Disclaimer and Notes: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Amanda, and Nick Wolfe belong to Panzer/Davis. Inspired by three songs by Sarah McLachlan: "The Path of Thorns (Terms)", "Fear", and "Possession." Heaps of beta thanks go to Jamwired, Amand-r, and Dana Woods for their help with this work. Special thanks to Amand-r, who reminded me that I had to go to work in the morning even though the muses were calling....
In the tones of some poor sailor in a crow's nest: "Slash warning ahead!" That means male/male sex, and if you're not old enough or mature enough to read it, please stop now and go elsewhere.
Comments welcome; send to: dayea@rainewynd.com.
By Raine Wynd
November
6:30 p.m.
The early evening wind was bitterly cold and tasted of forthcoming snow as it blew in from the north at a steady rate. A thin layer of ice coated the Seine, and the street lamps showed that there was little movement along its banks. It was clearly a night for staying indoors; the tall, black-haired man who stood on a bridge overlooking the river was the only person within sight, and even he was still. Indeed, a passing observer might have mistaken him for a statue or a living mannequin.
He wasn't sure why he stayed in one place anymore. As he stared at the frozen river, he contemplated leaving. Winter had settled in, and he'd never cared too much for cold climates. Today in particular, it was raining, the kind of cold rain that should have been snow instead but wasn't. He could be in Florida, watching women in tiny excuses for bikinis parade around on a beach somewhere. He considered the effort it would involve and decided that it wasn't worth it. He'd have to figure out some way of concealing a sword, and in winter climates, it was easier.
The truth was, he was restless. It wasn't a feeling he liked. Trouble usually followed not far behind. He'd promised himself that this century he was going to just keep his head and stay calm.
Yeah, right, Methos. As if hanging around the Highlander is ever going to be a relaxing thing.
He smiled ironically, knowing there were a dozen perfectly good reasons to leave. Still, he stayed, hypnotized like some poor victim on a television show he'd seen once. He could run, but there was no escaping the fact that Methos didn't know anywhere he could run to where he wouldn't eventually feel compelled to be with Mac.
From his vantage point atop the bridge, Methos stared at the barge as if seeing it for the first time. He knew Mac knew he was here, but neither of them moved to intercept the other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Too many things had been left unspoken in the wake of the tornado that had been the last few years of their lives. Too many things had been taken for granted, and now their relationship led down a path of thorns. If there were roses along the way, they had been few and far in between. For one moment, Methos closed his eyes, willing the ache inside his heart to subside.
As many times as Methos had felt this particular sensation, he often thought he ought to be able to deal with it better. Instead, all he could do was let the emotion run its course, as if it was some fever. Yet that wasn't enough.
If Mac had been an ordinary man, Methos knew he would not have returned here over and over, risking everything he'd worked so hard to build: anonymity, security, normalcy, and yes, even a certain amount of predictability — just to stand in the shadow of the one Immortal Methos believed deserved to win the Prize. When it came to Mac, Methos knew he was shameless in his desire to keep the younger Immortal alive. Yet that didn't explain why Methos felt that way, didn't even begin to describe how deep that feeling went. The Quickening he and Duncan had shared had only served to intensify it, to add another layer of definition to an already complex relationship.
Time and distance hadn't resolved the very real fascination Methos had for Mac. It was fascination, he told himself, not attraction and certainly not love that had caused him to act the way he had, risking his life on more than one occasion for the Highlander. Methos knew he was lying to himself, but he ignored the truth, preferring instead to avoid it at least for now. It was easier than facing it and its implications.
Easier, yes, but no less nagging.
Oh, Methos had been fascinated like this before, a willing slave to his quest for knowledge. It had always burned him in the end, and even aware of how it would more than likely end, Methos perversely refused to avoid it. He'd once surmised that he had never quite learned how to stop once he'd become intrigued by something or someone and had merely learned how to recognize the danger signs better. This time he knew he'd fooled himself into thinking that his fascination was safe: he'd never expected that Duncan MacLeod would be more in person than he was in his Chronicles, never anticipated that he'd be seduced by the man's considerable charm. Methos had arrogantly believed that anything Mac threw at him would be something he could handle... and yet, Methos was struggling to cope. He'd been caught unprepared for the sheer deepness of his craving, the slow, insidious way it had blossomed to life without conscious thought, until he'd woken up one day to discover just how far he'd travel to be with Mac.
Not save him, though he had done so in the past, and would likely do so again.
Just be with him.
He had so much to give and so much to lose by admitting his desire. He wanted to be the one to hold Mac, to shelter him from the storms Methos knew would, in all probability, strike, to kiss him so hard that his breath was taken away. Methos had been sorely tempted to just seduce Mac, but he knew how easily seduction could backfire with morning regrets. No, Methos wanted Mac to become his lover willingly. Somehow, Methos knew the admission of his desire wouldn't shock Mac... but the answer would still be no. The refusal had everything to do with the fact that it was *Methos* doing the propositioning and less to do with Mac's much-documented preference for women.
