All disclaimers in Part 1.
Rated:  NC-17 for graphic m/f/m sex, for BDSM, and for violence.  This is not my normal stuff, folks.

Explanations, Pt 3
 

Charleston, South Carolina - that same night/morning

The last spinning blue light receded from the house and Stormy sat numbly at the kitchen table, holding the coffee mug more for a place to put her hand than for the warmth or to drink the stuff.  She studied the coal-black substance as if the answers to the universe spun there in some elongated calligraphy.

"Stormy?"  Damien's voice.  He shouldn't be able to talk.  He shouldn't....  The shakes and the terrors threatened to breach her walls and she turned away from that subject determinedly.  A warm weight settled around her shoulders and she pulled the fabric more closely around herself.  A surprisingly gentle hand soothed errant strands of hair back from her face before she heard him move out of the room.

Left alone, she simply shut down:  unseeing, unhearing, uncaring.

An indefinable period of time later, those same strong hands urged her up out of the chair.  Stormy focused her eyes on one particular square of the plaid shirt, the one with the button breaking the corner, so that she didn't have to see anything else.  No face, no broken furniture, nothing.  Green threads ran vertically down his shirt, then black; black and blue threads alternated on the horizontal lines.  Black and blue, just like that man's face....  No.  I will not think about that.  Instead she focused on the warm hands holding hers, the steady voice telling her that it wasn't far now.

She sat where he placed her, grateful for the warm coat around her shoulders as she sat down on a wooden chair that surprised her by being intact.  A brush ran through her hair carefully; after a brief pause, a warm washcloth cleaned her hands and face.  Soft words in an unknown language nearly got her attention, but Stormy tried not to look, not to listen.  All she wanted to do was sleep.  Except that she hoped this was a dream.

Those same strong hands tugged off her boots and socks, unbuttoned her shirt as carefully as he had buttoned it on her before the police arrived, then urged her to stand.  Her jeans were undone and peeled down her legs, and Damien helped her balance as she automatically kicked them off.  He must have managed to find the thermal underwear she wore as pajamas (her mind shied from the thought that her bedroom could have been ransacked like the rest of her house, leaving such things out for anyone to see) because he continued to hold her steady as she stepped into the leggings.

She tugged the top over her head in the same daze that she had done everything else, and Damien turned her away from him before he undid the bra and slid it down over her arms.  She pulled on the arms of the shirt and he saw without surprise that her eyes were still closed when he turned her around.  Let her get some sleep, and a solid meal down in the morning, and she'll be fine.  The immortal shook his head in amazement.  Sylvana Storm, you are really something.  You didn't come apart on me until the whole shooting match was over; you even held up for the police statements, which is a helluva lot more than I ever expected after everything you've been through tonight.  The least I can do is take care of you until you're in shape to decide what you want to do.

Part of him feared her solution would be to decide she never wanted to see him again, but that was her choice, and not one to be made while in shock.  She clambered into the double bed obediently, and Damien pulled the sheets and blankets up over her.  Very softly, he said, "I've left the light on in the hallway and I'll be out on the couch tonight.  If you need me, for anything, just call.  You're not alone, Stormy."

The narrow vertical line between her eyebrows eased as her frown did, and she sighed.  Then without a word, she turned over onto her stomach, slid one hand onto the pillow beside her face, and fell asleep instantly.

Damien sighed as well and turned back to his self-appointed task:  putting her house back in order, as much as possible.  It had already been a very long night, and the dawn seemed incredibly far away.

~*~*~*~

Paris, France - that afternoon

The smell of cooking apples mixed with the scent of burning wood from the fire, tantalizing Methos even in his dreams.  The bed gave under someone's weight and the oldest immortal came completely awake, although his breathing never changed.  Eyes still closed, he hastily sorted out where he was and who should be near until the gentle touch on his lips answered that question for him.

Duncan's voice in his ear, as it had been his lips on Methos' mouth.  "Awake, brother?"

"I am now," Methos answered, one arm reaching up to pull his lover against him.  "Did I sleep long?"

"It's late afternoon.  We all needed it."

The older immortal looked around and saw the tidied barge and their slave working in the kitchen.  That explained the smells, at least.  "Your orders, I assume?"

Duncan shrugged.  "I didn't think leaving her any leisure time was a good idea and we're all going to be hungry.  Can you see taking her to a restaurant like this?"

Methos smiled wickedly.  "Don't tempt me.  You'd be in for some surprises, and I can think of a few places we could go."

Duncan shook his head, amazed and intrigued.  "No, don't tempt me.  I want her talking to us when this is over.  That is sort of the point."

"So it is.  Have you rewarded her yet?"  That drew a raised eyebrow and an inquiring look and Methos shook his head in amusement.  "Has she pleased you today?"

"Yes."  The younger man's face flushed as he remembered being trapped in pleasure between the two of them.  "That was incredible."

Methos tilted his head to one side, studying his lover.  "We could have done that before now, you know.  She wouldn't have objected."

"I know," Duncan answered him seriously, "but I hate to take without giving."

"She enjoys your pleasure, brother, even when she isn't a slave."  Methos sat up and said, "Pull on some clothes and let's go talk on the deck.  You need to hear this, but she doesn't need to know what I'm telling you."

Both of them got dressed and headed outside, stopping only to make sure Gemma understood that she was to continue working on dinner and make the bed as well.  The brisk November wind was something of a shock to both of them, but it finished waking the men up, as well.

"Do you know why being a slave has its addictive aspects, brother?  Especially the way it's handled in the BDSM crowd, but even in years past?"

"Aidan said that not thinking was one part of it," Duncan answered slowly, "but I get the feeling I'm missing this."

Methos put one hand on his shoulder, looking directly into his lover's eyes.  "The only thing that Gemma is thinking, brother, is how to please us.  That is her only worry.  She isn't thinking about paying bills, or worrying about how Rich is doing in Seacouver, or trying to figure out how to protect her identities and ours from being discovered by another immortal.  She's not even concerned about the Game and where those two immortals are.  Right now, that isn't her problem.

"She is a slave and we are the masters.  All she has to do is please us, and she knows that we will give her immediate and unmistakable corrections if she fails in that task.  She is hoping for equally unmistakable rewards if she does well, but that's hope.  It won't surprise her not to get it.  But right now, brother, all she wants is to please us.  And she will take her pleasure from ours."

Duncan stared at him incredulously, then said, "You're serious."

"Yes."

The younger immortal leaned against the skylight and thought about it for a while, fitting what he had seen so far to what Methos had said, what Aidan had implied earlier.  "You're saying this is almost a vacation for her, then, despite the work.  She's given over all control to us."

"That's why it can be addictive.  You should remember.  When slavery was outlawed in the US, a few of  the slaves didn't want to leave the farms.  It was the only life they knew, and some of them didn't want the responsibility of making all their own choices, with the chance of failing and dying.  Gemma isn't just leaning on our strength, brother, she is expecting it to be there.  This is as close to clinging as you will ever see her get."

The Scot nodded slowly.  "No wonder she's still friends with LaCroix then.  He's strong enough that she can lean on him, and he's not in the Game.  But if he's a Roman...."

"Was a Roman.  A general and a consul, if I remember correctly," Methos corrected, curious as to where Duncan was going with this.

"No," Duncan said firmly, "he's still a Roman, no matter where he lives or how old he is.  The same way I'm still a clansman.  I've dealt with Marcus Constantine long enough to know about quid pro quo.  How in hell does she keep things balanced with LaCroix?  Dealing with vampires looks like one long power struggle to me.  How is she going to even that out?"

"Because he needed it as badly as she did," Methos said grimly.  "Or he wouldn't have offered it as a solution.  Ask her later if you're worried, but I suspect she knows what she's doing.  She frequently does."

"Brother -- why do you like this?  I mean....  Hell, I don't know what I mean."

Methos regarded him speculatively.  "Which parts are you asking about?"

"The control I guess," Duncan finally answered.  "You're enjoying controlling her.  Why?"

"It's the ultimate power trip.  That strong a woman allowing me that much power.  Yes, she trusts me but she will do what I order whether she likes it or not.  It's the pleasure of pushing to the limits, whether mine or hers, of feeling that kind of trust from someone else.  And the savor of making her yield is there too, brother.  Didn't you feel it?  When you gave her that first order and she obeyed you -- no question, no complaint, just that sweet mouth and those strong hands in your service, at your least desire?"

Duncan closed his eyes, remembering the surge of lust when her mouth had closed over his belt buckle.  "Yes, I felt it."

Green-gold eyes met his.  "And did you like it?"

"Yes," Duncan said softly.  "It was a rush, like leading the clan into battle, or that last moment when you know you've won the fight."

Methos smiled at him.  "We will have to show you the other side sometime, just to keep you from getting hooked on one or the other.  Are you all right now?"

