Disclaimers: Rysher: Panzer/Davis own all the concepts and characters from both the movie Highlander, and the series of the same name.  I am not making any money off this, don't expect to, and would probably die of heart failure if it happened by accident!  Any characters who don't look familiar are probably mine, and I do own the copyright on them.  If you want to archive or link, please let me know.  (I'll be immensely flattered, but please tell me anyway!)
Rated: NC-17 for gleeful & graphically loving depictions of m/m sex (and a discussion of rape, not nearly as graphic).  If this is not to your taste, please hit the little button at the top left which says back.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

Prelude To The Storm
 

Sydney, Australia

Steps echoed back off the pavement, a quick, decisive rhythm in the warm night.  Late September in Australia meant spring had already started but the woman moving along so briskly wore an unseasonably heavy long coat as she walked.  Her nature seemed to be incapable of strolling, whether from tiredness (and it was late) or simply to enjoy the lovely night.  With her short, stocky frame and determined pace, an onlooker might have compared her with a World War II tank rolling implacably to its destination.  Some of her academic colleagues would have agreed with that analogy.

She stopped abruptly and slid one hand inside her coat.  She scanned the night around her with swift motions of her head, planted as solidly as if she had decided to set down roots.  Ahead of her, a tall bald man stepped out of the shadows of a building and spoke pleasantly enough in South African-accented English.  "Challenge."

The smaller woman nodded, golden skin catching the light as she did.  "There's an alley just past you."

As the two of them moved into the enclosed area, another man slid out of the shadows farther down the street and followed them into the alley.

When he stopped to look down the alley, the Indonesian woman had already begun the fight wielding a oddly shaped sword which resembled a boomerang sword from a machete; the blade bent forward about a third of the way down from the hilt. With the coat off, she looked even stockier, heavily muscled shoulders no longer counterbalanced by the length of the fabric.

Her taller opponent blocked her blows effortlessly with a heavy longsword, fighting just hard enough to keep her busy.  When his partner come in from behind them, he smiled and swiftly blocked his opponent's blade again.  This time he used his greater size to force her sword against the wall as he could have done at almost any point in the fight.  He was surprised to see her release the blade with one hand.  A kris buried itself in his upper abdomen, forcing him to double over in pain.  The terror didn't set in until he realized that he couldn't draw a breath because the strike had nicked his diaphragm.  The gold-skinned woman brought her sword up for the decapitating blow.

She never made it entirely around.  A thick-bladed shortsword severed her neck with one powerful stroke as the brown-haired immortal from the alley entrance brought his arm down.  The shorter man saw his partner drop to his knees, knife still in his solar plexus, as the lightning began to coil up from the woman's body.

From the same spot in the entry to the alley, a grey-haired woman watched silently as the quickening slammed him against the brick wall.  Knowing the lightning storm would obscure the flashes from her camera, she snapped a couple of pictures quickly, and turned away regretfully.  It wouldn't do for them to find her there, and she needed to report to Watcher Headquarters for reassignment.

But it was a hell of a thing to see two immortals break the rules like that.  Rabi had been a good woman, if a bit rigid in her thinking.  She had deserved better than to be taken by a pair of immortals who didn't think that the 'one on one' rule applied anymore.  And Rabi could have taken either of them in combat singly, her Watcher judged sadly.  You didn't last six and a half centuries in the Game without being good.

Oh, well, by this time next month, she'd have a new immortal to watch.  The Game went on.

* * * *

Paris, France - a week later

The two men walked out of the terminal and into the sunlight, still chatting amiably in English.  The taller man wore his dark hair drawn back into a short pony-tail and carried most of their bags, moving easily despite his burdens.  Sunglasses obscured his eyes from sight but his easy laughter betrayed his good mood.  The other man had rapidly greying hair, cut short, and a beard and mustache.  He wore sunglasses also and walked with a cane, carrying a guitar case in his free hand.

"Adam!  There you are!  We thought you'd gotten stuck in traffic."

The man who sauntered up to them smiled at that statement and took one bag.  "Not quite, Joe.  It was finding a place to park that was nearly impossible.  Hello, Mac."

Mac smiled back, quickly looking him up and down for the sheer pleasure of seeing that he was well.  "Hello yourself.  Good timing, that bag was getting heavy.  Joe, what did you pack?  Bricks?"

The grey-haired man grinned at him.  "Nah, some extra barbells for you.  Getting slack, pal?"

"Not with my sparring partners."  All three of them began to work their way to the parking area, Duncan and Adam taking point without discussing it to shield Joe from jostling.

"So is Rich still in Seacouver?" Adam asked casually, referring to Duncan's student.

"Running the dojo and renovating Aidan's fourth floor on the weekends.  I think they were going to install a fireplace this weekend before it got too cold in there.  They're debating putting one on the fourth floor."  Duncan slung their bags into the back of Adam's beat-up Volvo station wagon as he spoke.

"Who's on which side of the debate?"  Joe glanced up, interested.  "I hadn't heard this."

"Oh, we were all discussing it at dinner night before last.  Aidan wants to put one in upstairs, on general principles as she put it.  Rich thinks giving a new student an apartment of their own is spoiling him or her rotten, much less putting in a fireplace.  I told Rich that he was pushing his luck.  Aidan finally told him very sweetly that it was about time he learned some new meditation techniques and that a flame to focus on helped immensely.  Did he want a cold floor and a candle or a warm rug and a fire?"

Joe and Adam both laughed at that.  The blues-man's eyes crinkled with easy laughter as he said, "Yeah, Mac, I can just hear it.  Damn, she's dangerous when she uses that tone.  I take it Aidan won, since it's her house and money?"

Duncan slid into the back seat.  "She's going to, but officially she's going to decide in a couple days.  More to let Rich save face than anything else."

"To give credit where it's due, Aidan always does turn out well-trained students.  Of course, she usually takes fifteen years or so to do it."  Adam concentrated on the Paris traffic for a moment as he changed lanes, then raised an eyebrow at the other two in the car.  "Well, she does.  Ask her sometime about what her students learn before she cuts them loose.  It's a long list."

"Fifteen years.  Damn, Mac, what was it, six, eight years before Connor sent you off?"  Joe shook his head, wonderingly.

"Nine, but then he had less than a year with Ramirez before the Kurgan showed up.  Of course, Aidan said she spent about twenty years with you, Adam, and another fifteen with Ramirez.  Why so long?"  Duncan leaned in between the two front seats to hear the answer, watching Methos' eyes to see when to duck out of the way of the rear-view mirror.  The Scot could almost feel the other man's attention shift back and forth as he drove, the two of them moving around each other smoothly.

In the driver's seat Methos shrugged, but his casual body language was deceptive.  Part of his mind was on the discussion, part on the traffic, and a small part had noticed the change in MacLeod's behavior and was wondering what it portended.

"We wanted her to live, MacLeod.  Both Ramirez and I thought Edana had a shot at the Prize if we could make her fast enough, and she's not one to be easily corrupted by power, which makes her a good candidate for it.  Too responsible for her own good, I think.  So we trained the hell out of her and kept her busy at anything we could find while teaching her every dirty trick she could absorb.

"It worked, I'd say; she's made it this far.  Also, it gave us an extra couple of decades to take fights for her and make her more dangerous.  Rule of thumb, Joe.  Immortal females who make it past the first century will go far.  Immortal males have to make it past the first five centuries.  After that they're fairly safe.  Well, until they piss off someone like one of the MacLeods, that is."

"Why so long, Adam?  Hey, wait, Mac hasn't made it to five hundred yet."

"The men think they can bull through on muscle and expect that the smaller, weaker opponents are harmless.  Most of the women lack that kind of strength.  Either they compensate or they die.  But they learn the first law of survival almost immediately."  Methos caught Duncan's eyes in the rear-view mirror but his voice never changed.  "Any challenge can kill you if you're careless -- male, female, child, helpless-looking, whatever.  Once the men figure that out, they'll make it.  But it usually takes about five centuries."

In the mirror, he saw Duncan nod, very serious, and Methos nodded to him, then went on.  "But Aidan thinks her students should be able to survive as much as she can, and most of them aren't as smart.  So it takes longer."

Joe shook his head and said, "I don't follow the math.  She took thirty-five years, hers usually take fifteen, and it takes longer?"

"I started with a teen-ager who had never held a sword before and had no training in strategy or tactics.  Joe, she had no idea how to clean a blade, much less sharpen it.  Her students have usually picked up a weapon before, even the women.  Quite a few of them had been raw troops, once or twice out of military families.  She makes them learn basic accounting, languages, how to travel without being too obvious.  But she doesn't push them into ancient languages, or smithing.  She rarely makes them learn higher math, or gem-cutting, or the laws of rhetoric and drama.

"We could have cut her loose after ten years, certainly.  We simply didn't.  Ramirez had learned how to do some odd effects with his quickening, and managed to teach them to Aidan.  She always said her Druidic training made it easier.  And the woman can still do astronomical calculations, speak and write a score of dead languages, and knows three dozen other skills to keep mind and body flexible."

Duncan nodded, watching and listening with a great deal of interest.  "I've seen her workshop.  I see what you mean.  But didn't she ever get impatient?"

"No, not really.  She's always enjoyed studying, and I think she enjoyed staying with us for so long.  She was a foundling dedicated to the gods, MacLeod.  The clan elders and the priests raised Edana; she never had a family.  Ramirez was the closest thing to a father she ever had."  Methos shrugged as they took a corner, eyes lit with amused mischief.  "Besides, we told her this was normal."

Joe snorted.  "I bet you did!  Did she believe it?"

"She didn't ask for centuries; she was laughing when she did.  I think Edana believed it at the time."  Methos pulled up in front of an apartment building and parked.  "Here you are, Joe, safe and sound at Jean-Phillipe's place."

"Gave up your old apartment, Joe?"  Duncan hefted one of the bags out of the back as Methos grabbed the other one.

"Hell, Mac, I never know where you're going or for how long.  Didn't make sense to keep an apartment here.  Besides, my old place went when I sold the bookstore.  The new owner insisted on us throwing it in as part of the purchase."

Methos laughed.  "Damn right I did, it's convenient.  But I did help you pack everything into storage... during mid-terms at the university, I might add."

Duncan commented, "Come on, you two.  Been a long day."

"Yeah, that it has.  So, Adam, any idea whether there's food in the fridge?"

They carried Joe's bags in, cheerfully debating the likelihood of there being food in stock, whether the two immortals could be talked into staying and helping Joe shop, and when Joe wanted a ride to pick up the car he used when he was in Paris.

Joe studied the apartment he was subletting (from another Watcher, Duncan suspected) and nodded.  "Yup, all the comforts of home.  Hey, hey, there's even food in the kitchen.  Now if my other bags just get in on time, which is definitely expecting too much of Aire France....  All right.  I'm gonna get a shower and some sleep.  One of you wanna give me a call tomorrow and we'll get my car?"