How Methos wished for things he could not have and damned himself for the longing, the yearning that knew no end, the knowledge that some invisible line had been crossed, and the door to opportunity had been bolted shut even before he'd been aware of its existence. Mac would never let Methos be his lover, not now and perhaps not ever. Trust was a fragile flower, and it had been crushed endlessly under Methos's feet only to be nurtured again by sacrifice. Theirs would never be an easy friendship, and to add sex into the equation would only be asking for trouble. Left unspoken was the understanding that they'd always be there for each other, but with conditions and reservations. Such were the terms of the relationship they shared, and Methos accepted them willingly. Still, the images of what could have been danced in his head.
He knew better, of course, than to torment himself with the memories of seeing Mac bare-chested as he worked out or just stepping out of a shower, a towel around his waist in a concession to propriety. The images tumbled through his mind anyway, and with a reluctant, sardonic smile, Methos knew he wasn't exactly stopping himself from remembering. The ache was a reminder that he could still feel, and he had never taken that for granted. He had, as long as he could recall, preferred the sharp, bittersweet bite of living, with all its subtle flavors, to being dead. He acknowledged that his preference came at a price; yet, it didn't resolve the unceasing hunger.
He sighed, opening his eyes and hunching his shoulders in resignation as the wind rose to try and bite through the thick trench coat he wore. Mac would be waiting for him, no doubt worried now at his long reluctance to approach. With the ease of long practice, Methos buried the regret and the hunger deep inside and began the walk to the barge.
"Something on your mind?" Mac asked him once he was settled. "You were out there a long time."
Methos shrugged, concealing his thoughts. "Wanted to see how long it would be before you came out and got me. Then I decided I wanted coffee."
"Too cold for you?" Mac teased.
"I could be someplace warm," Methos began a now-familiar argument. Some part of him, the part that had always proclaimed its motto to be self-survival regardless of cost, wondered why he didn't just leave. He didn't have any obligations to keep him here. Even as he thought that, he heard a mental voice snicker at his attempt at self-deception.
He hadn't realized he'd drifted away from the argument until he took an absent-minded sip of the now-cold coffee and grimaced. He looked up at Mac, seeing concern in the dark brown eyes, and acted quickly to cover his odd behavior. "What? You act like you've never seen anyone dislike cold coffee before."
"I can't remember the last time I saw you drink coffee," Mac observed. His voice, however, turned the simple observation into a question. Are you all right? it asked.
"Well," Methos replied mildly, "it's too cold a night for beer." He mulled over that a moment. "More's the pity." He shrugged and rose to refill his cup.
He felt Mac's worried gaze watching him and sighed. Silently, he cursed himself for the slip in concentration. He took a sip of coffee and moved to distract Mac's attention from himself, changing the subject of conversation.
Sometime later, Methos made his excuses and left for the night. The evening wind had yet to calm, though the rain had ceased, and his fingers were nearly frozen by the time he reached his car, parked on the other side of the bridge. He cursed his earlier impulse to walk across the bridge rather than drive the long way around and park in front of the barge.
Impulses will get you in trouble every time, he reminded himself.
He paused just before opening the car door and glanced back at the barge. He chuckled sardonically, thinking how much simpler — at least for a few minutes — his life might be if he acted on impulse.
He shook his head and slipped into the driver's seat. He could go on wishing and hoping for the implausible, but all that effort would be wasted.
Duncan MacLeod would never be his lover.
It was past time Methos accepted that fact and moved on with his life.
****
The clarion call of Presence woke Amanda out of a sound sleep. Instantly awake, she reached for her sword and slipped out of bed to investigate, quickly grabbing and donning a white silk robe along the way. She was glad that her current home, a dance club called The Sanctuary, was on Holy Ground, but experience had made her cautious. Barefoot, she headed for the front door. A part of her hoped she'd find Nick, her most recent love, standing at the door. He had left four days earlier, angry and upset at yet another example of her habit of not telling the whole truth.
Instead, she found the world's oldest immortal investigating the contents of the bar.
"Methos, do you mind?" she asked, annoyed. She put her sword down on the bar and stared at him.
"Not at all," he replied. He smiled, and Amanda suddenly realized that he was getting her back for waking him up at three in the morning a few weeks previously.
"If you wanted something to drink, there are plenty of other places you could've gone to instead of breaking in to my bar."
He smiled as he poured a shot of scotch. Amanda's sharp eyes didn't miss that it was an expensive brand. "Nah, I think I like it better here," he declared, and downed the shot. "You don't skimp on the good stuff." He immediately poured himself another drink. "Besides, no one else is open at three in the morning."
Amanda crossed her arms. "You got me out of bed just so you could break in and have a drink?"
Methos eyed the amber liquid in the shot glass as he pondered his friend's question. "Yes," he answered finally, then downed the second shot as quickly as the first.
Something's not right, Amanda realized. Methos isn't much of a Scotch drinker, nor does he usually come to me for anything.
