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This story was written in 1996, and is the longest story I've ever written.  It is a "threesome" between Methos/Joe/Duncan, though it is mostly Methos/Joe and a small bit of Methos/Duncan.  It is my reaction to the episode in which Charlie DeSalvo was killed and the friendship between Duncan and Dawson was seriously damaged... mostly by (in my opinion) Duncan's lack of understanding.

It all begins with the last scene, where Duncan gives a speech about relations between mortals and immortals, ending with the callous phrase, "I am Immortal."  Pissed me off royally.

This story is sappy... I must warn.  I also did some editing, but I can't guarantee this is error free.

Comments are welcomed... otherwise... ENJOY!

Disclaimer:  The characters used herein belong to TPTB.  I'm just borrowing them... no money is made... what is made is freely given.  But please, in good faith, please do not duplicate, forward, copy, or archive without asking me... okay?  Thank you.

On Reflection

by Atira Kei

"It's either this or that way
It's one way or the other
It should be one direction
It could be on reflection…
(Anything Is…- Enya)

Pain seeped into his consciousness.  Slowly he became aware of the throbbing in his head, the bright light burning into his closed eyes.  And his stomach...

"Christ!"  Joseph Dawson groaned, moving his body carefully.  He was on the floor, his arms splayed, his legs...  Joe opened his eyes, focusing on the window across the living room of his one bedroom apartment.  Daylight.  "Damn," he muttered, moving his arms, preparing to sit up.  In response, his stomach rebelled, his head cracked with agony.  Dawson cried out as he lay back down on the hardwood floor.  How long have I been out?  The smell of urine wafted to his nostrils, informing him he'd been out far too long.

And all this for what? Joe asked himself.  For an immortal who didn't give a damn.  An immortal he shouldn't have been getting close to anyway simply because he's immortal.  Oh god, look what you've done now, Joseph!

A slight sound and the vibration of footsteps caught Joe's attention.  Had he left the door unlocked?  No, he was sober enough when he came home...  last night?  He couldn't quite remember.  All right, four people in the universe have the key to my place.  Amanda.  Adam.  Richie.  And…  "Get out of here, Mac.  I don't want to see you!"  he called out in the angriest voice he could manage.  "Get out!"

"When I've only just arrived?" a light, oddly accented voice replied.  A cold chill captured Joe as he recognized the voice.  "Methos," he whispered, wishing he could die on the spot.

"For the moment," Methos replied without emotion.  Joe heard measured footsteps draw nearer.  "You're a pathetic sight."

Shame worked its way up against the pain and general sickness.  Gentle hands arranged Joe into a more comfortable position.  "Don't!"  he protested after the fact, slapping the hands away.  "Just get out!"

"Good," his friend encouraged.  "There's some spirit in you yet."  Precise fingers moved over Dawson's body, over his shirt to his pants, pressing and examining.  "Looks like you took a fall."  *Sniff*  Smells like you drank enough to cushion the pain quite nicely."

"Fuck you!" Joe swatted out with his hands, finding only empty air.  "Just go away!  I've had enough of immortals!  I can take care of myself!"

"And a fine job you've been doing up to now."  Methos' voice lost its light banter and took on an edge.  "Joe, you're hurt and hungover.  You've got a bump on your head, and a cut to go with it."  His hands returned to continue their exam.

Dawson groaned.  The strong, aristocratic face hovered above his, hazel eyes bright with a variety of complex emotions Joe couldn't quite separate.  It was the mystery of this man, a young man's face holding an ancient gaze, the only evidence of his true age for those who knew what to look for.  "I want to be left alone," he tried one more time.

"No you don't."  Methos brushed the hair from Dawson's forehead.  "I'm here to help you...  and Duncan."

At the mention of the Highlander's name, Joe slapped his hand on the floor.  "What do you know about Duncan and me!  Did he call you?  Send you?  Is that why you're here?"

Methos sighed.  "No, Joe.  He doesn't know anything about this."  His eyes scanned the apartment.  "Where's your wheelchair?"

Dawson sighed, hearing the truth in his friend's words.  "In the bedroom."  Methos disappeared.  The immortal had been here once, just after Duncan had called from Paris a year ago to inform him that Adam Pierson was Methos.  By then, the American had known Pierson for nearly ten years.  And in all that time, Joe never suspected the "grad" student who was given the thankless job of keeping records on an elusive ancient immortal was actually Methos himself.  He simply enjoyed Adam's company.  They shared many interests.  Joe even imagined they could have a relationship.  But at the time, he thought Pierson to be half his own age.  And what would Adam find interesting in an old guy with no legs anyway?  Then there was the matter of gender.

Watchers are a conservative lot.  Gay Watchers were barely accepted.  When one was discovered, even strongly suspected, life was made difficult, promotion was impossible. 

Joe bit his lip and shifted, trying to ease aching joints.  After twenty-five years, he believed most of his peers had figured his sexual preference, but staying celibate kept them guessing, and his career was kept on an upward climb.  Staying celibate, he reminded himself, until recently.

A month ago, Duncan MacLeod had been in Paris then suddenly he was on his way to Scotland, to the place where he had been born and raised, Glenfinnan.  Even if he wasn't already Mac's friend, Dawson the Watcher had to check it out anyway.

Something happened between them during those few days in Scotland.  Dawson learned more than most Watchers ever dared to dream about an immortal's past.  MacLeod searched for the grave of a young woman, Deborah Campbell.  Four hundred years ago, before his first death, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod tried to get permission to marry her.  But instead Deborah was promised to his cousin, Robert.  The results were tragic.  Robert died at MacLeod's hands, and Deborah fell from a ridge in a suicide attempt turned accident.

But there was more.  There was an immortal lurking in Glenfinnan, one who was murdering innocent mortals in ritual sacrifice.  His name was Kanwulf, a Viking.  If only for this, MacLeod would have taken the Viking's head to stop the killing.  But there was one more piece to the puzzle.

He killed my father!

Dawson closed his eyes, remembering the glow of vengeance in the Highlander's dark eyes, the bone deep anger he projected.  The Watcher had tried to interfere, had asked MacLeod to give the Viking what he wanted, then leave.  It was stupid.  It was wrong.  But the thought of losing Duncan was too overwhelming.  For the first time, he didn't care if MacLeod might be ‘the One' spoken of in legends, so long as he was out of danger.

[Glenfinnan, Scotland....  One Month Ago]

Dawson sat on the thin mattress of the bed in Duncan MacLeod's room at the Leuni Inn, waiting.  Mac had been gone for two hours, and Dawson felt every minute passed like an eternity, his ears sensitive to every creak and step outside the door.

Across his lap was Duncan's weapon, his katana, the sword MacLeod had used to protect himself for nearly 250 years.  Scottish authorities had returned it shortly after Mac left, saying it was a fine weapon, but not the murder weapon they were seeking.  Both he and Duncan MacLeod were free to go about their business.

Little did they know.

Nearly a half hour ago, Joe had heard the thunder, the kind of thunder he always recognized as a quickening.  He'd seen the flash of lightening in the short distance between the little inn and the fields where he knew the two men fought.  As the Watcher assigned to watch MacLeod, he should have been there to witness the event, to see the results.  But all he could do was sit on the bed and stare at the sword he held, wondering when his beliefs had really changed, wondering when he'd fallen in love with MacLeod in a way that went beyond physical attraction.

Quiet, well-measured footsteps came up the wooden stairs then down the hallway.  Joe Dawson tensed, gripping the hilt of MacLeod's katana in anticipation as the door began to open.  If it was not MacLeod, then he would do his best to put Kanwulf to rest.

"Joe?"  Duncan's head popped through the door, followed by the rest of him.  He was dirty, his face covered with dust, his shirt cut and torn.  The Highlander had been injured, but those injuries were gone, leaving behind only bloodstains to hint at what really happened.  Joe stared at him, feeling relief and an even stronger emotion he didn't want to face.

"Joe, are you all right?" MacLeod put his father's broadsword, the weapon he'd used to take Kanwulf's head, aside and knelt in front of the American.

Trembling began in the pit of Joe's stomach, then spread until his whole body shook.  Dawson studied his friend's face carefully.  Duncan MacLeod had survived another battle, another quickening.  The Highlander was here, kneeling before him.  To distract himself and Duncan, he carefully folded the silk around the katana on his lap.  "Scottish authorities came fifteen minutes after you left, "he said with an unsteady voice.  "They brought this back."  He sniffed with dark amusement.  "They said it wasn't the murder weapon."

MacLeod blinked then focused on the sword.  He touched the soft covering.  His fingertips brushed Joe's hand as he lifted the sword and stood up.  Silently, he put the weapon back into the wardrobe beside the bed then walked over to a pitcher and basin sitting on a side table.  He stripped off his shirt and quickly washed his face and hands, then cleaned the spots of blood from his side and chest.

Dawson watched all of this, respecting the silence, appreciating the well-developed chest and shoulders.  Duncan picked up a towel to dry himself then returned to kneel in front of Dawson.  Joe's mouth went dry as he met the Highlander's dark gaze.  MacLeod presence sparked from the quickening he'd taken, touching Dawson like static electricity.

"Joe, I had to do it, "MacLeod said softly.  "My father's at rest now."  Duncan's fingers traced over Dawson's cheek, wiping the wetness there.  Wetness?  Joe's vision blurred.  Suddenly, MacLeod's arms drew him into a tight hug, handsMacLeod sighed, pulling him into a tight hug.  "It's all right, "Duncan soothed

Dawson clung to the Highlander, pressed his face against the bare shoulder, feeling the warmth of smooth skin beneath his hands, the unyielding strength in the well-trained muscles.  For a hazy space of time, it remained this way.  Joe took comfort in the reassuring contact, feeling a rush of excitement mixed with hesitation.  His body tingled as he took a deep breath.  The scent of MacLeod was wonderfully exotic.  Arousal washed through Dawson's body.

And there it was… the attraction.  Dawson had long ago accepted this, since the first day they had actually met, since the day Joe had taken the first step in breaking long held beliefs held by Watchers.  Now he there was this next step, the next decision.  Energized with quickening, MacLeod was sensitive, even needful for contact.  Dawson sighed, letting go his concerns, his hesitation.  It had been a long time since he'd experienced intimacy with another person… decades.  Softly, shyly, his lips touched the bare shoulder under him, then again in an obvious gesture MacLeod could not mistake.

Duncan drew back quickly.  Dawson prepared himself for the shock, the anger.  But instead the dark eyes held him.  MacLeod's brows knitted in confusion, then stretched in surprise.  Joe swallowed, afraid to do anything more, leaving the decision with MacLeod

The Highlander's expression softened, his fingers caressed the mortal's cheek in a more intimate gesture.  "Are you sure, Joseph?" he asked, his Scottish accent lending a kind of formality.  "I do want you.  I've wanted you for a long time.  But I didn't know… I don't want to hurt our friendship."

Joe chuckled.  "I was thinking the same thing a few days ago, before I came out here."  His hand shook as he caressed the Scotsman's golden skin.  "I thought I wouldn't see you again," he whispered, his mind filling with the image of Duncan MacLeod's body against his, making love to him.  "I really need to know you're here, that you're alive."  His cheeks burned as he made his desire known.  "I need you."

MacLeod's eyes raked over the American, his expression growing more intense.  With careful movements, his broad hands cupped the Watcher's face, his lips brushed Dawson's.  "Aye, so do I."

[Seacouver, USA...  Present]

"Here we are."  Methos returned, pushing a wheelchair in front of him.  Dawson blinked then sighed, ending his reverie into the recent past.  He eyed the device brought to him with disdain.  His wheelchair…an unavoidable prison.  From the day he left the field hospital in Viet Nam, Joe had worked hard to master the ability to walk on his own using his prosthetics, and a cane.

But there were limits.  His stumps could not endure the constant friction of the hard plastic that supported him.  Many times he could last up to twelve hours, so long as he didn't stand the whole time.  But when he returned to his apartment, he had to shed his artificial legs, to be helpless once more.  Maybe that was part of the problem.  Maybe Mac didn't want to deal with this.

Don't be stupid, Joseph!  That had nothing to do with it!  The issues were bigger than the both of you.

"Joe?"  Strong arms came under Dawson's shoulders.  "Come on.  Sit up."

Dawson moaned as Methos helped him.  But the shifting physically unbalanced his already delicate stomach.  Joe pushed at the immortal.  "I'm sick!"  His abdomen convulsed, but nothing came up.  There was nothing left.  Methos' arms came around his shoulders from behind, supporting him as dry heaves wracked his body.

Then it was over.  Joe's head fell back onto Methos' shoulder, the relief overwhelming him.  Reality rested on the edge of unconsciousness.  The immortal's embrace tightened reassuringly, then warm breath touched the mortal's ear.

"Stay with me, Joe," Methos urged gently.  "It won't take long, especially if I don't have to carry you.  Yes?"  He carefully help Dawson to stand.  But as Joe's weight settled onto his artificial limbs, pain shot through his thighs, into his hips and back.  The Watcher cried out, losing his balance completely.  "Here, Joe!"  Brute force dragged Dawson then dumped him into his wheelchair.

Fighting the pain, Joe felt his pant legs pulled then heard a smooth tearing sound.  Dawson looked down.  Adam was using a small hunting knife to cut away the fabric.  "What are you doing?"  he demanded weakly.

"These things are coming off you before they cause more damage."  He continued to cut, exposing an array of plastic and metal arranged into a resemblance of lower legs.  The immortal briefly examined the mechanisms then sighed.  "This might hurt," he warned then began undoing the small straps and Velcro fastenings.

At first, Dawson felt nothing.  Then he gasped as his stumps were freed from their confines.  His legs throbbed, his skin protested as his friend removed the cotton sheaths that served as a necessary cushion between himself and the hard plastic cup that supported him.

"You've been very naughty," Methos chided, his attention focused on the stumps.  Joe shifted uncomfortably, as much a physical reaction to the probing touches as it was to the mental discomfort of being examined like this.  Looking over Methos' shoulder, Joe caught sight of an overturned stool, a broken bottle, and stains of urine and even blood on the floor.  Made a real jerk out of yourself, Joseph, didn't you?

"The skin has pressure wounds," Methos announced as he stood.  "We're going to have to get you cleaned up and get some ointment on those before you get sores."

