Always

By MacGeorge

©1998

Methos had hardly slept in two days. The aftermath of the ugly business with O'Rourke had spun and turned in his mind over and over and over again. The image of MacLeod was burned behind his eyes, the taking of one last nervous breath, then kneeling, waiting as the weight of four hundred years rolled over him and the possibilities of an endless future melted away. Methos had avoided that moment for so many eons, had done whatever was necessary to never experience those final seconds when permanent death seemed an absolute certainty. But this man, whose headlong pursuit of life in all its magnificent color and light and laughter and pain and sorrow -- this abjectly foolish, wonderful man -- who had at last shown the Oldest Immortal that the agony of loss was the price one paid for the joy of living, and that Methos had ceased to truly 'live' long, long ago -- how could it be that the same man would so willingly accept death? It was an insult to everything Methos believed in. It was a travesty. An outrage. How could he have done it? Was it relief he felt? Regret?

He was afraid of the answer. But he had to know. He and Mac had barely spoken afterwards. While Joe and Amanda had basked in the comfort of having their Highlander overcome another seemingly impossible physical and emotional obstacle, Methos hardly heard what was said. He had left Mac whispering tender words to his lover of almost three centuries and walked through what was left of the night. He had stood in the gray dawn and stared out at the misted surface of the river, wandered all over the Left Bank of Paris and now found himself back again, footsore and exhausted. The question still burned inside him, and he could not rest until he had an answer.

He felt Mac's unique presence as he stepped onto the stairway down to the Quay. The familiar figure was faced away, sitting in calm meditation on the roof of the barge. Methos watched as the broad shoulders tensed, the head shifted slightly in his direction, then relaxed, never turning completely around. Mac knew who was there. Somehow the Oldest Immortal and the Highlander had found a kinship, a connection that tethered them together in some unfathomable way, each recognizing the other's presence.

Age and beauty, Methos thought. Age and beauty.

He crossed the gangplank and made his way downstairs without greeting or acknowledgment. The barge interior had been stripped of all Mac's personal belongings. All that remained was a low table that served for dining as well as a place to use his laptop, a meditation area defined by a tatami mat, the former bar which had been converted to a small galley, and the platform bed at the far end. Fortunately, the old galley was still intact and Methos went up the far stairs and scrounged around. Sure enough, Mac still had a six pack of beer stored away. Methos assumed that the stock of imported brew was kept there for him, like most people kept birdseed around to attract itinerant feathered visitors.

He stepped back down the stairs, taking a long drink, then realized that Mac was there, watching him.

"Amanda gone?"

"She left for Egypt this morning."

"I guess declarations of undying love didn't quite do the trick," Methos observed, regretting the words when they caused a sad twitch of the full lips.

Mac shrugged. "You know Amanda. The harder you try to tie her down, the more she'll struggle to get away."

"Ah, yes. The master of the quick getaway, is our Amanda." Methos slipped out of his coat and tossed it onto the bed, then joined the garment there, stretching out his long legs in front of him with a relieved sigh.

Mac just watched him for a moment, his arms crossed.

Perhaps it was because he hadn't slept in two days. Perhaps. But it seemed to Methos as though his senses had all taken wing and suddenly developed a will of their own, reaching out so that he could have sworn he actually felt the nubby softness of the white sweater Mac was wearing as though his hand were brushing across the man's chest. His palm vibrated with the sensation of hard muscle stirred by a strong heartbeat. The air in his nostrils was steeped with the man's scent and if he had closed his eyes he could have sworn he felt the warmth of his breath against his face.

"Adam?" He opened his eyes. Mac was sitting on the bed next to him. "You seemed to drift away from me there for a few minutes." The dark eyes glittered a refracted image of the afternoon sun shining through the portholes.

"I…wanted to talk to you." Methos' voice sounded odd even to himself. Distant, as though, it too had decided to disassociate itself from his body.

The soft, delicately curved lips reshaped themselves in a perfect pre-Raphaelite smile of warmth and welcome. "I'm glad. You seemed so distant last night. I was afraid you were still angry with me for what happened with O'Rourke."

