Aftermath

by Atira Kei

{This story takes place after "Finale II"}

It was a hole in the wall in the center of Paris, but at the moment, it was one of the few places that remained open. Battery-operated radios blared, giving different reports as to the cause of the massive blackout hitting the "City of Lights". Some said it was a freak electrical storm, others that it was a powerful surge, a fault in the entire system. Methos smiled a little as he picked up his drink and another the bartender placed before him. If only they knew the truth...

Or perhaps it just as well they didn't. The point of the showdown between Duncan MacLeod and Kalas was to save the secrecy of all Immortals and Watchers. Right now, Methos suspected, MacLeod was safely in the arms of Amanda, a talented woman who knew how to deal with the Scot in the aftermath of a quickening like the one he had witnessed.

"Here." Methos placed Joe's drink down as he returned to the small table they shared, a favored place three young people had given up when they spotted Dawson approaching. The American murmured thanks, but made no move to pick up the shot of whiskey he had requested.

He's beyond exhausted. Methos sensed a dull darkness within Dawson. Sometimes I forget he is the different one among us. The one with the most spirit but the least tolerance for all the stress we've been through. There had been some food at the barge where they'd gathered for a brief celebration of Duncan's victory over Kalas, but the immortal couldn't remember if Joe had actually eaten.

Methos' first instinct was to push, to force food or rest, but years of knowing this man stopped him. Dawson was fiercely independent. If even a hint of nurturing began, Joe would close himself off until he collapsed. This had to be handled carefully. "Joe, I'm starved. I'm going to see if there's any food left here. Want anything?"

"Nah," Joe replied quietly. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry right now."

Stubborn. Methos sighed even as he smiled. He went to the bar. There were some rolls left from the kitchen, even a meat pie, now cold, but edible. As he returned to the table, his noticed Joe's head had fallen forward and the body began to sway.

Quickly, he walked to the table, ready to brace the mortal. "You're not vegging out on me, Joe. Are you?"

Dawson's head jerked up, his eyes blinked rapidly. "Damn! Sorry..."

"Don't be. All right?" Methos casually sat down, placing the food between them. "Seems they had a few things left." He picked up one of the rolls, careful to make sure the meat pie was closest to the mortal. Maybe the smell will force him to nibble.

"God, Adam. What day is this? Wednesday?"

"Friday," Methos supplied, watching his friend in concern. "Actually, it's after mid-night so it's Saturday."

Dawson sighed, his eyes moving to the food on the plate. "Saturday." Joe shook his head. "I don't know how I lost track."

Silence. Methos took the meat pie and broke it in half, holding the larger half out to his companion. "Joe, please eat something. Then we'll go back to the hotel."

Dawson opened his mouth, a protest on his lips. Methos smiled, shoving the pie into the mortal's mouth. "Eat!" he insisted playfully.

Much to his relief, Joe grunted, biting down on the pie, taking it from the immortal, his fingers brushing over the ancient's. Methos raised an eyebrow, surprised, wondering for a moment if he imaged the hint of a caress. Blue eyes met his, holding nothing more than vague friendliness.

Still, Methos played with the idea, the thought. Joe was a handsome man in his mid-forties, full of life... and scars. They met nine years ago, when Dawson came to visit his friend, Donald Saltzer. At that time, he'd been with Don nearly eighteen months, had been the senior researcher's lover for half that time. Joe was following his assignment, Duncan MacLeod. Methos was unloading an order, beginning the process of updating the inventory when he heard the bell signaling the arrival of a customer...

{Paris, 1985}

"Just a minute!" he called, examining the piles he had made, mentally keeping track as he got to his feet. There was a mirror in front of him, one angled to peek around the "back room" Don had made with rows of bookshelves. It was habit for Methos to look, to prepare himself. His visitor was not an immortal, or a pre-immortal, but there were other threats he had to worry about lately. The customer was a tall, stocky

man, perhaps thirty-five, his face weathered, but handsome and expressive, his hair dark with hints of gray. Methos searched his memory. This man was a Watcher, a friend of Don's, and--

"That didn't sound like Don," another voice spoke out of range to the mirror. Methos stiffened, recognizing that other voice immediately. Horton.

"You know he has an assistant," the stocky figure replied, turning towards the invisible figure. "Adam Pierson? He's been with Don for almost two years."

"Yes, I heard." Horton's voice was quiet, but precise, a contrast to the other man's casual Americanism.

Methos took a deep breath, then another. Don Saltzer would be coming back soon, but he could not hide from these men forever. He braced himself, his eyes falling to a small nook where he kept his gun. He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he would not allow 5000 years to go

to waste because of the likes of Horton.

"Hello," he said, coming into view, assuming a withdrawn pose, a shy expression. "I'm Adam Pierson," he said, holding out his hand to the stocky man he'd first seen.

"Joe Dawson," the more friendly of the two replied as he took Pierson's hand in a warm handshake. Thousands of years of experience came into play, and Methos found himself liking this man immediately, even as he placed the man's identity. MacLeod's Watcher.... so this is the current keeper of the legend. Dawson gestured behind him.

"This is James Horton." Adam nodded, reaching out to shake the other man's hand, taking time to briefly compare now that he understood. James was married to Joe's sister. Both men had blue eyes. But while Dawson's held a gentle warmth, and a distant sadness; Horton's held nightmares, turmoil, and obsession. Methos was already aware of this Watchers' activities, his gathering of a secret organization, but had no proof.