"What do you want?"
"You."
Amanda looked at her unexpected guest. "Why? Because I have to tell you, if you want me to break into something, I'm not doing it for free."
"No," Methos replied, shaking his head. Suddenly uncomfortable, he shrugged and started for the door. "Look, it's nothing I can't handle."
Amanda studied her friend a moment, then eyed the bottle of Scotch. "Sure," she drawled disbelievingly, nodding her head. "You want to tell me or shall I guess?"
Methos held her gaze as silence grew. "You haven't been seeing Duncan lately, have you?" he asked abruptly.
Confused, Amanda answered slowly, "No, I didn't think he was back in Paris yet." She looked warily at Methos. "You know I've been involved elsewhere."
"Ah, yes, the ex-cop." Methos stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around. "Where is he now?"
"He left," she answered shortly.
"So you had another fight," Methos surmised, aware of her volatile relationship with Nick. "What did you do to piss him off this time?"
"I didn't piss him off; he just took off after some creep who tried to mug us. Nick got himself killed in public. I told him to let the kid go, but he had this notion that justice had to be done." She rolled her eyes. "Never mind the fact the kid was armed."
"He has a habit of getting himself killed, doesn't he? You thought for sure he'd lost his head three weeks ago." Some remembered irritation at her frantic appearance on his doorstep crept through his voice.
"He thinks he'll live forever," she said wryly, annoyance, frustration, and love in her tone. "He's dead in Paris now."
"So you're alone here," Methos stated. "I'm surprised you haven't left yet to join him." Methos walked around the bar and leaned himself against it.
Amanda winced. "He, uh, isn't happy with me now."
Clearly interested, Methos quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you said you didn't piss him off."
"I, uh, kinda forgot to tell him that if he dies in public, he can't come back to that city for a while. I, uh, forgot to tell him a couple of other things. He hates it when I do that." Methos snorted, and Amanda hurried to finish her explanation. "We uh, we decided to stay away from each other before we kill each other." Feeling really uncomfortable with the confession, Amanda decided she'd said enough.
"So you're not seeing anyone right now."
Amanda eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want, Methos? You didn't come here in the middle of the night to talk about my love life." Her eyes narrowed as she calculated the angles. The way Methos was acting didn't make sense. He was usually a lot more aloof than this, though their friendship dated back to her first years of Immortality.
Methos returned her stare, his expression guarded.
"Why are you so concerned with whether or not I'm with any— " Amanda began, and then the light bulb switched on in her head. She leaned back against the bar, surprised. "Really, Methos, if you want me, all you had to do is say so."
"And what about Nick?"
Amanda sighed resignedly. "Someday, maybe we'll be together again, but...."
"In the meantime, there's always MacLeod," Methos finished for her.
She shook her head. "It's not like that and you know it. Duncan's my best friend."
"Who you happen to sleep with when neither of you are with someone. Tell me, is he that good in bed or is he just familiar?"
She looked at him, not understanding his motives for his questions. "Why do you care, Methos? You know Duncan loves me. He'll always be there for me if I need him."
It was entirely the wrong thing to say. Methos's face shuttered. "Yes, well, you're just blessed, aren't you?" he said scathingly. "You have his love and I have his undying gratitude."
Amanda stared at him. "That's never bothered you bef— " she started to say. Methos regarded her blandly as her voice broke off. Her breath caught in her throat, forcing her to swallow painfully.
Blindly, she reached for the nearest glass. Methos helpfully poured her a shot of Scotch. She downed it without thinking, gasping as the smooth whiskey registered. When she could breathe again, she set the glass down on the bar as Methos watched her.
"You. Want. Duncan," she managed finally.
"Doesn't everyone?" Methos asked with bitter humor.
Amanda ached for the pain she saw reflected in his angular face as the mask he usually wore slipped a fraction.
"Methos, I'm sorry." Even as she said the words, she knew it was a wholly inadequate way of expressing her sympathy.
Methos closed his eyes as if to acknowledge that the apology was coming from the one person he least needed to hear it from. Opening them, he shrugged fatalistically.
Compelled by a nameless urge, Amanda slipped off the stool and went to him, enfolding him in a simple embrace. He stood stiffly for a moment, then let himself be comforted. The silence between them grew as the minutes ticked away.
Amanda held him close, knowing that it wasn't enough. She realized that Methos had come to her for more than just this simple comfort. She drew back, making sure to catch Methos's gaze as she spoke his name. "What do you want me to do for you?" she asked huskily. "This-" she indicated their loose embrace with a wave of her left hand "— doesn't seem like enough."
He shook his head. "It wouldn't be the same," he told her.
She chuckled softly. "You knew that when you showed up." She paused. "Now, unless you want to pick someone off the streets and pretend he's Duncan, which I presume you already considered and abandoned as an option...?" She let her voice trail off as she slipped off her robe.
Methos' eyes traversed the length of her, absorbing every detail of her flesh. She held herself still, comfortable in her nudity but uncertain of his reaction.
