Duncan watched Cassandra throw aside the huge axe with an anguished cry, then disappear into the dark shadows of the abandoned submarine base bunker. Methos was huddled, shivering, on the cold concrete floor, quivering in despair at having taken the head of his brother-in-arms, his friend, Silas, the gentle giant. Only he hadn’t been so gentle, in the end. He was, after all, an Immortal, an ancient one born to the killing that governed the rhythm and purpose of their lives.
Did Cassandra decline to take Methos’ head because Duncan had asked, no, demanded, that she not? Or had she finally, despite her hatred, despite her three millennia-old desire for revenge for his slaughter of her people, been unable to kill the man she once thought she loved, who had stepped in to save her life? Duncan decided he didn’t know and was too tired, too confused, too overwhelmed by the taking of two ancient Quickenings in one day, to understand. One of those Quickenings had even spun and mixed and entwined with that of Silas, until he and Methos had, for a few seconds, been locked together in a river of power so vast and deep that only their tenuous connection to each other had allowed MacLeod to survive intact. Or at least that’s how it felt. Duncan forced himself to his feet, hissing as the movement tugged at the edges of the still-healing slash Kronos had laid across his belly. Knees almost buckled, but Duncan made it to Methos’ side. The man’s eyes were glazed and withdrawn as he shivered violently every few minutes. Whether it was from emotional shock or as a result of the Quickenings, Duncan couldn’t be sure. It seemed like hours before he managed to clean up the mess of bodies, as he had to stop every few minutes and rest. Methos had curled in on himself on the cold floor, unspeaking, unresponsive. Duncan found a blanket to wrap around his friend and almost had to carry him to the car.
Fortunately, dawn was still a few minutes away as he quickly scooted them both through the hotel lobby, hoping their blood-streaked clothes would not be noticed by the skeleton crew. He sat Methos on the bed and stripped him, then guided him into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping that the warm water and Immortal healing powers would do their magic to mind as well as body.
The oldest Immortal’s eyes were still withdrawn, but as the warm spray washed over him he seemed to relax and lean into it, and some of the terrible tension eased out of the hard planes of his lean frame. Duncan left him there, hoping his awesome inner strength would provide him with the mechanisms to cope with the trauma of taking his friend’s life, of the shared Quickening, of the whole agony of reliving the ugliness of his painful past. It was all he had the strength or knowledge to do, since he was barely managing to deal with his own inner turmoil.
Methos let the warmth envelop him, losing himself in the luxury of physical sensation. Silas’ presence in his mind was still nattering at him, and the confusing, unwelcome guilt and shame of what he had done -- to Cassandra, to MacLeod, to the uncounted dead that stretched behind him in his five millennia of less-than-honorable deeds -- combined with the Quickening electricity to make his skin crawl. He’d taken too many Quickenings in his 5,000 years. Each one now was successively harder, more painful. And this one had been very, very painful indeed. He felt like MacLeod had been there in his mind, had seen the full hideous nature of his soul. And he just didn’t know how he could live with that.
He slowly slid down the wall, curling up in the bottom of the bathtub. Oh, God, here it comes, he thought angrily. He didn’t know why it made him angry, except that it was so beyond his control. Intense need and desire flooded his nerves and he grew painfully hard. He massaged himself, gritting his teeth as he finally, explosively, came. He lay there, gasping, until his heart slowed. He forced himself into a mental void, letting his thoughts drift, letting the sensation of warm water on his skin transport him into a womb-like trance. He must have slept for a few moments because he jerked awake. The hotel’s water bill was going to be considerable, he mused as he finally dragged himself out, toweled off and put on the bathrobe that was hanging on the door. The sun was filtering hazily through the windows as Methos blearily looked around for MacLeod, finding him standing on the balcony. He still wore the evidence of a long, brutal two days, with clothes and skin crusted with blood, eyes haunted and deeply shadowed.
"I’m sorry, MacLeod," Methos said simply. His brain was operating on will alone, and it was the only appropriate phrase that came to mind. He knew it was totally inadequate to the moment.