"Mr. Horton." Methos held himself in his grad school persona as his hand gripped the mortal's, a brief contact. But as he withdrew, his felt a scratch, then a moment of pain. "Hey!"

"James!" Dawson grabbed his brother-in-law. "What the hell do you think you're doing!"

Methos drew back, glancing at his hand, his heart pounding. His hand was cut and bleeding, but already he could feel his own body reacting, moving to close the wound. He'd heard of Horton's obsession with immortal's, his fear of having one among the Watchers. In one open moment, Methos knew he had blown his cover of the last three years. Immediately, he thought of his lover, of the choices that would suddenly have to be made.

In an attempt to salvage the situation, he pulled the cut skin apart, using his thumbnail to reopen the wound slightly, squeezing to force more blood out, then covered the injury with his other hand. "What the

bloody hell do you think you're doing!" he cried with all the indignation he could muster.

"Just a little test," James said casually, his eyes fastened on Methos. "I study the records of all the new ones who come to us. But there were some things about yours. I thought I'd see for myself...."

"By cutting me open!" Methos continued to rage, glad to see the blood leaking out from between his fingers. Dawson had a disgusted expression on his face. "What's wrong with my record! And what right do you have to look them up!"

"You're parents died when you were six? Your grandmother died just after you left college? No other relatives? No family?" Horton pushed past Dawson. "I've been wanting to meet you, Mr. Pierson. I just needed a convenient moment."

"It's all been verified!" Methos shouted in defense. He had taken great pains to created several levels of vital information in this modern age. It had been questioned, then dismissed by Headquarters. He wasn't

the only Watcher with no family. Though no family guaranteed that one would never work in the field, which suited Methos just fine.

"Then I'm sorry," Horton apologized, sounding sincere. He took out a handkerchief. "Let me take a look."

Methos back up, holding his wounded hand more tightly, still playing his part. "Not on your life! Get out! Both of you!" he added, including Dawson in his rage.

"Not until I've seen it!" Horton lunged forward. Warrior instincts came alive in Methos, and he stood taller, his gaze hardened, ready for battle.

"James!" Dawson grabbed his companion, pulling him. But he seem to have trouble keeping his balance and fell, taking Horton with him.

"Joseph, you idiot!" James got up, but made no move to help the fallen American.

"Get out!" Joe ordered from the floor, his expression as threatening as Horton's. "I came here to see my friend, not to play one of your games!" His eyes shifted to Methos. "I had no idea he was going to

do this. I'm sorry."

Methos studied each man, holding Dawson's gaze a little longer than necessary. "Then Mr. Horton can leave," he said quietly, allowing some of his real anger to surface. "And I'll be sure to let Headquarters know that one of their best field workers is a little unstable, slashing their researchers without cause."

James opened his mouth, then closed it, his pale face gaining a flush of color. "I'll wait for you outside," he told Joe.

"Don't bother! I can get myself back!" Dawson countered, pushing himself up into a sitting position, wincing as his legs shifted. "Just go away!"

With a stiff posture, Horton left the bookstore. Methos moved closer to the other mortal, still on his guard. He'd heard good things about Joseph Dawson. The American was an excellent Watcher, highly intelligent, and highly personable. Don spoke of him often, making

it clear that this man was among those who could be trusted. But he was also Horton's brother-in-law.

"Are you all right?" Methos asked, readjusting his persona back into that of Adam Pierson.

"Yeah." Dawson shifted again. "Damn!"

"Can you get up?" Methos suddenly remembered another important fact. Dawson was a double amputee, though it was not apparent at first because of the prosthetics. He walks, Methos noted. Must be as tough as an ox to able to do this with the ease he's shown.

"I'll be fine. I just need a firm surface to get myself up." He began to drag himself towards the nearest display table.

"No, don't." Methos sighed, regretting his harsh words to this man. He bent, holding out his hand, careful to hold the other one back, ready to act as a solid surface for this man. "Let me help you."

"I'm all right!" Dawson insisted, eyeing him. "Don't you need to wash that or something? Or do you like leaving the blood stains behind for show?"

Methos' eyes narrowed, his heart began to race once more as he exposed his "injured" hand, ending the pretense. "You know." How much do you know?

Dawson nodded. "I had a feeling. The way Don talks about you." He glanced at the immortal's hand. "And now I know I'm right."

Trick! Methos took a moment to think of his next words and actions. He guessed! He wasn't sure! Methos, you're beginning to get as old as your years! Senility is setting in! His anger was back, more at his own stupidity than this man's ability to manipulate him, if only for a moment.

"So you got with a carrot what Horton couldn't with his stick, is that it?" he challenged angrily. "Tell me, did you two plan this? Should I just call him back in, or will you?" Methos moved closer to his gun. He didn't want to do it, his persona was already destroyed. But if he needed to defend himself.... Maybe if I just keep this man down and kill Horton.

"Adam!" Don came through the door, his expression tearful. "Adam, what" He paused as he saw Dawson. "Joe!" He knelt by the American. "What happened! I saw Horton driving away! He had this look on his face that scared me to the bone!"

"James was being an asshole," Dawson said, turning himself. "Sometimes he doesn't know his manners."