"It wasn't the same," he said roughly, his gaze colliding with hers.
Amanda nodded. She wasn't surprised that he'd already tried a substitute, but there was no substitute for a lover who cared or for the one Methos really wanted. Goose bumps prickled her flesh, and the cold made her nipples stand erect, but she ignored the sudden chill. She knew she couldn't be whom Methos desired, but she was confident in her own ability to please someone sexually.
She stepped closer and reached out to cup his face and bring his lips closer to hers. She kissed him gently, tasting Scotch on his tongue, coaxing a response from him with tantalizing, feather-light touches. He responded almost woodenly, as if he was forcing a passion he didn't feel.
Somehow, she wasn't surprised at his reaction. If he had responded, she knew a part of her would be disappointed that he had given in so easily. She expected something more out of Methos; she had used her charm on him before and knew it took a lot of effort to get him to do anything. If he truly wanted Duncan as she suspected he did, Amanda doubted that she would really suffice as a substitute. She theorized that whoever Methos had had sex with before coming to her had probably walked away from the encounter more satisfied than he had. As much as she wanted to ease Methos's sexual frustration, she knew it required his full participation.
She stepped back and picked up her robe. Slipping it on, she told him, "It's okay, you know."
Methos closed his eyes briefly. "It's not you," he said awkwardly.
Amanda smiled. She'd seen the appreciation in his eyes. "I know." She leaned forward and kissed him again, this time on his cheek. She withdrew quickly and favored him with a quick grin. "Now, the way I see it, we can do one of two things: we can polish off the rest of the Scotch and plan for the seduction of one Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, or we can go to bed and plan in the morning. Which do you prefer?"
Methos looked at her disbelievingly, caught off guard by her easy acceptance of his lack of response. "In the morning," he managed finally.
"Good." Amanda yawned delicately. She picked up her sword and headed back in the direction of her bedroom. "You can take Nick's old bedroom upstairs."
She could feel Methos's stare all the way through the bar. Just before heading down the short corridor that led to her suite of rooms, she turned to look back at him. "What?" she questioned.
Methos walked towards her. "Your word," he began, "that you won't mention this to anyone."
"Mention what?" Amanda returned with her best innocent charm. "You weren't here."
Relief and gratitude flashed across his face.
She smiled and continued to her bedroom, trusting that Methos would figure out where Nick's bed was.
Over the course of the next two weeks, she became accustomed to Methos showing up at odd hours. He didn't always speak to her, nor was the great plan to seduce Duncan MacLeod ever mentioned. After the third night in a row of Methos showing up at dawn, Amanda had had enough.
"Look, Methos, you coming to me isn't going to get you in Duncan's bed." Amanda stared at her friend and tried to stifle a yawn. She'd been out on a heist, and the adrenaline rush of getting away with it had worn off. She had just changed into a pair of ruby silk pajamas, intent on getting to sleep, when Methos had arrived.
"Really?" Methos drawled sarcastically, slumping with exaggerated care onto a bar stool. "And here I thought it was."
Amanda stepped closer and sniffed him experimentally. "You're drunk, Methos," she pronounced, "and you smell of sex. Did you even shower before you came here?"
In reply, he leered suggestively.
Amanda shook her head and sighed. "This isn't getting you anywhere," she chided him.
"Doesn't matter," he replied, digging into a pocket of his coat for a small flask and drinking from it.
"You just come here because it's Holy Ground and because I'm here," she accused him. "Anyone stupid enough to challenge you here has to come through me."
He toasted her.
"Why you— " she started.
Then she noticed his coat was stained with blood.
"Methos, what happened?"
Slowly, he set the flask down and then reached into his coat. Her breath caught sharply as he placed the steel on the bar. The sword was missing the lower half of the blade, but it was enough for her to recognize it as the Ivanhoe Methos usually carried.
"So you see, Amanda," he declared a little unsteadily, "I'm celebrating the fact I'm alive."
With that announcement, Methos passed out.
Amanda sighed, relieved and annoyed at the same time.
*****
"Amanda, have you seen Methos?" Mac asked as he stepped into the bar later that day.
Amanda looked up from her perusal of what appeared to be an auction catalog and smiled at her best friend. She rose gracefully to her feet and launched herself at him. "Duncan! When did you get back in town?"
"Some time ago," he answered her distractedly, disentangling himself from her fervent embrace with the ease of long practice. "Have you seen Methos?" he repeated his question.
Amanda pouted at the silent rebuff, then shrugged fatalistically. "And you haven't stopped by to say hi in all this time?"
"I've been busy," he told her, and she knew it was a lie even as he said it. She decided to let it go; she could see he had other things on his mind than her.
"I haven't seen Methos in a while," she finally answered his question. Now, if you'd been here half an hour ago, it would be a different story. "Something wrong?"
"No," Duncan said slowly, with a shake of his head. "I'm not sure though. Joe thought Methos might be with you."