"Sorry?" The Scot turned away to watch the morning street scene unfolding in front of the hotel.
"About a lot of things, but right now I’m sorry I took so long in the shower. You look like you could use one yourself."
"Go to bed, Methos."
"What about you? This is your room. Why don’t I check in downstairs and find my own bed?"
"You can hardly stand, old man, and I’m not sleepy. Go to bed."
Methos stood looking at MacLeod’s broad, tense back for a moment, trying to make his brain operate effectively. There was something wrong here, but he hadn’t the strength or energy to figure it out. He guessed it was anger, revulsion at what the moralistic Scot had seen of his dark soul. But he couldn’t deal with that right now. Maybe if he slept, just a little . . . he stumbled into the bedroom, crawled under the covers and was asleep almost instantly.
Mac took his turn in the shower, watching the blood run off his hair and body in pink rivulets, circling and disappearing down the drain. His heart continued to pound erratically and Kronos’ final cry of "I AM THE END OF TIME!" echoed ceaselessly in his ears. He shook his head, trying to dispel the voice, his long hair sending water spraying over the walls. Kronos’ anger, his hatred, his sick, violent nature scraped against his mind, rubbing it raw, amplifying and distorting the usual post-Quickening sexual charge. That presence, combined with that of Caspian's sick mind and memories, was so reminiscent of the Dark Quickening which had almost stolen his soul that he brutally forced it into the background of his mind. He was terrified that he would, once again, succumb to that dark call, that he did not have the strength or will to resist as Methos had eventually done.
He finished the shower and quietly dressed, watching Methos sleep. The enigmatic old man looked so young, so ephemeral, so fragile. It seemed incomprehensible that he was five millennia old, that he had committed all those terrible acts, survived in the face of impossible odds. Seeing it from the inside, feeling the retrospective, defensive remorse and guilt that Methos carried, even only for a few seconds, had been enough to convince MacLeod that the man needed no judgment passed from him. It felt much too familiar, too close to his own dark deeds. He was still struggling for understanding. But judgement -- judgment had slipped away into the realm of self-doubt, leaving awe and confusion and no small amount of hurt behind. Hurt that this man who he had almost instantly given his absolute and unguarded trust had believed him so shallow, so disloyal that he could not share this most dire part of his rich past. Had left him, no, led him, to believe the worst without giving him the slightest opportunity to truly understand, to ask, to explore, to discover what lay beneath the "simple" truth, to find his own truth.
Mac sat in a chair as the morning sun climbed higher in the sky, then paced out on the balcony. He was unable to sit still but for some reason was reluctant to leave Methos alone, sleeping. The man seemed too vulnerable lying there in near unconscious slumber. The memories, the brief, horrifying visions of their momentary, intimate connection repeatedly flashed through his mind, warped and colored by the even more brutal emotions and sensations that Kronos' and Caspian's Quickenings had imprinted on his mind and heart. How did Methos do it? How had he coped with it, and managed to stay sane? Mac was both deeply humbled and terrifyingly confused by the brief glimpse he had gained of the expanse of Methos' experiences.
The tension mounted as the day went on, until his muscles were knotted, his groin ached and his mind felt ready to explode. Finally, in late afternoon, the figure on the bed stirred and rolled over and MacLeod heaved a sigh of relief. As Methos sat up, running his fingers through spiked and tousled hair, Mac came in and changed his shoes.
"Going somewhere?" Methos asked, his voice deepened and rough with sleep.
"Out."
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Not sleepy. I’m going for a run."
Methos body went suddenly still. "That’s nuts, MacLeod," was the obvious and unhelpful observation that popped into his still sleep-fogged head.