"He cut me with a razor," Methos announced, feeling it best to get to the point. "Your friend here knows what I am."

Don visibly paled, then rallied. "Joe! Does James know?"

"No," Joe grunted. "Just me."

Saltzer gripped the younger man's shoulders. "Joe, you can't tell him! Not him! Not Headquarters! You know what will happen!"

Dawson met his friend's gaze then Methos'. The ancient immortal could see the thoughts progressing, weighing and judging. "Just tell me one thing, Adam," he said after a moment. "Did you become immortal before or after you joined us?"

"Before," Methos replied honestly, sensing that honesty would go a lot further with this man. "Anything else you want to know?"

Joe shook his head. "No. That's it. It's none of my business. And I don't talk about what's none of my business."

Something akin to shock then intense relief filtered through Methos. He smiled, kneeling down opposite Don. "You sure you're all right?" he asked. "That was quite a fall."

Dawson shrugged. "I've done worse." He looked to both men. "I could use a drink, though."

"Mmmm..." Methos considered. During the last few months he'd become aware of Horton's activities, he'd learned of the man's zeal for hunting immortals among the ranks of Watchers. To his own knowledge, there were about ten immortals who were Watchers, insignificant researchers looking for some shelter from the Game for a space of time.

Last week, two were found and disappeared. The ancient immortal had begun to wonder when he might be discovered. Today was the day, but Joe Dawson proved to be his shield, and perhaps a good friend. Methos held out his hand. "There's a little place around the corner. Doesn't look like much, but it's got some of the best whiskey in town."

A smile broke across the American's face as he accepted Methos' help in getting to his feet. "Better put something on your hand for a few days," he warned. "James will be watching."

"Good point." Methos looked at Don, who'd been silent through the conversation. There was a look in the gray eyes, a sudden fear. The ancient immortal understood and walked up to him, uncaring of Joe's reaction as his caressed the mortal's cheek. "I would never leave

you without giving you the choice to join me, love."

Saltzer closed his eyes, then opened them, relief clear in his expression. "Let's get a drink," he agreed.

{Paris, 1994)

"Adam? Hey... Earth to Adam.'

His head snapped up. Dawson was staring at him, his mouth moving as he swallowed a bit of the meat pie. "Sorry. I was lost in thought," Methos offered.

"Good ones, I hope," Joe prodded.

"Yes," the old immortal admitted. "Memories." He smiled, feeling a brief sadness. "I was thinking about Don."

Dawson stared at him then nodded. "He was a good friend to me, but I know you two... I know Don loved you."

Methos frowned. "He loved Christine, too.... for different reasons. Sometimes I wish she'd been a little different." He smiled. "In the beginning, I liked her. I though we all might..." He stopped, watching Dawson for reaction, surprised and relieved to find none. "I like variety," he added, further testing his friend's attitude.

"I'm old enough to have seen a few things, Adam," Joe's tone was worldly and amused. Methos licked his lips, his thoughts churning as he considered the mortal's stance, the possibilities. He was bonded to Dawson tonight, sensitive to his friend's emotions. It was like this with Don, with countless other friends and lovers. Even MacLeod's soul touched his occasionally, though not yet with the energy that would bind them as lovers... not yet.

But Joe... Their eyes met. Methos saw the American's rugged face flush red, but his gaze never wavered. Then Dawson's face paled. Exhaustion filtered into Methos' awareness.

"Joe, let's go back to the hotel," he suggested, moving to stand.

Again, Joe seem to shock himself into awareness. "I don't really want to, Adam. I'm not tired. But I don't want to keep you out...."

"We're both tired, my friend," Methos told him, curious about the faint jumble of emotions he sensed from his friend. "We've been through a lot over the past few days. Yes?"

The mortal looked as if he would continue to resist, then sighed. "Yeah. Okay."

Methos smiled. His eyes scanned the bar, then the street outside. He could see lights turning on in the distance as electricity was restored. The blackout was ending. "It looks like all the excitement is over."

"Great." Joe replied, his tone bordering on sarcasm. "I've had just about enough for one lifetime."

Methos felt the deep feelings behind those words. Sadness. Tragedy. Guilt. Even fear. "Joe."

"Okay! Let's go!" Joe moved himself, prepared to rise.

Methos stood quickly, skillfully gripping Joe's arm in support, then more firmly as his charge seem to sway. "We'll be back at the hotel in five minutes," he assured as they walked out into the street.

Streetlights were working again, but pedestrians were everywhere, and cars clogged every intersection. What should have been five minutes turned to twenty. Glancing aside, Methos noted Dawson's head had fallen forward, his eyes were closed. By the time they reached their destination, Joe was snoring.

He shut off the engine as he considered the possibility of simply staying in the garage beneath the hotel, to let his friend rest undisturbed. But Joe Dawson was not a young man, and Methos knew the mortal would pay with stiff joints and sore muscles if he remained like this. With care, he turned towards Dawson. Joe's head had bent to one side against the cool window, his mouth slightly open. He'd seen this man sleep before, but tonight it took on a different meaning. He took a moment to watch, then lean forward to release the seat belt buckle.

Then paused again, a feeling rushing through him, one he'd had for Dawson before but had buried away, either because of James Horton, or his relationship to Don, his own hesitation to reveal his real identity to the perceptive man. But tonight... His fingers brushed over the heavy coat Dawson wore, then traced a line between he edge of Joe's beard and the bare neck presented to him.