Duncan glanced at Methos.  "You've already taken an afternoon away from the bookstore; would you rather I take care of it?"

Methos raised an eyebrow, then nodded.  "Thanks, Mac."

Joe shooed them out the door.  "Go on.  I want to clean up and I'm tired."

Duncan walked to the car, admiring Methos' easy stride as they went.  The older immortal glanced back and said, "You that tired, MacLeod?"

"No.  Why?"

Methos commented wryly, "You don't usually lag behind.  You sure you're not tired?"

"I'm fine, just wool-gathering.  Damn, I should have stayed and gotten a shower there.  It'll take awhile for the hot-water heater on the barge to warm up.  Oh, well, more time to start uncovering and unpacking."

Methos smiled.  "Oh, I don't know, Mac, that might not be safe.  Aren't you afraid of the giant killer dust bunnies?"

"What?"  Duncan stared at him.

"Well, if you're going to worry about domestic problems, I thought I'd mention the obvious.  You have been gone for a while...."  Both of them were laughing as they climbed in the car and the older immortal casually continued, "Besides, I already turned on the water-heater and the other utilities."

MacLeod raised an eyebrow.  "Been hanging around Amanda again?"

"Gods, no, MacLeod, I like my head firmly on my shoulders.  She manages to talk men into more trouble....  No, Rich left his keys to the barge with me; he was afraid he'd misplace them somewhere between here and Seacouver."  Methos smiled at the Scot and said, "Besides, how else could I make sure there'd be cold beer to steal from your fridge when I dropped you off?"

"If it's yours, is it still stealing?"  Mac asked dryly.

"It's all in the mindset, Highlander; it's your refrigerator, therefore, technically it could be theft.  Have to keep my hand in, you see."

"From when?  Have you stolen anything but beer since Butch and Sundance retired south of the border?"

"A few dates, several good quotes, a few million marks...."

Duncan turned in his seat and stared.  "As in deutsche marks?"

"Well, what other kind would be worth stealing?  Besides, the owners certainly weren't entitled to them."

"Do I want to ask or should I shut up about here?"  Duncan firmly reminded himself about that one apology he'd already had to make this year and those talks with Aidan.  He was not going to judge Methos again.  Well, he'd try not to, anyway.

Methos raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised, then said, "Oh, you can ask.  I took them off a truck that had held some very unpleasant men in grey uniforms with silver lightning bolts on the collars.  This was about fifty years ago."

"No, no.  That's not stealing, Methos, that's instant karma."  Mac shook his head, face darkening from old memories.  "Nazis.  God, killing them was nearly a community service."

"I forgot, you helped in that war, didn't you?  A lot of us did, on both sides."

"Connor and I rescued Rachel from that war.  He found a six-year old child hiding from the SS in some boxes.  They shot him while he was holding her and he came back to life literally on top of her.  She's never given us away once in all the time since.  Not even when she was a child."

Methos glanced at him, pulling his attention from the traffic briefly.  "No, I didn't know about that.  No wonder she's so loyal to him.  I knew Rachel lived with him after the war, but most of the Watcher Chronicles from that period are a little sparse on information.  Our Watchers kept getting killed or drafted; no few volunteered for covert ops.  They seemed to think they were suited to it for some odd reason."

Duncan matched his tone, irony for sarcasm.  "I can't imagine why.  Just because they only needed minimal training at a time when Europe couldn't spare much training for anyone.  Who was on the other side of the war that you know of?"

"Well, Alexei Voishin for one, but didn't you take his head?"

"Yes, I did.  And he was with the Russians, so it's questionable which side he was on.  He was black marketeering certainly.  There were others of us here and there.  I took a few heads in those years.  You?"

A faint smile flickered across Methos' face.  "Oh, I was safely buried in MI6, MacLeod, translating broadcasts, papers and other... acquired items for the military.  Did the occasional intelligence analysis for them.  Kept my head down in the bomb shelters, in other words."

"Why do I have trouble believing that's all you did?" the Scot commented, not expecting an answer.

"Because you're a Boy Scout?"

"No, no, Baden-Powell set that up decades too late for me to join.  There's an age limit, you know."

Methos immediately riposted, "How would they notice, MacLeod?  You never act yours."

"And you do?  That would explain the rocks in your head," the younger immortal replied.  "Legacy of the Stone Age, o venerable one?"

"Who's driving, MacLeod?  Do you want to make it there?"

"Why?  Eyesight giving out on you?  I understand that and the memory are the first to go."

"That would explain why you can never sort out your girlfriends, but doesn't it get embarrassing calling them by the wrong name?  Don't you miss the days when you could write their names on your shirt cuff?"

"Didn't you know?  In those days you called them all 'my darling.'  Made things much simpler," Duncan grinned.

"You spent too much time with Bryan Cullen, Highlander.  He was terrible about that.  Besides, calling them 'my darling' at the wrong time led to the wrong impression; they began to think marriage was around the corner.  But I've said for years that you were simple."

That drew an indignant noise from Duncan.  "Simple?  Damn, Fitz wasn't that insulting, Methos."

"Round One to me," Methos murmured and they came to a stop on the quay in front of Duncan's barge.

"Round One to you," Duncan agreed.  "But simple?"

"All right, will you settle for basic?"  Methos asked, fighting back a smile.

"It's a slight improvement.  Explains why I get along so well with you, too," he chuckled.

"What?  How?"  Methos eyed the other man warily, sensing a trap in that one.

"Well, they say opposites attract, and you can certainly be acidic...."  Mac hefted his bags out of the Volvo.

Methos gave him a lazy two-finger salute for that shot.  "Nice, you may yet start winning some of these.  But I think I have the advantage in the war."

Duncan shrugged casually.  "Who's fighting?  Sparring, maybe.  But we established a good while back that I don't want your head.  And if you wanted mine, you'd have taken it ages ago."

They took the bags onto the barge and Duncan looked around.  Everything was under dust-covers or packed away in the crates that his storage company had delivered during the last week.  "I hate this part.  I'm beginning to understand why Aidan was threatening to move rather than close up her place."

Methos chuckled.  "That sounds like her.  Come on, MacLeod, I'll do my good deed for the day and make a food run while you get a shower.  I assume you can dig up supplies for that easily enough?"

Duncan looked around, found the crate he wanted (at the bottom of a pile, naturally enough, Murphy's Law being what it was) and then realized the fundamental problem.  "Methos?"

"Yes?"  He waited, sure from the tone that this was going to be good.

"One question."

"And that would be?"

"Do you have a crowbar or something in your car?  The towels are in here."  Mac shook his head, his ironic sense of humor coming to the fore.

"Just for my curiosity, what were you going to do if I didn't?"  Methos had to ask.

"Kick the thing to pieces, but if you have a prybar...."   The Highlander shrugged.

"I'll get it.  Grab me a beer, would you?"

* * * *

In the end Mac came and helped at the bookstore for the afternoon rather than face the boxes by himself.  Methos had decided it was a fair trade.  The Scot could come charm customers and then buy dinner; the older immortal would help him unpack boxes and figure out where the hell the bed linens had gone.

So after work they sat at one of the sidewalk cafes, drank coffee and ate, and commented on the women going by in the fashion of Parisians from time immemorial.  Methos slouched in his chair, threw out opinions on anything that came up, and contemplated his companion.  He had never seen the Scot more relaxed.  Duncan was amiable, opinionated, ready to discuss anything that came up, and completely at ease.  The change from the brooding, judgmental man in Bordeaux a few months ago was incredible.  I'll have to find out what did this and stock in a supply!

Duncan glanced up, brown eyes glinting with contained humor.  "I thought I was the jet-lagged one here."

"You are, Highlander.  Why?"

"You keep losing the thread of the conversation.  Where are you, anyway?"

A half-smile crooked across the older immortal's mouth.  "I suppose I could point out that I'm right here, and this is Paris, but why be annoying?"

"Because you're practicing it as an art form?" was the cheerful reply.

"Has Aidan been rubbing off on you, MacLeod?"

Duncan laughed at that.  "Probably.  We've been in and out of each other's pockets for four months now.  Is that a problem?"

"No, just an odd sensation.  Other than dealing with Rich, how is she?"

"Frustrated, I think, because she's suspended on that damn manuscript, waiting for the galley proofs to come back so she can be done with it.  Other than that, she's terrorizing Rich and doing fine."  Duncan laughed.  "She did say something about writing an article for Speculum.  Isn't that the medieval history journal?"

Methos snickered.  "Yes, it is.  I'll have to write and ask her what she's up to.  Ah, speaking of writing, you have a letter from her in the barge.  I brought your mail in this morning."

Duncan raised an eyebrow.  "I only left yesterday morning.  How can I already have mail from her?"

"She did the same thing to me," Methos commented.  "The letter went out before you did.  Seems to be her version of a housewarming present."

"That woman."  Duncan chuckled low in his throat and settled his one leg more comfortably across the other, then sipped at his coffee.  The silence between the two of them was relaxed now, unlike the days after Keane's challenge and Byron's death.

Wait 'til you read it, Duncan.  If it's anything like what she sent me, you're in for a pleasant shock.  I'd be more surprised if it wasn't a love letter.  I know you were sleeping together.  Probably not sleeping much, either.

Duncan met that enigmatic green-gold gaze calmly, enjoying the company and the comforting feel of the other immortal's presence.  Somehow the simultaneous quickenings in Bordeaux had bounced between him and Methos briefly, tying the two of them together in some odd fashion.  Just being near the other immortal eased a tension he hadn't known he felt when they were apart.  And the more time they spent together, the more closely they seemed to resonate off each other.  It wouldn't entirely surprise him to find out they were breathing in synch at the moment.  But why hadn't this started earlier -- when they were both in Seacouver, say, or immediately after Bordeaux for that matter?

"You're starting to fade, MacLeod, let's go."

At the same time, Duncan said, "Shall we get going?  Even with this coffee, I'm going to need sleep soon."  They looked at each other and then smiled.  "Come on, let's go see what didn't get delivered."  Duncan dropped the tip on the table as they left.

* * * *

Outside Addis Ababa, Ethiopia - the same night

Moonlight cast pale shadows along the rocky path, hiding more than it revealed, but the tall whipcord-slender woman moved smoothly along the path using a spear as a walking stick.  She seemed to expect at any step that the earth would not be there, and thus was never surprised when it wasn't.  Her coloring suited her surroundings admirably.  Jet-black skin and hair drank the moonlight from the sky; comfortable khaki clothes matched the sere grass she moved across.  In the dark night she simply paused to blend into the shadows along the trail, watching and listening as the night went still around her.