But the Scot was up and out the door before any more could be said. Methos got up and did some yoga, letting his thoughts clear. What a dunce I am, he thought. The man took two, maybe two and a half, ancient Quickenings in one day. He sighed deeply. An hour went by, and Methos went out on the balcony to watch for his friend. Then two hours. Towards the end of three hours, Methos was getting frantic, considering going out and wandering the streets, trying to feel Mac’s *presence* to track him down. Then he saw him, not quite running, more like stumbling up the street from a few blocks away. At one point the man fell hard onto his knees and Methos started to turn to go to him, but Mac immediately rose, helped by a couple of passers-by, then walked toward the hotel, looking up at Methos as they came within sensing range of each other. Even at that distance, MacLeod looked like a walking corpse.
Duncan almost fell into the room a few minutes later. His clothes were sweat-soaked, the knees of his sweatpants were torn and bloody, his face gray with exhaustion. He leaned against a wall, stretching out aching calf muscles, breathing heavily.
"What’s going on, MacLeod?" Methos asked quietly, getting only a shaken head in response.
Then the room went silent for a moment as the Highlander held his breath, then dashed for the bathroom. Methos found him leaned over the toilet in a paroxysm of dry heaves. He reached for a glass to fill it with water but the Scot’s knees were sagging, so instead he stepped behind him, catching him around his ribs as he collapsed, taking his weight in the fall until they ended up with Mac leaning back against him, gasping for breath.
His body was heavy, solid muscle and his clothes and hair were sodden with sweat, but Methos was grateful he had been there. It felt right to have Duncan MacLeod leaning up against him, depending on him, needing him.
"Talk to me, Duncan," Methos whispered. "What's wrong?"
"Can’t . . . stop," he gasped.
"Can’t stop what?"
"I don’t know. It’s like I’m burning up from the inside out."
Methos could feel Duncan shivering under his hands. His skin was cool and clammy and he reached up and laid his hand on the man’s forehead, pushing his hair away from his face. "You took two of the oldest, nastiest Immortals around in one day, ye daft Scot!" Methos said in a sad teasing tone. "What did you expect?"
"But . . . I learned, Methos. I learned to let them in, to absorb them. But . . . it seemed to get harder over time, though, and this time the images, the emotions . . . nothing I do makes it get any better." MacLeod’s voice was an exhausted, near incoherent murmur.
Methos shushed him, stroking his head quietly. "Relax, Duncan," he whispered. "Let it go." But the figure squirmed uncomfortably, and Methos guessed at what some of the problem might be. He slipped his hands underneath the wet shirt, determinedly pulling it up over Mac’s head.
"What are you doing?" Mac asked. He barely had the strength to get his arms over his head.
"Just lie there, MacLeod," Methos said. "Let Uncle Adam help." He ran his hands along Duncan’s smooth skin, feeling the sleek, hard muscles of his abdomen and chest. He could see the hard bulge throbbing against the clinging sweatpants.
"No!" Duncan growled and twisted away to his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet, but Methos was on him, pouncing like a cat, pushing him over onto his back and pinning him.
"What’s the matter, MacLeod?" Methos asked. "It’s inconceivable that, with that face and body, in 400 years, you’ve never had a male lover! What? Am I that repulsive?"
"Damn you, Methos! It’s not that," he cried, struggling weakly. "It won’t help. It’ll make it worse, don’t you see? That’s the problem!" He paused, his dark skin suddenly flushed with strain and embarrassment. "It’s been painful now for two days and nothing helps. The only thing you could do is to drive me completely, utterly insane!" he finished hoarsely. "Now get off!"
Methos leaned harder on Mac’s wrists. "Trust me, MacLeod. I’ve been doing this for a very, very long time." He leaned over and did something he had wanted to do almost from the moment Duncan MacLeod had stepped into his apartment with that wide-eyed look of astonishment on his breathtaking face. He kissed him, long and deep, reaching inside with his tongue to feel along those perfect, white teeth. Mac arched up into him, pulling one hand free and grabbing the back of Methos’ head, pulling them tighter together until the force became painful and Methos had to pull away. Mac’s eyes were wild and he twisted his torso, trying to push his captor away.