"You a doctor?"  Dawson quipped, even as he wondered.

"I have been," Methos answered shortly.  His hand tilted Dawson's face up for examination.  "I was a shaman, then a physician over the centuries." 

Joe nodded, silently accepting, bracing himself for the expected pain the examination would bring.  But instead of pain, delicious warmth flowed from the immortal's touch, soothing his nerves.

"You've got a scrape on your scalp, but it's not deep and the bleeding's stopped," Methos announced after a moment.  "And you were unconscious I suspect, so a concussion is a possible."  His fingers moved away, taking with it some of the comfort, returning some of the pain.  "You need a good clean up, some proper sleep, then food."

"Adam—" Dawson began.

"Don't talk," the immortal ordered tersely, his tone clipped.  The wheelchair moved forward.  "You don't have anything to say that I want to listen to right now."  Dawson opened his mouth to protest, then stopped, sensing anger from his friend for the first time, knowing he was the cause.

The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, had been customized to his needs.  There were bars and handles everywhere, some of it installed by MacLeod to allow Dawson access to every area.  Methos rolled him into the bathroom then came to a halt next to a large, custom-made shower stall.  Inside the molded plastic formed a deep chair made to comfortably support Dawson during a shower.  Joe remembered protesting, but Mac insisted, saying showers shouldn't be a chore.  Joe looked at the Highlander's handiwork, bittersweet feelings surfacing then leaving him as his attention shifted.  I stink like hell, but I don't want to do this.  The Watcher sensed Methos standing behind him, waiting.  Please leave me alone, he pleaded silently, his fragile emotions rolling to the next extreme.  I don't want this kind of attention.

"Can you get in yourself?  Or shall I help?"  Methos asked quietly, coaxing but cautioning against a lengthy answer.

Dawson sighed, knowing there was no escape.  "I'll do it on my own."  He began to move—

"No, Joe.  Wait."  Methos, his expression sternly professional, began to unbutton Dawson's shirt.  "Clothes are not an option.  Especially ones you've bled, urinated, and thrown up on."

The immortal's no-nonsense approach and his steady presence kept Dawson quiet.  His shirt then undershirt was removed.  However, as Methos unbuckled his belt and unzipped the fly, Dawson found himself treated to another close up of the ancient's handsome features, the aristocratic jaw, and sensuous mouth. 

His ability to control his emotions were fragile at best.  This man's proximity, his touch aroused Joe.  His cock quivered.  Memory flashed.  Decades ago, there had been another man who had peeled him off a dusty floor after a fight.  There was a feeling of power to his rescuer, the same feeling he'd sensed in MacLeod when they touched, and now Methos...  Oh god, no.  His waistband was being drawn open, to be moved down.  The Watcher bit the inside of his mouth to keep a groan from escaping.  His body tightened with anticipation of the next move.  No!  No!  Dawson grabbed the immortal's wrists, stopping them.  "Adam..."

Methos studied him, his expression curious.  "Don't be shy, Joe.  There's nothing I haven't seen before, honest."

I'm sure, but not on me.  Dawson wanted to hide himself, but that was not an option.  Instead he masked his panic in an aggressive facade.  "I want to do this myself."

Methos sighed then smiled gently, his eyes taking on an odd glow.  "All right.  Do it yourself.  Can you get yourself into the shower?"

Dawson considered the question briefly.  The ache in his head was a steady pulse, every muscle in his body cried out in pain.  And his legs...  But as Methos made a move to continue, Joe quickly cleared his throat.  “I'm all right!" he barked, willing to do anything but show himself to the immortal.

Methos frowned as if seeing something more behind the words, but backed off.  "I'll be in the bedroom.  If you need me, call me.  I'm not impressed by displays of macho.  In fact, right now I'm about as angry as I've been in centuries, though I haven't figured out who I should be directing all this negative energy at-- you or MacLeod."

Then he was gone.  Dawson took a moment to slow his racing heart.  What the hell's going on!  Sure, Adam's got looks.  He's caught my eye before, but I'm with Mac...

Not anymore, Joseph.  Where's the Highlander?

Joe opened his pants, moaning as his boxers brushed against his aroused cock.  Shit!  Dawson rolled his hands into fist as sexual feelings caused his emotions to shift sharply.  What's happening to me?  Lose one immortal, lust for another?  What's wrong with you?  Are you sick?

By strength of will, the Watcher reached forward and gripped the bars to lift himself from the wheelchair to his seat within the shower stall.  Much to his surprise, he succeeded.  Settled, he took the time to look down at himself.  He was filthy, and there were bruises popping up everywhere.  His hands wandered over his stumps, examining the soft spots where pressure had started to breakdown skin from the inside out.  Just a few steps from ulceration...  this could have been a real mess.

Joe turned on the water, setting the temperature he wanted, cooler than he usually needed, then reached for the soap and unclipped the showerhead from the wall.  The water that flowed over his chest and shoulders felt good.  All at once, the energy he had managed to maintain during in his adrenaline rush drained out of him without warning.  His eyelids grew heavy, and his awareness slipped onto a haze.  The soap fell from his hand to the shower floor with noisy clatter he never heard...

“Joe!”

Methos' sharp call sent a shock wave through Joe, his senses reeled on the edge of falling.  Strong hands gripped the Watcher's shoulders, holding him steady.  “I'm sorry,” he muttered vaguely.  I must have passed out...  god, could've have fallen again...

“Don't apologize,” Methos told him, his tone more soothing.  One hand left Dawson, then returned, rubbing over his shoulder.  “I shouldn't have left you.”

Dawson could make no comment.  Again his awareness drifted.  His body, his mind resisted all attempts to stay alert.  I hurt, and I'm so tired...

“That's right,” Methos encouraged, his tone more compassionate.  “Just relax, Joe.  You're safe now.  I'll get you cleaned off, then to bed.  You'll feel horrible when you wake up, but at least you won't smell.”

Well-skilled hands continued their journey over Dawson's body, leaving warm trails of comfort as they spread the soap over his skin.  A timeless moment later, he was rinsed off then a towel was applied.  Half conscious, Joe was lifted into his wheelchair, rolled a short distance, then transferred to the cool, soft sheets of his own bed.  The warmth of Methos' touch returned, concentrating on his head, swabbing something cool and wet on the wound there.  It stung briefly then settled into a dull throb.  The immortal moved away one more time, then returned.  Vaguely, Dawson was aware of a warm body, fully clothed, press against him from behind.

“I've been traveling for well over fifteen hours, Joe,” the immortal whispered.  “And I don't want to sleep alone.  Anyway, you need someone to keep an eye on you in case that bump on your head decides to give you problems."  Fingers lightly traced over Dawson's arms and chest in slow circles.

Exhausted physically and mentally, Joe didn't protest the intimate actions.  Instead, the contact seem to fill a void left by MacLeod's departure.  “Adam...”

“Go to sleep, my friend,” Methos commanded, continuing his caresses.  “Trust me.  We'll talk about you and MacLeod later.  All right?”

Yeah...  I guess...  Dawson floated into a soothing haze, protected by the solid presence of the immortal beside him.

The smell of food filtered into his disjointed dreams, beckoning.  Joe Dawson rolled onto his stomach, which growled audibly, though from hunger or nausea his brain hadn't yet decided.  And his head...  Feels like it's going to explode.  What happened?

He remembered returning to his apartment, after raiding his own stock at the bar downstairs.  He was mildly drunk but well on his way to full intoxication.  There were several shots of whiskey.  Then more whiskey.  Then...

I tried to shift my position on the stool.  The Watcher moaned as separate threads of memory surfaced.  Methos found me.  Dawson threw his blanket aside, then pulled it back as he realized he was nude.  Shower...  I was in the shower with...

“Good evening!"  Methos strolled into the bedroom, carrying a coffee cup in his hand.  Dawson swallowed as he beheld the sight of the ancient immortal.  Memories came and went in wisps.  When did Adam get here?  The best Joe could do was to capture the fleeting sensations of soft touches and warmth.

“Feeling better?"  Methos sat down on the edge of the bed, holding out the cup.  He was dressed in a simple T- shirt and jeans.  His hazel eyes observed Joe carefully.  “Here, drink this.”

Dawson made no move to take what was being offered.  “Adam, what the hell is going on!"  Yelling.  He hadn't meant to yell.  His head counter-attacked with a sharp wave of pain.  “Shit!”

“Not on the bed,” Methos quipped sarcastically.  The mug was pressed into Dawson's hand.  “Drink this.”

Joe stared at the liquid's contents.  It was warm, clear- colored, and the aroma...  “Smells like...  flowers,” he said, mostly to himself.   “What is it?”

“Something I learned to whip up a long time ago."  Methos folded his arms.  “And I won't tell you anything else until you've finished it.”

Dammit!  I'm not a child!  Dawson was tempted to spill the contents on the floor and tell the immortal to get out.  But there was something in his friend's manner that stopped him.  He's concerned about me?  He sniffed the contents of the liquid, hesitating as he wondered if the sweet-smelling drink would only set his stomach reeling over the edge.

“It's not that bad,” Methos pointed out as if reading his mind.  “But it doesn't taste nearly as good if you let it cool.”

Yeah.  Yeah.  Okay...  Dawson took a small sip.  Tastes like herb tea...  but something else is in it....  gives it an odd kick.In a moment, he'd drained the cup.  “There."  He held out his empty cup, feeling petulant.  “Happy?”

Methos shook his head.  “Joe, I'm only trying to help."  He put the cup on the floor.  “It's a pain killer.  But it won't put you out like modern drugs.  In fact, it's a bit of a stimulant.  You should be feeling the effects in about ten minutes.”

Joe nodded, unwilling to voice an apology.  “What are you doing here?" he asked finally, accepting the ancient immortal as a presence in his apartment, even if he couldn't remember the details.

“I came to help you and MacLeod,” Methos admitted honestly.  “Amanda called me.”

Amanda. Joe sat up straighter, unconsciously pulling the sheet that covered him up a little further.  “What did she say?”

Methos' mouth twitched, his expression softened.  “She said she thought you and MacLeod had become lovers.  Is that so?”

Dawson was stunned.  He knows?  Amanda knows?  Did MacLeod tell her, or did they all just figure it out?  Joe decided to be completely honest.  “We got together about a month ago.  But it's over." 

“Joe,” Methos admonished.  He patted Dawson's arm.  “She was worried about you and MacLeod.  She asked me to find out what was going on… she couldn't come."  He moved to stand.  "I want to talk about this, really.  But first, I'm going to have a look at you.  Then I'll leave you to get dressed and come out for dinner." 

Dinner?  “What time is it?"  Dawson asked vaguely.

“It's nine-thirty at night,” Methos replied.  “And, in case you're wondering, it's Saturday.”

Shock seeped into Joe's brain.  Saturday...  Christ, I've lost almost two days of my life!  Explorative fingers pressed a sensitive spot along his hairline.  “Ow!”

“Sorry."  The pressure faded to nothing.  “This scrape looks better than I expected.  You won't need a bandage,” Methos assured.  He reached for a bottle of peroxide on the bed table and a cotton ball.  The memory of cool wetness on his scalp flitted through Joe's mind.  “The lump is looking less threatening, too,” Methos continued efficiently.  “How's your vision?”

“Fine."  Dawson could feel tendrils of warmth flowing into his body through the immortal's hands.  Like last night...  I remember this...  Joe unconsciously pushed his head towards the touch like a plant towards light.  “That feels good,” he muttered without realizing.

“What?"  The ancient immortal paused in his work, breaking contact with the mortal.  Joe hissed at the sudden withdrawal.  “Joe!  What's wrong?”

The Watcher winced, struggling against sudden return of pain the mysterious touch had taken away.  “Every time you touch me."  Dawson stopped, realizing what he was going to say.  He met Pierson's gaze.  “It felt good."  His eyes slid away from his friend.  “I don't know what I'm saying.”

“I do."  Methos leaned forward, his fingers brushed the Watcher's graying temples, his voice low, nearly seductive.  Delicious warmth filtered through Joe, creating a healing presence in his soul.  “I never thought you had the ability, that you were this sensitive, my friend,” he added with a hint of pleasure.

Joe shivered.  A pulse of excitement wove into the gentle heat.  Sensitive?  Methos' green-hazel eyes glittered with a profound understanding that began to frighten him.  “What do you mean?”

Methos smiled his odd smile.  His hands cupped Joe's face.  “What do you feel?”

“Your hands are warm,” the mortal answered without thinking.  “No.  Hot."  Joe shifted uncomfortably.  It was more...  an emotion.  It touched him, surrounded him, inside and out, growing more intense as the moments passed.  Confused, the Watcher swallowed hard.  I've felt this before...  a long time ago...  then even more with Mac...  when we were--   “This is a part of the quickening, Joe,” Methos said, his tone soft.

“I'm sensing a quickening?"  Dawson whispered, then took a deep breath as panic instantly filled him.  Only other immortals can feel it!  Or, sometimes, potential immortals...  He froze.  “I'm not--”

Methos put his hand to Joe's mouth.  “No, you're not immortal, obviously, or you'd be feeling a lot better.  And you're not a potential.  Duncan and I would have known long before now.  And without having to touch you.”

“Then what am I?"  Joe asked, a little wary of the answer.

“Joe!  Don't let your imagination get the best of you!"  Methos' hands slid to Joe's shoulders.  “Have you ever heard of ‘gazers'?”

Dawson rolled the word around in his mind.  “During my training, someone told me about them.  Mortals who could sense immortals."  Puzzled, he cocked his head.  “But gazers don't exist!”

“Are you sure?"  Methos smiled his smile.  “Gazer isn't a good word, I know.  Perhaps I should say people with psychic abilities?”

Joe laughed.  “Adam, don't kid with me!  Sure, some people have better instincts than others, but rye never gone for that psychic stuff.”

“It exists, you know,” the immortal went on patiently.  “Perhaps more often with immortals simply because of how we are, but there are some few mortals who can see us coming a mile away.  Fortunately, none that I know of are currently Watchers... well… none except you perhaps.”

“Can immortals sense them?"  Dawson asked, curious and intrigued.

“Only Old Ones like myself,” Methos answered, a hint of tragedy in his voice.  “I lost a good friend once, many centuries ago, when a gazer thought she had the ability to sense demons.  Nathan was cut to pieces by frightened villagers, including his head.”