At last a mocking voice spoke out of the blackness in roughly accented Italian.  "Shall we stay awake until dawn and fight then?"

Mandisa settled herself more comfortably against the boulder and waited for the fool to leave or the sun to rise.  She could afford patience; she had learned it in a very hard school and paid dearly enough for the lesson.

The voice tried again, in careful, badly phrased Amharic this time.  "Going to fight or run, woman?"

She smiled to herself, careful not to bare white teeth in the dark, and waited.  This would be a long night but it had a definite potential for entertainment.  Perhaps he knew some languages she didn't.  With one hand she checked to be sure her spear was still there;  the other loosened her knife in its sheath for easy access when she needed it.  She had slept all afternoon, planning to walk through the night.  Somehow Mandisa doubted that he had.  Come pre-dawn, when light was uncertain and he was tired, she would take the fool's head -- if he was still here.

* * * *

Paris - that evening

Methos glanced back once at Duncan and tried valiantly not to laugh at the look on his friend's face.  At first the Scot had appeared surprised, then his eyes had widened even farther and his face had gotten flushed.  Now his expression held both fascination and intrigue.  Nice to know Aidan hadn't lost her touch with love letters.

Duncan reread the last paragraph and put the letter away.  Methos handed him a beer from the fridge and asked in a deliberately level tone, "Need something cold?"

The Scot shook his head.  "My God, no wonder she makes a living as a writer."  He took the beer almost absentmindedly and drank half of it in one long swallow.

The older immortal started in surprise.  When MacLeod's fingers had brushed his on the beer bottle, Methos had felt arousal, and love, and bemusement -- but they hadn't been his feelings.  "Mac...."

Duncan was staring at him, taken equally unawares.  "What was that?"

Methos tilted his head to one side, fascinated by this.  "MacLeod--  No, what do you think it was?"

The Scot paused for a long moment, clearly trying to find the precise words he wanted.  "For a moment I knew how you felt.  Not because I was thinking about it, or trying to figure it out, but because for a moment, I was feeling what you did.  You were amused, and a little curious, and pleased... and not at all jealous.  Good.  I wasn't trying to steal Aidan from you, Methos."

That drew a raised eyebrow.  "Gods, MacLeod, I never thought you were.  For one thing, if you were the type to try, Edana wouldn't sleep with you.  But you're right, that's exactly what I was feeling.  You were aroused, a bit bemused, and you love her, but you can't quite believe she wrote you that.  Yes?"

"Aye, that's it exactly.  God, this is strange, Methos.  What is it?"  Duncan realized that he wasn't frightened of whatever was doing this, just startled.

Methos sprawled on the couch, hands steepled on his chest while he thought.  He heard Duncan move, but didn't look up until he felt a hand wrap around his wrist.  Duncan was checking his pulse... with the other hand feeling for his own?  Astonishment from the Scot, definitely.

"Highlander?  What is it?"  Now Methos was starting to see a pattern.  Implications began to crowd across that agile mind, screaming for attention, only to vanish when he tried to listen to them.

"Our heartbeats are in synch, Methos.  Feel."  Duncan let go and turned his own wrist up to let Methos check.  "What are you worrying about all of a sudden?"

The older immortal took both their pulses, then listened for their breathing and heard one pattern in the room, not two.  He let go of Duncan's hand and gently pushed the other man away.  "Go stand by the door, Mac.  Let's check this."  After the Scot got there, Methos deliberately set his face into a bland mask, but he wanted to change his emotional state to one the Scot wouldn't expect.

With an internal loathing, the ancient immortal called up memories of a time in the Horsemen's camp when Kronos had allowed Caspian to 'play' with him.  He could still hear the caressing voice.  'Don't kill him, brother, just punish him.  He has to know that the only the strong can be our brothers, and only our brothers are safe from us.'

"What am I feeling, MacLeod?"  He kept his voice calm and uninflected by any stress.  Duncan had gone pale under that golden skin, the former Horseman saw.

"Rage.  Disgust.  Stubbornness.  Unclean.  You were-- Caspian was--"  The Scot ran out of words, visibly distressed, and Methos realized in shock that he had caught the edge of some of the memories not just the emotional state behind them.  Thank the Gods all he had let himself remember was the torture.

"Easy, easy, Highlander.  It's all right.  That was centuries ago."  Instinctively the older immortal shunted his mind away from that time to a more pleasant one, calling up some of the peace he had known sleeping beside Alexa and trying to throw that calm to Duncan.  This time he could feel the tension ease out of the younger man. The connection between them seemed to be that same place that he turned within himself after Bordeaux when he needed the reassurance of knowing MacLeod had survived what Kronos had thrown at them.  That double quickening had linked the two of them, all right.   It remained to be determined by how much, and what other repercussions might yet show up.

"It's not all right, Methos," Duncan insisted as he moved back across the room.  "Was that real?  What I saw?"

Gold-green eyes met his, then Methos nodded, trying to ease his friend's distress.  "Yes, it was real.  I shouldn't have used those memories.  I'm sorry."

"I only saw it, man, I'm not the one who had to live through it!  Are you all right?"  Warm strong hands caught Methos' shoulders and the older immortal felt love and a protective worry wrap around him.

He murmured in Greek, "This could get addictive."  For a moment he simply enjoyed the certainty of a friendship he could almost wrap around himself, and the feel of Duncan's hands on him.  Then, carefully, before he could betray emotions that would send MacLeod running for the hills, he began to mute his feelings as he had learned years before in meditation practices.

"I'm fine, MacLeod.  Can you still feel what I'm thinking now?"

Duncan closed his eyes, concentrating, and caught a faint touch of concern and fondness that weren't his own, but even as he reached for them, they vanished.  "No, not now.  But I can still feel you.  Even if I couldn't see you, I'd know you were alive.  Methos, when did we start doing this?"

"After Bordeaux, I could think about you and know you were still out there, still had your head.  But it was nothing like this.  Now that I think about it, when I picked you up at the airport, I knew it was you and not some other immortal."

"Really?  Now that you mention it, I was sure it was you, too.  And it wasn't just the strength of your presence."  Duncan yawned widely, then apologized, "Sorry about that.  Are you all right, though?"

"I'm fine, MacLeod, it was only pain.  You know as well as I do that it goes away.  I needed an emotion you wouldn't expect.  I never expected you would catch any of the images or I'd have picked something less disturbing."  Methos stood and quickly scanned the boxes piled around.  "Here, hold on a second."

A few seconds work with the prybar opened the box and Methos threw him a plastic bag full of sheets and pillows.  "You need to sleep.  Tomorrow we'll start figuring this out."

"That we will.  Here, pass me the blankets."  The two of them quickly got the bed made up and Duncan walked Methos out to his car, both of them silent but enjoying the company.  Once there, he reached out and caught the older man's shoulders again.

"I'm glad to see you.  Watch your head, all right?"

Methos stepped back a pace, making Duncan drop his grip, but he caught one arm as it dropped.  He wrapped his hand around MacLeod's forearm, and felt the clasp returned. "I try, Highlander.  Watch your own.  I'll see you later?"

"Definitely."  The younger immortal watched his friend drive off.  Even after Duncan went back into the barge, he could very faintly feel him.  The letter from Aidan sat in a box on the bedside table, still smelling of the rose perfume she wore.  The Highlander wrapped that scent and the comfort of Methos' signature around himself as he slid under the blankets and went to sleep.

* * * *

Outside Addis Ababa - the next morning

They fought in the grey light of first dawn, spear against cavalry saber.  To an onlooker it was a frightening sight, the tall black woman darting and striking like a snake with the much longer weapon against a smaller man and a shorter weapon.   The compact man had sandy hair, a tan, and wore khakis and an Australian bush-hat.  He was all of a color and as suited to the environment as she.  Unfortunately for him, he was also losing.

Mandisa stepped lightly to one side and feinted with the butt of her spear, then swung to slice open his belly with the blade.  She had already laid open his arm once; not two minutes ago a crippling jab to one thigh had nearly ended this.  Now she blocked his sword with the ironwood shaft of the spear and reversed the motion into a stroke that disemboweled him.

His knees buckled but the man caught himself on his sword.  He knelt there, hunched over and shrieking as the pain seared through him.  "Finish it, damn you!"  He looked up in time to see the spear head swing at him and then he felt nothing at all.

Lightning battered at Mandisa briefly before the quickening soaked into her skin like rain into the thirsty ground.  She straightened, frowning.  Almost absently, she shoved down at his personality with her will, disturbed by several things now.

Pulling a collapsible shovel from her pack, the tall black woman quickly dug a shallow grave and rolled the body into it.  His sword went in with him, but she took his wallet.  Later there would be time to see who he had been and what his papers told about him; for now she needed to move.  Regretfully she buried her own blood-splattered clothes in with him, then covered the grave with dirt and rocks.  Rather than exhaust her own supplies, she used water from his pack to clean herself off.

Hurriedly she pulled on her one spare set of clothes and picked up her spear again.  Within fifty yards, she had settled into a fast-moving pace that would cover thirty miles before afternoon.  As she ran, her thoughts turned to the puzzle of the night's challenge.  She had never seen him before, and he was neither good enough nor old enough to have been challenging  her.  Mandisa had wandered the world for almost six centuries now.  That man had been much, much younger than she was.  Who would hunt her in the middle of nowhere?  And why her?  There was purpose underlying this, a plan somewhere.  He had waited through the night for her. Why?  If he was the goat, where was the tiger?

In the back of her mind, a new sense of urgency laced through Mandisa.  Something was badly wrong.  Her path now led to Bur Sudan and the ships there.  Time to get to Alexandria, access her money and change her name; time to call her friends and line-kin and sound them out.  She had felt no pull to travel, no tug at her soul, no increase in aggression.  If the Gathering had not started, then what had?

In the unmarked grave, unnoticed in her hurry, the man held his final secret with him.  In his shirt pocket he'd had a photograph of her face.

* * * *

Paris, France - two days later

Duncan turned unerringly to face the door, knowing it was Methos before he looked.  Two days of experimentation had brought a few conclusions.  They could read or project emotions to each other over a short distance... sometimes.  Touch helped a great deal.  When it was working particularly clearly the two immortals could catch images or actual words, but it was tiring to try for too long.  Methos could keep Duncan from reading his emotions if he concentrated, although Duncan hadn't yet mastered that.  More frustrating, they never knew when the empathy would work.  The sole comfort so far was that nothing either of them did could keep from the other that almost subconscious knowledge of continued life.

The older immortal shed his coat as he walked down the steps into the barge.  "MacLeod?"

"Back here.  Come on in."  The Scot turned long enough to be sure there was no one else with Methos, a welcoming smile on his face.  "Beer in the fridge or wine on the counter."