"I'm fine," Duncan laughed.  "But I won't get hooked on it.  I like strong lovers, thanks."

"I suppose you could try LaCroix," Methos said speculatively.

"Bite your tongue!"

"I'm sure he'd rather bite yours."

The wicked smile drew an answering grin from Duncan, but he could almost see gears turning in Methos' mind.  "No, thanks.  Finding out I enjoyed going to bed with you was odd enough.  If I enjoyed LaCroix, I might lose what little sanity I still have."

Instead of the grumbled sarcastic comment Mac had expected, he received a searching look that held him motionless while Methos reached out.  Strong, long-fingered hands fitted themselves to his cheeks, tilting the Scot's head to meet that gold-green gaze and he could feel the other man touching him along their link as well, probing at his emotions.  The quiet comment that came at last was not reassuring.

"This is not the time to discuss this,  I don't think.  But we'll need to, Dhonnchaidh."  The older immortal thinned the link between them again, fingertips trailing down his lover's face as he moved back a step.  "I need to think for a minute.  Why don't you check on Gemma?"

"Dismissing me?" came the ironic question, but Duncan was still too shaken by their exchange to pull it off convincingly.  The use of his birth name in his native tongue left the Scot wondering what Methos thought was so important.  The other man never used 'Duncan' lightly; what had brought on 'Dhonnchaidh?'

"Not really.  I just need a moment to consider something."  Methos was relieved when the younger man headed inside; he had not wanted to make that an order.  Not least because Duncan would have taken it, he mused.

Gods, I knew some of the stresses of the past couple years had shaken him out of that complacent mind-set, but I didn't think the stubborn Scot had relaxed this much!  Whether he realizes it or not, part of the problem is that the Highlander's finding submission attractive and it doesn't fit what he thinks he should want.  Now Edana's yielding and he can't reconcile surrender to weakness because he knows her too well to see it as that.  But who would have thought Mac might admit he wants this?  And I think he will admit it, sooner or later.

He watched the river blindly for a little while, thinking, cataloguing, running the day's memories back through his mind and looking for different things now.  I knew he was reacting to Gemma's behavior; Duncan does much better as a master than he ever expected he would.  But how did I miss his response to me?  He's deferred to me the entire day, and I don't think it's solely because I have experience and he doesn't.

At least this isn't trading one emotional bomb for another.  We can hold off dealing with Mac's reactions for a while yet.  Definitely time to do nothing and deal with that when it comes up -- later.  Gods know he could use the vacation from responsibility. Methos smiled as he went inside.  Besides, it would be fun to see how many chores I could come up with that would keep the man on his hands and knees....

~ ~ ~ ~

Dinner was an exquisite experience, not least for the service.  Gemma fed Duncan choice tidbits as the meal went on, held his wine glass for him to drink out of, and generally acted as his hands for the meal.  Methos watched, ate, and contented himself with mild-voiced instructions to ensure that neither of them forgot her status, but he fed himself rather than distract her between the two of them.  To his mind, the full focus of her attention needed to be on MacLeod this time.  In all honesty, though, he had no complaints with her skills and was beginning to understand why Gracchus had been able to demand such a high price for her attentions in Rome.

Duncan lounged back in his chair, abandoning himself to hedonism for the evening.  Gemma never let him lift a finger and she managed to be almost as enticing while feeding him as she had been walking across the barge.  Fingers would brush across his lips as she placed a morsel in his mouth, or the positioning of her hands as they lifted the wine glass drew his attention to her breasts, partially concealed by those raised arms.  And the motions of her hips as she knelt up off her ankles, or subsided back down to let him chat across the table, were extremely arousing.  Those clear grey eyes watched intently to see what he wanted almost before he knew, whether it was pork or wine, apples or rolls, or just the napkin and a chance to talk to Methos.  So far, she hadn't been wrong yet.

When the meal was finished, Methos sent her to make coffee and eat her own portion of dinner, which he'd dished out.  Very quietly he asked, "Still all right, brother?"

"I'm fine.  Did she learn this in Rome?"

"What, to serve like that?  Oh, yes.  She's very good, though that's no surprise from someone LaCroix helped train.  Although he wasn't likely to be interested in her presentation of food, she'd have learned those tricks with the goblet from him."  Methos smiled at his lover, amused by the other man's slightly shell-shocked reactions.  "Surely when you were in Constantinople you had personal servants?"

"Not like that.  God, I've used food for foreplay before, but she made buttering a roll into a come-on."

"I did tell you she was well-trained," Methos answered, chuckling at the amazement.  "But her behavior's been exquisite since you cracked down on her.  Has she satisfied you enough to warrant a reward, or does she need to finish earning it?"

"Aye, I'm pleased.  Are you?"  The younger man looked over, watching his lover in fascination.  The transformation from Adam Pierson to Methos still startled and aroused him; the lazy arrogance of the man lounging in his chair could not be mistaken for Adam's indifference.

"Certainly.  What do you think we should do to reward her?"

The younger man grinned at that.  "She won't come until we give her permission, right?"

"She'd better not," was the dangerously soft-spoken reply.  "If she does, I'll stripe her ass until she remembers it tomorrow, immortal healing or no.  Why?"

"What do you think about putting her in the middle and telling her not to be quiet... and not to come until we allow it?"

Methos ran some possible variations through his mind and smiled wolfishly.  "I think we can manage something.  And since she's the slave, shall we let her do most of the work?"

Both of them watched Gemma working quietly in the kitchen area, and smiled.  The two men sat and sipped hot coffee while she ate and cleaned up, coordinating their strategy in advance and lazily anticipating the planned activities.  Once she presented herself for more orders, Methos sent her around the barge to add wood to the fire and bank it, then turn out lights except for one lamp by the bed.

When the barge was arranged for the evening Gemma came and knelt between them, her gaze on the floor as she waited.  Duncan saw some plan roll across Methos' face and vanish again as he studied her, then the older man mused, "Didn't you say you wanted to see some handprints on that ass, brother?"

"I did miss seeing them last time," Duncan chuckled.  "What do you think?"  He watched her reaction through his eyelashes, eyes half-closed as if sleepy or very aroused.  The catch in her breath and flush across cheeks and collarbones brought a slow smile to his face.

Methos mentally marked the locations of the various blades in the barge; he'd last seen that look during Duncan's Dark Quickening. On the other hand, I would imagine Gemma is, rightfully, wondering what she agreed to this morning.  Surprise, student mine.  The Highlander can be dangerous to his friends as well as his foes.  About time you learned it if you didn't already know. Out loud he answered casually, "If you want to see it, you do it.  I don't feel like sitting up."

"Who said you had to sit up?  But I'll do it," came the caressing reply, Duncan's voice sinking into a purring growl almost an octave lower than usual.  He chuckled again and snapped his fingers.  "Gemma.  Up.  Come here."

Grey eyes were wide with startled surprise when she looked up at him, a rapid movement which threw some of her hair across her face.  She moved the few spaces necessary to kneel in front of the couch, between his spread legs.  The Scot held her gaze with his own, still smiling that predatory smile as one hand slowly smoothed wayward strands off her cheek and off her lips.

Fear clawed down her spine at the sight of the master she had thought was... softer?  Weaker?  More kind at least.  Adrenaline poured through her, starting a nervous tremor through her muscles that Gemma couldn't control and sending a rush of heat between her legs, across her breasts, pulsing against the too-tight skin of her lips and fingertips.

Methos watched in fascination as Duncan rubbed the palm of his hand across her lips, accepting her kisses without ever losing that dangerous expression on his face and in his eyes.  Somehow, I don't think he needs much training for this.  Highlander, I know that a flexible mind is an asset in the Game, but you're making me nervous with how quickly you're taking to domination.  Although Kronos was never this controlled at this point, so at least it's not his quickening influencing you.  Perhaps it's a very good thing I talked you into remembering that St. Julien's was Holy Ground that time....

Duncan wound his other hand into Gemma's hair, coiling it twice around his hand and wrist and silently guiding her up and over one leg.  She ended up positioned with her ass up in the air, facing Methos and unable to look down because of the grip on her hair.  The Scot pulled his other leg in, pinning her in place, and glanced over at his male lover.  "How many was it last time?  Six?"

Methos nodded slowly, studying Gemma's reactions to make sure she wasn't panicking.  Her breathing had sped up, gone quick and harsh, but her eyes were dilated with arousal, not fear, and her hands were bracing her on the couch, not clutching for dear life.  With one long finger he traced her lips gently, a reassuring contrast to Duncan's potent control.  "Six it was."

"That'll do then.  She's not in trouble, after all."  He caressed her ass as lovingly as his voice caressed the words, callused palm cupping the tight curve of muscle and fingernails scraping lightly along the skin.  "This is the same hand you were kissing, Gemma.  Appropriate, hmm?"