Catching the brief moment of pain from the immortal, Joe gripped Methos' hand, wishing he had the courage to pull him into an embrace.  “I'm sorry,” he said quietly.  “But I don't know what that has to do with me.  I haven't sensed you guys like that.”

“No.  Most don't,” Methos said quickly.  “Most gazers simply have good Sight, or are better empaths, able to feel ‘the difference' when they get physically or emotionally close to one of us.  But that ‘feeling' never tells them we're immortal, simply that we are different in some way.”

Dawson took the information in, remembering.  James could do that, spot one just bypassing him or her in the street.  Joe frowned.  His brother-in-law, James Horton, had been a disturbed man who nearly brought all that was good about Watchers to an end.  “I think James might have been… a gazer,” he said aloud.

“Oh, I knew he was,” Methos agreed.  “Somehow he discovered his talent quite early, and what that ‘feeling' meant.  That's one of the reasons you and I never got together as often as we could, you know.  James was a psychopath who saw demons under every stone, too.  It cost me at least one very good friend in the process.”

Darius.  The name came to Dawson as clearly as a thought.  He shuddered.  “I wish I could have stopped him,” he said with regret.  He remembered how loyal he'd been to James, how naive he'd been.  “I wish I'd believed Mac the first time he tried to tell me.”

“Wishes like that are useless, Joe,” Methos warned.  “Horton is dead, and you have done more good for Watchers and immortals in the last few years than he destroyed in a decade.  Remember that."  He closed his eyes, then opened them, focusing on the Watcher in earnest.  “How's your head?”

Joe stared at him, startled by the question.  My head.  There was nothing, no pain.  He rolled his shoulders.  Still stiff, but better… a lot better.  “That stuff really works,” he said, amazed. 

“Good."  Methos got up from the bed.  “Let me finish with you, then you can do what you need to do.

I've made soup and put it in the oven to stay warm.”

At first, Dawson didn't react to the quick removal of the sheet from his legs.  The skin around the end of his stumps was patched with red, irritated skin, along with some bruising.  But the tone was good, and there were no open wounds.  Thank God, Joe muttered mentally to himself

“This looks much better than I expected, but I wouldn't recommend putting on your prosthetics for a few days.”  The ancient continued his exam.  “I know how much you hate your wheelchair, but you need to give yourself a chance to heal completely.”

“Yeah, I know."  Joe thought of how he was going to get around.  It had been a long time since he'd been outside his own apartment in a wheelchair.  And there were only stairs between his apartment and the bar below.  He would have to depend on Methos to get around, a task he didn't want to burden anyone with, especially a friend.

Warmth erupted once more from the touch on his thighs.  Dawson looked down, then blinked in surprise as he saw only the top of the immortal's head.  Methos knelt by the bed, applying ointment to the irritated skin, rubbing the medicated gel in slowly.  The sight was intimate and Methos' presence seeped into Joe's soul, his being.  Dawson's cock stirred, then rose to become fully erect.  Joe gripped the mattress as the situation was taken out of his control, afraid to draw attention by protesting, praying that the immortal would not see....

Methos' head moved, his eyes took in the sight between Joe's legs then turned upward, glittering playfully.  “You're beautiful when you're scared to death, do you know that?"  He climbed onto the bed, settling on his knees beside the Watcher, leaning forward to rest his hands on either side of Dawson's chest, his face mere inches from Joe's.  “Well?"  Adam invited.

“Well what?"  Joe responded automatically, unable to find more words as his mouth dried.  “Joe,” Methos purred, then brushed the mortal's mouth in encouragement.

Dawson's senses exploded, his body reacted before his thoughts.  He returned the kiss with passion, opening his mouth, inviting more.  He heard a groan erupt from Methos, felt the immortal's tongue thrust into him, doing things Joe had never imagine could be done, nothing that even came close to what MacLeod had done to him.

Then more coherent thoughts invaded.  Joe's groan turned into muffled denial.  He pushed at Methos.  “Stop,” he begged softly.

The immortal pulled back immediately, his expression full of concern.  “All right?”

Dawson touched his own lips, more to assure himself they were still there.  “Adam, I don't think I can--”

Methos caressed Joe's cheek.  “Is it because of MacLeod?  Because you don't want me?”

“No!  Yes!"  Joe gripped his hands together, mostly to keep himself from reaching out for what he desired.  “It's not you.  I want you.  I want Mac."  His vision blurred.  “I can't bounce like this!  Mac and I had something deep.  Then he...  threw me away,” Joe's gut twisted, from hunger and anguish.  “Not that I blame him...  It was my fault...”

“Stop it!"  Methos wiped the ribbon of tears rolling down Dawson's cheek.  “Shhh..."  He pulled the mortal close.  “Don't be afraid of what you feel, Joe.  I don't know what happened between you and Duncan, but I will tell you now that I will never do what he did.  I would never throw you away.  You're too precious a gift.”

Joe pressed himself against his friend, letting his heart break for the first time since MacLeod had left him a week ago.  For an eternity, he poured out his hurt, taking comfort in Methos' mysterious warmth, in the calming words whispered into his ear, in the gentle caresses that stimulated as they soothed.

Somewhere warm lips caressed his in invitation.  Dawson gave into it, reached for it without hesitation, desperate for contact.  His fingers ran over the smooth chest (when had Adam taken off his shirt?).  Methos moaned, then chuckled, deepening their contact, his lips inching their way downward, pausing to lick and nip special areas, concentrating his efforts when Joe gasped in response.

Dawson's groan became a cry as tight lips closed around his straining cock, the immortal's expert tongue doing to it what it had done to Joe's mouth.  Caught up in the intense sensations, the Watcher gripped his lover's head, petting the short, dark, silky hair even as he pressed, urging a rhythm that his lover quickly mastered, increasing the stimulation until Joe found himself writhing helplessly on the bed, begging release even as his mind struggled for a way to keep the experience going on forever.

Energy surrounded Dawson.  With new understanding, Joe accepted the invasion, letting it build.  With MacLeod, the feeling had been one of pure passion, intense need.  But from Methos, it was stronger, older, brighter and darker all at once.  The mortal threw back his head, captured by it, fearful, yet unwilling to run from its power, assured that his lover wouldn't let this go on if it were dangerous, even if he felt like he was about to explode.  ­Dawson cried out as his cock erupted, as Methos' mouth sucked eagerly, hungrily. 

Then the energy faded to nothing, and Joe sighed, his body shaking in the aftermath.

“Joe?"  Methos' called gently, his voice low and husky.  “Joe, that was wonderful!”

Dawson blinked, peering up at Adam who sat next him bare-chested on the bed, wearing an expression Joe rarely saw on the immortal, pure pleasure.  Because of me?  Joe reached out, needing the reassurance of touch.  Methos took his hand, bending close to kiss Dawson slowly, without urgency.  Joe closed his eyes, tasting both himself and his new lover.

Then Methos drew back, his hand cupped Dawson's cheek.  “Dinner won't keep, my friend.  And you need to eat.  Yes?”

Yes.  Only it wasn't dinner Joe was thinking about.  He slid a hand up Adam's arm.  “What about you?"  he asked, noting the jeans were still on the immortal, undisturbed.  “I want to--”

Methos smiled softly.  “Later, Joe.  Later, when we've both recovered."  He picked up his t-shirt then gave Dawson a quick kiss.  “Get dressed and come out for dinner.”

The immortal left him.  Stunned, Joe's head fell back on the bed.  “My god, what have I done?"  Dawson drew in a deep breath, smelling the scent of Methos on him, around him.  I haven't felt this good in days, he told himself.  Or this guilty in years.  His stomach growled, suggesting action.  Joe raised his head.  In a glance he noticed his wheelchair and other personal items were well within reach.  Okay, Joseph.  Wash.  Dress.  Then dinner.

Damn you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!  What possessed you to hurt Joe like this!

It took every ounce of discipline Methos had not to throw plates and utensils as he prepared dinner in the apartment's kitchenette.  His nerves still quaked with the pain of Dawson's loss and grief, even as his privates sighed with pleasure.  Joe's a handsome man with a beautiful heart.  There's nothing he's capable of doing that deserved what Duncan did!  Nothing!

Methos stirred the split pea soup on the stove top, taking a ladle to sample his brew.  Not bad, he judged.  Of course, not nearly as good as what I had just a few minutes ago.

The immortal smiled.  Making love to Joe Dawson had been done on impulse, though it had been a part of some of his better fantasies for years.  Adam put the lid back on the pot then walked into the living room to his duffel bag, pulling out a fresh T-shirt.  In his need, Joe had craved physical contact.  Pierson didn't have time to strip completely, but Dawson seemed satisfied when he was able to touch his bare chest.  I always knew Joe was sensitive, more than most.  But I never thought he was empathic.

It explained so much about the man he'd known for the last ten years, when they had met at a rare gathering of Watchers.  It was an opportunity for many Watchers to network, make needed contacts, exchange important information, and, of course, to party.

After forty years in ‘hiding', the ancient immortal assumed a new name, Adam Pierson, and started to involve himself in a new generation of Watchers.

His first goal was to meet Joseph Dawson, the man who had just been selected to watch Duncan MacLeod.  The Highlander was always of special interest to Methos.  Adam believed Darius' speculation about the young immortal, that MacLeod was perhaps the stuff of legends, the one who would eventually bring an end to The Game and bridge the gap between mortals and immortals.  For this reason, Adam made it his business to know who watched the noble Scotsman.

[Sir Clarkson's estate, near London...  10 Years Ago]

The music was soft, more background than to inspire dance.  People moved through the ballroom of the mansion; talking, eating, exchanging information and stories about ‘their' immortal.  It was a rare opportunity to relax and get away from the usual stressful task of watching immortals as they lived and fought.  Methos presented himself as a wet-behind-the-ears grad student who showed promise but nothing more.  Just the way he liked it.

So far as Methos knew, he had been nearly twenty-five when his first death came. came. came. came.  Middle aged in his time, but young in this modern world.  To enhance this, Pierson had let his hair grow and wore the most casual clothing he could safely get away with in this formal group.  He was introduced as Don Saltzer's assistant to those who mattered, then set free to mingle.

He spent the next hour going from one chat group to another, showing an awkward manner which some found charming, others irritating. irritating. irritating. irritating.  His purpose was to find and meet Joe Dawson.  In his research, he knew the mortal was thirty-six, a veteran of an American war where he'd lost his legs, and James Horton's brother-in-law.  This last concerned him the most.  He already suspected Horton of creating a group of his own Watchers who didn't not care so see any immortals win The Game.

But each time he mentioned the American's name he received shrugs.  Only a few people had seen the man, only one knew where he could be found.

The evening in London was chilled and moist. moist. moist. moist.  Eternally cold, he wrapped his long jacket around him then walked out of the front door to the marbled steps leading down to where dozens of limos were parked, ready to leave at a moment's notice.  Methos peered through the light fog, catching the shadow of a figure seated near the bottom step.  The immortal had seen a photograph of Dawson, had noted the full, open face, the dark beard only just salted with gray.  Curious and cautious, he stepped towards the mortal.  Horton, he already knew, had the ability to sense immortals.  If this man could also, there would be a problem he knew of only one way to resolve.

But just as quickly he realized there was nothing to fear. fear. fear. fear.  There was something about the American, a spark, but nothing that was a threat.  Methos observed that Joe had his legs stretched in front of him, strangely angled below the knee.  In a flash, he realized he was looking at the Watcher's prosthetics, hidden within the pants.  Dawson had a tuxedo on, but out here it had become badly wrinkled and stained

Slowing his approach, Methos let his foot scrap a step to alert the mortal.  Dawson jerked and twisted his head up.  “Who's there?”

The voice was full of gravel, and quite American. American. American. American.  And blue eyes...  He hadn't really noticed color of Dawson ‘s eyes in the photo.  But now, in reality, those eyes were full of a kind of innocence Methos hadn't expected.  In that moment, he knew Joe Dawson was nothing like James Horton.  In fact, he took an instant liking this man.  “Mr. Dawson?" he began politely.

The mortal grunted, his breath exhaling a ball of mist into the cool air. air. air. air.  “Please don ‘t, kid. kid. kid. kid.  I'm not that old, in spite of the gray hairs.  ‘Joe' will do.”

Kid... Methos barely managed to keep from laughing. laughing. laughing. laughing.  “My name's Adam Pierson." Pierson." Pierson." Pierson."  The immortal closed the distance between them and put out a hand.

“Wait a second” Joe suddenly pulled himself up, using his cane and the marbled railing for support. support. support. support.  It was an impressive show of upper body strength, revealing more muscle than fat in the stocky build.  The American smiled as he settled into a stand and took Adam's hand in a firm grip.  “Joe Dawson."  His eyes scanned the immortal.  “You're a Watcher?"

“Sort of," Methos said hesitantly, remembering his role. role. role. role.  “I just became an assistant to Don Saltzer with the Methos Chronicles.  I'm a researcher.”

Dawson bit his lip as if holding back words. words. words. words.  Methos knew what those words would be. be. be. be.  Being given the chronicles assignment was the same as being given the task of doing a serious paper on the description of God.  Methos, the oldest known living immortal, could be extremely elusive.  His lips turned upward.  Then sometimes, he could be right under one's nose.

“Where's Don?" Joe asked.   “He and l have known each other a long time.”

“Home in France.  He... couldn't make it," Methos said casually, evading further explanation.  But Dawson's eyes glittered with a knowing light.

“Christine threatened to leave him again?" again?" again?" again?"  Joe smiled as he mentioned Don's wife. wife. wife. wife.  “It's okay, kid. kid. kid. kid.  I know she hates us, and she hates what Don does.  This is her way of having some control over him.”

“Yes, well," Methos agreed, keeping his tone awkward, even naive.  “So, are you a Watcher?”

Joe nodded. nodded. nodded. nodded.  "Yeah. "Yeah. "Yeah. "Yeah.  Been one for nearly fifteen years. years. years. years.  Been out in the field for nearly ten.  My last assignment just ended," he said with a note of satisfaction.  “May the bastard rest in peace.”

