays with his hands produced two bottle and he gathered it all up, moving carefully into the bathroom and closing the door before turning on a light. He held up the vials, recognizing the sedative from his own kit. One was empty the other had perhaps four doses left in it. He bit his lip and went into his own room and examined his bag. He had kept six vials there and there were three left.

"Oh, Christ, Adam," he whispered to himself. He would most certainly confirm his suspicions with his brother but he had little doubt given the fact that Methos -- who's senses were usually like a cat's -- had barely even noted his presence. He stared at the vials in his hands. He had only been gone a few days. For Methos to have gone through this much of the medication meant he was dosing himself with enough tranquilizer to fell an enraged bear.

"Sean?"

He looked up, so caught up in his shock, he hadn't noticed his father's presence.

"Hi, Da," he said softly and then held up the drugs. "I take it Methos has been sleeping since I left?"

Duncan took the vial and nodded. "Yeah, he has -- even with all the activity. Damn." the Highlander said and closed his eyes as he leaned against the door frame. "I thought it was because he was in a familiar place, among familiar presences...or just because he's exhausted."

"Could be, but I don't think so. He was having a nightmare, but he is so drugged right now he can't even come out of it," Sean said. "He keeps this up and he'll be an addict. He almost gone through three vials in four days. That's enough for a half a year."

"Drugs don't work--"

"I know how drugs work with us, Da," Sean said a little harshly. "It's not that he is using them...it's why. To sleep obviously..."

"So he wouldn't bother any of us," his father supplied and Sean had to agree. "How did it go in Charleston?" Mac asked, trying to lighten the tight, distracted worry on his son's face as he continued to stare at the syringe in his hand.

"What? . . . Oh, yeah. There were only a couple of deaths, fortunately, but a lot of injuries and trauma. People have become depressingly inured to death the last couple of decades. The Eastern Dawn has seen to that."

Mac finally guided his son towards the living room, pushing him down into a chair and pouring both of them a drink. Sean apparently needed to talk even more than he needed to sleep, and Mac was too tired and too wound up to be able to relax anytime soon.

Sean took the drink and stared at it for several seconds before he took a sip. "How has he been?"

"Like you said, sleeping a lot. Exercising when he wasn't sleeping, although he has taken an interest in translating those books you salvaged from Rome. He wants to go the library at Callaway Gardens to work with some of the researchers there."

"That's a good sign. He needs to find something to interest him besides his own miseries," Sean said, sipping at his drink and letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, his eyes closing in exhaustion.

"Yeah, well, that's the good news. The bad news is that Bar Abbas may have been spotted on the East Coast," Mac said grimly, staring sightlessly out into the night.

Sean opened one eye, but his only view was of his father's tense back.

"Seriously?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'm not surprised, really. Now that he knows Methos is somewhere in North America he's going to keep coming until he finds him."

"Or you."

The big shoulders shrugged. "Methos is the eldest. He's like the Holy Grail to them. And there's something personal between him and Bar Abbas."

"All the more reason for both of you to be careful. He knows that where one of you goes, the other follows."

Mac's chuckle was dry and humorless. "That may have been true once, but no more." The silence hung heavy between them for a moment. "Well, son," Mac said as he turned, "You should get back to bed. You look beat."

Sean finished his glass and struggled to his feet, acknowledging the truth of his father's statement. "So Methos is leaving tomorrow? If so, I want to be sure and get up in time to speak to him before he goes."

Sean followed as his father gathered both of their glasses and headed towards the kitchen without a reply.

"Dad?"

"I've asked Methos to stay close to the compound until we can secure his safety a little better," Mac said neutrally.

Sean stopped in his tracks. "You told him he couldn't go?" he asked harshly.

"I just asked him to delay the trip until we can be certain of his safety."

"Da, you can't do that." Sean's voice was low and threatening.

"It's for his own safety, Sean. After all this, to lose him to Bar Abbas because of some stupid lapse in security..."