Methos looked around appreciatively.  "Have you bothered sleeping, or did you turn into a one-man unpacking crew?"

"Long practice," came the dry reply.  "Dinner will be ready in about ten, your timing's perfect."

Methos poured himself some wine and refilled Duncan's glass.  Wandering over, he explored the CD's under the stereo and sighed in mock disgust.  "Highlander, when's your birthday?"

"You've read my chronicles," Duncan laughed.  "Don't you remember?"

"Details, MacLeod, details.  And actually I do, now that you mention it.  Joe told me.  Midwinter's Eve, right?  The 21st of December?"

"Yeah.  Why?"

Methos straightened and said, "Because I agree with Aidan; I'm buying you music from this century.  Did Joe give you the jazz CDs?"  He began loading the stereo as he talked.

"No, just the names of the artists.  I liked some albums he loaned Rich and thought I'd remove some of your ammunition."  Duncan wandered over to see what CDs his friend had put in the stereo and nodded.  "Yeah, that's a good one.  You'll like it."

The china on the table was particularly good, and for that matter so was the wine.  Methos looked around in interest, catching a faint flavor of mischief off Duncan that vanished as he reached for it.  "Why the good china?  Did I come on the wrong night?"

"No, you're here on the right night.  That's the only china I have at the moment.  Kasim torched the barge last year and I haven't replaced all the everyday stuff yet."

Methos nodded and settled down to look at the chess board.  "Yeah, this is a different set.  Didn't you have insurance?  I thought they usually hounded you to replace everything at once and be done."

"That's Darius' chess-set.  The brothers at St. Julien's gave it to me.  And the insurance company wanted me to total out the boat and buy a new one, said she was too old to be worth replacing.  I used the check to repair her instead."  He shrugged.  "The Nobile and I get along to well for me to ditch her."

"No one respects antiques anymore," Methos commented.

"Oh, I dunno, Aidan respects you."  The delivery was so offhand that Methos took a second to catch what had been said, and by then MacLeod was on the other side of the barge.  The older immortal smiled and shook his head but refused to dignify that one with a response.

Duncan glanced over and said, "Don't start a chess game.  I'll burn dinner trying to beat you."

Methos commented, "That would be the only way you distracted me enough to lose."

"We'll see, but later.  You are not making me destroy this.  Come and eat, Methos."  Duncan served up the food and they both sat down, cheerfully discussing what sorts of things the barge still needed and how long it would take Gina de Valicourt to figure out that Duncan was in Paris.

Methos knew Duncan was up to something but it was too much effort to try to feel his emotions.  All the attempt got him was a raised eyebrow and a laugh.  "Behave.  What did you want to know?"

"Oh, trying to see how much preparation it takes.  Maybe it's the right frame of mind, too."  He turned his attention back to dinner, part of his mind wondering what was going on.  Now that he thought about it, Duncan's clothes were much more casual than usual.  Dark jeans and a white poet shirt suited him, and from the wear on the jeans they were old favorites, but it was a definite change from the more formal slacks and silk dress shirts he usually saw Mac in.

The food, however, was excellent.  They talked about a little of everything as they ate.  The mention of Gina led to her estate, which led to classic cars, which went to classic music.    From there, they wandered to gossip about other immortals.  Duncan talked to a fair number of them and the Watchers still came through Shakespeare & Company on a regular basis, ostensibly to buy books.  More often they really came to gossip with Adam Pierson or ask opinions or suggestions for research directions.

The look on Methos' face was one of malicious amusement as he finished one story.  "They had no idea where to look in the journals and Monique's description was so vague, it could be any of three dozen men or a handful of women who like to travel as men."

"So what did you do to her?  You look pleased with yourself."

"She's a prurient, back-stabbing bootlicker; I gave her what she deserved.  I sent her after someone I know perfectly well was nowhere near the scene.  Lidell Benton hasn't been seen by the Watchers in two decades.  No great surprise -- Amanda took his head.  But I certainly couldn't tell Monique that, now could I?  I was only a lowly researcher.  I'm not supposed to be gossiping with the immortals, now am I?"

Duncan did laugh.  "You have her suspecting an immortal who's twenty years dead?  Nice work."  He put his wine glass down, and his expression was both mischievous and a bit nervous.  "But there was some gossip I wanted to ask you about."

Methos glanced up at him, caught by some shade or texture of his voice, then shrugged and took a sip of his wine.  "Ask away, Highlander."

Duncan watched him from serious dark brown eyes and said, "I heard a rumor that you were in love with me."

Methos choked on his wine and set his glass down abruptly, coughing.  His mind spun wildly, trying to come up with explanations, denials, something or anything other than the one recurring thought:  I'm going to kill Aidan for this.  Before he could manage to say anything, Duncan had come around the table and slapped him on the back a few times.

"Are you all right?"

"MacLeod, I--"  The oldest immortal couldn't come up with anything to say for a second and Duncan's hands slid up along his sweater to wrap around the narrow shoulders.  The quiet, loving tone in the Highlander's voice silenced Methos before he could get any more words out.

"Because I was hoping the rumor was true."  Duncan held still, unwilling to push this any farther until he got some kind of response from the unmoving form in front of him.  Despite what Aidan said, what even Duncan was sure of, he didn't believe in pressing his attentions on women who didn't want them.  He wasn't about to start with men.  So he stood there, a chair separating their bodies, hands motionless on Methos' shoulders, and hoped.  Deliberately, he didn't try to see what Methos was feeling, but he let his own love flow out across their link.  Push, no -- convince, sweet talk or persuade, well that was another matter entirely.

The older immortal sat there, stunned and disbelieving, but he kept hearing the words and the tone of voice.  After a few seconds that felt like hours, he realized what he was feeling from Duncan and that the younger man was deliberately letting him feel it.  Loosening his grip on three years of protective wall, Methos reached up and wrapped his hands around Duncan's where they lay on his shoulders.  They stayed where they were for a long moment, fingers intertwined.

Hesitancy and worry moved back across the link to Duncan, but affection was mixed with them, too.  The younger man freed a hand and moved to one side of the chair.  Still holding Methos' left hand, he dropped down to one knee which brought his face to the same level as his friend's.  "I tried not being your friend, Methos."  The rueful chuckle drew the startled gold-green eyes to his face.  "I'm surprised it didn't kill both of us.  I'm going to be your friend whether the answer is yes or no.  But I'd like to be your lover, too."

Those multicolored eyes widened even more as Methos absorbed that last shock.  Watching him, Duncan couldn't help smiling with pleasure and a little mischief he couldn't suppress; the joy on his face finally gave Methos the control to speak.

"Duncan, are you sure about this?"

The Highlander leaned forward slowly to give his friend time to back away if he wanted.  Methos literally could not have moved if his life had depended on it; then that warm, full mouth was on his and he didn't want to move.  Duncan kissed him gently, not pressing for entry, but enjoying the taste and scent of the other man's skin.  With the last of his control, the younger immortal kept his free hand down at his side.  He knew that he had to be the one who started this, but he needed to know that Methos wanted it, that the older man wasn't simply allowing but enjoying.

Methos tightened his grip on Duncan's hand and leaned into the Scot without realizing it, lips opening to draw the younger man in.  Duncan promptly deepened the kiss, tasting garlic and basil from dinner, the wine they had both been drinking, and the particular flavor of Methos himself.  His free hand wrapped behind the other man's neck, thumb stroking across the sensitive spot just under the ear and his fingers buried in the short hair.

They started slowly, exploring the taste of each other, each wanting to learn what the other liked.  Methos nibbled along Duncan's lower lip and smiled at the gasp that drew.  Then it was his turn to whimper as Mac ran his thumb along the outer curve of an ear, teased the inner corner of his mouth with tongue.  Duncan finally pulled back a few inches and smiled at him.  "Yes, I'm sure.  Can I assume this is a 'yes'?"

With a touch of his usual humor, Methos replied, "Well, I'd hate to rush into anything.  Let's try it again without a chair-arm between us and see...."

Duncan threw his head back and laughed, joy echoing off the walls.  "Well, there's a perfectly good couch if you don't want to rush anything, or a bed if you'd rather sprawl out and still leave me a little room."

 Almost shyly the older man commented, "The bed would be more comfortable."

Duncan couldn't seem to stop smiling as he stood, hand still linked with Methos'.  Neither of them said anything as they walked across the barge to the bed.  Duncan kicked off his shoes and settled onto the comforter, careful not to pull at Methos yet.  Then he saw the uncertainty on his friend's face and the sense of loss and fright he felt from across the link made him tug sharply.

Methos landed on him, all his usual grace lost for the moment, and spluttered indignantly.  "What was...?"

A quick roll pinned him under Duncan's arm on the bed. Leaning over the more slender body, the Highlander simply said, "Yes, I want you.   You don't have to doubt that.  I didn't want to press you into something."  Mischief lit his eyes for a second, quirked in one corner of that full mouth, as the younger man commented, "Although I could just press against you if you'd rather...."

"I'd rather you kissed me again."  Methos reached up, wanting to feel that solidly muscled chest against his own.  They went back to a leisurely exploration of mouths that rapidly became more urgent.  The feel of body against body escalated the intensity of the explorations and Methos quickly decided that if Duncan hadn't done this before, he was sensualist enough that it didn't matter.  Also, there were advantages to that poet's shirt; it refused to stay tucked in and offered such wonderful access to the body under it.

Duncan moaned against his throat and bit down without thinking about it when Methos scratched lightly along his ribs.  Methos dug his fingers into the younger man's side, gasping himself.  Another playful chuckle surprised him and he pulled back a little to see what had brought it on.

"Just thinking that we're a bit overdressed for this."  Duncan sat up and stripped off his shirt, then said cheerfully, "Hold on a second, while I take care of one other detail."

Methos pulled sweater and t-shirt off, ruthlessly suppressing his tension when he felt Duncan move off the bed.  Glancing around once he could see again, the older man realized exactly what the Highlander was doing.  He hadn't been deserted, there were no second thoughts.  It was simply a cold night, and Duncan was building up the fire, banking it to burn untended for a while.  The Scot moved across the barge and locked the door, then turned off lights until the only illumination came from the flickering fire.

When he settled back onto the comforter, Duncan caught some of his lover's worries and wrapped both arms around him, pulling Methos against his chest and kissing his neck and shoulders until the tension eased.  Methos twisted in his grasp and kissed him again, long and lingering, then shivered as Duncan began to work his way down his now-exposed chest.  Hands and mouth sampled and lingered across taut muscle under faintly salty skin.  Nip and kiss, warm tongue and cool breath -- the older man gave himself over to the pleasure for a long moment.