Kole Martin Haas...  Methos knew of Dawson's last assignment and agreed with mortal's assessment.  Kole had been sadistic, given to a little rape and torture before the final stroke.  If he remembered correctly, Elisha Paisley, an immortal of only slightly less evil intent, resolved that problem three weeks ago.  “Have you been reassigned?

“Yeah," Joe replied simply.  Methos waited patiently.  It was not against the rules for one Watcher to know who another Watcher was watching.  But there was an unspoken rule that one never asked.  A moment later, however, an odd smirk creased Joe Dawson‘s face.  “His name is Duncan MacLeod.”

“The Highlander?" Methos said, filtering awe into his voice. "That's quite an assignment.”

Joe shrugged.  "I know.  I don't know why I got it, though.  The last man, Jacob Pitts, died last week of a heart attack, and the regional head called me up."  Dawson began to move, going to the bottom of the steps.  “Want to take a walk?  I'm tired of sitting around."

"Sure."  Methos had imagined he was going to have to coax Dawson, lure him away for a private conversation.  But the American was doing it all for him.  “Of course," he added as they started down the drive.  “We're going to be missing all the fun up there.”

Dawson frowned. frowned. frowned. frowned.  "I don't like these formal gatherings. gatherings. gatherings. gatherings.  I was going to sit out here until I couldn't stand it anymore."  His eyes scanned Methos.  “Do want to go back up?  I wouldn't mind.”

Methos smiled. smiled. smiled. smiled.  "No, I've had my share of these," he said honestly. honestly. honestly. honestly.  "Let's walk.”

The walk down a private, tree-lined path was pleasant. pleasant. pleasant. pleasant.  The ancient immortal found Dawson to be delightful company, nothing at all of what he expected when he came.  Their talk flowed through many issues, even gossip.  For the first time in decades, maybe even a century, Methos felt his heart stirring, along with more intimate parts of himself.  So many things impressed him.  Joe Dawson was brilliant, handsome, and full of a passion for life that seem to dull in many mortals.  If circumstances were different, he would have tried to seduce this American, taking the chance that Dawson would be offended.  But Watchers were a conservative lot and Methos didn't want to risk himself or this man for a night's pleasure.  And of course, there was Horton.  Some distance was mandatory.  Still, while Joe was here, he would not be robbed of his presence so soon.

“MacLeod's probably going back to the United States shortly, to reopen his antique shop.  I'll have to be ready to leave," Dawson concluded as they returned to the marble steps.  The American glanced up at the mansion.  "I guess you'll be headed back to the party," he said, putting on a pleasant expression.  But Methos sensed the disappointment. "I'll be going back to the hotel."  He held out a hand.  "Maybe we could keep in contact.  I'd like to hear about your experiences.  Don's a good man, but he can be a task master.”

Methos smiled as he took the mortal's hand, impressed by the strength, the warmth of Joe's touch.  Pity, he sighed inwardly.  Still...  “I'm not headed back to the party, Joe," he told him, resisting the urge to caress as he released Dawson's hand. He fished into his jacket, careful not to reveal the sword he kept fastened to the lining of his long coat.  A moment later, he produced car keys.  “I was looking forward to getting a few beers.  Want to come along?"

Dawson beamed.  "Sure!"

[Seacouver, USA...  Present]

Movement caught the ancient immortal's eye.  From his vantage point in the kitchenette, he watched Dawson roll out into the living area.  The Watcher was dressed in boxer shorts and an undershirt, surrounded by a thick bathrobe that lay open.  Joe's expression was neutral as he stopped to stare at the prosthetic legs now propped up against the coffee table.  Methos had taken time to clean them, but now he wondered if he should have put them away as well.  He's not a child, he reminded himself in the next moment.  Five thousand years younger, but well able to care for himself.

“That smells good,” Joe said, turning his chair around to approach the small round dining table separating the kitchenette from the living room.  The table was already set up with bread, butter, an open bottle of beer, and a glass of orange juice.  “Who's the beer for?”

“Me,” Methos said firmly.  “You get the juice or anything else non-alcoholic for the next day or so."

Joe nodded, his manner uneasy and quiet.  Methos watched, mildly concerned with the Watcher's sudden shift of mood from the passion they shared twenty minutes ago.  He's had too much time to think about it, he concluded with a sigh.  He‘s feeling guilty, or worse.  Guilt that he wanted it as much as I did?  Guilty that I wasn't MacLeod?  Or is he just afraid this is going to turn into the same situation as the Highlander?  Soup was poured into two bowls then he walked over to the table, setting one bowl down in front of the Watcher.  “Pea soup,” he announced cheerfully.

Dawson eyed the soup.  “It smells good."  He took a spoonful to his mouth, his eyebrows rising.  “This is great!”

The immortal grinned.  “Of course you haven't eaten properly in what?  Two days?  Cardboard probably tastes good.”

Joe smiled, the first genuine smile since the immortal had arrived.  A good sign.  “No, I mean it!"  He took several spoonfuls.  “How did you do this?  I don't usually have a lot here.  Fast food is more my speed.”

“I've been shopping."  An interesting experience, Methos recalled.  An American grocery store amused and confused him.  He watched as Dawson ate the entire bowl then smoothly replaced Dawson's bowl with his own.  “Go ahead,” he urged when Joe hesitated.  “I'm not going to starve.”

The second bowl was finished more slowly.  Adam satisfied himself with what remnants of soup left in the pot, rolls, and his beer.  The meal was finished in silence.  Some of the tension the immortal had sensed before had dispersed.  For a moment, the ancient immortal thought of letting the night go by without disturbing the peace, then decided it was best to get everything out in the open, to start the healing before MacLeod decided to show up unannounced.

“Feeling better?" he asked as he gathered the bowls from the table, placing them in the sink.  Dawson sat back in his chair with a deep sigh.  “I'm about to bust,” he declared.  “Thank you." 

“You're welcome."  Methos finished clearing the table.  “Do you want some coffee?

"Sure."  Joe pulled his chair back and rolled into the kitchen.  “Only I think I should be making it.  After all, you're the guest.”

“Guest?"  Methos prompted as the Watcher came near.  His hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair, stopping Joe.  “Is that all?"  he teased.  The mortal stared at him, and Methos could see several emotions pass through the bright blue eyes.  Taking a chance, he leaned forward.

Joe's response was hesitant, a shy kiss that Methos coaxed into something more passionate.  Please trust me, Joe.  he urged silently.  His hands roamed through the graying hair to the back of Dawson's head.  Joe relaxed then moaned.  His intimate pleasure flashed like a beacon, adding to the immortal's own excitement even as it surprised him.  I've touched a latent talent, Methos observed, his pleasure mixing with a sense of realization.  There is power here...  more than I thought...  And so much passion...

They broke by mutual consent.  Joe blinked, his face flushed.  Methos laughed gently, enjoying the pleasure of the moment.  “Too much?”

Dawson's lips moved into an uncertain smile.  “I'm not used to this,” he said, looking away.  “I was only just getting used to it with MacLeod."  Joe frowned.  His eyes became distant.  “Adam, I want to tell you something..."  He shook his head.  “I don't know if I can.”

More alert to the mortal's mood swings, Methos knelt by the chair, reaching out to lace his fingers with Joe's, but the mortal held back.  “Joe?”

“You're probably going to think this is stupid."  Dawson bit his lip, his eyes still turned from Adam.  “Before Mac...  I hadn't been with anyone in a long time.”

Long time.  Methos worked on the vague reference.  To his knowledge, in doing his research on Joseph Dawson ten years ago, he couldn't remember the mention of marriage.  And during their growing friendship through letters, phone calls, and rare visits, there was never a mention of a lady in Joe's life, or of any hint of an intimate relationship.  At some point, Methos came to the conclusion his friend might be gay, and was extremely discreet, as most gay Watchers were.  But now he understood Joe's reference.  Dawson had side-stepped the issue entirely by denying himself intimacy with another human being.  You've been celibate.  Methos quickly hid his surprise, focusing on his friend's emotions, his needs.  After so long, considering what I know about you now, your experience with Duncan must have been akin to a nuclear explosion.

Methos shook himself free of his thoughts, sobering as he focused on Dawson, noting the withdrawn posture, the humiliated stance.  I had no idea you were this fragile, he apologized silently.  I should have been more careful.  What did MacLeod think he was doing?  I've never known him to be an inconsiderate lover!

“Joe, look at me,” Methos commanded gently, pulling Dawson's head around.  “What's wrong, my friend?  Do you think your lack of experience makes you less desirable to me?"

“I'm not a virgin,” Joe defended sharply, refusing to meet Adam's gaze.

Methos brushed strands of hair from the mortal's face, projecting calm into the ties growing between them.  “I wouldn't care if you were,” he said honestly.  There was an open hurt, a torn innocence in Dawson's tight expression.  Methos was tempted to kiss it away, but restrained himself.  He's getting a lot of mixed signals, mostly from himself.

“God, I'm a fool!"  Dawson exploded.  He pulled away from the immortal, rolling back into the living room, facing away, his shoulders hunched.  “Adam, I'm sorry!”

The immortal took one step to follow, then stopped.  He needs distance.  All this close contact is irritating him.  Methos pursed his lips.  “Do you still want that coffee?" he called out, ready for any response.  It both relieved and concerned him when the back of Joe's head simply moved in a vague nod.

The coffee took several minutes to brew.  In that time, Methos remained in the kitchen, giving Dawson every attempt to recover himself The ancient immortal also took some time to assess his own feelings, to weigh those feelings against his current obligations.  Then he decided.  If matters are not resolved with MacLeod, he determined as he continued to observe the mortal's broken posture.  I will disappear into the fabric of humanity again, but not alone.  Joe will know a lifetime of pleasure, free from the fear and pain Inflicted on him in the past.

Methos affected a casual, Adam-like manner.  He brought in a small tray with coffee, milk and sugar.  For himself, he brought in an open bottle of beer.  “Here we go."  He placed the tray on the low table in front of an overstuffed couch.

The Watcher remained motionless for a space of seconds then turned his chair.  “I'm tired, Adam.  I'm going to bed.”

Complete withdrawal.  It was the one reaction Adam feared and knew he couldn't allow.  “Don't do this, Joe.  Don't give up.  Let's talk about it."  Feigning a relaxed posture, the immortal sat down on the couch.  “You probably feel like the whole universe has just exploded in your face.  But that's not true."  He sipped his beer, leveling his gaze on Dawson.  “In fact, I think your universe just took a growth spurt and you have no idea what to do with all the extra space.”

“Except to pay higher rent,” Joe replied roughly.  He pushed closer to the sofa table and picked up the coffee cup, drinking it black.  “Adam, I'm scared,” he admitted in a whisper.  “I don't know how to go forward.”

“Give it time, Joe,” Methos advised.  “MacLeod loves you.  I know this.”

Dawson's head jerked up, his eyes glared suspiciously.  “How the hell do you know!  You said you haven't spoken to Mac--”

“I haven't!"  Methos defended, fighting to counter Joe's assumptions before they could do damage.  “I called Duncan yesterday after talking to Amanda, but your name hardly came up.  Otherwise I haven't seen or spoken to him since he left Paris!”

“Then how do you know!" Joe challenged.

“Because he told me,” Methos told him casually.  “The day he and I met, when Kalas almost took my head."  Now there was a frightening memory.  The immortal shivered.  He'd been so sure he could defeat Kalas, so sure.  But it was only a stroke of luck that he was able to force them both over a bridge, into the Seines River in order to separate.

“Mac told me you wanted him to kill you,” Joe recalled, his tone calmer.  “He said he couldn't believe how you suddenly came after him.”

“Yes, well--”  It was not a moment he was proud of either.  He'd come after the Highlander with every intention of forcing Duncan to take his head.  But even as they fought, MacLeod hesitated, as if not quite believing Methos' intentions.  Even at the end, when the katana came to bring the true death, MacLeod showed superior control, stopping at just the right moment, revealing the deadly game Methos was playing.  “I had my reasons...  or thought I did."  He smiled.  “I told you before...  I'm just a guy.  Age does not always bestow wisdom.”

“He told you he loved me then?" Dawson asked.

Methos' smiled grew brighter.  “No... It was when we were in the shower together...  making love.”

There was a moment's silence then Joe threw his head back.  Laughter emerged that sent a string of music through the ancient immortal, deepening their rapport.  “You do get around.”

“I have needs."  Methos remembered the touch of MacLeod's hands on his chest, the Highlander's willing mouth on his...  “I offered him my head that night, and he wound up making love to me."  He set his beer bottle down.  “You know, for one so young, his skills in seduction are frightening.”

Dawson grunted in agreement, then cocked his head.  “Are you jealous?”

“Of you and MacLeod?  Why?"  Methos smirked.  “You know, monogamy was not always the normal mode of steady relationships, Joe.  I choose my lovers for their capacity to share, to understand that we're not joined at the hip.  It delights me no end if those I love find pleasure in each other."  He leaned forward, clasping his hands together.  “Joe, even Duncan understands this.”

“But he was with Tessa for thirteen years,” Dawson countered.  “And to my knowledge, he was never with anyone else during their whole relationship.”

Methos shrugged.  “I think that was the kind of relationship they both wanted.  I do know of at least one occasion when Duncan was in an ambiguous situation,” he said, remembering a watcher's report of MacLeod's life among Native Americans, his brief relationship with a shaman and his male “wife”.

“Joe," he continued.  "I'm not talking about a series of reckless sexual relationships."  Methos made an effort to deny any myth of endless liaisons.  “I'm talking about committed bonds."  He stood, carefully approaching the mortal.  “I didn't make love to you out of lust, or because it was a convenient moment, Joe.  I made love to you because I desire and cherish you.  I have since we first met."  Methos licked his lips, realizing how he must sound, then deciding he didn't care.

Dawson stared up at him.  “I know what you're saying.  What you're offering.  But I don't know about MacLeod.  I don't know about myself!”  Short laughter burst out of him.  “You know, I spent about eighteen years living like a monk, and now I'm surrounded by immortals who want to jump my bones!"  Joe's eyes lost some light as he cocked his head.  “But what happens when you get tired of me?"

Methos rolled his eyes, using every ounce of control he possessed to keep him from taking Joe back into the bedroom for a session of love making that would express his deepest feelings.  Instead, he moved behind Dawson, his hands rested on Joe's shoulders then started a friendly massage.  “How can I prove myself to you, Joe?  How can I tell you that you will be as desirable to me in 10 years or 50 years as you are now?