A few days ago, I compared you to Don. But you are so different. I loved Don for his gentleness, his quiet presence that gave me a much-needed haven. You, my friend, give sharp edges to my thoughts, something I'm going to need now that MacLeod has drawn me back into the struggle. He continued to lightly explore the mortal, resisting the temptation to take advantage of the moment.

Dawson sighed, stirring. Methos drew his hand back, but not his body. "Joe, wake up," he commanded softly. "We're back at the hotel."

"Finally." Joe blinked, then focused. His eyes dilated as they fell on Methos' face mere inches from his own. Surprise, then arousal filtered into Methos' awareness, sending threads of longing through his own body. Dawson swallowed, his tongue peeked out. Methos held still as the mortal's large, callused fingers gripped his shoulders, then touched his face. "No... I'm sorry." Dawson pulled away. "Adam, I—"

The ancient immortal covered Joe's mouth. "Shhh... It's all right. Really. Let's go to the room. You need rest. Yes?"

Joe released a long breath. Methos sensed relief. Silently, They got out of the car, walking through the hotel to Dawson's room. Without a word, he followed the mortal into the room.

"I need to get cleaned up," Joe said, his first words since the garage. He walked to the foot of his bed, opening his suitcase, picking out boxers, undershirt, and a robe. Then he moved to his wheelchair. "I might be awhile if you need to use the bathroom."

Methos shook his head, letting the American set the pace. We've each made our first moves. He needs to regroup. Or perhaps he doesn't want the relationship to go that far. That's his decision. "You go ahead. I can go to the lobby if the urge strikes. Take your time. Call me if you need anything."

Joe nodded, his expression as neutral as his thoughts. A moment later, the bathroom door closed. A few minutes later, the shower came on. The hotel room was small, holding simple furniture that had been pushed to the side to allow for the wheelchair. Outside the bath, there was a sink. Methos took time to clean himself off, wondering what he should do next. Joe hadn't asked him to leave, or stay. Prepared for either response, Methos knocked on the bathroom door. "Hey, Joe? Can I borrow something to wear?"

There was long silence until Methos wondered if he had been heard. Then Dawson's voice boomed over the sound of running water. "There's a robe I left draped over the chair. Help yourself."

I can stay. Methos stripped, putting on the terry cloth robe he found on the chair, sinking into the luxury of the oversized garment. He sat down on the bed, his back against the headboard, the stress and tension of the past week, of the past three months working their way through his mind, his body. Kalas was dead. The Highlander lived. Don was dead. Christine was dead. But Joe lived. And Methos, the 5000-year-old immortal, retained his alter ego, Adam Pierson, for awhile longer.

The sounds of Paris, of the shower, of the odd disconnected sounds always present in this modem age wafted through him. Two weeks ago, he made a decision he knew would change his life for the first time in over a thousand years. He'd already stored his things, had begun to make arrangements to kill himself, to hide away from humanity. It was his habit, the way he did things. Yet, much to his own surprise, he found himself questioning this path. MacLeod was a powerful immortal, a self-proclaimed protector of the weak. Methos had sincerely offered Duncan his head rather than have Kalas take it. And the Highlander would not do it, would not be forced to do it. Then there was the matter of Joe Dawson. Methos had to see him, to explain himself, to see what the American thought, to test the waters...

{Seacouver, USA Two weeks ago...}

It was after hours at "Joe's Bar" when he entered, his nerves on edge. He didn't know what to say to his friend, how Joe would react. Dawson stood behind his bar, cleaning glasses, completely unaware of another presence until the door clicked shut.

"Damn!" Dawson looked up. "I'm sorry. I'm clos—" Joe froze as he saw Methos. "Adam."

"Joe." Methos countered without emotion, waiting to see the mortal's first response before risking himself.

Dawson remained where he was, his face gaining a wry expression. "Mac told me," he said simply, then laughed. "Man, when you said you had become immortal before joining the Watchers, you weren't kidding!"

The tension within the immortal eased. "Well, what's a millennia or two between friends." He gazed into Dawson's eyes. "Yes?"

Joe shook his head. He drew down a mug and filled it with his finest draft, then put it down on the bar. "Come on. Have a beer."

Without thought, Methos stepped up to the bar, sitting down, putting his hand around the beer, taking in it's coldness, feeling completely at ease and alienated all at once. Several moments of silence passed. Dawson moved to the stage area, picking up his guitar.

"So... that's it?" Methos asked awkwardly.

"What?" Joe began warming up, notes to chords, then back. "Adam, what do you want me to say? I've known you're immortal for a long time now. The fact you're the "oldest living immortal" was your business. What can I possibly say? You know I wouldn't betray you, or you wouldn't have come back." He paused, then added; "The only thing I want to know is how MacLeod knew who you were. He didn't say you told him."

"I didn't." Methos stared at the top of the wooden bar, thinking, then sighed. "It was stupid. I should have known how powerful he was." Methos took a few swallows of the beer. "You see, the quickenings inside us are like fingerprints that change as we grow older and take heads." He thought a moment, then put down his drink down. "Let me show you something."

Joe watched him expectantly, curiously. Methos centered himself, letting shields he had acquired over thousands of years fade, letting his true quickening bleed out of him. At first Dawson just sat, frowning, then he shifted uncomfortably, his eyes going wide as he understood. "Holy Mother!"