"I haven't seen him," she replied, mentally crossing her fingers behind her back. Duncan sometimes could tell quite well when she was lying and when she wasn't, and she hoped that this was one of the times when his deduction skills were lacking. She had a promise to Methos to keep.
She watched as Duncan brooded over her statement. She could tell he was genuinely worried.
"Darling, were you expecting him somewhere?"
"He was supposed to meet me for lunch. He's been late before, but he's never missed completely."
Lunch? Amanda thought as her curiosity meter rose a couple of notches. You don't meet Methos for lunch; he either shows up when you're just about to go, or when you're in the middle of it. But making a regular appointment? That doesn't sound like the Methos I know. Then again, the Methos who's been showing up here lately hasn't been the Methos I thought I knew.
"Well, he was here last night," Amanda remarked. "He needed a new sword, so I gave him one."
Alarm raced across Duncan's features. "What happened with the one he had?"
"It broke," she replied. "He's okay, Duncan," she reassured him. "You know this happens sometimes."
Duncan looked only vaguely mollified, causing Amanda to take another look at her best friend and sometime lover. The concern was no more than what Duncan would show for any of his friends — or was it? There were times that she got the impression that the relationship between two of her oldest friends went deeper than just friendship, and yet, given the way Methos had been acting lately, she knew it hadn't crossed that invisible line into physical intimacy.
With a sudden flash of insight, she wondered if Duncan knew where his feelings lay. She knew Duncan loved her deeply, but they'd never claimed exclusivity, and moreover, she knew it was possible to love more than one person at the same time.
Her gaze narrowed on Duncan, letting his musings over Methos's whereabouts and the possible causes for his sword breaking roll unheard past her. She tried to imagine the two men together and had to stop herself from drawing in her breath sharply as her imagination filled in the details. She knew just what Duncan looked like naked, and she'd seen enough of Methos to guess. They'd be beautiful together, and for a moment, Amanda caught herself wishing she could watch.
She shook her head at that notion. Duncan is not into letting other people watch, and you know that, Amanda admonished herself. She bit her lip, loving the way Duncan moved as he paced, and suddenly, she put Methos's recent actions with the way Duncan acted now and came up with a partridge in a pear tree.
"Oh my God." Belatedly realizing she'd spoken, Amanda clasped a hand over her mouth as Duncan pounced upon her.
"What? You remember where he is?" Duncan's tone revealed that he hadn't believed her earlier lie.
Oh shit. Um, what the hell do I say now? I wasn't even responding to whatever the hell you were saying, darling, but you look so anxious, I don't think a 'I wasn't thinking of what you were saying' is going to go over well. Think, Amanda, think. If you were Methos, and you wanted to sleep with someone you thought you had a snowball's chance in hell of succeeding with, where would you go? She thought quickly.
Amanda had made it her business to know where to get a hold of anyone she might call upon to help her in a crisis. Methos ranked number two on her list of those people. The apartment he rented under Adam Pierson's name wasn't where he'd be; it was under surveillance from the Watchers, a fact he'd groused about to her one evening. That meant he was staying elsewhere, but where?
Then she remembered his parting comment to her about needing to go to the bookstore. There was only one she could think of where he had free rein to come and go, where the Watchers had once been but weren't looking at any longer. It was the perfect place to hide.
"Have you been by Shakespeare and Company lately?"
Duncan shook his head. "I thought Methos sold that..." His voice trailed off.
He leaned over to Amanda, kissed her cheek quickly, and headed out the door.
****
Methos felt the familiar insistent throb of MacLeod's Presence minutes before the knock on the door to the bookstore came. He considered ignoring it even as pleasure at Mac's arrival surged within him. He sighed and gave in to the pleasure, calling himself a glutton for punishment even as he rose from his perusal of a long-forgotten text to open the door and let his friend in.
"You missed lunch." Mac held up a bag of what smelled intriguingly delicious as he entered.
Methos shrugged and turned away, hiding how touched he was by the offering. "I woke up late."
Mac set the bag of food down on the nearest flat surface and studied his friend. "Something come up last night after you left?"
"No." Deliberately, Methos infused the word with annoyance. With studied nonchalance, he wandered over to check out the contents of the bag. As Methos had suspected, it wasn't the usual takeout fare. It smelled suspiciously like pasta and chicken, jambalaya style. The container bore the name of the tiny Cajun restaurant buried in the outskirts of the city.
The contents were exactly what Methos thought they were, and suddenly Methos found himself wondering just when MacLeod had picked up that he liked the restaurant. He knew he'd never mentioned it to MacLeod, and finding it required an intricate knowledge of the city. Methos's eyes narrowed.
He set the food aside, though his taste buds watered at the scent wafting through the air from the sides of the Styrofoam container.
"You don't like it."
"No," Methos lied. Truth was, he was hungry and had just realized it. He just didn't trust himself around Mac right now.
"What's going on?" Mac demanded. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing." That you want to hear, Methos silently added.