Duncan caressed the other buttock now, trailing his fingers along the skin, teasing the valley between.  He lifted his hand just as she started to squirm.  "Did I tell you that you could move?"

"No, sir," came the immediate reply, already just a touch frantic.  "I'm sorry."

The hand trapping her hair massaged the base of her neck for a few seconds.  "Feel good?"

"Yes, master....  Oh, Gods!"  She shuddered against a denim-clad thigh when his fingers teased between her cheeks again, pressing down toward the center of her heat.

"Hold still.  And don't be quiet.  Simple enough."  This time his fingers flicked out, a teasing swat that drew a shuddering gasp because it wasn't the blow she'd expected.  He chuckled again, that same low, dangerous sound that drove her farther and farther down into that place where fear and anticipation blended themselves into pleasure.  And still his hand only caressed or swatted, tickled or scratched lightly over her skin, never yet striking the blows she anticipated and feared.

Methos shifted on the couch, legs spreading slightly to give his aching erection more room.  Gemma wasn't the only one Duncan was arousing.  So far the Scot's touches had been caresses or light taps like a grandmother chastising a favorite grandchild's cheek, and the immortal woman was starting to relax a bit against the couch again. I'll give him full marks for patience; I expected the first real blow at least a minute ago.  The older immortal smiled when he saw that, even trapped as she was, Gemma was trying to arch her ass up for each new caress.  This will be interesting.  Hmm.  I wonder what kind of stories Amanda could tell?  And what kind of bribe I'll need to get them out of her?

The Scot caught his friend's motion in the edges of his sight and turned his head to look.  The shift in position, and the reason behind it, were obvious to another male and Duncan smiled at him, deliberately licking his lips and tilting his head like a wolf considering a deer.  Dinner?  Or sport?

I don't want to find out that a hard-on can cause you to pass out from lack of blood to the brain, Methos thought grimly.  I haven't been this hard since....  Hell, I don't know.  Come on, MacLeod, how long are you going to draw this out?  The wolf's smile on the other side of the couch reassured him.

This time, when Duncan's hand snapped down, it was curved to catch as much of the surface of her ass as possible.  Gemma's cry of startled pain changed into a groan of pleasure as she inhaled again, and her hips bucked up to meet his hand.  She cried out in wordless protest when the next touch only rubbed along the muscle of the other cheek and Duncan chuckled.  "Patience.  You'll get everything you deserve before we're through, Gemma, put that fear out of your mind."

 Methos forced himself to lounge back into the leather of the couch as the next blow struck.  The slave's sounds of pleasure resonated straight down his spine into his cock, but she didn't need to know how little control he had at the moment.  The temptation to kneel across from MacLeod and alternate the blows with him, to take part in making that slender body writhe and flush and cry out in pleasure and pain both, was becoming almost overwhelming.  Damn you, LaCroix, you spent ten years teaching her to control pain and she can still cut loose like this when we let her?  I thought you were trying to make it instinct for her to be silent!  Couldn't you have done a slightly better job of it?  Jealousy reared its green-eyed head at the thought that the master vampire had seen her like this, reduced her to this, more than once... and first.

The jealousy coiled across the air, and Duncan tasted it in the back of his throat as he teased and tormented their slave.  For once he could almost see what the other man was thinking, and the image of LaCroix told him exactly who that envy was directed at.  Without thinking about it, he delivered two rapid blows and heard her cry out again in pain, and pleasure, and surprise.  Part of his mind registered the fact that his jeans were damp under her hips, which pleased him immensely and at the same time made his own erection more of a torment.  The Scot controlled the urge to bury himself inside that writhing form, reminding himself that they weren't through yet.

His hand rubbed along the red welt on one pale cheek, nails scratching to hear her whimper.  Catching Methos' eyes, he switched to Gaelic and asked in a silky growl, "Whose are you, Gemma?"

"Yours," came the immediate reply.  No hesitation, no question... and the plural form of the possessive pronoun.

"Good," Methos purred.  "Very good."  He reached with one finger to lift a tear off her cheekbone, then stroked along her neck with the same finger, tracing sensitive nerve endings.  Her cry of frustrated pleasure shifted to pain and back to pleasure as Duncan struck again.

"That's five.  One left," the Scot chuckled.  "Almost done, Gemma, then we think of something else to do.  Any ideas on how to make us happy?  Are you inspired yet?"

Methos glanced up and the dark lust in the Highlander's smiling face drew the immediate thought, If she isn't, MacLeod, I sure as hell am!  I really hope he's going to stick to our plan.  Gods, if he doesn't, when this is over, I will put him in a collar for a week and teach him what a memory is for!

Mac caught his eyes and smiled ferally.  "What was it you said earlier, brother?  Me, you ask.  Remember that."

Gold-green eyes narrowed but never shifted away.  "Oh, I will.  Count on it.  But later.  For now we have business at hand."  Methos waited until he could see the challenge accepted, then glanced down at the slave's ass.  "Very nice work, brother, but I believe you planned on one more?"  The older man cupped his hand under her chin, seeing the closed eyes and the way her hips were still straining up to meet blows and caresses which weren't coming at the moment.  "Open your eyes, Gemma.  There is no place to hide."

Duncan waited until he could tell from Methos' expression that she had followed the order, then he laid the last blow precisely onto the red mark already on that ass cheek.  "Six."  His thighs clamped down as her body bucked against the blow and she screamed.

Methos slid off the couch, dropping to one knee to meet her eyes.  "Don't even think about coming, or that spanking will be nothing."  The controlled menace in his voice chilled her enough to pull her away from the edge of pleasure and pain that the younger man had brought her to.

Gemma forced out the words, "Yes, sir," still gasping for breath and making little whimpering noises she obviously wasn't aware of.  The steady pull against her hair kept the slave from ducking her head to catch her wind as her body wanted to do; one sharp tug reminded her to quit fighting in even so mild a way.

As soon as she started to recover, Duncan released the grip on her legs and pushed her off his lap and onto the floor in front of the couch.  Methos' eyebrows rose, but he stood and shoved the coffee table out of the way.  I can live with this modification.  Cushions are overrated anyway. He stripped his sweater off with quick hands, throwing it carelessly over the back of the couch and unbuttoning his jeans.

At the same time, Duncan released one loop of her hair as he stood, giving enough slack that her neck didn't feel like it would immediately snap.  He growled one word, "Stay."  At that she froze on all fours, head tilted back.  He released her hair completely and stripped off his own sweater.  The slow rasp of the pants zipper sliding down brought a convulsive shudder of muscle down her back; other than that, Gemma didn't move, barely breathed.

The two men caught each other's eyes and smiled, both thinking the same thing.  Neither had bothered to do more than unfasten their pants, and as Methos moved forward the two steps necessary to get to her mouth, Duncan stepped forward as well.  The Scot's first step nudged her right leg open farther; the second step pushed the left out as well, until she was straining for balance and wide open to him.

MacLeod knelt behind her and positioned his cock at the slick entrance to her body, teasing her with the head as she cried out again and tried desperately to press back against him without moving her head as well.  "If she were any wetter, brother...."

Methos laughed at that, deliberately sliding his palm along the underside of his cock, keeping the tip a tantalizing half-inch from her mouth and rubbing her jaw with the other hand to relax the muscles before they began.  "She's certainly eager enough.  Did she please you this morning, brother?"  Gemma's spine lengthened as her body tried to press in two directions at once and a small, undistracted part of his mind remarked that it was absolutely amazing how limber a dancer's torso was.

"Oh, yes," came the laughing reply, but there was a darker undertone to Duncan's voice now.  His control was wearing thin as well.

Methos watched the Scot's eyes, appreciating the sight of that golden chest above her pale back, the way the hard cock jutted out from the faded denim.  Without ever taking his gaze off that tantalizing sight, the older immortal said pleasantly, "One last order, Gemma.  You can come after both of us do -- but not before."

Both of the Scot's hands rested on the curve of Gemma's hips, reading her reactions in every muscle twitch, every motion.  Duncan had been studying Methos every bit as intently as the other man was watching him.  He held the woman firmly in place as he watched the slender, strong man standing in front of them.  Firelight painted lines of light and shadow across the smooth, fair skin and outlined the cock straining barely out of reach of her mouth.

Methos scooped up Gemma's hair, pulling until she arched up onto her knees, arms coming up to clasp his hips.  As soon as she caught her balance with a hand on the couch, mouth still open and trying to reach him, both men moved forward.  Wet heat surrounded them, Gemma's tongue stroking Methos as internal muscles clamped down on Duncan.  The Scot's hands on her hips pulled her back against his cock, then Methos' hands at the base of her skull tugged her forward to envelop more of his length with that exquisite suction.