Dawson was still, and silent, allowing the massage.  Methos patiently waited, letting his own senses lightly touch his lover's mind, letting himself feel more of what the mortal was considering.  The results were vague and tense, and raw.  It was tempting to push further, but he held back.  Joe had to want help, had to be a part of the healing or nothing would come of it.  Methos decided to change the track of their talk, to deal with the core of what was happening here.

“Joe, what happened between you and MacLeod?" the immortal asked quietly, prepared when Dawson tensed.  “Please tell me,” he coaxed.  “It may help us all.”

Joe Dawson was silent for a long time, making Methos wonder whether this turn of discussion would lead to another dead end.  Finally, the mortal sighed.  “Did you know of an immortal named Andrew Cord?”

Methos nodded.  Of course he knew of the mercenary immortal, of Cord's crimes, of what he'd done in a single moment of humanity for one Joseph Dawson in the jungles of Southeast Asia nearly thirty years ago.  He also knew Cord met his end nearly a week ago at the hands of Duncan MacLeod.  But also, during the same time, there had been the loss of a significant mortal, Charles DeSalvo.  All at once, the puzzle pieces began to come together.  But Methos needed details to finish the picture.

“Yes, I know,” Methos replied, disappointed by the loss of contact.  His healer's instincts were fully engaged, a state he hadn't achieved in several decades.  At this moment, Joe was a mass of hurt, guilt and resistance.  And the resistance was growing.

“What else do you know?" Dawson demanded harshly, once more suspicious.

Methos quickly decided on half the truth.  “I know he fished you out of a swamp after you'd stepped on a land mine."  He raised his eyebrows.  “To my knowledge, it was the only human thing he ever did.”

“Not the only thing,” Joe whispered, almost too low for Methos to hear.  Suddenly images bright with shifting emotions flashed through the immortal's mind; a vision of Andrew Cord with an unusually tender expression on his dark face accompanied by feelings of need and passion.  Oh...

“Joe,” Methos spoke carefully, feeling he'd suddenly walked onto dangerous ground.  “Don't be afraid.  I'm here.  There's nothing you can say that will turn me away.”

The immortal's words seem to hit Dawson like a bullet.  Joe turned his chair, his face red and twisted.  “Adam...  Andy-- he was my first--”  He began to wheel away.  “I don't want to talk about this!”

“No!"  Methos grabbed the chair, unwilling to let the mortal go.  Dawson was beginning to open.  Given even a moment to think, Joe's mind would shut away the emerging memories, making any further discussion impossible.

“Let go!"  Dawson roared.  “Get the hell out of here!”

“Joe!"  Methos wrapped an arm around his friend from behind, pulling him back with iron strength.  Joe's hands went back to attack him, but Methos quickly countered, grabbing Dawson's arms, holding as tightly as he dared.  “Joe, calm down!" he pleaded.  “Please don't do this!  I love you!  I want to help!”

“I can't talk about it!"  Dawson's voice broke.  “Adam, please...”

“Shhhh..." Methos soothed as the fight drained from Dawson's body as quickly as it had come.  Using the opportunity, he leaned over and slid his hands down the mortal's arms to rest on top of balled fists.  The Watcher's hands uncurled in response, allowing the immortal to lace their fingers together.  Then, with the experience of thousands of years, Methos eased his spirit into his lover, his own energy enfolding the mortal's, projecting absolute calm.  “Just sit quietly a moment,” he whispered into the chaos “You don't have to say a thing.  Just listen to yourself breathe.”

Joe's chest heaved with the effort, his fingers gripped Adam's painfully.  Let me in, my friend, Methos begged inwardly, projecting his presence, his need for Dawson, pushing against the mortal's iron will, the need for self-protection.  Slowly, Joe began to respond.  There was an easing of tension.  The death-like grip on the immortal's hands relaxed.  “Do something for me, Joe,” Methos breathed into Dawson's ear.  “Just take a deep breath and hold it.”

The Watcher obeyed, taking a shuttered breath then holding back.  “That's great.  Now let it out slowly.  Yes..." Dawson exhaled.  His breathing instantly slowed, his muscles softened.  Immediately, Methos felt a reaching from his lover, a lowering of resistance.  “Good, Joe.  Now do it again.”

Dawson took a deep breath then let it out.  Then, without prompting, once more.  Methos smiled then touched his cheek to Dawson's, enjoying the sensation of the course beard, deepening his contact.  “Joe, do you trust me?”

“Yes,” the Watcher responded without hesitation.  “Adam--”

“Hush,” Methos ordered softly.  He laid a kiss on Dawson's neck then gently disengaged his hands from Joe's.  “You know, before this moment, I thought this was about resolving a conflict between you and Duncan.  Now, I know it's more.”

“I can't talk about it,” Joe uttered stubbornly.

“Yes you can,” Methos insisted.  “You need to share this to be free of it."  He kissed the salt and pepper hair.  “Let me help you.”

There was silence.  Methos resumed his massage of Joe's neck and shoulders, giving Dawson time to sort himself out, letting his presence lend silent support, willing to wait the entire evening if necessary.  After several minutes, Joe shifted and Methos sensed a quiet resolution.  “Adam,” the Watcher began, his voice more steady, but sad.  “I'm so ashamed.  I'm to blame for all of this.  For Charlie's death.”

And so we get to the heart of the matter, Methos thought with relief.  I love you, Joe Dawson.  He prepared himself for any reaction his next question might create.  “Do you think you're to blame because of your relationship with Andrew Cord?”

Dawson grew still, but did not break away, or let his emotions erupt beyond reason.  He was in control.  “I was eighteen years old,” he began distantly as if talking to himself.  He took a deep breath then let it out.  “Andy was the leader of our platoon, and a hard-nosed bastard.  But there was something about him that caught my eye, but I never thought about it...  I mean, I was attracted to him, but I didn't know if it was sexually...  not at first."  Joe sighed.  “To be honest, I hardly knew what sex was really.  I mean, I'd never been with a girl, I didn't want to be.”

Methos smiled at the innocence he heard in Joe's voice.  Much to his surprise, the mortal was falling into a light trance, detaching himself from the events he was recounting.  You are a quick study, my friend, he thought joyfully as the mental barriers between them fell.  I have gained your trust, he realized, quietly amazed.  I return that gift with a promise never to betray it.

“You wanted to be with boys.  Yes?"  Methos prompted, guiding the mortal into a deeper state of self-awareness.

Joe grunted.  His lips turned upward.  “Yeah… but in 1968, it wasn't something you gave any hint of.  Know what I mean?"  Pause.  “Maybe you don't.”

Methos laughed darkly.  “I understand, Joe.  There have been times in my life where even the hint of homosexuality was grounds for execution...  without any kind of trial."  Brief memory washed up in his mind.  He was caught with a young man, the son of a landowner.  Foolish really.  Burning at the stake was not a high point in his long life.  “It must have been very confusing for you,” he offered.

“Confusing wasn't half of it,” Dawson admitted with some humor.  “Andy...  the Sergeant was a real slave driver to the other guys, but he always let things slide with me.  I didn't even notice at first until the others started teasing me.”

“When did you and he become lovers?"  Methos asked, redirecting Dawson back into memories of the event.

“I turned nineteen when I was in Nam,” Joe said with a deep sigh.  “We happen to be on leave in Saigon.  There was this hole in the wall bar, full of rough and tough Marines looking for trouble.  And I decided to be trouble."  Dawson shifted.  “Andy wiped the floor with the first two guys who laid a hand on me.  Then he peeled me off the floor and hustled me to the nearest hotel."  He paused to lick his lips, then shrugged.  “When I asked how I could repay him, he just smiled...  and touched me."  A shiver erupted through Dawson's body.  Hints of excitement and heated passion passed from the mortal into Methos, causing the ancient immortal to shift uncomfortably, echoing his own desire for Dawson.  “I couldn't get enough of that thrill I got every time he touched me,” Joe admitted.

I'll bet.  Methos pressed closer to his lover.  “I'll share a secret, Joe,” he said softly.  “Andrew Cord couldn't get enough of you either.  This sensitivity is a two way street, you know.  I think Cord cared a great deal about you, and not just for the physical fulfillment.  Perhaps that's why he saved you.”

“I don't know,” Joe replied sadly.  “But there was something between us, even after I realized that he didn't give a damn about anyone else."  Dawson closed his eyes.  “A week ago, it was like I was a kid again, still ready to fight in battle.  Even when I realized what Andy was, had always been, I didn't want to see him die, especially at the end of Mac's sword.”

“You couldn't have stopped it, Joe,” Methos stated firmly, leaving no room for doubt.  “Not after what happened to Charlie."  Denial wafted its way through the link they shared.  Then, much to Methos' disappointment, the mortal let out a long breath, his shoulders tensing.  The comfortable level of merging they had achieved was broken as Joe's awareness shifted.

Still, it was not as it was before they began.  Some pathway remained between them.  An unbreakable tie had been forged.  Yes.  Methos acknowledged with some resignation.  Seems I've awakened quite a strong talent today.  He will need training support… help. 

“I could have stopped it before Charlie had to die,” Joe insisted, seemingly unaware of the mental scrutiny, his voice rough with guilt.  “I begged Mac not to kill Andy.  And the first time, he didn't.  If I hadn't used Mac's feelings for me, this all could have been avoided.”

“That's nonsense," Methos told him, his tone full of absolute knowledge.  Then he asked; “Does MacLeod know about you and Andrew Cord?”

“No!"  Joe snorted.  “My god, I don't think I'd have a head right now if he did!"  Dawson twisted his head around.  “Hell, I can't believe you're not angry!”

“Why would I be angry?"  Adam was genuinely surprised.  “Because you were a young man who was intimate with Cord during a war?  Because you were human when you didn't want to see a fight to the death between two friends?  Because Charlie refused to listen when he was warned not to fight Cord?”

“How do you know?"  Dawson challenged.

“I'm a Watcher,” Methos answered simply.  “I read the final report on Andrew Cord.  Charlie was a willing participant in the fight that killed him.”

“But Charlie didn't know!"  Dawson tensed.  Waves of churning emotions erupted from the mortal's soul.  “He didn't understand!”

“Did he have to?"  Adam challenged, willing his lover to see reason.  “It wouldn't have made any difference.  Charlie DeSalvo was determined to have his revenge.”

“Maybe,” Dawson agreed, his tone tentative as if needing to think it over.  “But what Mac said...  about us.  That hurt me more than anything,” Joe admitted honestly.

Methos raised his eyebrows.  “What did he say?”

Dawson shrugged.  “Mac said that there was a reason mortals and immortals were separate.  He said we were different.”

Did he?  Methos commented to himself as he heard the insensitive words.  “Do you believe him?”

“I thought I did,” Joe replied.  “But maybe we're just not right for each other, Adam.  Maybe Mac's not ready...  after Tessa.”

“Oh no, my friend,” Methos assured with gentle laughter.  “You two are a perfect match.”

“Maybe,” Joe considered.  “I don't know.  I guess it was the last thing he said to me that hurt the worst.”

“This was?"  Methos urged, wondering what parting shot MacLeod could have used to trigger all of this.

“He was just standing by the window.  He wouldn't even look at me."  Joe's voice became hoarse.  “I told him I thought we were friends.  He just looked at the window and said, ‘I am immortal', like I didn't understand that before.”

For a brief moment, Methos witnessed the scene through Dawson's eyes, felt the cold shock that ran through the mortal's being as the words were spoken.  I can't take his head, Methos promised himself as fury rose within his soul.  But I can make Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod beg for it...

“Adam?"  Joe's expression was calmer, but drained.  His blue eyes shone with moisture.  “Are you all right?”

The ancient immortal instantly bound up his negative thoughts, shielding the sensitive mortal.  “I'm sorry.  I'm a bit upset."  He smoothed back Joe's hair, lingering on the feel of the salt and pepper strands.  “Duncan and I need to talk."  Dawson's body tensed, disturbing their rapport.  “Joe?”

The Watcher averted his eyes.  “I feel like I'm coming between two friends again!”

Methos swiftly moved around the chair to face his lover.  “Joe, listen to me,” he began, forcing Dawson's attention.  “You are not to blame for what happened here!  None of it!  Do you understand?  I love you.  And I love Duncan MacLeod.  I would have you both with me, but the Highlander has a lesson or two to learn first."  He leaned forward.  “Tell me, Joe Dawson,” he whispered as he rained light kisses on the bearded face.  “Do you love MacLeod?”

Dawson pushed Methos back, holding him at arm's length, his blue eyes blazing.  “I love you both,” he stated firmly.

Right answer, my friend, Methos agreed with a contented sigh.  There was a tug at the waistband of his pants.  In a moment, Joe had undone the top button of his jeans and was pulling down the zipper.  The first flush of sexual desire flooded into the ancient immortal as he watched, startled by Dawson's gesture.  Then reason took hold.  Methos pulled Joe's face up to meet his.  “Right here?" he asked softly, teasing even as he tried to be sure of Joe's intentions.

In response, Dawson continued his task.  “I'm still hungry,” he hinted, broadcasting his desire.

Methos smiled.  Thoughts of MacLeod retreated as more important sensations took hold.  Joe's eyebrows rose up in an expression of surprise as he began to pull the garment down.

“No underwear?"  Dawson observed as he tugged the jeans over the immortal's narrow hips, then down slender legs.

“There wasn't any when I was young,” Methos responded, his voice low and distracted.  The mortal's light, massaging touch caused tendrils of electricity to explode through his nervous system.  The immortal growled his pleasure, his cock filled with anticipation, standing out from his body, begging for more attention.

Then, suddenly, Dawson pulled back.  “What?"  Methos said quickly, looking down to see what was wrong.

Joe ducked his head sheepishly.  “Sorry...  I forgot."  He reached to the side of his wheelchair, locking the wheels.  “We'll wind up chasing each other around the room otherwise.”

Methos laughed.  “You think of the damnedest things.”

“That's what Mac says,” Joe replied without hesitation, anger or guilt.  Methos moaned quietly as warm lips touched his right hip, then his left.  “You're so beautiful,” Dawson murmured.  The press of lips became the soft glide of a tongue over the ancient immortal's skin.  Methos arched back, his fingers played into Dawson's hair.