"Don't lie to me," Mac growled. "Something's going on. You and Amanda are plotting something. Joe said you've been with her a lot lately. I just saw her and she said she had to give you a new sword. Who challenged you?"
Methos regarded Mac blandly and crossed his arms. "Does it matter?"
"Yes, damn it. You could've come to me. I would've given you a sword."
"The same exact one?" Methos challenged. "And where would you have told me to go while I was unarmed?"
"I would've protected you."
"You can't fight my battles for me. Amanda's bar is Holy Ground and she was more than willing to share her bed."
Something painful flickered in Mac's eyes. Methos saw the hurt and surprise and realized how the other man had interpreted his words.
It's better this way, Methos told himself grimly. Better that he thinks I'm with Amanda than for him to know Amanda's the last person I want.
"So that's how it is," Mac said. Methos could see Mac burying the hurt inside, visibly trying to accept the new twist of events with as much calm as possible. "When Joe told me I'd probably find you with her, I wondered."
"Jealous?" Methos taunted.
"No."
But Methos could see that he was. "You should've come back sooner," he said silkily. "Amanda was all alone and you weren't here to take care of her."
****
Mac couldn't believe what he was hearing. He remembered Methos had once expressed an interest in Amanda, but he hadn't expected anything to come of it, not when they both knew how he felt about Amanda.
"You expect me to believe that."
"Believe what you want, MacLeod. I needed someone to fill a need, and she was there. You weren't."
Something inside of him broke. All the anger, all the confusion, all the desperate concern of the past few hours, wondering where Methos had disappeared to — it all came flooding past the dam Mac had erected to protect himself from his emotions. He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't do a damned thing while their gazes met and the air hung heavy with the words Methos had spoken.
"What are you saying, Methos?"
Methos didn't answer, watching him with unfathomable eyes and a shuttered expression.
The minutes ticked by while Mac struggled to comprehend what hadn't been said.
Apparently tired of waiting for Mac to understand, Methos turned away. "Forget it, MacLeod. I already know what you're going to say."
And suddenly Mac knew that if Methos kept on walking, he'd never see the older Immortal again. Never was a long time to live with regret for words unsaid, actions not taken, paths not traveled. Mac did not want that, even if this course was not one he normally chose.
This was *Methos*.
"Don't go."
***
At the sound of Mac's voice, Methos stopped. Already, he was halfway through the door. He didn't dare turn around, afraid to find pity on his friend's face. He felt Mac's hand on his shoulder a heartbeat later, turning him around, Mac's fingers tilting his chin up slightly so that Methos was forced to look into Mac's eyes.
"I didn't know," Mac said softly, so softly the apology seemed to be wrapped in silk.
Methos closed his eyes, his heart aching with hope and fear. Reflexively, he pulled on the armor of cynicism and opened his eyes. "Why should you have? It's not like I broadcast it on the evening news: World's Oldest Immortal wants to fuck the Highlander."
"Is that all you want?"
Yes, Methos wanted to snarl, but what came out instead was a stark "No."
To say who was more surprised by the admission would have been difficult. Still, Mac recovered more quickly than Methos would have predicted.
"Where does Amanda fit into all this?" Suddenly suspicious, Mac concluded, "You were lying about being involved with her."
Methos started to shake his head, to deny the truth, but found himself strangely compelled to clarify it instead. "She owed me a favor from a few weeks ago. Getting the sword from her when mine broke was just payment on that favor. Nothing happened between us." Methos ignored the memory of Amanda offering herself to him as it flashed across his brain. There was no need for Mac to know that.
Mac smiled, relieved, and suddenly Methos hated that smile, knowing it meant that Mac still loved Amanda. He retreated into his armor again. "So you can see," he told Mac with deliberate coldness, "I didn't harm a hair on your fair lady's head."
"Methos," Mac began, but he'd had enough. Enough of wanting, of not having, of being so close, of Mac standing there before him looking like he was going to sacrifice himself if that's what Methos wanted, and he couldn't stand it anymore. The emotional toll drained him, leaving him feeling like he had nothing left to give.
"Don't. Just go." His voice echoed his exhaustion.
Mac held his gaze a long moment before finally complying. Methos closed his heart to the worry and concern he read in Mac's expression, pretend not to see the hand that Mac started to extend as he fought for something to say.
When Methos was sure Mac had left, he closed his eyes, and sagged against the basement wall. If he had any energy left, he would be crying, but he was beyond the point where tears would have given any relief. The ache just went on and on and he knew he wouldn't be over Duncan MacLeod for a long time to come.
Still, it hurt.
He sighed heavily and leaned on his knees, trying to convince himself that it was worth the effort to get up. He reminded himself that he still hadn't eaten anything, and the takeout that Mac had brought was probably still warm.
No, best to just toss that out, Methos told himself. You don't want to be thinking about him while you're eating.
Like you don't do that already? a voice in his head snickered.
Frustrated, Methos punched the wall, not even flinching when he broke his hand in the process.