Point made, Methos reigned in his energy, folding it away with the ease of long practice. It had been a bit of a gamble. Any immortal within a hundred meters could have sensed him. But his life with Don had taught him to take some chances, to involve himself more directly in the affairs of the world. Don's death had taught him that hiding was not the answer, not anymore. The Highlander was a legend, a prophesy unfolding. And Joe...

"I didn't have to do that with MacLeod," Methos explained, picking up his beer once more. "With Kalas around, I had everything under control. To another immortal. I'd seem like some youngling... like Richie Ryan. But Duncan's more perceptive than I thouht. It was like he drew the quickening out of me."

"That's our Highlander," Dawson agreed, his tone more serious. "A puzzle in a maze."

He put his instrument aside. "Adam, about Don... I didn't get a chance to say how sorry I am.'

Methos smiled, feeling the mortal's warmth like a balm. "He's in a better place, Joe." He raised his mug. "To a good friend gone to the Summer Lands," he declared. "And to a good friend who has lifted my heart today."

The mortal's eyes froze on him, then fell away. Color stained Dawson's cheeks. Embarrassment? Methos shifted, hiding his own sudden arousal. No. Not yet. Too much going on. Methos refocused his thoughts.

There was another, more important reason, for his coming here.

"Joe," Methos began, changing the subject. "I came here for another reason. It's about Christine Saltzer. I think there might be trouble..."

{Paris.. the present}

Methos opened his eyes, surprised to find he had dozed off. The room was darker, lit only by the lights of Paris shining through the sliding glass doors leading to a balcony. He straightened up, glancing towards the

bathroom, finding the door open, the light out. Beside the bed stood Joe's prosthetics and wheelchair. The clock on the nightstand read nearly four in the morning. He'd slept a little over three hours.

Methos' hand fell on to a warm lump beside him. Joe... The Watcher was deep under the blankets, almost lying on the edge, facing away from Methos. At first, he was relieved. The American was finally

getting the rest he desperately needed. Then odd sounds caught his attention. The ancient immortal heard irregular breaths, soft broken noises. Fear and pain broadcasted from the still form. He's dreaming. he realized. No, a nightmare.

"Joe." Methos leaned closer. "Joe, wake up."

Dawson stirred, turning. His broad face was red, his expression twisted. Concerned, Methos touched him, letting a little of his presence sink into the mortal. "Joe, please wake up."

"No..." Dawson sniffed, a sob escaping him. "Somebody find me..."

The voice was that of a middle-aged man, but Methos could hear a younger tone, a frightened child. "Joe, I'm here. You're not alone."

"I can't move.... I can't let them hear..." Joe raised his arms to his face. "I can't die like this," he whispered.

"Joe!" Methos shook him gently. "Joe!"

Dawson stilled, then stiffened. "Oh god!" He blinked, gazing up at Methos for several seconds, then closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Methos pulled back slightly, giving the other man some space. Joe seem to orient quickly, though his body shook in reaction. "It's all right, Joe. You're safe."

Dawson quickly ran his hands over his face. "I hate like hell when this happens!" He gazed up at the immortal. "I'm all right."

"No, you're not." Methos caressed the mortal's cheek, letting his shields fall further to embrace this man's soul. "What were you dreaming of?"

"Nam," Joe sighed, then shrugged. "I get flashbacks sometimes, mostly when I'm under stress. I'm in the swamp after the landmine got me. Hours and hours, Adam... I don't remember how long I was there." Tears rolled over his cheeks. "It was so cold, Adam. Cold and smelly. I didn't know how bad I was... the doctors said I survived by force of will... I don't know." He sniffed. "All I know was that I was a scared kid caught between screaming my lungs out so someone could find me, then holding it all in when I realized that I might not want to be found."

While Joe spoke, Methos continued to caress his face, wiping the tears away, moving down, his fingers gliding over the mortal's neck, even pulling the covers down a little to press his hand against the cotton fabric

covering Dawson's chest. "You're not alone," he assured, projecting calm into the fading chaos. "I'm here."

Suddenly, Joe moved. The immortal found himself crushed against the American. Recovering quickly, he wound his arms around Dawson as near silent sobs escaped his companion in short bursts. "It's all right, Joe," Methos assured. "You need this."

Dawson sobbed more openly, holding on to Methos in a death grip. Minutes passed) then Joe relaxed in Methos' hold, his breathing slowed. "Adam."

"Hmmm?" The immortal's hands roamed over Dawson's shoulders, seeking to comfort, satisfying his own desire to touch.

"Make love to me."

Methos froze, then pulled back. Joe's expression was uncertain, but his desires were clear. "It would be my pleasure, love," he said quietly, his friendly touches changing, becoming more intimate. "And not just this

time, either."

Dawson's eyes raked over him, doubt wrinkling his forehead. "I'm not Don."

"Meaning... what?"

Joe shrugged. "I don't want to commit you..."

Methos laughed. He pulled the covers off his companion, revealing boxers and undershirt. "I've been committed to you for a long time, my friend." He hesitated, then spoke a phrase that would change everything between them. "I love you, Joseph... as a friend, a dear friend. Before tonight, I just never seem to have the opportunity to tell you this. As for being your lover..." Methos dipped his head, his lips brushing Joe's. "The only thing I need for you to tell me is that you want to be mine." He stared into the mortal's eyes. "You don't even have to feel the same way I do, Joe. Your friendship is enough."