Joe's mouth continued to tease.  “I want to satisfy you,” he whispered, a tinge of doubt in his voice.

“You already do, Joe,” Methos responded, groaning as his erect cock brushed the mortal's beard.  “Don't ever question that.  Your mere presence excites me.  And this...”

A guttural sound escaped Methos as Joe's mouth closed on him, sucking deeply.  “Oh..."  It took control not to seize Dawson's head and thrust roughly into the waiting orifice.  But with an understanding of his lover's inexperience, he gripped the moving head carefully, pressing himself inward gently.  “Relax, Joe,” he soothed, feeling tension in the mortal's jaw.  “This isn't a race, or a contest.  You're not even obligated to finish this way, though I hope you will because you feel wonderful!”

Breath escaped from Joe's nostrils as his mouth grew lax.  Encouraged, Methos began an easy rhythm, voicing his growing passion as Dawson seem to gain confidence in his use of tongue and teeth to increase the pleasure he was already giving.  Methos sensed his own quickening spread out to encompass the mortal, sighing in pleasure as Joe responded, opening himself, sharing the rising excitement, channeling it back between them.  I can understand why Andrew Cord took a shine to you, Joe, his mind commented in a moment of distraction.  You give so much of yourself that no one can resist the need to love you.  Even Cord must have understood this, or he would not have risked himself for one young mortal.

Methos groaned.  His thrusts became more demanding as Dawson seem to accept the invasion, his broad hands holding the immortal's hips with determined strength.  Climax approached quickly.  He tried to push Joe back in warning, but the mortal held on, clearly indicating his desire to complete the act.  With a final thrust, Methos held the beloved head as he released himself, shivering as Dawson's mouth moved around his spent cock, sucking and swallowing.

“Joe..."  Methos drew back.  “Joe..."  He bent down, taking Dawson's mouth in a full, passionate kiss, feeling an added rush as he tasted himself and Joe all at once.  Perhaps, if things work out, I will have the opportunity to taste the Highlander as well.

“Could I get a sip of your beer?” Joe asked quietly as they broke.  “Not that I didn't enjoy this, but--”

Methos smiled indulgently.  Semen was an acquired taste.  He pulled up his pants then picked up the half-empty bottle of beer from the coffee table.  “Here, Joe.  Have as much as you want,” he encouraged, breaking his own rules set earlier in the evening.

Dawson took the bottle, his cheeks flushing as their fingers brushed.  “I've never done it quite like that before,” he admitted.  “Mac and I...  he said he wanted to please me...  but I don't feel like I had the chance to give back.”

“I told you,” Methos reminded as he got another beer and sat down, his body tingling with renewed energy.  “This ability you have works two ways with immortals.  MacLeod was well satisfied.  Believe me.  And he will be again.”

Joe smiled.  “You make it sound like we'll be together again.”

Methos returned the smile.  “We'll work this out, Joe.  Have faith.”

Dawson took a deep breath, rising from dreams he could hardly remember.  His bedroom was half in shadows, half in sunlight that streamed through the curtains at the foot of his bed.  Joe sighed, then stretched, pulling back as he encountered something soft and bulky by his side.

Adam.

Joe turned over, remembering everything from the night before in an instant.  Methos was curled on his side, completely nude, facing the Watcher, his left arm tucked under his head.  Dawson was nude as well.  The ancient immortal wanted to cuddle together.  He said he found it the most comfortable way to sleep.  I'd have to agree.  I could get used to it.

Joe studied his lover, amazed at how much more youthful Adam could appear in sleep.  I wonder how old he was at his first death.  Dawson smiled.  I wonder if *he* knows how old he was.  Excitement rushed through Dawson, settling in his groin as he continued to watch his sleeping friend.  Christ, I've turned into a sex maniac!  Tentatively, he touched soft stubbles rising from Methos' cheek. 

Dawson's fingertips slid over the angular face, pausing to explore the silken hair.  He's mine, Joe assured himself, amazed it could be like this.  Maybe it could be this way with Mac, too.  For the first time in days, Joe felt a longing mixed with hope that all could be healed between the Highlander and himself.

Taking a chance he wouldn't have considered yesterday, Joe leaned forward, pressing his lips to Methos', kissing softly, embarrassed and needy all at once.  I'm being too forward.  I'm asking too much...

“Mmmmmm..."  Adam moaned.  His hands pulled Dawson's head down to claim the mortal's mouth until Joe groaned aloud.  “That's a nice wake up call,” Pierson murmured as he drew back.  His fingers skimmed through Dawson's hair.  “How are you feeling?”

“I don't know,” Joe replied in a husky voice.  “I'm still kind of confused, but not about this."  He stroked his lover's face.  “I love you,” he managed to say before plunging ahead taking the immortal in a passionate kiss.

Methos became pliant beneath him, his long fingered hands clutched Dawson's back, his mouth welcomed the invasion.  Joe groaned as his cock brushed against Methos' erection.  He wants this, he thought with delight.  God, when did I die and go to heaven?  Joe remembered the feel of that organ in his mouth last night.  He pulled back, taking another look at his lover.  Methos' eyes were closed, his expression etched with growing passion.  Dawson's fingers gently brushed the immortal's hardened cock then shivered as contact produced a delicious moan from his friend.

Suddenly, Dawson had a thought.  He'd never conceived of it with Andrew Cord, had been too afraid to ask MacLeod.  But now, the time seemed right, and Methos seemed approachable.  Dark desire swept into Joe then through the bond between them.

“I want you,” he whispered into the other man's ear.

Methos opened his eyes slowly, his expression puzzled, then excited.  “You may have whatever you wish."  He claimed a kiss then withdrew.  “Hold on a moment."  Methos scooted from the best, walked into the bathroom, then returned a moment later with a tube in his hand.  Knowing its purpose, Dawson's heart slammed into his chest.

“What's wrong?"  Adam's fingers caressed Joe's face.  “Are you afraid of hurting me?  You won't, you know.”

Hurting him?  It took a moment then his throat tightened.  “No, I--"  A cold flush washed over Joe, causing his arousal to fade.  “Adam...  I want you..."  He felt awkward, unable to voice the right words.

“Joe,” Methos said softly.  His arm went around Dawson's shoulders.  “It's all right.  Don't be embarrassed.”

Joe snorted.  “Easy for you,” he countered.  “You've probably done this millions of times.  But I've never… not with Andy...  and not with Mac."  He bowed his head.  “I just want to know what it's like… to have you inside me."  He looked away.  “And I feel like an idiot for asking.”

“Why?"  Methos drew his lover into his arms, stroking the hairs on Dawson's chest.  “Joe, you're just asking for a little experience.  Everyone's got to start somewhere."  He pecked Dawson's forehead.  “Of course, now that you've asked, you don't have to feel obligated to go through with it, either.”

“I want to,” Joe said immediately.  He looked up, his expression firm.  "But I'm not sure how good I'll be,” he added, needing to voice his doubts.

Methos chuckled, his hands played over Dawson's body.  “In the first place,” he began thoughtfully.  “This is not for my enjoyment, though I expect to be well satisfied."  He brought Joe's hand to his mouth, licking then sucking Dawson's fingers.  “Mmmm...”

Joe gasped as his body registered the intense seduction.  Adam's lips traveled from his hand to his arm, then to his shoulder and neck as the immortal pressed closer.  Dawson kissed Methos hesitantly, then with growing excitement, pushing his lover down on the bed feeling the need to dominate, if only for a moment.  The familiar sensations of the quickening filtered through him, a gentle wave of energy lingered like a fine mist.

Methos slid his hands down Joe's back.  “You feel good,” he whispered with heavy breath.  His tongue grazed over bare skin, nipping randomly.  “You taste good, too.”  Joe closed his eyes, feeling every sensation doubled.  Experienced fingers caressed his buttocks, one finger grazed the desired opening.  Dawson gasped then jumped, surprised and aroused all at once.  The flow of energy between them stagnated off as Methos drew back.

“I know Andrew Cord was beheaded by MacLeod almost two weeks ago.  You knew him, didn't you?"  Methos prompted, his massage on Dawson's shoulders shifting to the mortal's neck.

“Yeah."  Joe leaned his head forward, out of the immortal's reach.  “He saved my life once.”

“All right?"  Adam searched Joe's face.  “I want you to tell me if I hurt you, and I want you to stop this anytime you want to.”

Joe swallowed hard.  “I'm all right."  He shivered with new feelings of pleasure and desire.  “I just didn't know how it would feel.”

“Does it feel good?" Methos asked as he slid his fingers between the cleft of Dawson's ass, his light touch lingering over the sensitive area.  Joe gasped in response, pushing against Methos' touch with a silence need for more.  “This is going to be good for you, Joe,” Adam assured, his voice low with desire.  One finger, thick with lubricant, pushed inward.

Dawson shook, his nerves erupted.  “Ahhh...  yes..."  He squirmed.  “Feels good...”

Methos laughed.  “Oh, this is nothing, my friend,” he groaned into Dawson's ear.  “There's so much more.  But there might be some pain, too,” he told Joe honestly.  “Even the most careful preparations can't stop that.  But the pain is so brief, and the pleasure...”

Adam suddenly stopped talking then Dawson felt the immortal stiffen.  With their close contact, his new sensitivities, Joe felt a presence, a brief touch of another quickening, then nothing.  “Adam?”

Methos sighed, his forehead against Dawson's chest.  Then he slid away, kissing Joe as he got off the bed.  “Damn him!" he cursed as he picked up his jeans from the floor and put them on.  “I'm sorry, Joe,” he said sincerely.  He reached under the bed, bringing up his sword.

Fear impaled Dawson's soul as he gazed at the old weapon.  “Adam, don't--"

Methos held his sword away as he came back to Joe, caressing him.  “Don't be afraid.  We're not going to hurt each other.  But right now, he only senses that there's an immortal in here, not that it's me.  I'd hate for his over protectiveness to end our conversation before it begins."  He ruffled Joe's hair.  “Then again, it might not be Duncan.  So wait here.”

Dawson watched the immortal leave.  Adam looked every bit the warrior, his expression cold and determined.  Joe heard his front door slam open, a call, the clash of swords, then a loud crash.  With resolve, Joe gathered himself, dragging on his robe, pulling his wheelchair closer, determined to see whatever was going to happen.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod blinked, realizing that he was flat on his back, on the floor of Joe Dawson's apartment; that his katana was still in his hand, though there was the firm weight of a man's foot crushing the muscle and bone of his arm; and that there was a point of another man's sword in his face.  In an instant, MacLeod realized he'd lost the battle before it could start and wondered how that had happened. 

“You're not only an insensitive idiot,” a familiar, oddly accented voice announced from above.  “But you have a real problem with timing.”

“Methos."  The ancient immortal stood above him, his expression dark with anger.  Duncan took note of the state of dress, the disheveled appearance, that certain feeling that he'd come in during something very private.  Jealousy swelled inside the Highlander, followed by deep disappointment.  Methos said he cared for Joe, that he would take him if it weren't for me.  Now it's happened, andl have only myself to blame...  for everything.

“Get up!"  Methos ordered, stepping away.  Duncan obeyed, still wary.  The older immortal was truly angry, and MacLeod could guess at the cause.  He's been talking to Joe.

“Is Joe all right?"  Duncan asked, sincerely concerned, though he realized that anything he might have to say would sound trite.

“Concerned about him, are you?"  Methos put his weapon aside, then walked to the sofa and sat down.

“How noble.  Where were you a week ago?”

The question hit a nerve.  MacLeod put his own sword away in his long coat, but didn't take it off.  He wondered how long he'd be staying.  “That's none of your business!”

Methos' eyes narrowed.  “Everything that concerns Joe Dawson is my business, MacLeod.  Everything.  I've known him...  loved him years before you and I met.  When I got here yesterday morning, he was lying on the floor right where you're standing, unconscious.  He'd been in a drunken stupor for nearly three days because he couldn't handle what you'd done to him.”

Without thinking Duncan looked down.  There were permanent stains in the hardwood floor.  By the wall, the Highlander spotted a single drop of blood.  Joe...  “Please tell me how he is,” he asked again, his tone full of apology.

“He's fine,” Methos relented after a moment.  “He fell off a stool.  He hurt his legs more than anything else.  But he's healing.”

MacLeod sighed with relief.  He eyed the bedroom door, wanting to see Dawson himself

“You and I have some things to talk about, Highlander,” Methos said firmly.  “I don't think you two should see each other until we've had that opportunity.”

MacLeod suddenly felt like a child being taken to the woodshed for a good whipping.  He glared at Methos, considering whether he should simply ignore the ancient immortal and do what he wanted.  But there was a glint in the hazel eyes that watched him, a challenge tempered with need.  Duncan shed his coat as he approached a sofa and sat down on the opposite end.  “Okay,” he gave in.  “We'll talk.”

“Don't make this a torture session, my friend,” Methos warned.  “Joe and I have had a chance to talk, and I think I have a pretty good idea of what's going on, so I won't be dragging that kind of information from you."  He drew himself up, sitting cross-legged on the cushion.  “What I want to know from you is...  why?”

Duncan had no answer, not one he knew his friend wanted to hear.  MacLeod took a deep breath, settling himself, organizing his chaotic thoughts.  Last night had been rough.  He'd had nothing but disturbing dreams with feelings that didn't end when he woke.  The need to go to Dawson, to talk to him about Andrew Cord, about what had happened was overwhelming.  But, perhaps now, he noted, it already was too late.

“I'm waiting for an answer, MacLeod,” Methos demanded impatiently.  “Surely you know why you tossed Joe away without any consideration for him.”

“We had a disagreement,” Duncan responded defensively.  “He interfered in a challenge between myself and another immortal.”

“Andrew Cord?"  Methos shrugged.  “You did what needed to be done.  Where did Joe interfere?”

It occurred to MacLeod that the ancient immortal had already made up his mind about who was right and wrong in what happened between himself and Dawson.  “Look.  I'm not in the mood for games.  If you spoke to Joe, then you know what happened.  Joe asked me not to kill Cord, and I didn't.  And because of that a good friend died.”

“Charlie DeSalvo?"  Methos cocked his head.  “I read Cord's report.  Charlie would have died anyway.  Even if he had known Cord was immortal,” He added significantly.