The two men quickly caught each other's rhythms, aided by the anxious, writhing woman between them.  Unrestrained groans and cries of pleasure filled the barge as firelight flickered across bare skin.  There were no thoughts of control now, only an increasing tension that fed back and forth between the bodies where they were joined, an uncoiling of power and force that tingled across them like the start of a quickening.

Duncan came first, pounding into Gemma furiously for the last few strokes as he exploded within her.  Methos heard him cry out, felt her mouth open wider to take in his cock as the other man's motions pushed her against the oldest immortal's body.  Her muffled cry of despair and pleasure against the sensitive skin almost made him come as well, but he held out for a few seconds more before spurting into her mouth and throat under the impetus of that clever tongue.

She swallowed automatically, arms bracing against the coffee table and couch as she relaxed and deep-throated him, shaking uncontrollably as her own long-denied orgasm finally rolled out from her center.  Gemma could almost feel the pleasure hit her fingertips and toes and rebound, waves striking back toward their origin like ripples in a small pool moving back toward the center again.  Somehow she kept from screaming, or choking, too caught up in blissful release to give any attention to the men, willing to pay the price if they noticed.  And still ecstasy wrapped around her, coiling through the center of her body, contracting through her in shuddering ripples, sparking under and across her skin until she was nothing except this one moment of pleasure entwined with, and enhanced by, the lingering discomfort from the spanking.

The first thought to move through her mind, when she could finally think again, was, Oh, Gods, my arms.  Duncan had half-collapsed against her back, and Methos stood almost coiled over her, hands on her shoulders to stay upright.  The carpet under her knees didn't provide much protection against the hard floor beneath, and Gemma wanted nothing more than to sleep.  That thought she pushed hastily away as she concentrated on holding them up.  After a long few minutes, the Scot lifted his weight off her and regretfully withdrew from her body, sagging back onto his own knees with a groan of pleasure.

The older master didn't seem interested in moving yet, so she shifted her weight minutely, settling muscles to hold him as long as need be.  She could tell from their reactions that she had pleased them both thoroughly, and her own body was still purring from their attentions.  The last fading ache from the spanking sang sweetly through her blood, an enjoyable harmony to the pleasure.  Part of her mind turned to whether or not the bed needed to be turned down, and the rest contemplated the logistics of cleaning both of them in a shower that got a bit crowded with two people.  Three was manageable, but difficult, and she was trying to figure out how in the world to work on their lower legs when the older master finally released her shoulders and sagged onto the couch.

Freed of his weight, Gemma stretched and sighed in contentment as muscles relaxed, then turned to check on the younger master.  He had settled against the couch and smiled at her, reaching one arm out to pull her to him.  Gemma cuddled against his chest gladly, literally purring when he stroked her hair.

Methos smirked at her reaction but didn't open his eyes immediately.  He could hear Duncan's hand stroking her hair, and the sound soothed him as well.  Eventually, though, he asked what seemed like the obvious question.  "So.  Shower?  Or another round?"

~*~*~*~

Charleston, South Carolina - late morning

Damien hummed to himself without really hearing it.  He knew perfectly well he couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow, let alone a bucket, but until he finished this patch job Stormy didn't have a stereo.  As soon as this was fixed, her computer was next.  Thorough bastards, he had to give them credit; they'd simply removed the hard drive, dropped it in a plastic freezer bag, and set it next to the floppy disks to take with them.  But replacing that would be easy.

With the last wire spliced and wrapped, the immortal stood and stretched cramped muscles.  "God, sleep would be so nice.  Almost done, though," he groaned to himself as he studied the room.  The kitchen was swept and organized, if not completely clean.  She didn't have a dishwasher, so he'd stacked dishes that probably needed to be cleaned in the sink.  Half of the contents of her pantry had gone into the trash, and dusting the flour and sugar off the stove and up off the floor had been an incredibly irritating job.  Every time he'd let his thoughts wander to the night's events, his broom strokes grew more forceful and suddenly flour would be in the air and he'd have to wait for it to sink slowly to the floor again before sweeping it up.

The dining room and living room had not come out nearly as well.  The carpet was probably going to have to be replaced; he didn't think the bloodstains were ever going fade completely.  The wall would need to be repainted, too.  He'd gotten the red-brown splatters off, but it left some areas different shades.  Everything that could be repaired, reframed, or reupholstered was neatly organized by the front door and all the trash was outside.  Unfortunately, that left lighter spots on the wall where portraits had been and holes in the arrangements of furniture in the house.

Pouring himself another mug of coffee, the immortal tiredly ran a hand through his hair, then crouched down to plug her stereo back in.  Soft, mournful blues immediately filled the room, echoed by his rueful chuckle.  "Couldn't have said it better myself, B. B."  He pulled his toolbox over and set to work repairing her computer.

The ringing phone broke through his electronic trance.  Damien picked it up automatically, and only realized when he had had it to his ear that he had no clue what to say.  "Storm residence," he finally said.

"Right.  Where's Stormy and who're you?"

Damien grinned despite the exhaustion.  "God, I love it when people are direct," he answered, reaching desperately for a cover story and falling back on stale, old truth, hard and dry as a cinnamon bun left on the stove overnight.  "Stormy is occupied at the moment, which means I'll tell her to call you when she comes back into the room.  And I'm Damien Appesard; she's doing an investigation for me and I came over to get the results."

After a brief pause, the voice on the other end of the phone sounded delighted this time.  "Oh, hey, cool!  She didn't say you all were meeting this morning.  Come by the office some time, I'd love to ask you about some of the code you referred to in that article on firewalls.  I'm Seth Eddington, Stormy's 'computer consultant' and phone sitter.  Tell her to call me next time she's coming in this late, would you?"

"Will do.  And next time I come by the office, I'll try to make it regular business hours and we can talk code for as long as it takes her to throw me out.  All I ask is hot coffee."

"Deal!  Later."

Damien shook his head when he heard the dial tone.  "She's going to have to explain the concept of paranoia to that kid.  That or make him watch 'The Stand' the next time he has the flu."

"To what kid?  Who was on the phone?"  Gold hair stood out in cowlicks here and there, and there was a crease in one cheek from the pillow, but Stormy looked wide awake.

"Your hacker who doubles as a receptionist.  He wants to swap firewall code, which makes me think he hates the damn things."

"Yeah, that's Seth," she answered quietly.  "We need to talk, I think.  Have you slept at all?"

"No," he said steadily.  "I told you I'd be here.  I wouldn't do you much good asleep, Stormy."

She nodded once.  "I need coffee."

Damien watched her as she moved through the kitchen, collecting caffeine and staring for a moment at the empty sugar bowl on the counter.  Without looking back at him, Stormy said, "Tell me something, Damien.  Did I hallucinate, or were you dead last night?"

She asks questions the way she shoots.  No hesitation and no missed targets.  Fuck.  What do I tell her?

"If you've been awake, Damiano, you've been thinking about this.  You're not shell-shocked this morning.  You weren't shell-shocked last night either, although I was.  Either you never died, or you knew you wouldn't stay dead.  Will you please tell me if I accidentally got some acid last night or if I wandered into something out of the a fantasy novel, where people don't stay dead? "

The wooden chair creaked as Damien dropped into it, too tired to be careful.  "I died, Stormy.  Hurt like hell, too.  Drowning in your own blood is fucking terrifying."

"Terrifying?" she asked, voice rising.  "Terrifying?  Shit, Damien, I killed two men, do you understand that?  I killed a man who had a gun pointed at me!  I killed another one who shot you!  In my own house!  I'll tell you terrifying, it's watching a civilian die on your dining room floor using his last breath to tell me to protect myself!  What in the hell is going on?!"

"Stormy...."  He paused, tried to decide what to tell her, what not to say, and gave the effort up.  "All right.  I'll tell you everything I know, but there are a couple of conditions."

"What?" she demanded suspiciously, one fist on her hip and eyebrows drawing down in the start of a fine fit of temper.

"That you promise not to make any permanent decisions based on this information until you've both eaten and slept on it."  Damien glared at her, his own temper bubbling slowly to the surface.  After she reluctantly nodded, he added, "And that you keep in mind that the information I'm going to give you can kill me permanently.  Don't take this lightly, Stormy."

"I'm not taking anything 'lightly,' Damien Appesard!  You son of a bitch, four men broke into mah home, they destroyed half mah belongin's, pointed guns at us, and forced me to kill 'em!  God damn it, the only 'people' Ah've ever had to shoot at before now were competition targets.  Ah'm not taking any of this lightly and don't you think Ah am."

Both hands were on her hips now, coffee mug still wrapped in one capable fist; the color in her face and the outraged, carrying voice (which grew more and more thickly Southern with each offended word, he noticed absently) made Stormy even more attractive to him.  Unfortunately for Damien, she figured that out, too.