Paler skin moved over olive-toned as Methos began to return the caresses, running his hands over that broad chest.  Long fingers traced muscles lovingly, scratched lightly along nerve bundles originally learned for combat purposes, and then settled into circling and teasing the younger man's nipples.  Easily half of Methos' pleasure came from watching Duncan's responses and the younger man was not trying to hide how much he enjoyed this.  The occasional soft gasp of air, or sometimes a quiet bass purr, or just watching that strong back arch to press into what Methos' hands were doing....

Now Duncan's mouth had selected its target.  He teased with teeth and tongue, tracing a long spiral that closed on the nipple entirely too slowly to suit Methos.  At the same time, his hands cupped both pectorals from underneath, pressing up slightly to give his mouth better access and Duncan ran thumbnails sharply along the underside of the muscles.  The older man arched up into it, head thrown back and hands tightening on Duncan's back.

That too-talented mouth began to draw on the tautened nipple, suckling and flicking the tip with his tongue while a hand moved up to repeat the spiral on the other nipple, and Methos found his entire attention drawn to those tiny points of sensation.  Duncan gasped as the other man's hands began tracing tiny circles centering around the spine, right over the chakras.  The sensation was exquisitely pleasurable and somehow intensified all his senses to the same edge that combat did, the adrenal high of fight or flight reflex without the need to run.  Leaving was the last thing on the Scot's mind now.

Methos moaned as Duncan's mouth moved off his nipple, but he quickly found that the younger man had decided to feast on his torso.  Broad hands stroked and shaped Methos' arms as Duncan turned his attentions to the other nipple, then those hands played more firmly across his ribs.  The Highlander pulled his head up from what he was doing long enough to ask, "You're not ticklish, are you?"

That drew a shaky laugh.  "No, why?"

"Oh, this."  And MacLeod moved further down the bed and bit at his ribs.  He chuckled against Methos' side at the groan that drew, then nibbled up the arch of bone to nip right at the diaphragm.  He wrapped his hands firmly around denim-clad hips to hold the older man still and began drawing patterns down the tight belly with his tongue, feeling muscles quiver under his mouth as he went.

Methos let his hands slide up Duncan's back as the younger man kept moving down the bed.  Long fingers stroked along collarbone and neck, catching all the sensitive spots along the juncture of shoulder and throat.  On another immortal, Methos knew, some of the spots were exquisitely tender and he concentrated on what he was doing to Duncan to try and control his own reactions.  His jeans were almost too tight, but he didn't want to rush this.

The Scot released one hip and stroked a finger just inside the waistbands of both the jeans and the boxers underneath.  Methos shuddered, his hips arching up before he could control the convulsive movement.  Too long since anyone had been in his bed, too long wanting this man -- his controls were dissolving away, melting under the impetus of that eager, loving mouth.  He had to slow this down or he'd never be able to make sure he returned the pleasure, and Methos desperately wanted this to be equal, to give and take both.

Still holding onto the younger man's shoulders, Methos tugged insistently.  Duncan immediately raised his head, hands falling still.  "Too much, too far?"  The Scot's voice was shaky as he tried to control himself, but his first thought was for Methos' reactions.

An equally unsteady laugh answered and Methos soothed the fear in his friend's voice.  "Nothing I don't want, Mac, but I won't last long if you keep that up."

Duncan studied him intently, seeing the set expression on his face, gold-green eyes dilated with pleasure until they were almost black in the firelight.  Muscles strained under his hands, Methos' hips still flexing against him in an instinctive movement the younger man knew well.  The straining bulge confined under denim made him realize just how close his friend was to coming.  The Scot smiled as he reached for the snap on the other man's jeans.

"May I?"  His hands waited, careful not to press against already quivering skin.

"Gods, Highlander, yes, but...."  The words trailed off as deft hands peeled the jeans off him and Duncan deliberately trailed the backs of his fingers along muscled thighs as he tugged downward.  Methos moaned as the younger man carefully freed his straining erection from the boxer shorts, one hand stroking the crease between thigh and groin lightly as the other threw the boxers off the side of the bed.

Mischievous brown eyes caught a green-gold gaze.  "We've got all night.  Who said you have to last this time?"  The younger immortal moved between his legs, settling onto his knees to get better access.

Duncan didn't tease him; leisurely exploration could wait for another time.  He had done this before, only this time he was looking forward to it.  Warm lips wrapped around the head of Methos' cock, and his tongue flicked out to steal the first seeping drops.  With one hand he cupped the other man's balls, fingers playing along the scrotum and the sensitive skin just behind.  The other hand had already started a steady stroking motion around the base.

Any protest Methos might have made vanished into the pleasure of that warm mouth descending farther and the feel of those strong hands moving on him.  Duncan deliberately set out to drive him immediately over the edge.  He spent only a little while at the head, grazing with his teeth, soothing again with his tongue.  His tongue played over the head and around the ridge under it, tasting, exploring, enjoying.  But the steadily mounting muscle tension he felt against his tongue and in the palm cupping his lover told him he was running out of time, for now at least.  The younger immortal engulfed Methos in his mouth, then pulled back with a steady suction, repeating the pattern again and again, tongue flicking around the crown at the top of each stroke.

Methos' scent surrounded him, musk and sandalwood, and the jazz piece playing on the stereo was heading toward its climax.  Strong fingers had tangled in Duncan's hair, flexing against his scalp in time with the hips arching up toward his mouth.  And while the older immortal was surprisingly vocal, not a word of it had been in any language Duncan understood.  The attempt to pull him away he did understand -- and ignored.

At that, Methos gave up what little control he'd held onto.  Duncan found a small part of his mind remembering Amanda teasing about the occasional difficulty of swallowing fast enough, and he had to control his laughter so as not to choke while his new lover seemingly came forever.  After the last surge had spent itself, Duncan gently released Methos from his mouth.  He settled himself along the older man's side, wrapping an arm over him to pull the comforter across without making Methos move yet.  Even with the fire going, the barge was still cool.  But the Scot draped himself along and over his thinner partner, lending his own warmth as well.

Methos let himself drift back up to coherent thought, luxuriating in the unfamiliar sense of safety.  He could feel love and pleasure, arousal and loyalty, filtering into his mind from the man wrapped around him.  Eventually more precise details began to settle in, not least of them the steady pulse of cheerful, as yet unsatisfied lechery from beside him. He could feel warmth at his feet from the fire and... denim?  Now wait, that was decidedly unfair!

He twisted in Duncan's arms before the other immortal quite realized he was back among the sentient, tilted his head, and nipped at his new lover's throat.  The Scot's hips pressed forward against him even as he arched back to give Methos better access to his neck.  The purely instinctive motion bespoke a level of trust that unnerved the older immortal, but he swiftly decided that there were ways of taking advantage and then there were ways....

With one arm Methos pulled Duncan's head back toward him to feast on that mouth, tasting himself on the Scot's tongue.  Long fingers cupped the back of the younger man's head, splaying up among that dark hair, tilting his head to best advantage.  Methos used his other hand to undo Duncan's jeans, unfastening the snap one-handed and peeling down the zipper almost as quickly.  He cupped the Scot against his palm, stroking gently along the silk underwear and determined to tease him about that later.  Much later.  For now, time to remove those pants.

From Duncan's point of view, one second he had been holding Methos, feathering fingers across the other man's cheek, and the next second an extremely amorous, quick-moving man was intent on stealing every bit of breath and sanity from him.  Just as he surrendered to that sensation, a swift motion tumbled him onto his back on the bed.  Methos laughed at his startled expression and peeled his jeans off.  "Too many clothes, MacLeod."

Methos deliberately left the silk briefs on the younger man, wanting to play and tease through them for a little while.  The warm, slick fabric acted as a completely unnecessary reminder of the treasures hidden within it.  Moving forward off his knees, Methos rubbed cat-like along and across Mac's body, ending up braced on elbows and toes just barely over the larger man.

The Scot lay motionless, grinning at him.  "Is this where you work your wicked will on me?"

"Wicked?  I can do wicked."   He leaned in and licked just above Mac's ear, knowing the warm breath would drive the other man crazy.  Duncan reached for him, but found his hands pinned before he could quite see how Methos had done it.

"Ah, ah, MacLeod, I distinctly heard you ask for wicked.  Besides, it's your turn to lie back and enjoy... so to speak."  Hazel eyes glinted with merriment and mischief and Duncan settled back onto the bed.  The Scot was stronger, no question -- but if this had been solely about strength, or winning, he wouldn't still be tasting Methos on his tongue.  Besides, either he trusted the old man or not.

Methos waited until his new lover and current victim had subsided before letting go of his hands.  "Try to hold still, it'll make this much more interesting."

"Hmm.  Do I have to be quiet?"  Laughter tinged Duncan's voice.

"Well, sound does carry over water... but the doors are locked and the windows closed.  I suppose you can get as noisy as you like."

"You certainly did.  But I was thinking about a running..." Duncan broke off what he was saying as talented hands ran up his thighs, distracting him for a moment, then gasped, "...commentary.  Never mind.  I'll bow to your expertise."

Methos leaned in and bit him sharply on the belly.

"Hey, what was that for?"

"I told you to stay still.  No bowing until later."  Methos ran a finger under the edge of the silk briefs and teased one hip bone to watch the younger man twitch.  When Duncan opened his mouth to reply, Methos leaned in and kissed him again, free hand running briefly along the edge of his ear.  The younger man arched up into the touch and kiss, lifting from above the waist only -- but he kept his hands on the bed.  Methos chuckled into his mouth and pushed gently on the Scot's chest to force him back to the bed.

"Ah, ah.  That's cheating."  He nipped along Mac's throat, enjoying the salt and heather taste of the younger man.  To his pleasure, Duncan promptly tilted his head back to give him better access to that entire sensitive and vulnerable area.  From the sounds, Mac enjoyed having teeth on his neck as much as most immortals did:  a lot.  Eventually, reluctantly, Methos moved onward and down, nipping at the collarbone as well, which drew a cheerful comment from the younger man.

"I haven't had so many little tooth marks since I had to baby-sit that basket of teething kittens."

"Oh, really?  Shall I go looking for the cream, then?"  Methos stroked roughly across the silk-covered bulge at Duncan's groin and the moan he heard was definitely not one of pain.

"And the East German judge says he'll shut up and watch the show now."

Methos chuckled at that.  "He'd better.  I'm torn between teasing you within an inch of your immortal life and heading for the main attraction.  Decisions, decisions...."  That same hand continued to stroke Duncan through the silk and he decided that teasing could wait until another time.  Moving as quickly as he had when he flipped the younger man on the bed, he pounced again.

At the feel of that talented mouth against his silk-covered cock, Duncan inhaled sharply, not quite screaming.  The heat and motion felt wonderful, but the layer of fabric in between the two of them was both arousing and incredibly frustrating.  Methos, however, seemed determined to drive him insane with it.  A small part of Duncan's mind decided not to mention the rabbit fur in a drawer under the bed.  Keeping his hands in place occupied just enough of his attention to be distracting, thank God.  Before he got to the point of begging, Methos slipped the silk off him.