***
He wasn't certain what made him pause just outside of the shop, but something made him stop and go back. The same nameless urge made him hurry as he retraced his steps down into the basement.
Methos met him at the bottom of the steps, a sword in his left hand. "I told you, leave."
"Or you'll take my head?" Mac didn't believe that for one second. Easily, he pushed away the blade at his throat.
At that, Methos turned and walked away, heading towards the part of the basement that, from Mac's recollection, held a small kitchenette. Mac followed him, noticing the fresh blood stain on the wall as he walked past, and wondered what had happened.
"Why'd you come back, Mac?" Methos asked when they had reached the kitchenette. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and proceeded to take a drink as he lounged against the sink to the right of the refrigerator.
"I don't know," Mac answered honestly. "I can't just let this lie unresolved."
"And what do you propose to do about it?"
From the way Methos held himself, it was clear to Mac that he didn't think Mac would follow through on that dare. For a moment, Mac considered just how right the other Immortal was on that score. Methos read his expression and nodded grimly, apparently not surprised. He took a sip of beer.
Silence fell as Mac stared at him. There were a million reasons why he shouldn't take the dare, but suddenly, Mac couldn't think of a single one.
Slowly, Mac moved to where Methos lounged. Mac took the beer away from his friend, setting it on the counter. He didn't want any distractions. Then he stepped in close, nearly crowding Methos with his body, and leaned in to kiss him.
***
It was all Methos could do to stand still as Mac kissed him. He was suddenly, absurdly afraid that if he responded, he would be somehow disappointed. Yet he couldn't deny the appeal of his fantasy coming true.
Mac started to pull away, no doubt discouraged by the lack of response. Methos grabbed him and pulled him closer. If he only had this one opportunity, Methos wasn't going to turn it down, even as some part of him warned him that he was a glutton for self-torture. Methos ignored that warning, needing desperately to have this one moment, this one kiss, even if it meant his heartache would be enriched by this memory.
Now it was Mac who stood still, surprised by Methos's actions. Methos faltered, reading the shock, and hating himself for it. This was it, then. Methos had had his chance, and it was patently obvious what the outcome was.
Mac was not going to be his lover.
It was, Methos thought sourly, exactly as he had predicted.
So why are you still standing here, waiting? his voice of self-preservation demanded. You have your answer.
His eyes met Mac's.
The smoldering flame he saw there both startled him and pleased him. He feared that he was only projecting a hope he'd dared not voice aloud.
Time slowed to turtle speed. Methos became hyperactively aware of the hum of the old refrigerator as the motor kicked on, of the way the overhead light in the basement was once again in need of replacement, the faintly spicy scent of Mac's aftershave, of the sound of his own breathing .
Two heads moved as if hypnotized. The first shared kiss exploded in Methos's mind as if it had been cannon fire, and somehow the image seemed fitting. He parted his lips slightly and felt a warm tongue infiltrate his mouth, searching, tasting. Methos met the invasion with a counterattack of his own. He could feel the press of Mac's much larger body against his own and the bite of the counter against his back, but those were distractions to the hot sweetness that was Mac's mouth. Mac was kissing him like he couldn't get enough, as if he too, felt the heat igniting his groin and wanted more.
Nothing mattered now except the need to kiss every inch of the man who held him trapped against the kitchen counter. Methos fumbled with the buttons of the shirt Mac wore, trying to remove it from him while still keeping their mouths fused. Frustrated, Methos tore it off him and felt Mac's moan of protest and surprise.
He pulled back slightly, only to have Mac take advantage of the opportunity to divest of him of the sweatshirt he'd been wearing. Impatiently, Methos kissed Mac again, only to have Mac's hands tugging at the zipper of his jeans.
He jerked at the first brush of Mac's hand on his erection even as his hand reached for Mac's. Their eyes met again as they held each other, then Mac buried his face against Methos's throat as he began to stroke Methos.
Methos shuddered with the touch, then nearly leapt out of his skin at the gentle lapping of Mac's tongue right at the curve of his throat where it met his shoulder. He couldn't help it; he was ticklish there. He felt Mac's amused smile against his skin, and then Mac's hand caressed his hard length, and Methos forgot his laughter.
Without warning, Mac dropped to his knees and kissed the proud flesh he held in his hand. Methos groaned at the sight and the sensation flooding through him as Mac took him into his mouth. Methos trembled. Blindly, he gripped the counter behind him for support.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was more than Methos had dared to dream. All he could do was spread his legs and let Mac suck him. Mac pumped Methos's shaft briefly with his mouth, then removed it from his mouth.
Methos whimpered a protest. That sound changed to a moan as Mac breathed over his erection, cooling the heated flesh slightly, right before taking it back into his mouth. The combination of temperatures sent a shock wave of pleasure through Methos. Instinctively, he arched his hips, wanting more.
Mac's hands were braced against Methos's thighs, keeping him from pounding into that sweet, knowing mouth. It crossed Methos's mind to wonder who had taught Mac how to suck like this, who had shown him just how to curl his tongue underneath the glans and flick ever so maddeningly while keeping his mouth around Methos's shaft. The thought passed quickly in favor of a quick note of silent gratitude that Methos was the recipient of such knowledge.