"An' Ah don't care if Ah'm a Pekinese yippin' at a Doberman -- Ah'll hound you out of mah house an' leave bitemarks in yore ass if you don't give me some damn good answers, an' Ah mean right now, Damiano."  She snarled the words at him, still moving forward to confront him.  "You glue yore ass to that chair an' tell me what in hell's goin' on that professional... whatever the hell they were, were ransacking mah house an' why dead people don't stay dead anymore, 'cause you know what?  Ah may have backslid on mah church attendance, but Ah didn't hear Gabriel's horn blowin'."

Damien focused on his breathing, drawing air into his lungs and forcing it back out slowly before beginning again.  When he felt sure that both his sense of humor and his temper would hold, the redheaded immortal sighed and moved to refill his own coffee cup.  He maneuvered his mass easily through the cramped quarters of the kitchen; what was more than wide enough for a 4' 10"  female who might weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet with running shoes on didn't quite cut it for a 5' 9" man who weighed two hundred stark naked and dry.

"All right, then, I'll tell you what my teacher told me, when she first found me working my way out of a shallow grave," Damien rasped tiredly.  "There have always been immortals, going back at least four thousand years, Aelf told me.  Edana told me later that seven thousand was what she knew about, but she wouldn't swear that was as far as it went."

"Immortals?" was the sarcastic comment.  "Really?  Sounds lahk serious egos to me."

A cold green-eyed glare cut off further comments.  "I can tell you this, or you can fall back on the excuse that someone slipped you acid.  Your choice, Stormy -- what do you want to hear?  That the world's black, white, and grey?  Or that some son of a bitch dropped some red on the inside of the rose petals where you have to look to find it?  You want to see reality, or you want to go back to playing with a nice, safe 'color by numbers' world where everyone stays inside the lines and the paint only comes in eight colors with a cheap-ass paintbrush that's coming apart before you finish anyway?

"I was dead, Stormy, remember?  I sure as hell do.  Hurt like hell dying and hurt like hell living again.  Nothing like coughing blood out of your lungs while the hole in your back is still healing and tearing every time you cough."

She flinched at that description; the too vivid litany of pain cracked through the protective shell of her righteous indignation.

"I can get my sweater out of the car," he went on implacably, in the same furious voice.  "You know, the one with the matching holes front and back, decorated with only the most modern trends of arterial tie-dying?  I was dead, woman; you wanted to hear this, well, sit there and listen."

"Ah'm listenin'," she answered more quietly.  "Are you all right now?"

"Everything healed before the police were ever through with us," he answered.  He unbuttoned his flannel shirt quickly and peeled it off, dropping it over a chair. "See for yourself."

Stormy reached cautiously with two fingers to touch where the wound should have been.  There was nothing there but intact olive-toned skin, dusted with dark auburn chest hair.  No blood was still matted in the hairs; he must have cleaned up sometime during that interminable period where she had slept the sleep of the traumatized.  Small fingers with chipped, pink polish on the nails probed delicately at the muscle and found... nothing.  No bruising, either the blue-black that should have been there or even the yellowing-green that might have been around the edges if he healed extremely quickly.  He was breathing too quickly, maybe, but not as if it hurt.  She realized that it was a very muscular, very nice chest about the time that it clicked in that his nipples hadn't drawn up from the cold....

She flushed bright red with embarrassment and arousal of her own, then turned away abruptly.  "All right, you definitely heal fast.  You were dead.  I'm not crazy and I've never heard of hallucinogens that produced delusions with internal logic.  You were dead.  Got it.  There's more of you out there.  Got that.  You call yourselves immortals.  Makes sense if you do this sort of thing on a regular basis, Mr. 'I'm gonna charge the maniac with a gun.'  Someone, or some ones, taught you... what?  Shouldn't they have told you not to charge men with pistols?"  Her defensive sarcasm scored gloriously on him; the pistol comments made him flush bright red, although she couldn't be sure what emotion had caused it.

"Stormy," he said far too gently, an angry softness in his voice concealing the honed savagery of his earlier comments, "don't push that too hard.  When I was studying with Aelf, no one had guns.  We didn't even have crossbows yet," he continued viciously.  "About the only things we had were too many Lombards and Franks trying to make their way into the Alps, and the Romans thinking that since they'd kicked out the Arabs, maybe they could look north, too.  And half the provinces from the Elba to the Channel were marrying their nobility into the Northmen and the other half were being raided, and the best trade in the world was amber and furs coming down the rivers out of Rus and slaves going back on the same boats, to the markets at Sevastopol, and Mosckva, and Constantinople."

She blinked and tried to decide if he had handed her decaf coffee or if she'd really heard that.  Franks?  Northmen?  Traffic in amber and slaves?  What the hell?

Damien took blatant advantage of her confusion and its resultant silence.  "That was in the early 900s, Stormy, back when Rome was still trying to put themselves back together from too many barbarian invasions and gilded Constantinople was still the Eighth Wonder of the World.  I'm over a thousand years old, Stormy.  Edana's older than I am; her teacher, Ramirez, was older still; and I don't know who taught him.  So, yeah, immortal is about the right word for it."

"How many of you are there?"  Somewhere in his digression, the mortal woman had pulled her legs up onto the chair and wrapped both arms tightly around them.  Her chin poked up over the knees of her dark blue thermal underwear, and her face was very serious despite the fact that she looked no more than six sitting like that.

"A lot.  I don't know," Damien answered more calmly.  "Several hundred, maybe.  We... don't always keep in touch."

"How did your teacher find you?  You said you were digging out of a...." the tiny blonde shuddered at the image that flashed through her mind.

"A shallow grave, yeah.  I lost a fight with a soldier who thought I'd cost him a job with the local lord.  The village didn't want to bury me properly, they just wanted me out and gone, so they dumped me in the forest. I always assumed the priest refused to bury me in the cemetery; I had talked back to him once or twice too often.  He thought my wrath amounted to suicide, I suppose.

"And immortals can feel each other, at a distance."

She bit at the edge of a thumbnail, then looked back at him.  "What do you mean by 'feel?'  Like someone touching you?"

"Ever walked into a room and known someone was there, even though you had no way of knowing?  Didn't hear 'em, or smell 'em, or see 'em... just knew."

"Yeah."

"It's about that easy to describe.  We just know."

Stormy shifted the topic, since she could tell that one was going nowhere.  "What did she teach you?"

Damien shrugged.  "Aelfgyfu was teaching me to fight with a sword and to think before challenging.  Then she lost a fight herself and I went to Rome to find Darius."  He saw the puzzled look on her face and answered the unspoken question.  "An immortal priest.  A damn fine man, he was murdered in his own church a few years ago.  Anyway, he parked me in the same barracks he was using and sent word to Aelf's teacher, Edana, that she needed to come get me and knock off a few more of my rough edges.  She did."

"What do you mean?"

Damien sighed and tried to find words to describe to a civilized woman what the Game was like.  "Immortals... have to know when others are around, Stormy.  Most of us are playing the Game, and if you don't pay attention, you're dead.  The rules are disgustingly simple.  Don't fight on Holy Ground.  Don't fight two on one.  Don't interfere in a challenge.  And there can be only one."

"Only one immortal?"  She stared at him to be sure she understood, then snarled, "Thousand year lives and you're spending them on vendettas and assassination?  Jesus, Damien, do you people just not have a sense of proportion?  What kind of artists could you produce with two hundred years to practice technique?  Or singers, or craftsmen....  Hell, medical research with the same person running it for a century or two?"

"How?" he snapped back.  "When we have to hide every twenty years if we're lucky, every two years for the really young-looking ones?"

"Hide from what?"  Then her brain kicked back into gear and reality kicked her in the gut.  "Never mind.  Y'all hide from everybody, don't you?  Do... do you stay dead if you've been burned at the stake?"

"No," Damien answered remorselessly.  "Of course, we don't stay sane either."

"What kind of challenge do you not interfere in?" Stormy asked in a more subdued voice.  "I mean, if you don't stay dead...."

The redhead took a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst of this.  "Oh, you can get us to stay dead.  Listen to me, Stormy, even if you come out of this hating my guts and tell me you never want to see me again, remember this.  To kill an immortal?  Cut off their head.  They'll never get up again."

"Cut off their--"  Her face blanched as her memory conjured up the first man she had killed in the hallway.  Her first shot through the parka pocket had been into his chest; even as she dropped to one knee, wrestling her gun from the pocket of the coat, she had been trying to get a headshot out of ingrained habit of giving a coup de grace.  But he had been falling, and she didn't compensate properly, and the bullet ripped through his throat, splattering blood everywhere....