"NO! Damn it! You are so bloody oblivious, aren't you? Here he's been drugging himself into insensibility and you didn't even notice, and now you want to keep him prisoner! Can you even conceive of how that will feel to him? Didn't you do that long enough?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sean wanted to take them back. "Da...I..."

But his father's face was carefully cool and neutral when it turned to him. It was an expression Sean had learned over the centuries. It was the one he hated most of all. It meant the Highlander had shut himself away behind an impenetrable wall.

"He already hates me, Sean. I'd rather he be alive and hating me, than die blessing my name." MacLeod turned and disappeared down the hall, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Sean swore silently and flopped back against the sofa wondering where in their twisted lives Methos and Duncan MacLeod had ever learned to exchange love and hate with such blithe carelessness.
 

Attempting to pursue either an apology or the conversation of the night before with his father proved impossible. Duncan was gone before Sean managed to wake up and that happened only because Oella appeared at his door with a tray of food and a scold -- both delivered with swift efficiency and gentle adjustments to his body and his mood.

Having just spent the better part of four days in tents and field camps with bad food and despairing company, Sean succumbed to the honest pampering, nourishing his body while he desperately tried to keep his mind throttled back to something less than overdrive.

"The prodigal returns." Connor announced cheerfully as Sean was working through his third cup of coffee and seriously considering breaking the world record for the longest shower ever taken. He had heard Methos earlier, the murmured exchanges with Oella part of what had awakened him. "Nice banquet they rolled out," Connor observed surveying the remains of Sean's breakfast and managing to salvage one half of a piece of toast.

"Given what I have been eating, you have no idea how accurate that statement is," Sean said, setting cup and tray aside as he hauled himself out of bed. "Did you come by for a reason or just to mooch food rations?"

"Hah!! I am the hero of the European invasion," Connor said, eyes glinting. "No short rations for me, boyo! Naw...I left some gear here. Came by to pick it up. You talked to your Da?"

"Briefly," Sean said, not quite wincing. "Last night. Have you seen Adam?"

Connor grunted. "No. Nor want to at the moment. He set your father off. Again," Connor said bitterly. "I cannae' hardly wait for him to get his strength back so I can beat his skinny ass for the insensitive lout he is," Connor said only half in jest.

"So the kettle calls the pot black," Sean shot back, too aware that half of what Connor said he didn't mean and the other half was more bluster than bargain. "You know then, that he's been confined to quarters," he added harshly, his anger at his father's pronouncement no less now than it was the night before.

"I do and no way to enforce it," Connor added nonchalantly. "See it for the concern it is, lad."

"I'm trying to, Connor. It's not the meaning, it's the methods."

There was nothing the older Immortal could say. "I'll be off then. Let time sort it out, Sean," he advised, rising. "Call me if you need something, lad."

Sean agreed then went to claim his long overdue shower. That, at least, had the ability to wipe away the remainder of his fatigue and went a long way toward relieving some of his tension as well. Clean and dressed and far more in control, he geared himself for a confrontation. Regardless of Connor's opinion, Sean was not of a mind to let time sort out all things and the most immediate he gathered up in his hands then sought out his brother.

As Duncan had mentioned, Methos was exercising although when Sean found him he was resting against the weight bench, a towel draped damply across his thin shoulders. "Feeling better?" the elder Immortal inquired with a smile and the tone of real concern in his voice. It was real, Sean knew, emotions turned outward, and there was time when the regard in those hazel eyes would have made his world right in a glance. But no more. Fingering the vials in his pocket, Sean felt his own doubts creeping back in. Why did he have the sudden feeling he had done more growing up in the last two weeks than he had in the last two hundred years? How many times had he relied on his father or brother for advice or to pull his adult ass out of some trouble or another and never thought about how readily those hands had been offered?

He had not been in any way the kind of hell-raising trouble-could-find-him-blind demand that Connor was, although Sean had to admit some of the most joyous and amusing times spent with Duncan and Methos had been when the two of them were pulling Connor out of whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into.