Dawson frowned, his hands exploring the immortal's face, drifting into his hair. "No.... Jesus, this is going to sound so sappy. But I fell in love with you the day we met at the bookstore. I just didn't think you'd want me... not with Don."

"Actually, it was Horton that made me keep my distance, Joe." His hands continued their journey, exploring.

Joe took a deep breath. "Adam, I don't have much experience with other men, and what I do have was a long time ago," he supplied, his tone hesitant as if afraid to destroy the moment. "I'm afraid I won't be able to give you what you need. My legs..."

"Stop!" Methos knew where Joe was headed, and it irritated him to the core. "I don't want to hear it, Joe! I don't care!" He took back the sharpness of his words with a wicked smile. "Anyway, No man has had the experience with other men that I have had" He paused as a thought came to him. "All right, there might be one... but I'm not sure he's still alive. And believe me, you don't want *his* kind of experience." He

drew closer, his hand gliding through the pant leg of Dawson's boxers, feeling the smooth/rough skin covering the mortal's stumps. "As for these... so what? Why should that make a difference?"

Dawson was silent, watching... waiting. Methos took it as a signal. He doesn't know where to start, but he wants to start. "Sex is universal, love," he said softly, leaning close, his lips brushing Joe's. "It always starts with a kiss."

His lips came down again, lightly inviting response. Dawson groaned, drawing the immortal's head to him, demanding more contact as his tongue slipped between Methos' lips. After a moment, the ancient immortal mirrored his actions, his own hands pulling up Joe's undershirt, giving him access to the hard abdomen, feeling the strength in the well-developed torso. Many would assume it to be fat... I know better. This is going to be wonderful if I can get him past some important barriers.

"Take off your shirt, Joe." he commanded as he opened his own robe. His cock was fully aroused, but not to the point of need. His shirt off, Joe's eyes wandered over Methos', stopping on an irregularity in the skin around the shoulder. "Is that a scar?" His finger traced the long, thick line. "How did this happen?"

"Before my first death," Methos said, vaguely surprised. Don never mentioned it, and he hadn't noticed it in centuries. "I think I was practicing with a knife.... I might have been a child. I don't remember the details now. Too long ago." He matched Joe's caress, brushing his fingers over his lover's hairy shoulders. "Too imperfect for you?" he teased, finding a faint roadmap of scars, some deep, some shallow all across the American's chest and abdomen.

"Nothing is imperfect about you," Joe announced softly. "I don't know what you think of me..."

"I told you I didn't want to hear it." Methos replaced his hand with his lips, lightly kissing over the warm skin, briefly tasting one nipple, then the other. "You're fine just as you are." He arched an eyebrow as he considered his new lover. His hands drifted down to the waistband of Joe's boxers.

"Adam, wait-" Dawson grabbed Methos' wrists, stopping them. "It's not any better under there."

Methos immediately understood. He'd seen Joe's stumps. The army surgeons had done an excellent job, saving as much of Dawson's legs as possible. But he also knew there had been other injuries from the explosion, near fatal injuries.... deep wounds. "I want to see," he said clearly, then added; "Do you think I haven't seen scars or disfigurement? Or that I'm that shallow?" He tugged gently on the garment, relieved to feel little resistance from Joe's grip. "In fact, in my day, scars were a sign of an ability to overcome, to survive. Very valuable traits that got all the ladies, and some of the men very excited." He lowered his head, his lips touching Dawson just below the belly button, his tongue peeking out to glide over the surface.

Joe gasped, releasing Methos, his hands finding new purchase in the ancient immortal's thick dark hair, hesitant. Methos could smell it then, the arousal, the faint push of Joe's cock against the cotton fabric. "Lift your hips, love," he breathed, as much asking for assistance as permission to go this one step further. Joe quickly acquiesced, and the boxers were stripped from him, shortly followed by Methos' robe. Both completely nude, the men surveyed each other.

It was as Dawson warned him, but not as bad as Methos expected. There were faint burn scars across the lower abdomen, and one sutured gash that puckered deeply. Joe gasped as Methos brushed his hand over the area. "Does it hurt?" he wondered.

"No," Joe said, his breathing growing more rapid. "I can hardly feel anything, except here and there. Then it's like a thousand ants running down my spine."

"Unpleasant?" Methos speculated.

"Uh.. no." Dawson flushed. "Gives me a hard on like you wouldn't believe."

"Hmm.." Joe's cock was very stiff, standing out from his body, inviting. You're a big boy, Methos admired. His hands rubbed over Dawson's hips, avoiding any areas that might stimulate him further. "Something to explore in the future," he commented. His mouth watered as he beheld cockhead weep with pre-cum. "This is what I came for."

He went down on the mortal, wrapping his arms around the muscular stumps as buried his face into Joe's crotch. Powerful hips thrusted, forcing the cock into Methos' throat. Yes, he encouraged silently as he felt the other man's doubts fade into passion. This is what I want! Give me your need, your desire! He swallowed around the head, and was rewarded with a groan and another thrust, this one more wanton. More, love, he ordered silently, enjoying the taste, the feel of Joe's cock along his tongue. He always liked doing this to men. It aroused him more quickly than any other act of love-making. Lose yourself to me!