She sprang out of the chair, barely making it to the bathroom in time to be thoroughly, rackingly sick as she threw up everything in her stomach:  not much.  Even after there was nothing left, the muscles continued to convulse, trying to bring up something.  When the last gagging attempt passed, strong hands kept her from collapsing against the porcelain.

Damien lifted her effortlessly to her feet.  Handing her a glass of warm water, he growled, "Rinse your mouth out.  Come on, Stormy, do it."  When she had, he put the glass back on the sink, flushed the toilet, and pulled her into the hallway and away from the nauseating smell of recent vomit.  Only then did he let her sag to the floor again.  "Easy, Stormy, take some deep breaths for me."

As the shock set in, she blanched and began to shiver.  He sighed and pulled her into his lap, wrapping warm arms around her, tucking his chin against the crown of her head.  "Come on, Stormy, nice deep breaths for me, good and slow."  When he could feel her ribs expand against chest and arms, he crooned, "That's it, come on, Stormy, keep breathing, easy, easy."

He soothed her with voice and arms, with warmth and live, human contact until she could breathe again without that little catch on the inhalation, until the shivers eased down into relaxation, and Damien was left with a compact bundle of female in his lap, all soft skin and rough-textured thermals, and herb-scented hair.  His body forcibly reminded him that it had been weeks since Crystal had been in his bed, and that this lady was very, very attractive.  The immortal cursed himself softly and tried to think about anything other than the very warm armful of female; Crystal Beauchard's involvement with Johannes finally sufficed in lieu of a cold shower.

When his voice was steady enough again, he asked gently, "Are you all right now?"

She shivered again, but tried to sit up.  When his arms didn't loosen, the young woman slapped at them irritably.  "I'm all right, Damien.  Let me go."  His frustated sigh made her wonder for a moment if he simply didn't want to let go, causing a small smile to crack her shell and bring more color to her face.

"Can you talk about this?  Because I don't know what you're going to decide, so I've got to warn you this morning -- well, afternoon -- before you throw me out."

"Throw you out?"

"Yeah, Stormy, throw me out.  I know a temper when it hits me in the face, and, lady, you've got one.  I figure I've got another half-hour, max, before you toss my butt in the street to think about all this, and if you get killed because of me I'm gonna be a helluva long time forgiving myself."

Sparks should have been spitting off her hair, and by the color in her cheeks Stormy was probably the major source of heat in the house at the moment.  "So you're going to warn me for your conscience?  Fine, Appesard, get it over with and get out.  I've got to get a shower and start putting my house back together."

"You mean your life," he corrected bluntly.  "Call a spade a spade, Stormy.  I've turned your world upside-down and I'm sorry.  Let me tell you one thing and I'll get out of here.  Send me the bill for your time and I'll pay it and never darken your doorstep again, if that's what you want.  But you need to know this, please."

His insistence irritated her even more, but the former military brat knew a stubborn streak when she saw it.  Like recognized like.  "Fine.  Tell me."

"Jan Urquhart is an immortal named Johannes Engeles.  If he comes anywhere near you, shoot the bastard and take his head before he can touch you."

"He's in South Africa," Stormy pointed out caustically.  "Why in the hell--  You think this is about my investigation."

"I don't know," Damien answered, his voice pained.  "I hope not.  But if I'm wrong, and Johannes is behind this, then you need to know.  Damn it, woman, all I'm trying to do is keep you alive!"

"You know what, Damien Appesard?  I did that all by my lonesome long before you ever darkened my doorstep.  Now I promised you I'd eat something and sleep on it before I made any decisions, but that doesn't have to be with you here.  I've got things to do, so why don't you get going?"

The immortal used every trick he had learned over the centuries to bank his temper, and finally settled for promising himself a long run and workout when he got home.  Instead of throttling the tiny blonde, or kissing her senseless, or shaking her until reality settled into place, he spun on one heel and headed for the front door.  He had to dodge the 'furniture to be repaired' pile, and stood motionless at the front door for a long moment, catching his breath against the quick inhalations of fury.

Stormy opened her mouth to say something scalding but bit it back when she saw the tension knotting those strong shoulders.  She barely heard the words he spoke, vaguely aware that if he ground his teeth any tighter, no sound would emerge.

"Stormy.  Reading the report sucked.  Getting killed in your house sucked.  But I had a wonderful time at the restaurant and the bowling alley."  He scooped up his coat from the table and pulled it on before opening the door.  "Watch your head, Sylvana Storm."

Behind him, the rumpled blonde in navy long johns listened to the echo of the slamming door and muttered fiercely, "Now he fucking tells me?"

~*~*~*~

Paris, France - dawn, the next day

Duncan propped himself up on one elbow and reached across Methos' chest to run a finger along Aidan's cheek.  "Awake?"

Without ever opening her eyes, she stretched to her full length, back arching and pointed toes dislodging the comforter on that side.  In the middle, Methos growled something incoherent as cold air hit his legs and curled around Duncan -- still soundly asleep.

The Scot chuckled and shifted the blankets the old man had just stolen so that they covered Aidan again.  "I'll take that as a yes.  It's dawn, Edana."

For a moment the woman froze... only to sigh and open her eyes.  "So it is.  Good morning, Dhonnchaidh.  Sleep well?"

He tilted his head curiously as he studied her.  The grey eyes were as clear as ever, but her morning smile was more subdued than usual.  Hell of a word choice; Freudian slip, me?  On the other hand, Freud was a professional dirty old man.  Damn.  "Are you all right?"

"Honestly?"

"No, you stubborn Celt, I was wondering if there were any original lies left in the world," came the mocking reply.  "Yes, I need an honest answer," the Scot said more softly.  "Are you all right?"

"If you're asking if the relationship's been destroyed because I enjoyed being a slave... you'll have to tell me," she said slowly.  "It's... embarrassing, MacLeod, I won't deny that.  And I'm going to be prickly as any cactus until I get over that embarrassment.  I feel like I just went to be initiated with the Draoichtas and recited a Hail Mary instead.  Mortified would be a wonderful word, if it weren't for the fact that we don't stay dead.

"And you?" came her quiet inquiry.  "Are you all right?"

"I wish I hadn't enjoyed it so much."

Aidan closed her eyes and curled back under the covers.  "Aren't we a pair?"

"Yes, neither of you with enough sense to stay asleep and both determined to feel guilty about sex," Methos said grimly.  "MacLeod, will you please not brood this early in the morning?  And you, Edana, use your brain for something other than separating the bones of your skull.  Enough of this."

Cold air sweeping across them drew outraged noises from both Celts as Methos sat up, taking the blankets with him, and settled himself against the headboard.  "All right, woman, you like talking in the morning; just this once you can listen instead.

"Once upon a time there was an immortal, and he was very, very good at what he did.  And for decades, he practiced his trade, through good times and bad, without remorse and without regret.  And when he finally lost his sword and his fight -- because fighting and loving were what he did best, you see -- his opponent offered to let him live."  The austere, impersonal voice edged that offer with incredulous, ironic anger.  "And do you know what he said?"

Aidan sat straight, chin defiantly high, face cold and remote as Methos' own.  "I have no idea, Methos.  You haven't given me much of the story to work with.  Was this a challenge he chose, or one that chose him?  Did he want to live?  Or die?  Or did he care?"

"His lover had died a few days before, at the hands of his opponent's student.  Of course, the man on his knees had killed one of the victor's teachers centuries before."

Duncan recognized the story and closed his eyes, face pale as he remembered the sight of Haresh Clay kneeling on the grass within eyesight of Carter Wellan's grave, disarmed and bleeding and already half-dead inside.

Aidan asked softly, "No, Methos, I don't know what he said.  Tell me."

"He looked at the man holding both their swords and he said, 'It's what we are.  It's what we do.'  And his opponent knew truth when he heard it and took his head.  But they were both true to their nature."

"Three deaths, to find truth," she said softly.  "Cheap at the price, I suppose.  It depends on which truth you're paying for.  What is the point, teacher mine?"

His face gave her no clue and Methos pushed the blankets away from himself, crawling off the bed like an affronted cat.  "Think for yourself, Edana.  You did without me for three and a half centuries, you must have a little practice at it.  I'm going to get cleaned up."

The Irish woman pushed up off the bed and went to stand by a porthole.  She never opened the shutter, so Duncan knew she wasn't looking at anything outside.  Without turning around, she said softly, "How does he do that?"

"Be right?"

"No.  Slide the blade just into the tender spots and twist.  I don't feel like a born slave."

Duncan pushed aside the memories of the duel with Haresh Clay and said wryly, "Orders for you aren't exactly pouring out of my mouth, either."  The shower started up behind them and they both glanced in that direction.  Neither moved.

Finally, the Scot sighed and continued, "Aidan, in some ways LaCroix reminds me of Marcus Constantine.  Neither one of them is a fool.  Agreed?"