And who else? How many mortals and Immortals had these two managed, by some combination of brains and wit and guile and sheer luck, to save or aid or simply support directly or indirectly? Deals Methos had made with food brokers that Duncan managed to find transport for when the wildfires had devastated the still producing heartland. They had not single-handedly or double-handedly saved all those who might have or did starve in that brutal winter some two decades before but the body count would have been higher had they sat back as so many had and simply done nothing.

Nor was Sean unaware that left to his own devices, Methos might well have sat back -- his concern for others was never so sharp as when it was Duncan's concern, but his knowledge and his downright ruthless appraisal of both odds and resources had managed miracles for Duncan's conscience that might have otherwise been unfulfilled. So much a part of one another and now that symbiotic relationship seemed ripe to fail and both the worse -- not to mention the impact such a schism might eventually have on anyone who dared be included in their sphere of influence.

"I am fed and rested and clean," Sean said evenly and pulled the vials from his pockets. "How I feel I am none to sure of at the moment. Angry, certainly. Disappointed, most definitely and scared too. This is not a cure," Sean said.

Methos did not even try to deny it. "No, it's not, but it's a damn sight better than the alternative," he said in an equally even tone. "I need sleep. Duncan and Kir need sleep and last night you most definitely needed sleep. Now since the three of you have decided that I must be watched like an infant, surely you can't begrudge me the comfort of a pacifier."

"Until when?" Sean asked. "Until you can't sleep without them, until you crave the drugged obliviousness you occasionally found underground in a hole that you claimed as a private hell?"

Methos said nothing, the tightening of his mouth not unnoticed. He turned away, moving away from the weight bench to the leg machine. Sean followed him, placing his foot on the weights.

"Shall I come to you now to find out which foods I can eat?" Methos hissed without looking up at his brother. "Shall we work on a schedule that says when I can take a piss or step onto the balcony to breathe air that doesn't smell recycled and conditioned?"

"You can go to Callaway if I have to drive you there myself," Sean said dropping to a crouch beside him. "It was a mistake and one that can be undone," he said gently and reached out to grip his brother's arm. Methos reacted so violently Sean wasn't sure what had set him off. His brother lurched away from him, wide eyed and shaking.

"They have no right!" Methos said, harshly. "To even discuss such things as if I had no will of my own. I am not a thing, or a prize or even a resource to be used or commanded like some servant or child with no voice of my own. I will not be owned even by affection and certainly not by pity," he swore, edging away from Sean and toward the door.

"Adam, please, talk to me. You are right. No matter how or why our concerns we should ask and I am asking. Please," Sean said desperately, not moving from his position on the floor. "Tell me what you want, what I can do."

The words arrested the movement but not the struggle and in a distracted part of his brain, Sean wondered if this was not what his father had been afraid of without even knowing it. It was highly likely that Duncan would have unconsciously recognized Methos' fight or flee response even if Sean had missed it. His brother had given up the fight, but the urge to run was so blatant on the older Immortal's face Sean would have to be blind not to see it. Only there was nowhere in the whole wide world that would take Methos far enough away from himself to satisfy that need.

Nowhere to run to, only things and circumstances he could run from -- Duncan MacLeod chief among them.

"Adam, please. I love you. Don't make me go through losing you all over again," Sean said unashamed of his own tears. We counted too much on your strength, brother. On your will to survive. Where has it gone to? How can you reclaim it?

Methos stared at him as if he were a stranger and then that control slipped back, the mask easing the fear from his face, from the tight lines of his body. "You are doing what you can, Sean," he said finally but made no move to come near his brother. "I...know you love me. Too much, I think. I am not...being the oldest doesn't make me anything special, Sean. It just makes me...older. Not wiser and not any less foolish. I know you want to help and you are...you do. The rest is...it just is what it is...Sean. It wouldn't be the first time in five millennia that I managed to live my life just off of sane," he said with a quirk to his mouth meant to reassure. "Millions of people manage that way every day."