"Adam!" Another thrust. Joe's hands meshed into Methos' dark hair, his thrusts becoming less careful, less controlled. "God damn!" The mortal's rhythm found a pace, then lost it as sharp sparks of desire flooded through him into the immortal, then back. Sounds of primal lust filled the room. Yes! the eldest immortal thought joyfully. More, love. More!

Slow tendrils of energy built between them. It was a familiar sensation for the immortal, one he expected and controlled. But as Joe panted then cried out his name, Methos felt his own barriers fall, his quickening

bleed from him in a way it hadn't in centuries, when he had taken another Watcher into his bed, when bonds of friendship had risen to a level deeper than what he'd had with Don. In the grayness of pre-dawn, he sensed the misting that touched them both, caressing as mere physical contact could not. Joe cried out. His cock swelled then burst giving Methos the prize he desired.

The ancient immortal gave the shrinking organ one last lick, then drew back, submerging his quickening back into himself in the process. Joe lay, still and silent, his eyes frozen on the ceiling, his face showing amazement. Methos followed his gaze, watching the last faint curls of quickening fade away. "It's for you, love," he said.

Joe's attention shifted to Methos. "This is weird shit, Adam."

"Hmm.... but good?" he asked, amused.

"Yeah." Joe shivered, then turned on his side. "Come here," he said, holding out his hand.

Methos complied, letting himself be drawn into a bear hug, sighing as he felt Dawson's lips at his throat, teeth and tongue caressing. "Yes, love," he murmured.

"I love you, Adam," Joe said sincerely. "I don't want to replace Don in your heart, but we can be together our own way."

"Nothing will replace Don," Methos countered. "And we will be together in our own way because..." He cupped Dawson's chin in his hand, smiling. "Because the alternative is unimaginable."

Joe smiled, then kissed the immortal, pushing him down on to the mattress. "Tell me what you like," he requested, his callused hands running over Methos' chest, caressing his hips.

"I like what you're doing right now," the ancient man responded, allowing his own needs to surface. For several moments, he stretched out under Dawson, purring with pleasure as he enjoyed the gentle massage. Saltzer had been a quiet lover, slow and undemanding. Joe was more demonstrative, more passionate, yet more fragile. Methos considered his own desires, what he wanted from this new lover. Ask him, his heart advised.

"Joe." Methos felt Dawson's hands stop, the American's expression turn inquisitive. The immortal combed and parted Dawson's chest hairs with his fingers, distracting himself with the wiry texture. "I do want something from you, but you have to be comfortable with it. You have the right to say no, and we'll do something else."

"What? I'll do anything you want," Joe responded eagerly, though a hint of nervousness filtered into his voice.

"I want you," Methos said directly, taking Dawson's hand, kissing the callused palm. Joe's posture changed instantly, fear weaved into Methos' mind, a sharp edge to the peaceful moment. "Joe, you don't have to!" he assured, studying him.

"No, it's okay!" Fear leveled, then fell into the background. "I just-- I trust you."

"Thank you," Methos said sincerely, honored by the honesty. He kissed Joe. "But I need to know. Do you want this? You said you've been with other men."

"I know." Dawson sighed. "I've done a little of everything, mostly blow jobs. And when I tried more... it didn't feel very good."

"Were you forced?" Methos asked.

"No... I did it because I wanted to, but Jeremy..." Dawson shrugged. "Neither of us were careful. It was pretty awful."

"How old were you?"

"About twenty-seven." Joe shifted uncomfortably. "Jeremy was a Watcher to Rebecca at the time. Then he retired.... got married. Had three kids. Avoided me like the plague."

He looked up. "I haven't been with a guy since... until now."

Twenty years. Methos pushed Dawson onto his back, caressing his body, kissing him gently, without passion. "Do you want it to feel good?"

Joe licked his lips, then nodded. "Yeah... I know it's got to. No gay man I've known would do it if it wasn't."

Methos smiled. "The first rule can be summed up in two words: preparation and lubrication!" He pulled off Dawson. "Anything here we can use?"

Joe blinked, his eyes wide, his cock stirring. Good signs, Methos noted. "There's vaseline in the bathroom. I--" He chuckled shyly. "I guess we don't have to worry about condoms."

"Not unless you're worried about getting pregnant," Methos quipped, then kissed him. "No... no diseases to worry about. A great advantage to being in love with an immortal."

Dawson said nothing, but smiled. Methos got out of bed, finding the jar of petroleum jelly quickly, glad to see it barely used. The more the better, he said to himself. When he returned, he noticed the first light of dawn peeking into the room. Dawson was sitting up,his posture stiff, hesitant. "Rule number two," he said as he climbed back into bed. "You are not obligated, nor expected to follow through on this, unless that's what you want, Joe. I'm not going to be some rushing bull in this, and I can stop at any point you want. Understood?"

Joe nodded. "I'm sorry... I'm nervous."

"To be expected." Methos lay the jar aside, then took Joe into his arms, hugging him. "Remember what I told you?" he murmured leaning close. "It all begins with a kiss..."

The two men moved together, kisses leading to caresses, then more. Methos allowed Dawson to take the lead, to have control in the encounter for a time. Then slowly, he changed their positions, moving carefully in spite of his own need.