She nodded silently, still looking out the closed shutter.

"So do they think you're a slave?  Did LaCroix assume you'd go along with his idea, or did he know damned well he'd better ask?"

That drew a soft chuckle.  "He knew to ask."

"If last night taught me anything, it's that the master doesn't ask the slave anything.  You're not a slave, Aidan.  Not in Rome, and not last night.  What you are," he said softly, "is a woman living under the stresses of the Game who occasionally indulges a taste for a particular type of sex.  You're not an addict, gradhach, and you're not weak, and it's not sick.  Now, if you liked anchovy on your pizza...."

"Damn you, Dhonnchaidh, you're not supposed to make me laugh," she complained, turning to look at him as a reluctant smile spread across her face.

"Of course not," he agreed somberly.  "I'm supposed to live up to Methos' expectations and brood and sulk and worry, and let you convince yourself that you're a horrible, wicked woman and agree with you when you say so, so that he can be ironic and insightful and drink beer and feel superior.  But he didn't bribe me to follow the script.  What did he offer you?"  He grinned at the giggling woman and said, "Oh, the check bounced, hmm?  Are you surprised?"

"You are terrible!" Aidan gasped, still laughing.  "All right, Dhonnchaidh, all right.  I have an occasional craving for Thai food in bed, is that the analogy I'm supposed to draw?"

"Yes, well, I think I was just handed deep-fried squid.  It's okay, I wouldn't mind eating it again -- but not as a steady diet and not again any time too soon.  Going to hold that against me?"

"That you liked it?"  She shook her head.  "No.  That you don't want to repeat this anytime soon?  If anything I'm grateful.  It's not... easy, going back and forth into that mindset.  Or maybe it's only easy in one direction," Aidan added ruefully.

"I know," Duncan said quietly.  "I think what scares me is that it was--"

"Fun?"  Aidan smiled at him.  "It's all right.  It was good for you, Duncan.  You always worry about everyone else, you know.  It was nice to have you taking care of yourself for once."

"Even using your hands to do it?"

"And mouth, and other things," she answered mischievously.  "Yes, Dhonnchaidh.  Well, since I don't mind admitting I like Thai food, can I admit that you make a surprisingly good dominant?  I honestly wasn't sure you had the necessary selfish streak."

"You, my lady," and he stood naked from the bed and bowed grandly to her, "have a surprisingly wide streak of consideration yourself.  There's nothing wrong with being true to the odd corners of ourselves, too, so long as it doesn't interfere with keeping our heads."

"Corner?"  Aidan snorted in disbelief.  "If it weren't for the Game, you'd have lived out your life leading the clan, and probably still been giving orders to your heir on your deathbed.  Except in degree, that doesn't sound too different from what we did last night, you know."

"And I'd have never thought to be ashamed of it," Duncan agreed.  "If it weren't for the Game, Edana, you'd have lived out your life serving the clan in any and every way you could, and been proud of that when you went back to your Lady.  Sounds a bit like last night, doesn't it?"

Dark brown eyes met grey, and neither looked away in shame, or fear, or contempt.

"Do you know something, Dhonnchaidh?  It does."  More thoughtfully, she added, "The worst of this is that Methos is going to be incredibly smug if we don't brood."

Duncan shrugged.  "He's smug anyway.  This will be different?"

"No, not really," Aidan sighed.  "He's been ahead on points since I first met him.  I've given up on catching up; I just try not to fall too far behind.  Think he left us any hot water?"

"Yeah, well, I haven't caught up on points with you, either," the Scot pointed out.  "Even if I did win that bet about Gina.  But I still have hopes.  And if he didn't leave us hot water, we'll make him cook breakfast."

"We'll need our strength to catch those immortals," she agreed calmly.  "And since you were courteous enough to ask this morning?  I'm fine, Dhonnchiadh."

This time he believed her.  "Good.  And since you so kindly inquired?  I'm all right, too."

"Good.  Shall we hunt?"

Methos leaned against the frame of the bathroom door, toweling his hair dry, bare feet still pink from the heat of the shower under the dark red robe.  "Everything settled?"

Aidan shook her head in mock dismay and tugged him out of the doorway.  "Certainly.  We're going to clean up while you make breakfast, and then all three of us are going to hunt down two immortals.  Any other questions?"

He took in their body language, the cheerful concentration on matters at hand, and said calmly, "No, not really.  Try to keep in mind that I want to ask these bastards some questions before we kill them."

~ ~ ~ ~

Over the next five days, three intent immortals prowled Paris from the richest districts to the poorest, on both sides of the Seine and on any island that might prove a hiding ground, and found nothing.  The hunters, whoever they had been, whatever their reasons had been, had vanished.

~*~*~*~

New York City, a few nights later

It's all my mother's fault, the young P.I. decided for the thousandth time since high school. What kind of woman names a helpless kid Preston?  Pete Martinelli (PT, from Preston Taylor) was of the firm opinion that romance novels had a lot of things to answer for, not least of them his name.  He huddled in the shadows, pulling his coat more tightly around him as he did.  November in New York City meant cold winds, blowing the moisture straight off the bay into your bones.

I hate winters in this fucking town.  Swear to God, soon's I get the money together I'm gonna move someplace warm to work.  New Orleans would be good.  Maybe Dallas/Ft. Worth.  Oughtta be plenty of opportunities for an up and coming investigator there.

He was so absorbed in his future plans, and trying to figure out how to light a cigarette without giving his position away, that the figure weaving along the sidewalk didn't really register.  When the drunk fell against him, knocking him further into the shadows, though, big city reflexes kicked in and Pete immediately began fighting his way toward the light.  The sharp, cold pressure against his belly froze his feet in place and suddenly the young detective was grateful he hadn't really had a chance to drink much the last few hours.

A harsh, cold voice warned, "Don't move.  We're going to talk, you and I."

Pete grabbed his resolve with both hands and took his inspiration from Thomas Magnum.  "Not a problem, whatever you want to talk to me about, I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding."

Shadowed eyes might have been black in the dim light, but the piercing intelligence in those eyes shot that idea down immediately.  "Whoever hired you isn't paying you nearly enough," came the answer.

Where is his accent from?  Not American, not English, not Australian....  Shit.  Worry about that later.  My assignment has made me and he's got a knife.  Fuck.  "Hired?  I should be so lucky, I'm self-employed.  Photojournalist when I sell to the good mags, staff camera the rest of the time."

The soft, staccato laughter didn't reassure the P.I.  "It's a good cover.  But if you were legitimate, you'd have asked for an interview yesterday afternoon after you followed me to the museum and the dojo.  Did you want to try again?  You're at least more entertaining than the movie of the week."

"You were at the museum?  Were you there for that great exhibit of costumes or the coins?"

"Not bad at all.  But you need to learn to change hat and coat if you follow someone for more than a day."  The soft chuckle sounded again.  "Fun and games are over, I'm afraid.  I have plans tonight and I didn't pencil you in on the dance card.  Give me your wallet."

"You're a mugger?!"

The grip on his shoulder would leave bruises in the morning.  "As much a mugger as you are a photojournalist.  Reach back slowly with your right hand and get your wallet."

Shit.  Death or mugging?  Mugging. "Okay, no problem, why didn't you say you needed a loan?"

Humor flashed briefly in the darkened eyes, then the man took his wallet in one hand and pressed the blade more firmly into his belly with the other.  "I think you'll agree I can kill you faster than you can stop me."  At the slow nod, the 'mugger' chuckled and said, "So don't move.  I need to catch up on my reading."  Flipping the wallet open, he glanced casually at the driver's license to get the name.  Another laminated surface behind the New York logo caught the light, and when thumbed out revealed a private investigator's license.

"Photojournalist, hmm?"

The laughter had vanished from the man's voice and Pete stiffened.  He could guess what the guy had just found and not for the first time he cursed the need to keep that license handy at all times.  Easy assignment -- right.  Next time I hear that, I charge triple.

"I don't suppose you'd listen to an explanation?"

"Oh, I'll listen," Russell Nash said coldly.  "But make it quick.  You've wasted enough of my night herding you into the dark for this conversation."

"Look, your wife wanted to know if you were sleeping around, all right?  That's all.  Do you want to see the telegram?"

That drew a raised eyebrow and then Pete's assignment, the supposedly harmless antiques dealer, started to laugh again, that same clipped chuckle that made Pete think some really bad joke was in progress.  "Mr. ... Martinelli, is it?"

"Yeah."

"First you're going to show me that telegram, then you're going to go home and think about your new job."

"I am?  What new job?"  Afterwards, Pete could never put into words why the look on Nash's face made him reach meekly into his wallet and pull out the telegram.  All he knew was that he did not want the physically smaller man in front of him to grow angry.