Sean could only nod as he rose, his whole and thoroughly thought out clinical rationalization for his brother's mental state crumbling like dust from his hands. He wasn't sure what he was seeing, and obviously had no idea what his brother was thinking or feeling. Reduced to an object? Sean felt nauseated. Was that what this marvelous man of sock puppets and silly-faced sandwiches, of hidden weapons and unexpected moves with a blade, of incredible linguistic ability and the articulate skill of a prophet had come to view himself as? Reduced by deprivation to something less than human or even worthy of humane treatment.

The worst of it was, Sean realized, that now and not before did Methos need to be watched with the care and concern of any person so likely to do himself physical harm. It would not have cheered him at all nor attested to his skill a psychiatrist to know how closely his observations followed his brother's thoughts. If ever there was an Immortal who could manage to find a way to take his own head, it was Methos.

And short of the restraint or close supervision that had driven him to this point and that his brother so loathed, there was no way Sean knew to prevent such an attempt. And all for the want of knowing, when he was most irrational, most weak, that he was loved. Without having been there Sean could almost see the moment that the opportunity slipped away from them all. Even knowing that he could not blame his father, for Duncan would have known none of this, understood it less at the outset -- recalled only that his friend of so many years had been the distant one.

Perhaps though, that option was not entirely lost to them, Sean thought and shifted, telegraphing his intention to approach his brother. Methos did not move and when Sean reached out to him, Methos met his hands but the clasp and brief embrace that followed was offered again for Sean's comfort, not the elder Immortals.

"If you cannot sleep, let me know, please. It doesn't seem to take much to override your nightmares, Adam. If you need the drugs, I swear I'll use them but let me...lesser doses will work as well if we vary the type," Sean said, not quite believing the words were coming from his own lips.

"As you will, Sean. Perhaps an overly large Teddy bear?" Methos suggested with a wry turn to his lips and finally did move away after laying a light touch on his arm, gathering up his towel. "I think I have had enough for now," he said and Sean was too raw not to hear the double meaning behind his brother's words.

It was an uneasy truce that ensued through the rest of the day as Sean desperately thought through what might allow at least a partial respite and it was just as well that Duncan did not appear again until evening. Methos occupied himself at the table both before and after lunch with his text, until Oella chased him back to bed when he started to nod off in the middle of the morning.

Sean tried to remain unobtrusive, to not appear to be hovering, leaving for a short time to check in with his colleagues to check on the progress of the relief effort in Charleston. Something, he thought ironically, was going right at least. By the time Duncan arrived, Sean had decided to say nothing save make sure his father got the apology that had been burning in his throat all day.

"I know what you meant, son," Duncan said and Sean almost punched him right then and there for accepting what had been a cruel and unjust comment as if he should expect no more for his own sins. No opening then for Sean to discuss his suppositions with his father and it may have been just as well. Even were Duncan to agree with Sean's plan, enacting that idea would prove no less difficult for his father than it was for Sean and for entirely different reasons.

He accepted his father's embrace anyway, sincerely doubting if the Highlander's four-hundred year old morals were up to dealing with what his son was planning.

But Sean's doubts had more to do with the fact that he had already misjudged the situation so badly that it might be yet another plan that could go horribly awry.
 

Methos made no demands upon Sean's offer of drugs when they finally settle in for the night. Dinner had been barely tolerable and only the blessing of Oella and, as much as he hated to admit it, Connor, and their chatter of what was happening beyond the residential barracks had made the meal bearable. Duncan had tried, avoiding those topics most likely to re-open partly healed wounds which covered just about everything either of them might have had to say to each other. And Sean was uncharacteristically silent -- the tension between he and Duncan almost as tight as that between Methos and his friend.

It was emotional exhaustion that caused him to abandon the intellectual pursuits that might have otherwise have lulled him to sleep with some small victory, but Methos found at least three new methods of regulating his breathing once the light had been turned out beside his bed. The darkness was by far the worst and he resisted its hold on him with everything he could summon. Only Sean's very real fear of the use of the narcotics kept him struggling against the terror that darkness held and it was that exhaustion he finally gave in to, even as his mind screamed its fear at him in that half world between waking and sleeping.