"Don’t . . . do . . . this!" he gasped. "I’m afraid of what I’ll do! Please!" he begged.
But Methos wiry frame was far stronger than it looked and Mac had exhausted himself to the point of collapse. Methos took the Scot’s face in his big hand with its long, strong fingers, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Look at me, Duncan!" he demanded. "I am asking you to trust me. I know that can’t be easy for you, especially now. But for both our sakes, please!" His voice softened. "Please, Duncan. I just want to help you."
The dark eyes were wide with pain and confusion, his mouth bruised and swollen from the violence of their kiss. Then he slowly closed his eyes, ceasing his struggle. For a moment, Methos was too stunned to react. What the Highlander had done was an act of supreme faith. How could it be, the old man wondered? How can he do that after what he saw in me? After what I did to him?
Methos took a deep breath, then ran his long fingers down that handsome face and neck, over the smooth shoulders and quivering pectoral muscles, pausing over his nipples, watching Mac’s throat and neck as he swallowed and his breath quickened. Methos was sitting on the man’s pelvis and could feel the hard, throbbing erection press against him. To sustain that level of tension for so long without relief, without even the capacity for relief, and with the prospect of it never stopping, made his own skin crawl. This had nothing to do with sexual desire. It had everything to do with conquering fear, of letting the demons in so they were under control.
Methos slipped off of his friend, reaching his hand down to brush against the pulsing, hot flesh through the damp sweatpants. The touch made MacLeod jerk away with a groan, but Methos kept his other hand firmly on the broad, heaving chest. The oldest Immortal then kept up a steady stream of quiet, reassuring murmurs as he let his hands wander further, running over the sleek body, getting it comfortable with his touch, like trying to tame a wild animal. As the iron muscles under his fingers began to relax he gently pulled on the pants, easing them down, until he could directly touch the fine, dark curly hair, caress the inside of the thighs, touch the velvet skin below, sacs full and tight. The touch made Methos’ own groin tighten as he became aroused. This moment was both wonderful and terrifying, something he had wanted for so long, but he knew he had to treat this very differently from just a seduction as Mac made an inarticulate noise at the back of his throat, snatching Methos’ hand away from his crotch.
"Stop it!" he gasped. "Stop!"
Methos began his murmured reassurances again, laying full length beside MacLeod, putting his own leg across Mac’s trembling thigh. He stroked the sweating, gray face. "It may take a little time, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but I will make you come. I asked you to trust me. I won’t betray that trust."
It did take time. Too much time. It quickly became apparent that MacLeod was, in essence, still in the throes of a massive, ancient Quickening which would not release him. Or which he was too frightened, too locked up inside to absorb. After almost an hour, Methos himself was painfully frustrated and MacLeod was incoherent. Finally, in desperation, Methos reached for the only other tool available. He rose up on his elbow, turning MacLeod’s tortured face towards his own.
"Look at me, Duncan!" he insisted, but the expression in Mac’s eyes was distant, gone elsewhere. He dug his fingers into the tense jaw muscles. "Duncan! Look at me!" he shouted.
The earth-colored eyes focused slowly on Methos’ hazel ones. "Remember the Quickening? Remember when we were together? Let me take you there, Duncan MacLeod. Release yourself to me!"
"I . . . don’t . . . know . . . how," Duncan gasped, tears of frustration and agony dripping down the sides of his face.
But Methos did. He found that tenuous connection that still rested like a forgotten thread within his mind, and followed it, pulling on it gently, carefully, feeling the frayed edges of MacLeod’s sanity at the other end. He gently tugged again, beginning to feel for himself the acid burn that was eating at the Scotsman’s insides. Even though it was only an echo of what MacLeod was feeling, it made him writhe, then gasp as the heat of his own erection became almost unbearable. Methos pulled MacLeod over to face him, laying their throbbing bodies against each other, he wrapped his arms around the rigid figure, reaching down to take the impossibly hard, swollen cock, gently moving his hand over the soft skin, setting a rhythm for their movement, trying to pull into himself just enough of the overflow of energy, of intensity, to allow for a safety valve, for escape. And for a brief, exhilarating moment he was once again Death on a Horse, he was Kronos, he was Caspian, with all the power, the guiltless brutality, the wonderful freedom that spoke to the darkest part of his psyche. The incredible, familiar erotic power of those memories made him gasp and suddenly his body betrayed him, triggering a hot, heaving orgasm that almost made him forget his goal, until suddenly, Mac bucked beside him with a great cry, convulsing, then convulsing again, then again as his body finally released the Quickening, letting the overflow wash into Methos, then back again into himself like a tide moving onto shore then back out to sea.