“No, Cord would have been dead that day, in my dojo, if I hadn't promised Joe!"  MacLeod got up, unable to sit still.  It all seemed straightforward.  Joe had interfered, had used their relationship to sway Duncan from what should have been done.  Gradually, he came to understand that some of the blame was his, but he wouldn't admit it to Methos.  It was none of his business, even if he had become Dawson's lover.

“Andrew Cord saved Joe's life, MacLeod,” Methos told him.

“Yeah,” Duncan confirmed.  “And Dawson felt obligated to save Cord's in return, so I agreed not to kill him... the first time.”

“Because you loved Joe?"  Methos queried.

“Yes!  Because I loved Joe!"  Duncan paced across the room, then back, his eyes glancing towards the bedroom door, still closed.  “Look, it's all changed now.  He's with you, and I just want to say I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what, MacLeod?"  Methos fastened his gaze on the Highlander.  “For saying that mortals and immortals can't be together...  or for coldly reminding Dawson of the fact that you are immortal?”

MacLeod winced, remembering the angry words he had spoken in his last conversation with Dawson.  “I was angry."

“You are immortal!"  Methos was on his feet, his posture imposing as he approached MacLeod.  “Joseph Dawson is what...  forty-six?  What the hell were you doing and thinking when you were forty-­six?  Do you even remember?"  His eyes blazed.  “Yes, he is mortal, and he is different, but not in anyway other than he has the potential of reaching his grave long before we do!"  He thrust out a finger towards the younger immortal.  “You, Duncan MacLeod, decided to have a temper tantrum because everything didn't turn out the way you thought they should have!  And you hurt your lover at the very moment he was the most sensitive to your needs!  You might as well have taken his head!”

Duncan stared at Methos, stunned.  He'd never seen him this furious, not even with his enemies.  “I said what I thought was true,” MacLeod defended stubbornly.  “The Game is too dangerous for mortals.  For his sake, and mine, it was better if Joe wasn't involved anymore.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Methos stated clearly.  “Duncan, life and death is the way of the universe.  Joe is going to die, be that tomorrow morning or 50 years from now.  And we both might be dead, too, by the stroke of another's sword.  Joe Dawson decides Joe Dawson's life.”

MacLeod turned away, conflicting emotions surging inside of him.  He knew his words to Joe were harsh, but he had to say them, had to drive the Watcher away.  Afterwards, he thought he could pick up on his life before Dawson.  But after few days, every aspect of his life became marked by what he and Joe used to do.  Richie got fed up with the situation, refusing to speak to him, or Dawson, unable to cope with the stress of his two friends fighting, not knowing that his two friends had become lovers.  He was traveling now, leaving word that he would be back when the fighting was over.

MacLeod remembered his first time with Joe in Glenfinnan, after Kanwolf's death.  The full moon streamed through the open window of the Inn.  Joe was full of passion, his body sensitive to the slightest touch.  Their lovemaking was like joining souls, something he'd never experienced with Tessa, or any other mortal.  In his imagination, it seemed that Joe taking his quickening, then feeding it back as added energy to their building passion.  MacLeod felt a connection with the Watcher, a bond forming that couldn't be broken.

Then it was gone.  MacLeod had to admit that his life without Joe was becoming a vacuum.  He found he wasn't sleeping, or eating, or practicing as much as he needed to.  His dreams were frill of deep chaotic emotions that taunted him.  Three days ago, Amanda called.  The Highlander tried to make it seem like all was well, but knew he failed the moment he hung up.  Then Methos called with the same results.  “You knew something was wrong when you spoke to me from Paris,” he accused, changing the direction of their talk.

“Amanda said you had been talking a blue streak about Dawson for about three weeks.  She had expected the wedding invitation to be in the mail at any moment."  Methos' lips turned up.  “I did too.  Then suddenly you wouldn't even mention his name, or let anyone else talk about him.  And Joe couldn't be contacted.  Amanda and I were worried.”

“So what do you expect now, Methos?  We're not together, and I can't change that."  Duncan eyed his coat, feeling the need to just leave.  There was nothing for him now.  Joe would probably have himself reassigned.  And MacLeod would have to leave the city to put some distance between himself and the memories here.

“You give up too easily, MacLeod,” Methos chided, stepping up to the Highlander.  “Tell me something.  Do you still love Joe?”

Duncan closed his eyes.  “Yes,” he stated without hesitation.  “I love him.  I'm finding it very difficult to be without him.”

“Then you can change everything,” Methos assured, his tone more gentle.  MacLeod found himself caught in the ancient immortal's gaze.  “We both love Joe, MacLeod,” Adam said, then raised his eyebrows.  “Are you willing to share?”

Duncan studied his friend's face, confused and excited all at once.  Share?  He'd done that once or twice in his life, with those he cared about.  Hesitantly, he touched Methos' cheek.  The bond they had forged a year ago sparked, then flowed, running into deep levels of commitment.  It was not only his relationship with Joe that was at stake here, he suddenly realized.  It was everything, his entire future.  Duncan skimmed his fingertips over Adam's bare shoulders.  “What do you think of me?"  he asked, needing the reassurance, the knowledge that all was not lost to him.

Methos' eyes raked over him.  “Right now?"  He smiled “My sole thought is that your head would made an excellent wall trophy."  His fingers combed through MacLeod's hair in direct contrast to his words.  His expression softened.  “On a night you could have been the most powerful immortal on earth, you chose to heal me of my hopelessness.  You gave me a reason to live, Duncan.  I'd felt a kind of longing for you for decades, but that night I fell in love with you."  He undid the clasp holding back Duncan's hair, letting the long strands spread out around the Highlander's broad shoulders.  “I know you are a good man, a man of justice and mercy.  But you're human, too.  And you gave a fine example of that when you broke Joe's heart.”

Chastised, Duncan lowered his gaze and moved away, needing a moment to gather himself It was then he caught sight of Dawson.  The mortal sat in his wheelchair just outside the bedroom, enclosed in a terry cloth robe.  Joe's expression was tense, his eyes moist.  Suddenly all the anger and frustration MacLeod had gathered against the Watcher vanished completely.  I love this man...  maybe as much as I loved Deborah.  Methos is right.  I'm judging him as if he were centuries old I can never make that mistake again.

“Joe..."  MacLeod moved towards his lover, ready to embrace him, to apologize, to begin setting things right.

But Dawson held up a hand as Duncan approached.  “Wait, Mac,” he ordered in a strained voice.  “I need to tell you something about all this.  Something Adam didn't tell you.”

“Joe, you don't have to,” Methos warned.

“I want to!"  Joe stared at Duncan.

MacLeod stared back, trying to imagine what was missing, anticipating disaster.  Maybe he doesn't want to share.  I'll have to accept that...  maybe we could rebuild our friendship...  “What is it?”

Dawson licked his lips.  “When Andrew and I were in Nam...  we were lovers.  I...  I didn't know he was immortal, or that he was as bad as he was.  I was a kid, and he was my first experience.”

The words settled into Duncan's brain, then spread into his heart.  They were lovers...  He stared at Joe, trying to imagine the boy in the man.  His first experience... that must have been something.  Suddenly it made sense.  Dawson's need to defend Cord, his desperate attempt to keep them separated.  How could I have been so blind?

Dawson looked away, his expression falling into grief MacLeod glanced at Methos, whose attention was fixed on the mortal.  “Joe, it's not your fault,” he said softly taking a step closer.  “None of this was your fault."  He knelt in front of Dawson's chair, placing his hands on terry cloth covering Joe's thighs.  “I was wrong to push you away.  You didn't deserve that.”

Blood-shot eyes met Duncan's.  “I should have kept my distance.”

“No!"  MacLeod took Joe's hands in his, kissing each one.  “You did everything you could to help.  Andrew didn't see it.  Charlie didn't see it.  And I didn't see it.  Methos is right.  I wanted it my way, and I got angry when it didn't work."  Duncan wiped away a tear that rolled down Dawson's bearded face.  “Can you forgive me?”

Joe's eyes searched Duncan, bent up to Adam, then returned.  “I love you,” he said simply.  “Forgiveness is part of the package.”

MacLeod didn't remember drawing Joe into his arms, only that he held the mortal tightly.  He felt Joe shake, then heard a sob.  For several minutes, Duncan held on, whispering endearments, feeling the abyss that had opened between them close shut.  Then there was another presence, physically and mentally.  Methos was with them, his hand on the back of Duncan's neck.

“I can't begin to tell you how happy I am,” the elder immortal began quietly.  His lips brushed Duncan's cheek.  A moment later, the Highlander heard Dawson groan, felt an echo of sensations pass through him from the ancient immortal's touch. 

MacLeod pulled back, seeing Methos' other hand resting on Joe's temple.  Dawson's expression was calm, his eyes shifting from Methos to Duncan.  The Highlander felt an odd flow of sensation pass through him.  Not a quickening, but something familiar.

“There's something else you ought to know about Joe Dawson, MacLeod,” Methos stated, his hand on the Watcher moved in gentle caresses.  “He can sense a quickening.”

MacLeod's mouth dropped open in shock.  Sense a quickening...  He studied Dawson closely.  Was he a potential?  That thought had never occurred to MacLeod.  The Watcher had parents, and a sister, now all dead.  But so many people in Joe's time were never told they were adopted, and so many records were incomplete.  It was always possible.  Duncan concentrated, seeking out that feeling of locked energy, much as he'd sensed with Richie and others.

But instead he only felt a difference, another kind of energy, purely mortal, but with powerful potential.  It was like hearing a doorbell when the ring of a telephone was expected.  Both drew one's attention, but with a different sense of purpose.  His fingers grazed Joe's face, and he felt Dawson's hesitation then pleasure.  All at once he understood.  He's an empath...  a gazer...

You hurt your lover at the very moment he was the most sensitive to your needs!  You might as well have taken his head!

Guilt flashed through MacLeod, followed by deep regret.  He understood Methos' angry words.  My god...  Duncan petted Dawson's beard, remembering the bitter emotions he'd thrown at the Watcher, his thoughtless words.  “Joe, I'm a fool.”

“Mac don't..." Joe said quickly.  “I'm not completely sure I understand all of this.”

“Oh, but MacLeod understands,” Methos supplied with the tone of a parent making a point to a dense child.  “Don't you?”

Duncan nodded.  “I'm sorry.”

“No time for that,” Methos commanded, his tone full of absolution.  “No more, from either of you."  His eyes moved from one man to the other, then settled on Dawson.  “Joe?  Weren't we...  doing something when MacLeod barged in?”

Dawson's cheeks turned bright red.  “I want to,” he responded steadily.

Methos smiled smiled.  “And MacLeod?”

Joe touched Duncan's face.  The Highlander sighed as he felt the genuine warmth flow into him.  “Him too...  if he can behave,” Dawson added, attempting humor.

MacLeod let out a breath of relief.  Real desire awoke in him for the first time since they had separated.  Without warning to either man, he wrapped his arms around Joe's back and upper hips, lifting him.  It was far less awkward than he imagined.

“Mac!  Stop!"  Joe called, even as his arms went around Duncan's neck.

MacLeod chuckled.  “Not until we're in bed,” he told his captive.  Methos moved the chair out of the way as Duncan moved through the open door into the bedroom where he carefully placed his mortal lover on the soft bed.  “I love you, Joe,” he said, his lips meeting Dawson's.

A month ago, their first time had been a slow patient dance.  Now the Watcher exploded with need, his body arched against the Highlander, his hands worked at Duncan's shirt, nearly tearing it in a desperate attempt to get it off.  The Highlander untied the terry cloth belt holding Joe's robe together, delighted to see Dawson's aroused body displayed before him.  “You're a beautiful sight, Joe,” he admired.

“I agree with you.”

Duncan looked up as he heard Methos' voice.  The other immortal stood beside the bed, his jeans gone, revealing himself to the other men.  MacLeod allowed brief threads of jealousy to come and go from his mind as he forced himself to adjust.  My relationship with Joe has changed.  Methos is here, for both of us.

“Together we'll be stronger,” Methos assured as if responding to the unspoken thought.  The elder immortal lean down, his lips caressing Dawson's, then pressed more firmly as Joe's broad hands gripped the ancient's head in passionate need.

Duncan watched, swallowing as he sensed the waves of pleasure, the urge for possession that wafted into the air between them.  With what remained of practical thought, Duncan removed his shirt, then his shoes, dumping them on the floor, then his socks.  Lastly, he stood, opening his pants...

“No, let me."  Methos was there, having moved over Dawson to sit on the edge of the bed in front of MacLeod.  His longer fingers caressed the fastenings on the pants, pressing gently as if to feel what prize lay beneath the crotch.  Duncan breathed in sharply, already smelling the musk of arousal in the room.  His cock twitched and stirred.  “Oh yes, I remember this,” the ancient immortal crooned.

A rush of energy flashed through MacLeod.  His pants were drawn down slowly.  Instinctively he petted Methos' head, wanting to urge more as his partially aroused cock waved invitingly inches from the desired mouth.  But then he looked to Dawson.  Joe was on his side, his blue eyes absorbed in the sight of two men in the act of foreplay.  There was an odd sense of innocence in the stare, a kind of fascination that more suited a younger man, a much younger man.

“I don't think he's done this before,” Duncan whispered to Methos, concerned.

Methos caressed MacLeod's hips, fingertips drawing over the firm muscles, his voice equally low.  “Been with two men?  No, I don't think so.  In fact, your little affair together was the first time he'd been intimate with anyone in nearly twenty years.”

Another revelation.  Duncan controlled his shock, holding it inward so it would not disturb the bond forming between them.  Twenty years...  He didn't tell me.  A frown creased Joe's forehead, a look of suspicion, of doubt.  At the same time, waves of erratic emotions passed through the Highlander, surprising him.  “What's going on?"  Duncan asked, confused by the unfamiliar sensations.  “I can feel him.  It wasn't like this before.  It's like he's inside me.”

Ancient eyes narrowed.  Methos' lips drew inwards.  Guilt gently bounced through the weave of emotions building.  “I'm afraid it's my fault, Duncan.  I'm a bit of a catalyst.  You two may have started it a month ago, but when he touched my quickening, it seem to open up some latent talents in him.  I think he may have one of the strongest talents I've ever sensed in a mortal.  And it's something we're going to have to help him with for awhile.  But not tonight.  Yes?”