The older immortal was in no mood to tease, now.  All he wanted was to taste MacLeod, feel those hips coming off the bed, and see how quickly he could get the younger man to abandon the control which was keeping his hands in place.  He indulged himself for a few seconds, lipping and nuzzling around the head of Duncan's cock to catch the flavor of him and enjoy the musky scent.  Old habits made him brace his forearms across Mac's thighs, before he relaxed his jaw and throat and went all the way down on Duncan without any other warning.

"God!  Methos!"

The surprised, ecstatic sound would have brought a smug smile to Methos' mouth if it hadn't been otherwise occupied.  As it was, the older immortal quickly became grateful for those ingrained habits.  Only his arms on Mac's thighs kept the stronger man from lifting them both off the bed when his hips flexed up.  Since that would have moved Methos by the throat, he had some slight objection to the idea.  Choking was not on his list of good ways to die.

Now that he had Duncan's undivided attention, Methos moved back up.  No sense letting the man off too lightly the first time.  Having shown the Scot what was in store, or at least possible, the older immortal started a slow, steady movement from base to head and back down again.  After a few repetitions, he let Duncan escape his mouth entirely, which drew a groan, and smiled up at him.  "You requested wicked, I think?"  Before any reply could be formed, he nipped just under the head of Duncan's cock, hard enough to get a yelp out of his partner.

A warm tongue soothed the bite immediately and Methos cupped the other man's balls in his palm, rolling first one and then the other.  Duncan was whimpering in Gaelic, he noticed.  Interesting to hear that in Scots Gaelic and a baritone voice instead of Aidan's Irish-accented soprano.  Impressive, though -- the Highlander still hadn't wrapped his hands around anything except sheets.  Might be time to change that, the bed clothes might not stand up to this.

No, Duncan's control was holding up and he had said 'wicked', although Methos knew damned well this was not what he had intended with that comment.  But the Scot was definitely enjoying it, judging from both what he was saying and the way his hips kept moving.  Amazing how sheep comments came up around Scots.  What was that saying?  'As well hung for a sheep as a lamb'?

The older immortal wet his fingers in his mouth and reached behind his lover's balls to tease him.  To his immense surprise, when he ran one finger around the rim of Mac's anus, the Highlander immediately spread his thighs farther apart, hips tilting up in an unmistakable invitation.  Without thinking about it, Methos pressed inward and felt Duncan immediately relax into the movement.

Green-gold eyes widened at that.  Despite the fact that he had never quite admitted to it, Methos had read the chronicles about Duncan years ago after Darius had mentioned the Highlander a few times.  None of them had made any mention his being anything except a ladies man.  Where had he picked up reactions like that?  On the other hand, anyone who could keep Amanda interested for three centuries....

Automatically, Methos had continued to lick and tease at Duncan's cock, not trying to bring him to orgasm but just to keep him on that climb toward it.  Equally instinctive had been the movements of his finger, rubbing against his lover's prostate.  Now that the older immortal's mind had, within a few seconds, caught back up with his body, Methos decided to see how far this would go.  He had no intention of making Mac uncomfortable, though.  Carefully, he pressed a second finger in with the first.

Duncan pressed back against his hand, obviously trying to take all of the length of the fingers.  Still speaking Gaelic, he moaned, "God, yes.  Please."

Methos couldn't remember the last time he had come and then been this hard again less than fifteen minutes later.  The temptation to find some kind of lubricant -- anything! -- and slide home into Duncan was almost overwhelming... but a few fingers were one thing.  In his experience, actually being fucked was frequently another matter entirely, for men or women.  Definitely time to finish this bout and sound the Highlander out on the subject afterwards.  But Methos had to concentrate on something a bit safer before he did something that one of them would regret later.

The older immortal leaned in to go all the way down on Duncan again, gently withdrawing his fingers as he did; no sense adding to temptation at this point.  The groan he heard sounded disappointed.  While Methos was still telling himself that was wishful thinking, the Scot pulled his head up, saying, "Methos, please.  I want you."

Methos pushed up onto his elbows, staring at his lover in surprise.  He needed to be certain that the younger man knew what he was asking, so he answered in Gaelic, "Duncan, are you sure about this?"

Green-gold eyes were met by brown, dilated with arousal but steady.  "Yes."

Methos slid back into English and asked, "Well, have you got anything we can use?"

Duncan twisted up onto one elbow and dug into a drawer under the bed.  Leaning over to see what he was doing, Methos chuckled when he saw what looked like fur, some silk ties, a book (not a cover he was familiar with, he noted for future investigation), and the massage oil Mac was handing back to him.

He took the oil, watching the younger man closely for any sign of stress or nerves.  So far, so good.  A long reach procured one of the pillows and he smiled at Mac.  "Lift your hips for a second."  He slid the pillow into place as soon as the younger immortal moved, then ran a caressing palm along his cheek.

The massage oil smelled of sandalwood and heated in his palm very quickly.  He watched Mac's eyes while working the lubricant into him, not wanting to cause the younger man any pain.  Shivers rippled across that lovely body but Duncan didn't flinch as he gently worked both fingers back in, pressing steadily in and then withdrawing again and again.

"Easy, Highlander.  Relax," he murmured.  Slowly, carefully, Methos prepared him for this, adding a third finger and rotating gently.  The man was incredibly tight; maintaining control so as not to hurt him was going to be a gloriously maddening torture.  He leaned in and kissed the Scot long and thoroughly while applying more of the oil to his own cock.

Mac drew his legs up, thighs apart, feet planted on the comforter to give Methos full access.  Pulling back from the kiss, he murmured, "Carte blanche, Methos."

"Gods, Duncan...."  Methos moved up over him and used one hand to position himself at the entrance to his lover's body, then slowly began to press forward.  For a long moment, despite the painstaking preparations, the younger man's body resisted.  Then Duncan drew a deep breath and relaxed.  Opposition suddenly released, Methos slid further in on the first stroke than he had intended.  Duncan's eyes widened and his mouth opened in a silent gasp, head thrown back on the pillow as he shuddered.

Methos froze, forcing himself to hold still as the Scot sorted pleasure from pain and adjusted to this new invasion, but the man was incredibly beautiful arched back and aroused.  Another long breath from Duncan and then the younger man reached up and caught his shoulders.  "I'm all right, just don't stop."

The older immortal didn't answer; he simply moved.  Tightened abdominals pulled him farther into his lover's body; flexed buttocks moved him slightly back and then he began again, pressing barely farther each time.  Duncan watched Methos' face as he moved, forcing himself to relax.  His lover's cock felt much larger than the vibrator Aidan had used with him, but the knowledge that it was Methos, not unfeeling plastic, aroused Duncan enough that the minor discomfort was ignored as he focused on relaxing.  After a few strokes there was no longer even discomfort, only a steadily growing pleasure.

It was incredibly erotic, the slick warmth and friction within himself, the strokes that brushed across his prostate with every advance or retreat.  There was just enough of a tinge of the forbidden to add that spice to the delight.  Even better, though, was watching Methos' face and knowing just who was inside him.  Gold-green eyes were narrowed in pleasure and concentration, and those long fingers were intertwined with Duncan's.  Then the other man let go of one hand and wrapped oily fingers around Duncan's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

Duncan quit thinking, caught up by the slick intensity around him, the hard heat within.  Hips bucked up to meet Methos' advances and the older immortal groaned as his control began to dissolve.  Both of them moved faster now, taking their cues from each other subconsciously. Despite his best efforts to watch his lover, Duncan's eyes closed as the feel of Methos' cock moving in him demanded more and more of his attention.  A last thrust dropped him over the edge and he came.

Methos saw Duncan's head arch back, heard him cry out, and then muscles clamped around his cock.  The younger man's hips bucked up one more time, impaling himself even farther on Methos and forcing his own cock farther into his lover's hand.  The sight of that gorgeous, long-desired man so far gone in ecstasy was all the older immortal had been waiting for:  Methos let go of his own control and let his own orgasm rip through him.

Somehow, he never knew how, Methos managed to keep some coherence.  Taking one long breath after another, he stayed up on his arms, not letting Duncan take his full weight.  When he could think of it and be sure his body would obey, he withdrew from his lover carefully so as not to hurt him.  Rather than flinch, Duncan reached for him with one unsteady arm without ever opening his eyes.

"Let me get something to clean us off.  I'll be right back."   Methos came back with warm, damp towels and sponged them both off, then tossed the cloths in the laundry hamper.  Duncan slipped under the blankets, then held the covers up and made room for Methos when he came back.  The Scot curled around the other man's body, one arm and a leg thrown over him.

Methos wrapped an arm around his back and basked in Duncan's warmth for a few minutes.  Both of them lay there, sated and content, neither asleep despite the earlier exertion.  The jazz CD's were still playing and Methos chuckled quietly when he heard the opening track of Red Shoe Diaries.

"What?"  Duncan sounded lazy and comfortable.

"An album I like, that's all.  Are you all right with this?"  He waited patiently for the answer, willing to take whatever reply he got but hoping for the best.  To his surprise, Duncan started laughing.

"Who seduced who here?  I'm fine, Methos.  I should probably ask if I pushed you into something you didn't want.  Did I?"  He propped himself up on one elbow, watching his lover in the firelight.  The movement trailed one hand across Methos' chest, and while the younger man made no attempt to caress him, he didn't draw away either.  That slow, lazy smile he loved so well and rarely saw reassured Duncan.

"MacLeod, the last time I've been so surprised was when Edana decided to break that promise of hers.  But Gods, yes, I wanted you and this."  Methos reached up and ran his fingers lightly along the other man's cheek, admiring the lines of his face in the firelight.  The lack of stubble told him that the Highlander had most certainly planned this in advance.  Usually by this time of night the man had a fair bit of five o'clock shadow.

Duncan smiled back at him and flexed his fingers, stroking idly through the scant chest hair and admiring pale skin.  "Did you know you're beautiful?"

"I what?  Mac, are your eyes working?"  Startlement brought his hand down to Duncan's shoulder.

"I thought you spoke English."  The teasing tone made Methos smile again despite himself.  "You're gorgeous."

"Highlander...."  Words failed him for a moment and all Methos could do was stroke his fingers across the younger man's skin.  Duncan bent down and kissed him gently, then wrapped back around him, settling his head on Methos' shoulder.  One hand continued to idly feather across the older immortal's chest and stomach.

"So what brought this on, anyway?"  Methos deliberately kept his tone casual, but he felt Duncan throw a leg across him.

"Take a guess," came the amused answer.