Even in his sleep he was forced to acknowledge that fear, and he could not have spoken later which part of the fragmented nightmares that assaulted him were the worst. There was forever and persistently the stricture of breathing, the sound of his own heartbeat the only sound that ever invaded his senses save for the rare and few rumbles of what always seemed thunder. When the murmurings began, Methos could not tell if they were voices calling him or the muttering screeching and squeaks of vermin that hand become his only other living companion in his darkness.

Had he been able to move at all during his imprisonment, he might have made them food, but in truth the reverse had become true until the screams in his own mind overwhelmed their chattering. Then would come that bright flash of hope, the feel of a human hand upon his flesh, the thrum of a familiar presence that would brush across him until he could only sob against the promise...only to have it wrenched away again. He would feel and hear and smell Duncan so close but his voice could not call him back and no matter how hard he clung to that saving presence it always slipped away again...not to return until that familiar presences was scattered and rejoined under the force of a Quickening that brought every nerve alive and paralyzed him at the same time.

His protests were lost under the pain, under the murmuring, under the feel of blood as it poured from wounds he could not staunch. Then Duncan would leave him again and the darkness would close in again until that presence returned. As it was now and he was aware of his own whimpering in the stillness as he wrenched awake covered not in blood but in sweat.

And not alone.

The presence in the darkened room was...familiar. "No fear, Adam," the rich tenor said, with only a trace of an accent. For a moment he was confused, thinking the shadow MacLeod and he tensed, stilling his harsh breaths with effort. But the body did not quite have Mac's bulk. With a wordless query, he reached for the lamp, only to have his arm trapped gently, and pulled away. Fingers crept along his arm to his cheek, the fingers curled to caress his jaw lightly, before stretching to touch his lips.

"What are you doing?" Methos said softly, not pulling away but capturing the wrist and holding it as he reached for the lamp again and succeeded in turning it on. He was not surprised to find Sean watching him, the hazel eyes meeting his steadily.

"Comforting you, if you'll let me," Sean said. "I could...I can hear you through the wall," he added. "Whatever...however alone you might feel, you aren't, you know."

"Go back to bed, Sean," Methos said, releasing his wrist. "I will be fine."

"You keep saying that but it isn't true," Sean said rising up on his knees and gripping his brother's shoulders, forcing the older man to look at him. "What is it going to take for me to get through to you?" he said, and the calm voice broke. "Are you really thinking of holding onto this anger for the rest of your life? Is that all you want? Because I want more. I want more from you...and if anyone has a right to demand that of you, I do."

Methos' face flushed, and he wrenched away but Sean was done with trying to reach his brother through subtle, gentle means. The hurt and anger and pain came off Methos in hot waves, the isolation like a physical barrier.

Sean pressed forward slipping his arms around the slender body and pulling him close, bare skin contacting as he folded his brother against his chest with a relentless strength. Methos shoved at him and Sean would not yield.

"No. You've gone too long without this, Adam. This is what it feels like when someone who loves you holds you," Sean said huskily, tightening his grip. Methos made a sound, part growl, part moan and pushed again, hard, the heels of his hands catching Sean in the sides with enough force to break his grip. Free, he rolled away off the bed, drawing back until he hit the wall, eyes dilated in some emotion Sean could not identify. Ignoring his bruised ribs, Sean went after him, refusing to let him escape or run. His own forcefulness startled him as he pressed Methos against the wall and held him there. Were Methos physically whole, Sean might have lost their brief struggle, but he was not and Sean was determined. A full body press kept Methos from getting away and the shock of Sean's persistence did the rest.

"I am not my father," Sean said raggedly, listening to his brother try to catch his breath, the hollowed chest heaving beneath his own. "I am not who or what you want, but I do love you. As much as I love my father, as much as I love anyone...and I will not lose you to that hole now, any more that Da was willing to lose you to it then. You are not alone. It is over -- and the memories will fade. I swear, Adam, they will," Sean's voice gentled, as did his grip as he once more eased his brother into an embrace, one hand coming up to press Methos' head to his shoulder. There was still resistance but it was token, an inability to immediately release the tension of the last few weeks or the last three years. Sean held him and spoke softly when the gasps became sobs as the fists clenched to rain blows on Sean's flesh began their cadence on the wall instead and then stopped. The fingers uncurled and came hesitantly up to Sean's broad shoulders as Methos finally gave into the strength and comfort Sean offered him.