As Methos struggled to still his own wildly beating heart, it sadly occurred to him that the very thing that had sent him into orgasm was what had frightened MacLeod into near-catatonic paralysis. The dark appeal of that absence of conscience was what separated the essence, the spirit, of the two of them. It drew Methos like a moth to a flame, but horrified MacLeod to the point of near-insanity. Mac pulled Methos to him instinctively, reaching out for a mate, grasping the lean body hard enough to expel breath, hard enough to bruise, and Methos relaxed into that embrace for a long, precious moment. His heart surged as he watched the Highlander. His head was back, his eyes were closed as his body finally let go of the fire that had burned there too long, until he at last took a great breath and sighed, relaxing, weeping, into Methos’ arms.
Methos rolled over on his back, letting his cramped, exhausted muscles stretch, catching his breath, carefully putting his own emotions back in a tight, dark box and locking it. He finally turned back to the Highlander to find him insensate, curled into a fetal position. Methos rose on wobbly legs, found a small towel and gave his friend a gentle, warm sponge bath while he waited for the Scot to come around. The brown eyes finally fluttered open. The look on his face when he finally was able to meet Methos’ eye was distressingly blank, expression wiped clean by utter exhaustion.
"Why?" was all the man could say.
"Why did it happen? Or why did I help you?" Methos asked. Then decided to answer for himself as he strained to pull the heavy, limp form to his feet.
"You’ve been a busy boy, Highlander. You’ve gotten to a place in only 400 years that it took me over four thousand years to reach, when Quickenings become painful, almost unbearable. Why do you think I stopped taking heads?" the oldest Immortal asked rhetorically, gently lowering Duncan onto the bed.
He helped MacLeod lie back, lifting his legs up and pulling the covers over him. He wasn’t sure if MacLeod had even heard him, he was again so close to unconscious. Certainly he was asleep even before his head hit the pillow.
"As to why I helped you, Highlander," Methos whispered to himself, "I can’t imagine. It violates all my rules of self-containment and self-preservation. You are like fire to my ice. Everyone comes to Duncan MacLeod to warm themselves in the fire of your passion, your caring. But you run the risk of burning out, my friend, of becoming only ashes. While I. I run the risk of melting away in your heat, of losing what I am, what I’ve worked so hard to become. But you are so bloody, bloody irresistible," he said with a winsome smile.
The incredibly handsome, quintessentially masculine face and body in repose underneath the sheets called to him unlike any ever had before. The spirit that resided in that near-perfect form was an even stronger magnet. Touching him, feeling him, had been the fulfillment of a secret fantasy, although in these circumstances, it didn’t mean what he had wanted it to mean. Methos had hoped for an opportunity to quietly talk through and explore what he had done and why. But now there would be an awkwardness between them, and Methos couldn’t stomach that, couldn’t face the embarrassment and discomfort that he was sure he would see in the Highlander’s eyes when he awoke and remembered.
The pain of that rejection was something he just couldn’t face. Not now, having come so close, having tasted the tiniest sip of what he wanted most in the world, only to realize that tantalizing touch was done in desperation and despair, not desire. It was more pain than he could deal with, at least for now. He had to act first. It was the only way to preserve his frayed dignity, to keep possession of his own heart.
He left. Leaving a small note behind on hotel stationary.
"Noon. Elysium Cemetery."
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