"Should I plan on killing Edana then?"  The voice stayed calm, but Methos' muscles began to contract involuntarily.

Duncan felt the tension and sat up, instinctively aware that he had just screwed up, somehow, somewhere.  "Do you really think the only reason I went to bed with you is Aidan?  Methos....  Look at me.  Do you actually think that?"

Green-gold eyes had shuttered, locking Duncan out, and the emotions were suppressed out of their link.  "Highlander.  Why did you?"

Duncan hauled Methos up to face him, aware that in a wrestling match the older, trickier immortal could almost certainly kill him, but not giving a damn.  "You idiot!  This was not a sympathy fuck of any kind, and I sure as hell wasn't trying to take advantage of you!"  For a second he stopped, thinking about how that had sounded, then finished weakly, "Well, not like that....  Oh, hell.  I love you, damn it!"

Methos stared at him, then a grin began to crack through his mask.  Within a few seconds, he was laughing.  The confused, indignant look on Duncan's face just made him laugh harder.  For a few seconds, the Scot sulked, until he began to hear his own voice playing back in memory.  Duncan started to grin, and then chuckle, himself.

The older immortal finally sagged back, pulling pillows around to make himself a back rest.  "Gods, as a declaration that was inimitable.  I don't know that I've ever heard that much profanity out of you in one shot, Highlander."

Duncan settled back against him, feeling arms reaching for him before he really saw them, and catching love and humor through their link.  As they came into skin-contact, the connection between them strengthened and the younger man could almost hear his lover's laughter at how completely ridiculous the whole discussion had been.  Deliberately, before the link could fade, Duncan gathered up all his love for the other man, all the lust, all the trust and acceptance that he had worked so hard to get to, and pushed it off his skin the same way he'd have done a chi manipulation in kung fu.

Methos gasped as the feelings flooded across him for an instant.  He burned the moment into his memory, unwilling to trust that the link would ever be this strong again; he knew full well he'd warm himself at that fire in years to come.  But he could almost feel the fears lift away.

"Let me try that one again, all right?  I went to bed with you because I love you.  It wasn't because Aidan told me you loved me, it wasn't a pity screw or anything like that.  Where did you get the idea that it was?"  Duncan said it quietly and with complete seriousness.

Strong arms tightened around him for a moment.  "I've wanted you for three years now; I think I've loved you since I saw you.  But I never thought you were interested, not in this.  Why do I feel Aidan's hand in this?"

"Because she did have something to do with it.  She made me admit I loved you, and then she made me admit I wanted you in my bed and in my body. The woman plays rough."  Duncan shrugged and made the laughing comment, "She said it was only fair since I did the same thing to her."

He fell silent for a moment then asked, "Do you mind that I was sleeping with her?"

The half-smile on Methos' face carried into his voice.  "I don't know.  Were you actually sleeping?"

Duncan's voice was tinged with humor as he replied, "Only eventually."

"Then no, I don't mind.  I already knew, Mac; she told me."   He reached down and tugged at the blankets.  Duncan shifted to help and they ended up with the comforter up around both of them, but Methos was now wrapped up in Duncan's embrace.  After a short silence, he said, "Can I ask you a question, Highlander?"

"I gave you carte blanche, Methos.  I'm not revoking it.  Ask what you want."

"Gods, Highlander, have you lost your mind?"

Duncan heard the agitation in Methos' voice and answered that more than the question.  "Yes, I trust you.  It took me long enough, and I hurt you badly enough getting there, but I trust you.  So ask.  And quit worrying."

After a few seconds of silence, Duncan chuckled quietly.  "Shall we play twenty answers?  I give answers, and you let me know when I'm on the right topic?"

The older immortal smiled, unaware that Duncan was watching his profile against the firelight.  "That sounds like an interesting game."

"Rebecca taught it to me.  There were times it was the only way to get Fitz to talk about whatever was really on his mind.  So, answer number twenty.  A month or so ago, after her fight with the punk biker moron from hell."  Duncan deliberately put a world-weary, TV announcer accent onto the answer, trying to keep Methos in a good mood.

"What is 'When did Edana drag you into bed?'  Well, I'm assuming she did the dragging.  Hmm, that question doesn't sound quite right."  Methos shook his head, amused.

Duncan listened to the emotions coming off Methos, the easy breathing against his arms, and decided the game was definitely working.  "Yes, she started it.  Are you really surprised?  But, no, that doesn't seem to be what's on your mind.  Let's see.  Answer number nineteen.  Off and on ever since, well, after she was through working her wicked ways.  Are you sure you two aren't related?"

That drew a choked laugh, but Methos stayed where he was against Duncan's chest, watching the firelight.  "What is--  Never mind, have you been sleeping with Aidan since then?  No, we're not related.  Wicked, hmm?"

Something in the tones of Methos' voice told Duncan he was on the right track now.   "Answer number eighteen..."

"I always heard it was the Poles who were backwards.  Or was that the Croats?"

Duncan poked him in the rib as he went on, "... fooling around only."

That stopped Methos for a moment as his agile mind tore at the answer to figure out the question.  He came up with one possibility, then a second, and stopped.  "So what is the question?"

"What did you come up with?"

"I begin to see why Rebecca taught you this.  You're dangerous, Highlander."

Duncan shrugged and replied, "You prefer me that way.  Would you rather I drop this?"

"No.  Is the question, have you had a male lover before?"  Methos leaned back against him, enjoying this odd, not-quite cat and mouse game they were playing.

"That would be the one.  What other questions did you come up with?" Duncan asked easily.

"What makes you think I did?"

"Because you had to ask if you were right.  Shall I go on to another answer?"

Methos turned to look at him.  "You'd let me avoid this, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."  Brown eyes reflected firelight back, calm and steady.

"Ask me later."  Methos watched him and saw only acceptance.  The younger man gently pulled him back around, settling Methos easily against his chest again.  An interesting way of giving privacy, but effective under the circumstances.

"So, answer number seventeen.  Yes, but this I wanted to do and enjoyed.  A business transaction, basically."

He sounds calm enough, was Methos' first thought.  Rage followed it in a heartbeat, as that swift mind wrung implications and nuances out of both the words and the tone of voice. Blackmail, I would bet.  Business transaction, my ass, and more likely his.  But he enjoyed what we did, that much I'm sure of.  Gods know he's gorgeous enough that I shouldn't be surprised someone coerced him into bed; if he were even another two hundred years older I wouldn't be.  But if it's still an option, I'm going to find the bastard and kill him slowly.

Duncan spoke quietly when the silence dragged at him.  "Methos?"

"Who, MacLeod?  One of us?  Or a mortal you needed something from?"

Now it was the younger man's turn to flinch, not remembering that Methos could read his muscles, too.  "One of us.  He's dead, now.  I took his head a few years ago."

"Would you believe that it hadn't occurred to me to ask if you'd had a man in your bed, only to ask if you'd had a male lover?"  The voice was exquisitely detached, except for the sudden blazing anger on the last word.  Methos held Duncan's arms tightly against his chest.

"Why are you so angry?  At me for not being the perfect Boy Scout, for being willing to trade sex for something I needed?"  The younger man's voice didn't stay as steady as Mac would have liked.  He had long ago come to terms with what he had done, but not the fact that he had done it.  Charming people was an aspect of diplomacy a chieftain's son was expected to use.  That use of his looks and body he could cope with and accept as the way things were, but trading his body for what he needed had been, and to his mind still was, whoring.  No matter that it had been the only coin Alexei wanted, or that he had paid full worth in good faith, Duncan still felt that he should have found another way.

Methos twisted and kissed Duncan so hard it nearly left bruises.  His hands roamed across the younger man's torso, stroking, pressing, pinching, admiring until the Scot opened his mouth and moaned into the kiss, aroused and yielding to it.  Methos ended the kiss abruptly and said, "That is how little it bothers me that you would trade your body for something.  It does not make you dirty; it does not make you any less desirable.

"But I know you.  You didn't do it as anything other than a last option.  I would have liked to teach whoever did this to you a few of the finer pointers in dying slowly.  The question was, 'Have you ever had a man in your bed before?'  What did he blackmail you with, Mac?  What did he hold over your head?"

Brown eyes were a little dazed from pleasure and surprise as Duncan answered, "I needed a ship.  He had one.  There wasn't time to find another or to find something else he'd take as payment.  He didn't rape me, if that's what you're asking."

Methos held his eyes.  "You mean he didn't penetrate you, Duncan.  He raped you all right."  The unfamiliar sound of his given name on Methos' lips impressed on the younger immortal as few other words could have just how serious his new lover was about this.  The older man went on, "What, blow job or hand job?  An hour, an afternoon, all night?  It doesn't matter what you did or for how long, the fact remains that he used force to get your body.  Don't deny that or pretty it up for him.  Why did you need a ship so badly?  Who had one?"

"Methos, I agreed to it.  It was the only fee he would take.  I was trying to get forty-seven people out of Russia before the pogroms started.  Alexei had a freighter, the Sea Witch, so I struck a deal with him.  He didn't need money, and I wasn't going to give him my head."  Duncan expression softened from upset to rueful.  "If I'd known a little more about him, I'd have never struck the deal."

"The fact that you agreed to go to bed with him doesn't keep it from being rape.  He held the knife to their throats, not yours, but it was still force.  And I would bet he maneuvered you into being the one who offered, didn't he?  It was Alexei Voishin, wasn't it?"

Duncan raised one eyebrow, somehow resigned and rueful and ironic all at once.  "Am I that predictable or did you know Alexei?  Yeah, somehow I'm the one who brought it out as an option.  We settled on anything except penetration.  He wanted more but knew he couldn't take my head, so he agreed to that."

He shrugged and continued, "If he'd wanted me to take him, I could have lived with that, but I wasn't willing to have him inside me.  But if I'd had time to find out more about Alexei, I'd have known he wouldn't keep the bargain anyway, and I'd never have done any of it."

Methos touched his face, surprised.  "You let me...."

"I love you.  I will try anything you want, Methos.  And I enjoyed it a great deal, in case you didn't notice," Duncan said, smiling.  "It's all right, you know.  It wasn't going to bed with a man that bothered me so much as... I don't know, screwing anyone as payment."

"You felt like a whore?"  There was no censure in his voice when he asked it, and Methos curved his hand around Duncan's cheek, stroking along the cheekbone.

"Yeah, that pretty well sums it up."  The younger man exhaled slowly to calm himself further, then shrugged and relaxed his grip where he held the comforter around them both.  "That's why I've never asked Aidan about being a slave, you know.  I don't like talking about Alexei and that was only one night.  I can't imagine having twelve years of memories like that, not the way we tend to remember."

Methos only said quietly, "You're not a whore, you know.  Neither is Aidan.  If you did it voluntarily, as your preferred means of dealing with problems, then yes, you would be.  But neither of you does."