His hands tangled in Mac's hair, urging him on as the pleasure built. He felt Mac's right hand slip from its position on his thigh to gently massage his balls, and tried to remember how to keep from coming right then. It wasn't easy; Mac seemed to have stolen his breath and all rational thought. All Methos could think of now were the intense sensations rolling through his body from one achingly hard point.
Methos wasn't finished with the Highlander yet. Not by a long shot. The orgasm he'd had left Methos weak-kneed, but he didn't let that stop him. Instead, he took advantage of his momentary inability to stand to push Mac to the floor and lay atop him to reciprocate what he'd done.
For a moment, all Methos could do was lie there, relishing in the sensation of being this close to the one he'd dreamed of for so long. He could feel how different their bodies were; Mac was broader and hairier where he was not. He could feel the brush of Mac's erection against his own, the heat it radiated. Methos wasn't content just to lie there for long, though. He needed to touch, to taste this man beneath him.
He began his exploration by trailing slow, sweet kisses over Mac's face and down his throat. He paid special attention to the jugular, suspecting from the way Mac had tried to lick him there that it was an erogenous zone for the other man. He wasn't disappointed; Mac shivered appreciatively.
He let his hands roam over Mac's body before he bent his head to suck on one dusky nipple, and heard Mac moan at the sensation. He lingered there a while before moving on to repeat his actions with the other nipple, loving the way Mac responded to his touch.
He moved lower, trailing wet kisses down the smooth plane of Mac's stomach, dipping lightly into his navel. Mac trembled beneath him. Methos glanced up to see his eyes closed, pleasure clearly written in his face.
Methos moved lower still and his hands grasped Mac's hips.
"Yes...." The encouragement came out as a breathless moan.
Methos smiled and moved to kiss the inside of Mac's thigh. Mac moaned a protest and reached for him. Methos avoided the hands that reached for his head and kissed the opposite thigh, careful to avoid the thick, dark shaft that lay between the spread thighs.
"Please..."
This time, Methos heeded the plea. He took the erection into his mouth, nearly overwhelmed by the musky scent of it, and shivered with the first bittersweet taste of Mac's arousal. The world contracted to this, the hot, hard, pulsing flesh in his mouth, the feel of the hand on the back of his head as it urged him on, the throb of his own rejuvenated erection. He ignored the demands of his body, wanting to prolong Mac's pleasure as long as possible.
Methos could feel Mac writhing beneath him, pumping into his mouth as the pleasure became too intense to bear. Mac was moaning incoherently now, and his body was starting to tense. Methos shifted slightly, and slipped a hand between his body and Mac's, reaching for the place he knew would bring Mac over the edge.
"Oh, God!"
Methos heard the shout and took Mac fully into his mouth, swallowing as Mac came. That triggered his own orgasm, and suddenly it took all his energy to focus his attention on Mac. He shivered with the force of the passion shooting through him. Methos then slid up his lover's body, wanting to hold him as they trembled with the aftershocks of their release.
Mac lay there, unable to do anything but let Methos hold him. He felt drained and strangely complete. It wasn't a feeling he'd had often. He spent a moment trying to analyze it before deciding to chalk it up to sheer pleasure. Gradually, he became aware of the hardness of the concrete floor, the scent of sex in the air, and the heaviness of their breathing. He started to move, then realized Methos was still atop him.
Methos rose almost reluctantly, as if he was afraid by letting go, the moment would end. Mac knew the instant he stood it had. Methos turned away and began putting on his clothes, leaving Mac to follow his example.
There was nothing Mac could say. He had taken the dare... but he was left feeling off-balance and out of kilter. Nothing would ever be the same between him and Mac. Perhaps it never had been. He dressed slowly, trying to find a way to go from this point, but unable to think. His mind was still reeling from what had just transpired.
In the end, all he could do was look at Methos before left and utter, "I'll see you."
Methos nodded his assent. His face was a bland mask, as if they hadn't just been lying on the floor wrapped up in each other, but had been discussing some piece of ancient history. Mac hesitated at the bottom of the stairs leading out of the basement, searching his friend's eyes for some hint of emotion other than Methos's usual wary friendliness. There was none.
Troubled, Mac took his leave, wondering if he was making the right choice. He knew, though, that he couldn't stay. He had to make some sense of this, some measure of defining the change it made in his already complicated relationship with Methos. He could only hope that whatever he decided it meant, Methos would still be there for him. He'd come to rely on him being there, regardless of the storms their lives had gone through.
As he reached the top of the stairs, he thought he heard Methos whisper, "Never again."
He hesitated, unsure of what he'd heard, uncertain of how he felt.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, remembering everything he'd ever felt about Methos.
Then he made his decision.
**Finis**
Tales the Doormouse Could Tell
On to the sequel, A Piece of Sky