"Whatever you decide.  But you're not cut out for this."  Nash tucked the telegram into his pocket and spun the knife out of the way, concealing the blade in the folds of his coat.

"Just because you got lucky and caught me?"

"It wasn't luck," came the cold reply as his target backed farther into the shadows of the alley.  "And I'm not married.  Next time, if you stay in this business, check."

Pete stared after him, mind frozen and his body with it.  "But if you're not....  Oh, shit.  Then who did I send this morning's report to?  And who's going to pay me?"  The cold wind toying through his newly ventilated coat gave no answer.
 

~ ~ ~ finis  11/98 ~ ~ ~

Notes, Comments, and Commentary:

1 - Joe made the mistake of promising to tell Aidan why he was going to Paris in the story 'First Harvests'.

2 - Yup, that's a real bumper sticker.  I'm trying to find a copy for a friend who was a pharmacist.

3 - Methos as a saint?  (The author takes a look at the sharp, pointy object not quite pointed in her direction and wisely declines to offer personal opinions.  For now.)

4 - Dunn & Bradstreet tracks financial data on major corporations both within the US and worldwide.  Most companies use a D&B report as part of their process in deciding whether or not to issue credit.

5 - Yes, you can run that quickly for that long if you routinely do distance training.  Marathons, which are set at a distance of 26.25 miles, have been won in just over 2 hours - a pace of just under 5 minutes a mile.  Most immortals who want to keep their head probably train for this kind of stamina, or something close.

6 - Aidan's memories of Joe date back to the following stories respectively:  'Dancing Days', 'Absent Companions', and 'Quarrels of All Kinds'.

7 - Buchenwald was one of the concentration camps during World War II, located in East Germany, near Weimar.  When Owain Rhys-Tewdor lost track of Aidan in 1939, she was using the name Danica Ostrau and working in Europe as a courier for the Jewish gem merchants of Amsterdam.

8 - In the last 2,624 years, the pole star has shifted to Polaris.  The heat passed/reflected by the atmosphere has varied.  (It was a increase in world temperature in the 900's which allowed the Vikings to begin their raids.  With warmer weather, they could put in the crops earlier without fear of frost and have the leisure to go viking to Ireland, England, France....)  Only the moon has continued to wax and wane through her cycles without changing significantly.

9 - Does Aidan believe in the Gathering?  Well, it's never happened yet.  But everyone else is playing by the Game, so she's not putting down her sword, either.

10 - To anyone who doesn't believe a Catholic priest would welcome pagans into his cathedral and respect their beliefs, I will tell you that I know a few who have and do.  And the atmosphere of the church and its Lady nave are exactly what Aidan felt.

11 - Janette DuCharme, Lucien LaCroix, and Nick Knight are from the series Forever Knight, and the interactions of the various immortals with them can be found in 'Shadow Plays', 'Nosferateu', and 'Force of Habit'.

12 - Yeah, I know Janette's met female immortals.  I have no idea why she played the innocent with Aidan, but I don't question vampires about their motives.  I'm always afraid they'll explain and I'll understand....

13 - Yup, the wicked witch jokes are from L. Frank Baum's Oz books.  Did he ever do anything with the Good Witch of the North?  I know Glinda ruled in the South.

14 - Flan is a hot, baked custard desert with caramel poured over it; sopapillas are deep-fried tortillas, usually sprinkled with either cinnamon sugar or glazed with honey and cinnamon.  Yum!

15 - Urdu is one of the official languages of Pakistan.  Do I have a clue what Damien was doing over there?  No.

16 - The attacks listed in the fight in Stormy's house?  I decline to comment on the grounds that they're nothing to play with.  If you really want to learn them, drop me a note and we'll talk.  But as the disclaimers in the movies say, please, don't try this at home.  You can kill someone if it's done incorrectly.

17 -  World War I didn't get that name until it was obvious that a second World War was going on.  In the early third of the century it was simply, The Great War, or The War To End All Wars.  Although excellent arguments can be made that the war between France & England which culminated at Waterloo can be called a world war as it was fought on no less than four continents (North America, Europe, Africa, and Asia -- I'm not sure about South America, but possibly there as well), technically it took World War I to bring in all 6 occupied continents.

18 - 'Domine' is the vocative (direct address) form of the Latin 'dominus' - meaning lord or master.

19 - Adrianna of Constantinople and Owain Rhys-Tewdor are immortals out of my own demented little mind.  Sinan ibn Salman ibn Muhammed is a historical personage whose life I have taken the liberty of tampering with.  He headed the Assassins of Alamut during the time of the 3rd Crusade (late 1100s & early 1200s).  A nasty s.o.b. and just the type to do well in the Game.  If Wombat can play with Gilles de Rais, I can have Sinan.

20 - B. B. King is a Memphis blues musician whose fame is world-wide.  His guitar is named Lucille and was donated to the Pope recently.  Sorry, Joe.

21 - Stengel, and his records, can be found in 'Quarrels of All Kinds' and 'Shadow Plays'.

22 - According to the Highlander novel, Scimitar, Duncan was captured and sold in the markets of Algiers.  Fortunately for him, Hamza al Kahir, an immortal of great kindness and skill, bought him and made the bondage as light as he could.  All fanfic speculation aside for the moment, in the novel Zealot, Marcus Constantine mentions rescuing an immortal slave named Remus who was crucified;  that slave was Methos.

23 - BDSM is actually shorthand for B&D, D&S, and S&M.  Which are, respectively, Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, and Sadism and Masochism.  Bondage and Discipline is just that:  usually ropes or silk ties (so as not to bruise the skin) or leather shackles and spankings or other 'punishment'.  Dominance and Submission may involve some bondage or pain, but its primary purpose is to make very clear who exactly is in charge and move both the dominant and the submissive into the proper mindset.  Sadism and Masochism are (in order) giving or receiving pain for the purpose of causing and/or enhancing pleasure.
  Safe, sane, and consensual  are the three watchwords for all of the above games.  This means that nothing that goes on should cause permanent physical harm (safe), mental harm (sane), or be both a complete surprise and unwelcome to one of the participants (consensual).  If you do try this, make sure that you follow those guidelines.  If you don't believe your partner will follow them... find someone else.  Please.

24 - Many thanks are due to all the kind Dom/mes and subs on IRC who read parts of this story, answered questions about mind-set and preference, and gave me much feedback on this story.  Thanks, folks, it wouldn't be nearly as good as it is without the help.  All errors are mine.

25 - In the Roman Empire, laws were passed giving tax breaks, honors and/or rewards for being married, producing a certain number of children, etc.  There were laws requiring a man to sleep with his wife at least 3 times a week if they had less than 3 children.  The emperors were, understandably, concerned about the declining birth rate among Roman citizens when the empire was surrounded by so many enemies, who were quite, quite prolific.  Heterosexual brothels came much closer to being 'moral', and were more acceptable in such a military culture, than the ones which allowed/catered to the homosexual trade.  Both existed, mind.  If you're in a good mood for scandal, shame, and perversion, find Suetonius' The Twelve Caesars, researched from the Senate library and records.  Oh, my stars and garters!

26 - Where did Damien get the clean shirt?  Well, Aidan helped train him and Aidan always has spare clothes in her car for occasions when the challenge and/or quickening got messy....

27 - 'Quid pro quo' in loose, but accurate, translation means, 'So what'll you give me for it?  Come on, buddy, there ain't no such thing as a free lunch.'

28 - Yes, Aidan and LaCroix have an... interesting relationship.  And Niagara Falls is a little damp, too.

29 - Firewall has to do with the coding preventing unwanted messages/viruses/what have you from passing among computer systems.

30 - No, I have no idea why watching Steven King's The Stand when you have the flu will make you paranoid.  But for the last 12 years, every time I get a really bad cold (aches, chills, high fever which always makes me loopy verging on delirious), one of my best friends gets this really evil grin and tells me I should watch it.  If you get the joke, great.  If not, sorry!

31 - Crystal Beauchard was Damien's lover.  Johannes Engeles hired her to spy on him, and she chose to do it from his bed.

32 - The immortals Methos talked about?  In the episode 'End of Innocence', Haresh Clay challenged and killed Graham Ashe in 1657 while Duncan watched from Holy Ground.  When Richie challenged and killed Clay's lover and companion of nine centuries in 1997, Haresh came for his head.  Duncan claimed the challenge and Haresh died as Methos described.  Why didn't Methos simply give the names involved?  I won't make bets on the Old Man's reasons, but I suspect it's because Haresh and Carter (his lover) were friends of Aidan's.

33 - Russell Nash?  Well, back in 1518, he was christened Connor MacLeod....

Go back to Gathering Darkness
Go back to Explanations, Part 1
Go back to Explanations, Part 2
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