"I do know, Methos, but I keep thinking there should have been another way,  something else I could have used for payment.  And I didn't even get them out.  He betrayed us and the police killed all of them, except one woman.  I found out later that Alexei had taken her as part of his price."

"They're gone.  Finish your grieving for them and go on.  As for Alexei, you did the best you could.  Don't beat yourself because it didn't work.  There's no shame in surviving, Mac.  It's what we do best.  Live, grow stronger, fight another day.  You did."

Duncan pulled him into a hug.  "I know.  I'm all right.  Really."

"Hell of a game you play, Highlander.  Harder on you than me, at least so far."  Methos nestled back within the younger man's arms, trying to lend emotional support without being too obvious.

"So?  I've been harder on you than you have on me for most of the time we've known each other.  You ready for the next answer?"

Methos chuckled and said, "Oh, we were equally hard a little while ago."

"True enough and a definite pleasure.  Did you have something else in mind?  This can wait if you want,"  Duncan offered, already rousing again from the kiss Methos had given him.

"Mmm, in a little while.  This is an interesting game; Rebecca never told me about it."

"All right, answer number... what, sixteen?  It's Aidan's doing.  She didn't want me nervous, and then we found out that I like it."

That got a smile out of Methos and Duncan leaned to kiss him on the top of one ear.  "That's cheating, Highlander.  Besides, she's not equipped for it.  Pulled out her toy box, did she?  So, I suppose the question is, 'How did you develop an appreciation for inferior congress?'  Not that I'd call what we did inferior."

Duncan chuckled at the phrasing.  "So that is a good translation of the term?  I never picked up Sanskrit."

"The Kama Sutra is very interesting in the original language.  Did I hurt you?"

"No, you didn't.  It felt wonderful."  Duncan laughed.  "What, you couldn't tell I was enjoying you?"

"I guessed."  The dry understatement in the voice had the Scot smiling against the older man's hair.

"Ready for answer fifteen?"

"You're really going to go back through twenty of these?"  Methos shook his head wonderingly.

"Unless you want to stop, why not?  We do need to talk, and it's... easier this way.  Simpler to talk in the dark, watching the fire."

"Mac, if it's that difficult to discuss, it can wait."

Duncan buried his nose against Methos' neck and then shook his head, knowing the other man would feel it.  "No, I'd rather talk now.  Unless you mind."

"No, I don't mind," came the surprisingly mild answer.  "Would some wine make this easier?"

"I don't want to let go of you.  I'm wondering if this was a dream."

Methos promptly pinched one of the arms wrapped around his waist.  When Duncan yelped, the older immortal cheerfully said, "Nope, you're awake, MacLeod.  Wine or beer?"

"Wine, I think.  Ask nicely and I'll keep the blankets warm for you."

"Well, it's that or freeze yourself."  Methos reluctantly disentangled himself from both the blankets and MacLeod and poured a brandy snifter full of wine.

Duncan chuckled at the amount of alcohol the old man had brought back.  "Do I need to be drunk?  I thought you already had your wicked way with me."

"Well, I was going to share it, but if you're worried...."  Methos twitched the glass away from his hands, only to have Duncan retrieve it deftly while making room for him in the blankets.

"Thanks," and the Scot handed it back after stealing a sip, wrapping his arms around the older immortal again to warm him.

"So, answer number fifteen?  As long as we're counting down?"

"Where were we?  Oh.  No, it doesn't apply solely in bed.  Or couch, or floor, or shower, or whatever."  The cheerful, teasing tone in Duncan's voice masked the serious nature of that answer for a second.

Methos blinked as one thought occurred to him, then forced himself to relax against Duncan as he hunted for  any other questions that could apply to that answer.  After a moment, he found a second possibility and used it.  "What, where are you willing to try something I like?  There are some interesting theaters we could go to, in that case."

Duncan stole another sip of the wine, then handed the glass back and calmly said, "That's not quite the question, although it's implied.  Try again."

"Where are you giving me carte blanche?"  Methos sounded deadly serious.  He hadn't expected this kind of trust.  If he came to expect it of Duncan and was betrayed....  The older immortal hastily shunted that thought down and away, marking it as 'examine later'.

"Anywhere you want it, Methos.  Any topic, any possession, any act.  What do you want?  Although I'd rather you didn't bankrupt me or ask me to walk naked through the middle of the Sorbonne."  Duncan's voice had been perfectly serious until the last sentence, and Methos was learning swiftly when the Highlander used humor to mask a topic too intense to be borne easily.

"MacLeod, they outlawed slavery in this nation," Methos prodded.

"I'm not offering to be a slave, not even for you.  But if you tell me to close my eyes and walk off a cliff, I'm going to trust you to have a good reason, and I'm going to step."  The laughter resurfaced in his voice and he went on, "If you tell me to lie back or sit back and enjoy, I'll try.  God knows I loved what you were doing earlier."

"And if you don't want to do something?"

"I'm not a saint, and I'm not Darius.  Are you asking if I'm going to argue with you still?  Yeah, of course I am.  I'm human, Methos.  But I'll try it once if you really want.  I'm going to do something terrible to you; I'm going to trust you not to hurt me intentionally."

"You're going to trust Death?"

Duncan's voice held a quiet intensity that compelled Methos to listen.  "I wouldn't have trusted you then; I won't lie about it.  But you're not the same man who rode with Kronos.  Do I trust you now?  Yes."

"How do you know, MacLeod?  What makes you think I won't kill you in your sleep tonight?"

"If that's what you want, the sword's under the bed."

Methos jerked against his arms and Duncan caught the wine before it could spill.  "Have you lost your mind, MacLeod?"

"No.  Is there some reason to think you've lost yours?"  Duncan relaxed his grip so that Methos could get out of bed if he wanted, but didn't entirely let go.  "Methos, you've offered me your head more than once, stepped in to save me from myself or someone else more than once.  One of the most cautious and sane immortals I've ever met trusts you implicitly.  Give me one good reason not to trust you."

"Aidan's biased; she's in love with me.  I was Death, MacLeod.  I liked it, do you understand?"

Duncan set the wine aside, but he didn't turn Methos to face him.  "Yes, I hear you.  I wish I didn't understand it, but I remember what that dark quickening felt like.  There were times when I liked what I had become, Methos.  And you knew it."  The younger man refused to flinch as he convicted himself, too intent on trying to reach through this defense which was trapping his lover.

"But you know what?  You keep using the past tense, Methos.  Are you going to tell me you liked manipulating me and Cassandra during that whole mess with the Horsemen?  That you'd do it again in a heartbeat?"

"This is insane. I'm trying to get you not to trust me?"  The older man pulled free and went to sit on a pillow in front of the fireplace.  Duncan followed and dropped a blanket over Methos' shoulders, then settled onto the couch behind him.

"Yeah, this is a little crazy, but what between us has been sane?"

"I don't know, I was sleeping in the middle, not Aidan."  The sardonic quip came out before Methos could quite stop it.

"Yeah, I remember.  Nice way to wake up in the morning, too.  Methos, if you were still Death, you'd never have waited two thousand years for Aidan to come to her senses.  The Horseman would have never offered his head to defeat Kalas.  Hell, you'd have raped me instead of waiting to see if I'd offer."

Methos came up off the pillow so quickly that Duncan didn't have time to react.  The blanket that had been wrapped around the older immortal's shoulders trapped Duncan's arms against his side, pinned in place by Methos' knees.  "Do you think I wouldn't do it now?" he hissed, eyes gone cold and measuring.

Instincts honed down four long centuries had already started to struggle against the trap.  Mac controlled himself, fighting his own reflexes, and commented, "So what's stopping you?"

"Not a thing, Highlander."  Methos leaned forward and kissed him savagely, bruising the younger man's lips and then biting.  His hands moved as well, pinching, scraping, leaving marks and welts that healed immediately but also aroused MacLeod against his will.  Pain and pleasure mingled, with pain dominant.

In the back of Duncan's mind, he heard Aidan's voice, light and for once uninflected, saying, 'Oh, if it comes to that, you can even take pleasure from agony.  Try not to let it come to that.'  The only thing he could think of to do was relax and kiss Methos back.

The mouth on his abruptly softened, licking gently at healing bruises.  Strong, long-fingered hands slid up his body in wordles, caressing apologies.  Duncan leaned into the kiss, drinking in the taste of Methos and wine.  Methos pulled back and settled his head on his friend's shoulder, stroking his mouth with silk-soft touches.  "Gods, Duncan.  You pushed those buttons deliberately."

"You had to know you wouldn't do it.  I don't judge you half as harshly as you judge yourself some days."

The only reply to that was a long sigh.  After a minute, Methos licked at Duncan's neck, then nibbled at the same spot.  He paused long enough to ask, "Why are we on a couch, anyway?  I had some ideas, if you're interested...."

The younger man tilted his head back to give Methos more access and sighed in pleasure at the skilled mouth on his throat and jaw.  His voice hazed by delight, he commented, "Well, I'm here because you won't let me up."

Methos smiled and knee-walked off the couch, freeing him from the blanket.  "Shall we go back to bed?  I have an apology in mind that I think you'll like."

"Who needs an apology?  I just want you."  Duncan caught Methos by the shoulder and the waist.  "Understand me.  I know some of what you were, and I'm starting to know what you are.  I love you.  You aren't going to chase me off just because you used to be one of the Horsemen or whatever other checkered past you accumulated in five thousand years.  I've done a few things myself that I'm not proud of."

"Like Alexei?"  Methos pulled Duncan against him.

"Like Alexei.  Like Sean Burns.  Like Kristen."  That brought Methos' eyes up to his.  "Yes, I should have finished that.  I'm sorry you had to."

"I came over knowing I might have to, Mac.  It's all right.  I'm sorry I had to kill one of your lovers."

Duncan tilted his head to one side, irony implicit in the set of his mouth and eyebrows.  "Lover?  I did some thinking about that after you and Rich were both gone, Methos.  I lusted after her for a while, but mostly I resented being controlled and treated as an infant.  I should never have been stupid enough to think that sharing her bed meant something to her or to me.  Kristen used me as a mirror to make her feel young and beautiful.  That's not love; I just didn't see it soon enough."

Methos shook his head.  "What brought this on?"

"Too much time to think, what else?"

"Come to bed, Highlander, you think too much."

"I think too much?  Me?"

Methos kissed him to quiet him and walked the younger man backwards onto the bed, never letting go of his mouth.  Duncan fell back onto the bed, chuckling.

"Yes, Highlander, once you do think, you think too much."

"Yeah, well, I do other things too much when I get started, too."  He pulled Methos onto the bed with him.

"Good.  Anything worth doing is worth doing to excess."

Go on to Prelude, Part 2
Go back to First Harvests
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