"It will be okay," Sean said, knowing it was inane but the words fit. The door opened cautiously and he lifted his head to see his father, dark eyes staring at the scene uncomprehendingly, and then in utter confusion as he realized both Sean and Methos were half-naked. His face altered, Sean recognizing the expression as the one Duncan wore when he was fighting for understanding without judgment.

"What's going on? I heard...it sounded like a fight," Mac said cautiously as Methos lifted his head.

"It was," Methos hissed seeing the set face. "Your son was defending his manly virtue from my perverted advances." He twisted to face Mac. "I couldn't have you so I thought I'd try my hand at raping your son." His hand came out to catch Sean's jaw and kissed him. It was a good act, Sean thought, but it was that. There was no passion, no evocation of intimacy or even control. It was done for the sole purpose of goading Duncan into action.

It worked, but Duncan was not stupid. Nevertheless, he jerked Methos back. "Don't do this," he pleaded. "Whatever you feel or don't feel for me, Sean is not a weapon."

"Isn't he?" Methos snarled at him. "Weapons are tools we use to fight our battles. If you cast off one you must pick up another. Only you cast off yours carelessly, MacLeod," Methos said and struck out, fist barely grazing Mac's jaw but it was enough for Methos to slip past him, to lunge for the dresser where his sword lay.

"No!" Sean yelled as Methos swung, driving MacLeod through the door and into the living room.

"Son of a bitch!!" Connor yelped, not quite prepared to see a naked Methos backing his cousin down. Mac had no sword and without thinking about it, Connor picked up his own and tossed it to Duncan. Out of habit and reflex Mac caught it and then used it to defend himself as Methos came at him again.

"Da, don't!" Sean said as Mac countered. Duncan could barely spare his son a thought. He had no intention of striking back at Methos but the older Immortal was almost out of control. The hatred displayed in his frenzied attack ran far deeper than Mac could possibly have known or had answer for. Some part of him -- the part trying to keep his own head attached to his shoulders -- finally shattered under the knowledge that he had driven his friend, his brother....this man who had been more to him than anyone else before or since their first meeting...irrevocably insane.

He couldn't begin to think how to fix it...to correct the damage done, but he would find a way, just as soon as he found a way to keep Methos from killing him or himself.

Unable to fathom his father's thinking, Sean felt his blood chill when Duncan finally went on the offensive. Methos was in no condition to maintain a sustained assault, his defense slipping badly. Duncan was far more controlled, but Methos was unpredictable and inevitably blood had to spill. Mac disengaged almost immediately when he saw the shallow slice across Methos' shoulder. But pain or blood or rage galvanized Methos and he launched himself at Mac.

Sean could not stand it, as his father's arm came up. He missed Duncan turning the blade as he came in between them, ignoring Connor's protest and Duncan's shout. He did not miss the sheer look of horror on his father's face as Methos' blade slipped through his side. "He wants you to kill him!" he hissed at his father, as the pain washed over him and then the darkness as Duncan caught him.

Sean's blood stained Mac's hands as he eased his son to the floor. Methos was frozen, his chest heaving as his fingers loosed their grip on his sword, all the color washed out of the already pale skin. And Mac saw it, saw all of it in that single expression, the hollow wash of self-loathing in Methos' eyes.

Sean's words, Methos' actions...it clicked into place for Mac like the last fastener on a coffin. I did this... he thought. I abandoned him in ignorance, rejected him in fear and shut him out from pride....he actually believes I thought he would rape Sean. "Methos..." He said the name but the rest of it would not follow. God, what have I done?

Methos bolted, Mac releasing Sean in the same instant, but Connor was the one that caught the older Immortal. Methos did not even fight him, just collapsed in the elder MacLeod's arms without a sound, staring at the bloodied hands clasping his knees.