He turned Joe on his side, using lubrication to arouse his lover once more, to tease the desired opening. Dawson moaned in pleasure, pressing back, trusting Methos as few people did. "There will be some discomfort, Joe," the ancient immortal warned as his finger entered Dawson. "But I promise it will be brief, and the pleasure will be so much more."

Joe stiffened as Methos' finger entered him. The immortal soothed, whispering endearments and words of encouragement as another finger joined the first. He moved slowly, searching, caressing the small bump he encountered.

"Adam!" Dawson arched. "Jesus!"

Methos laughed. "Feels good, does it? That's your prostate. You and your friend probably missed this the first time you tried. Now you understand?"

Dawson sighed, then moaned. "Damn, is that what it's going to feel like?"

"Oh yes, love... and more." Methos withdrew his hand. His cock was nearly painful with arousal. He dipped his hand into the jelly, coating his organ thoroughly. "Now, love." The warmth of Dawson's body surrounded him. Joe groaned, first with pain fading to discomfort, then with intense pleasure.

Methos monitored the whole experience, ready to stop if necessary, relaxing as his lover accepted the invasion, even craving it, pushing counter to the ancient immortal's thrusts. He's too good to be true, he thought as he pushed harder, delighted when a primal sound erupted from he Watcher and powerful muscles spasmed around his cock. Gods, Joe! Sweat ran down his body as the intense sensation ran through him. More, Joe... More!

Again the mists of quickening left him, gathering around both men, enclosing them in an envelope of passion. He held his lover against him, shifting slightly, changing the angle of his entry, reaching between Dawson's legs, caressing and squeezing his lover's cock. Joe screamed, twisting himself so their lips could meet in a bruising kiss. Together they rode as a single entity, their spirits blending, each losing their soul to the will of the other. Then Joe jerked, crying out one last time, spilling his seed into Methos hand. The ancient immortal followed, filling the mortal with his own passionate release.

"Joe." Methos carefully withdrew, then turned his lover. Joe's eyes were nearly closed, fatigue taking hold in the aftermath. "Are you all right?" he whispered, pushing strands of hair from ruggedly handsome features.

Dawson smiled. "I don't know. I'd like to try that again to be sure; but not now. I haven't come twice at a time in more years than I care to count."

"Mmmm, seems you're not perfect," Methos replied, feeling more balanced than he had in weeks. "I think I might *have* to send you back."

"Yeah... fine..." Joe pulled the immortal to him, his lips brushing the first piece of flesh they encountered. "But do it later. I gotta sleep."

"Of course. Have to look for the receipt anyway." No response. The mortal's breathing had slowed into deep sleep. Carefully, Methos eased himself out of the bed, quickly washing himself off, then his lover before gathering the mortal in his arms, giving to his own need for rest.

An annoying, unending sound touched his ears. Methos sighed, blinking against the light streaming into the hotel room. He found himself curled against Joe Dawson, who slept deeply, oblivious to the irritating noise. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly two in the afternoon. Let it ring, he thought, then considered. Could be important. He sat up, reaching over Joe to the phone, grateful he hadn't retired from the Watchers.

"This is Adam Pierson," he announced.

"Methos?" The Highlander's voice boomed through the line. "Where's Joe?"

"Asleep," Methos said even as he felt a stirring beside him. "Anything wrong?"

"No. Amanda and I thought Joe might sleep in... you too."

"I did.... we did. Your call woke me." Methos glanced aside surprised to find Joe awake, staring up at him, a gleam in his eye. "And him."

A moment of awkward silence answered him. You're a smart boy, Highlander. Work it through.

"Duncan," Methos let some sleepy irritation peek into his tone. "What can we do for you?"

"Amanda and I were wondering if you... and Joe would like to join us for an early dinner.

Methos opened his mouth, then hesitated. A broad hand spread across his genitals, exploring the pubic hairs. Then Joe shifted, his warm breath blew on Methos' cock, stirring it, distracting him.

"Actually..." More caresses. The ancient immortal glared at his lover, warning him to stop. But Joe merely winked at him. "If you could make it a little later..." he groaned unexpectedly as the mortal's tongue teased him. "Joe!"

"Methos?" The Highlander sounded bewildered, even concerned. "Are you sure everything's all right?"

"Yes, Highlander." Methos bit his lip, holding back another moan. "Ah... Duncan, can you call back say... in about an hour? I think Joe and I would love to go to dinner with you two, but" He paused as a moment of pleasure sparked through him. "You've caught us at a bad time. We--" The phone was taken from him.

"Adam and I are going to be taking care of some Watcher business that needs our personal attention... to each other. Can you call back later? 'Cause we're definitely going to have an appetite by then." Joe paused, listening. "Yeah... thanks." He hung up the phone.

"You're terrible!" Methos scolded.

"I don't care what he thinks," Dawson defended.

"I might!" He meet the bright blue eyes of his lover, then shrugged. "Okay, I don't care either... not about this."

"Good." Dawson shifted himself, his hand closing around the base of Methos' arousal. "Let's see... where was I?"

The immortal frowned in puzzlement. Where— Then he felt it, the touch of tongue and teeth on his cock. "Yes," he moaned. "Yes Joe! Right there!"

Well over an hour later, the phone rang once more...

And rang... and rang...

THE END

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