Methos' hand took it upon itself to reach out without really knowing its goal, but Mac instantly supplied it, taking it in his own broad palm, then sliding up to his forearm to grip him firmly. It steadied him. For a moment there Methos had felt he might just fly apart completely, floating away in so many separate pieces, disjointed and unidentifiable.

"What's wrong, Adam?" Mac whispered, his dark brows furrowing in concern at the almost panicked expression on his friend's face.

"I need to know," Methos answered, then stopped.

"What do you need to know? I'll tell you anything, Old Man. I so wanted to thank you last night for giving me the chance to try again. For bringing me back. For making such a difference in my life." The words came out in a rush as color appeared on Duncan's golden cheeks and his autumn brown eyes swirled and shone. "Something happened, Adam. I don't know exactly what but…I needed to come that close, to let the reality of death take me before I found a way back to the reality of life." He paused, slightly breathless with emotion. The Oldest Immortal's pale, sharp-planed face was staring at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Now tell me what you wanted to know, Methos. Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm not sure," Methos answered softly. His eyes wandered away from that remarkable face and searched the room for a clue to his disorientation. "Something happened to me, too, Duncan. When I saw that blade swing and…it was all going to be over. You were going to be gone, out of my life, out of life entirely, something changed for me. I have spent five thousand years avoiding that moment, but you knowingly allowed it, accepted it as necessary and natural and reasonable. How could that be? How could someone who has lived life so fully accept death so willingly."

But evidently this was one question MacLeod could not answer because he was silent. Instead he let go of Methos' arm and reached for the beer, taking a long gulp and staring thoughtfully out toward the portholes, his strong profile outlined by rays of sunshine. A trace of the golden liquid remained on his lips and Methos leaned forward and touched, catching the drop on his finger. Mac turned and their eyes met.

"Do you love me, Duncan MacLeod?" Methos heard himself ask. It was another of those astonishing departures, a part of him that spun out of his control or understanding. It was only after the words flew away that he realized that this was the question he had truly needed answered.

Perceptions altered, the time continuum shifted onto a new and unexpected path. Brown eyes deepened to black and a broad palm brushed his face and held it. "Always," a warm breath whispered.

"Then how could you leave me alone again?" Methos felt hot tears crowd the corners of his eyes. This was the source of his pain. This was what had spun his entire being out of control.

Mac swallowed and looked away. Methos was fascinated at the surreal intensity of watching the muscles of his neck and throat ripple. "All I could see, all I could feel was the pain I was causing. To you, to Joe, to Amanda. A vast river of pain and death, all leading from me, all coming back to me when I would be left alone at the end of the world." His eyes raised, brimming with tears. "It takes courage to love, to risk being left behind, to risk hurting others, to risk being hurt. I have told you, Methos. I am not the hero you want or need. My courage failed and suddenly dying was easier than living." He pulled away and stood. "I'm so sorry, my friend." He handed the beer back and Methos took it, lay his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes.

As painful as the truth was, having heard the answer had seemed to bring his scattered senses back into line. Duncan had failed him in some fundamental way. He had been a coward, prepared to leave those he cared for behind to face the Gathering without his strength, his kindness, his love. Why am I not angry, he wondered tiredly. I should be furious. Instead he felt oddly relieved. Perhaps it was because sometimes the Highlander seemed more than human, larger than life. It was comforting to know the man could, on admittedly rare occasions, be something less than heroic, courageous and noble. Oh, yes, Methos thoughts circled back around, and he had said "Always." Despite his exhaustion and disappointment in the infuriating Scot, Methos felt a smile on his face. Odd. He opened his eyes briefly. MacLeod was sitting on his tatami now, back in meditation. His hair was getting kind of long again, Methos noticed. I hope he lets it grow out. It's so beautiful when it's long. Methos slid a little further down the wall and finished the beer.

The soft snore from the bed pulled Mac's attention from his meditations. He took a long shuddering breath, releasing his doubts and fears with the outflow of air. His latest failure was only one in a long series. He was finally beginning to accept them as a part of a lifelong learning process rather than seeing each error as The End of Life As We Know It. He hoped Methos would forgive him. He smiled at the thought. Do you love me, Duncan MacLeod, he had asked. Always.