"Tend to Sean," Connor said to Duncan, coaxing Methos up and back to the bedroom. "I'll stay until Sean can come in and show him that he's all right."

Sean opened his eyes, gasping at the burn in his side, instinctively clutching at the still-healing wound that had pierced his lungs, drowning him in his own blood. He coughed a grating, rattling cough, which only made it hurt more. God, this dying stuff got old real fast. After a few minutes he was at last able to think about something other than drawing the next breath and looked up to find his father sitting on the couch, staring sightlessly at the sword hilt he still held in his hands, its tip balanced on the floor.

What an incredible botch I made of things, Sean thought, remembering the horrified look in his brother's eyes and now seeing the closed, stubborn look carved onto his father's face.

"What were you thinking, Sean?" his father whispered "Did you think you, personally, could somehow atone for my sins? That offering yourself to him would make up for what I'd done?"

"I . . ." Sean began. But Duncan went on.

"He doesn't want my body now, Sean. He wants my head. Or he wants me to take his. Are you going to become my proxy for that, too?"

Sean had no words that didn't sound trite and stupid. This was neither the time nor place to try to pick apart these events or relationships, especially in the face of his own gross miscalculation.

"Go to him, Sean. Let him know you're okay."

Sean rose carefully to his feet, swaying slightly before his equilibrium established itself. His father stood and removed something from his belt. "I will not let you be used by either of us against the other and right now the temptation is too great." Duncan carefully placed his ancient leather-sheathed knife, the one he had carried for as long as Sean could remember, in his hand. "Give him this. Tell him if he wants a weapon against me, this is the one to use. He'll know what it means."

Duncan pulled Sean into his arms. "I love you, son. Never forget that. But he loves you, too. And right now he needs you." He pulled away, heading towards his room, pausing and turning back when Sean didn't move. "Go."

Sean walked blindly toward Methos' room, knowing his father would leave, not knowing how to stop him or even if he should try. He had a sick feeling of premonition. The knife in his hands was heavy, cold. He slipped it out of its sheath, rubbing his thumb along the DML carved into the handle, now almost worn away after centuries of use. He had about decided not to follow his father's instructions, fearful of the meaning of the gesture, when he felt eyes on him. Methos was standing in the door, watching, sweats and a robe now covering his thin frame.

"I'm sorry," Sean whispered, having trouble with a throat paralyzed with emotion.

"For what?" Methos asked, his hazel eyes free of hate and fear for the first time since he'd emerged from his hell-hole. "For trying to make me feel better? For expressing your love? I may object to the form as inappropriate, but certainly not the sentiment." He reached out and touched the vivid red mark still visible on Sean's bare chest. "I'm the one who should apologize, Sean."

Methos looked pointedly at the knife Sean held, letting the silence ask the question. "He . . . said to give you this and that if you needed a weapon against him, this was the one to use. He said you'd understand."

Methos took the knife from his hands, slipping it back into its sheath.

"I think you need to tell me what he meant, Methos," Sean said.

Sean met his brother's eyes, swallowing against what he saw or didn't see, there. There was no hate or anger -- there was nothing at all. "Your father once killed a woman, an Immortal, by taking her head with this, little by little. She had...driven him past madness, past hatred and when he could...had the strength to take her head this was all that was available to him. He has never hated anyone so much before or since." He looked into the shocked face of his younger brother. "And swore he never would hate so much again...until now," Methos said.

Connor watched the exchange and stood with Sean as Methos returned to his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him.

Connor crossed to the bar and poured two hefty glasses of Scotch. "He's lying, Sean. You know Duncan would never do that."

Sean took the liquor and drank it down in one gulp, shivering as its burn spread down his throat and through his chest. "Methos is perfectly capable of lying, but not about this. He's just telling the truth as he sees it." He went to find his dad, but his bedroom was empty, and when he concentrated he realized that somehow the Highlander had slipped away so quickly, so quietly, he hadn't even noticed.
 
 

TO PART FIVE