The ancient immortal's quiet words were final, forcing MacLeod to swallow his comments.  It was Adam's intention to have them make love to one another.  Duncan nodded, his gaze again seeking out Dawson.  “I was just telling Methos you'd make a very good centerfold for Penthouse.”

Joe raised his eyebrows, knowing immediately the words were a lie.  The air around him seem to draw close, irritating him.  What's going on?  There was a pull and stretch of emotions, strong emotions, churning in on themselves, pounding against his mind.  Dawson screwed his eyes shut as a dull throb pounded inside his head.

He felt a shifting on the bed.  “Joe?"  Methos' fingers brushed his face.  Dawson flinched without meaning to.  Too much… I'm losing my mind… Don't touch-- 

“Stop,” he pleaded aloud, then rolled onto his back, away from Methos.  He heard whispered voices then felt more movement. 

“All right, Joe,” Methos soothed, his voice and body near, but not touching.  “Take a deep breath...  like before.  Can you do that?”

Automatically, Joe obeyed, filling his lungs, then letting it out.  Nothing happened.  “Adam--”

“Trust me, my friend,” Methos' fingertips barely brushed his arms.  Dawson shivered.  “Listen to me carefully, Joe,” he commanded gently.  “Take another breath and let it out.  Yes, that's good.  You've overloaded yourself, taken in more than your new abilities can deal with, but you're all right,” his deep voice assured.  “You're safe.”

Dawson drew a breath then exhaled.  The pressure in his mind eased, his nerves began to settle.  “I feel like scrambled eggs inside,” he voiced tiredly

“I'm sure you do,” Methos agreed.  “I'm sorry.  I'm afraid I've opened a bees' hive.  I told you last night that the gift Horton had was unusually strong.  Well, it seems you're even stronger than he was.”

Dawson froze, wondering what that meant, fearing the knowledge.  I'm just like Horton?

“Joe, relax!"  Methos pulled pillows away from Joe's head, then settled himself in their place, sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall.  “Come on, Joe.  Let us help you."  He pulled the Watcher's head and shoulders onto his lap. 

Dawson tensed then sighed, settling into the undemanding aura of the ancient's healing presence.  “That's good,” Methos assured.  “Duncan,” the ancient immortal instructed.  “Just sit down and touch Joe.”

At Methos' command, the bed moved.  MacLeod's presence settled at his side.  A warm, calloused hand covered Joe's in a reassuring gesture.  “What's wrong?"  Duncan asked.

“Nothing,” Methos assured calmly.  His hands rested on Dawson's forehead.  Joe sighed, feeling safely cocooned in the energies that surrounded him.  “What we need right now is calm,” Methos said, his tone low and even.  “No talking.  No explanations.  Just calm.”

It was like the moment before dawn, a space of pure silence when night creatures and those of the day shared their lives for the single purpose of rest.  Joe's senses cleared then focused, taking in the sensations projected by the men around him, their love, concern, even some excitement.  He looked up to see Adam's face turn upside- down above his.  Methos' expression was lax.  His hazel eyes glinted powerfully.  Dawson smiled back, suddenly completely comfortable in a situation he would have found too odd for his tastes years ago.  His gaze shifted to Duncan.  The Scotsman's dark eyes met his with a mixture of uncertainty.  Joe took a moment to study the larger, well-muscled chest and shoulders, remembering their feel against him when they made love in Glenfinnan, then in London, before they returned to the States, to the whole affair with Andrew Cord and Charlie.

“You are nothing like Horton, Joe,” Methos stated after several minutes of absolute silence.  “You work to build, not destroy.  Your abilities will be a strong foundation to any bridge that might one day exist between all mortals and immortals.”

“Me?"  Dawson snorted.  “Adam, I'm just one poor human being trying to swim through the muck and mire of life.  Don't make me something I'm not.”

“I'm not,” Methos protested.  “I'm simply stating facts.  You are more than you seem, and together we will be stronger than anyone who might try to destroy us.”

It was an awesome statement, but with a thread of absolute truth that could not be denied.  Duncan's hands on his tightened, drawing Dawson's attention.  The mortal's heart quickened as their eyes met.  MacLeod smiled then moved slowly, leaning forward.  Joe anticipated a kiss, but instead watched as the Scot moved above him to take Methos in a deep passionate kiss that made the Watcher shudder with delight.

Then Duncan pulled back, his attention focused on Dawson, his broad hands moved over Joe's chest, fingertips scratching.  Dawson hissed, feeling electricity flow through every nerve.  Joe opened himself, feeling only pleasure as the energy of two immortals flowed into him; one full of the need to give, the other more controlled, a guiding force.  It was then Dawson let go of all doubts, trusting these men as he had never trusted anyone in his whole life.

“Yes, Joe,” Methos said, his accent thick, his hands wrapped around Dawson's head.  The Watcher felt the hard wall of Adam's abdomen against his hair, his lover's aroused cock against his skull.  “Let yourself enjoy this...”

Dawson silently gave his assent.  Duncan's lips captured Joe's, taking time to explore, nibbling the soft skin under Dawson's chin.  Joe laughed, wrapping his arms around Duncan's shoulders, taking solace and pleasure in the feel of the hard body against him.  Warm breath caressed his ear.  “Remember Glenfinnan, Joe?"  MacLeod whispered.  “I'd gone there to search for my lost love."  Duncan pulled up, his dark eyes were moist, his expression full of revelation.  “And I found you.  Do you remember the moon, Joe?”

The moon...  Dawson smiled, his mind traveling back to that moment.  The full moon shown through the single window in the small room, casting a warm glow on everything it touched.  MacLeod was a spirit looming over him, his touch bringing a kind of pleasure Joe never thought to have.  And Joe returned the pleasure, encouraged by the sighs and moans of his companion, listening as Duncan whispered his needs to him.  MacLeod enfolded him, knowing hands traveled down, fingers tracing the curves of Dawson's hips, teasing the crack between the buttocks.

Surprise forced the illusion to fade.  Joe studied the Highlander, feeling the Scot's warm fingers resting between his buttocks, barely touching the opening there.  Duncan's expression was a silent asking.  He wants me...  and I want this...  but with Adam...

“We are both a part of you, my friend,” Methos said, breaking into the unsettling moment, his tone a steady beat.  “But you have the choice.  Duncan will give you the pleasures I would have, or we can do this as we originally planned...  with me."  His fingers combed through Dawson's hair.  “Or you can say no, and MacLeod and I will find other ways to pleasure you.”

My choice...  Dawson ached with sexual excitement, with the need to merge with these two men.  He fingered the long strands of dark hair that had fallen across the Highlander's face.  “Today I wanted to know what it would feel like... to have you or Adam inside me,” he said without the hesitation he'd felt earlier.  “Do you want to teach me?”

“Aye,” MacLeod whispered, his body trembling.  “Aye, Joseph.  I will teach you.”

Dawson sighed with relief, then groaned with pleasure as Duncan's hands resumed their work, encouraging and stimulating.  Joe's hands caressed MacLeod's broad back, raking his fingernails over the smooth skin.  “Ah, yes..." Duncan moaned, his accent growing thicker.  “That feels good, Joseph...”

The Highlander tortured Dawson into full excitement, full need.  Joe heard and felt Methos' heavy breathing, felt Adam's cock rub against the back of his head.  MacLeod moved slowly, his lips and tongue tasting every inch of skin, edging to their desired destination.  Then his hands, hands Joe had seen break a man's bones as easily as a child broke a twig, caressed his ass, fingers pressed between...

“Duncan,” Methos whispered quickly.  MacLeod looked up, his expression contrite.  He took the tube of ointment from the elder immortal's hand.

There was no anxious anticipation this time, only a knowledge of the coming consummation, the pleasure they would share.  Joe closed his eyes as he felt the first invasion, the gentle insinuation of a lubricated finger, then another.  Dawson grunted, suddenly uncertain.  But Methos whispered soothing words, some in a language Joe had never heard.  Duncan's hand moved in a slow beat, pushing deeper as if searching.  Joe accepted the discomfort, knowing there had to be more, trusting the men who promised him.

“Ahhh!"  Joe cried out, arching convulsively as his nerves caught fire and bright light exploded behind his eyes.  “Mac!”

“Relax, Joe,” Methos instructed calmly, caressing the mortal's chest.  “All right?”

All right?  Joe took a deep breath, then another.  His skin crawled with electricity, with a pleasure so intense it hurt.  “My god!”

Laughter filled the air, from both immortals.  “I told you,” Methos reminded, his accent thick with seduction.  “The pleasure is more than you can imagine.”

Duncan's fingers withdrew, then pushed inward, caressing Joe's prostate again, sending shivers through Joe's body.  Then again with easy motion.  The Watcher groaned, bearing down with the next thrust, crying out.  “No!  Don't stop!"  he pleaded when the Highlander hesitated.  “Please!”

More share laughter from his teachers/tormentors.  Lips brushed his forehead.  Dawson looked up, smiling as Methos' face hovered over his.  The ancient immortal's hazel eyes glowed with the power of pleasure.  For a single moment, there was only the two of them, only that first moment he and Adam had first met in London ten years ago.  Dawson had thought the researcher to be a boy barely grown, innocent in the ways of immortals.  Still, there had been that sense of difference then, that secret smile Adam gave at private moments.

“I would have seduced you that very night,” Methos whispered, bringing Joe's hand to his lips, kissing then licking the palm.  “But you have been worth the wait.”

Dawson swallowed, then groaned.  The thrust of MacLeod's hand had fallen into an enticing rhythm.  The Scot's other hand wrapped around Joe's fully aroused cock, milking it in a slightly different beat.  Joe descended into a madness of sensations, his body in the throes of passion, his mind filled with the excitement of his lovers, their pleasure of his pleasure.  The energy of immortal life passed through him, as did the energy of his own mortal life, a force equally powerful.  Joe grunted, his muscles twitched, his insides exploded with a force he couldn't have imagined.  Spasms rocked him as he came then cooled, letting Joe's awareness drifted into soft darkness....

Dawson shivered, then stifled.  MacLeod gently milked the spent cock until the twitching subsided.  “Joe...”

Silence.  Duncan looked up, breathing heavily.  Joe Dawson lay sprawled before him, his head resting on Methos' lap, his eyes closed, his expression as peaceful as MacLeod had ever seen it.  “Is he all right?”

Methos grunted, his lips moving into an odd smile.  “I believe he is the most ‘all right' he's been in a very long time."  The ancient immortal met Duncan's gaze.  “You showed wonderful control.  His heart was ready, but I don't think his body was.”

Duncan shrugged, feeling drained, even disappointed.  He'd wanted to complete the act, to merge with Joe, to make real a fantasy he had been having for months.  But Methos was right.  Dawson was too excited, too exhausted.  Another time.  MacLeod arranged Joe's lower body into a more comfortable position.  “Are you all right?" he asked, wanting to direct his attention on anyone but himself

“You have no idea, my friend."  Methos said, his tone deep and husky.  He spent a moment studying Dawson then carefully lifted the mortal's head, placing it back down on the bed as he slid out from under him.  Duncan took in the sight of the slender torso, the sheen of sweat covering the smooth, cream skin, the engorged cock dangling between his legs.

“Give me a moment."  Methos got out of the bed and walked into the bathroom.  A moment later, he emerged with damp washcloths in his hands.  He tossed one to MacLeod then climbed back into bed to sit by Dawson, picking up a pillow to place under the mortal's head.

Duncan wiped himself off.  Methos was bent over Dawson, cleaning the mortal, whispering gently when the Watcher stirred.  In a minute, it was done and he left Joe rolled on his side in deep sleep.

“Joe's been through a lot."  His hazel eyes smiled as they met Duncan's gaze.  “So have you."  He held out his hand.  “Come on.”

Duncan stared at the hand, then at the man offering the gesture.  Suddenly the reality of what he'd done, of what he was about to do struck him.  “Methos...  I--”

“Don't be shy, MacLeod,” his lover coaxed gently.  He gripped the Highlander's wrist, pulling the taller man towards him.  “Duncan, my love for you, my passion for you is not dependent on my love for Joe.  This is about you and me as well."  He leaned closer.  “So let's enjoy each other.  Yes?”

Duncan saw the glow in the ancient immortal's eyes and knew his friend spoke the truth.  “Aye,” he responded.

Methos' lips captured him, making clear demands of the Highlander, and Duncan obliged, as much for his own needs as any sense of redemption he might have felt.  Nearly a year ago, when Kalas had tried to take Methos' head, the old immortal had been broken, torn by his own decision to end his 5000 year old existence, and to make sure the “right” immortal received his quickening.  For Adam Pierson, there was no other alternative.  But MacLeod offered it anyway, wanting to show the man who was the stuff of legends that there was a reason to live.

[Paris, France...  One Year Ago]

“Methos...”

Methos had put Duncan's katana to his own neck, ready to face death.  For the ancient immortal, this was a sincere gesture, a resolution.  For MacLeod, it was pure insanity.  Desperate to make a point, he'd moved his sword carefully, slicing into the skin just below the neck.  Methos winced, his face broke out into a sweat.  MacLeod smiled, taking his blade from that vulnerable spot.  He then took possession of the other sword to avoid another battle.

“Let's go back to the barge,“ he suggested

Methos blinked, then glared at the Highlander.  “I want to die."  MacLeod sighed.  “Maybe tomorrow... if you're good”

“Damn you!"  Enraged, Methos threw himself at Duncan, putting the Highlander off balance as he tried to rescue his sword.  But for all his age, Methos didn't seem to be trained in the kind of fighting MacLeod had made himself an expert at.  There was no contest.  Duncan dropped the sword and wrapped his arms around the smaller man, pinning Adam's back against him.

“I'm not going to kill you, Methos!  You don't have to die!  I can fight Kalas!  I can defeat him!"  MacLeod held his charge tighter as Methos began to struggle.  “And even if I don ‘t,“ he pointed out.  "I'll not have your blood on my hands when I go to my grave."

Methos froze in his embrace.  “You're too honorable, Highlander,“ he said tersely.  “It will be your downfall one day.”

"Maybe,“ Duncan admitted, irritated at have what should have been a compliment turned into criticism.  “But it's my honor.”

An odd sound crept out of the man he held, and the thin body shook.  Concerned, MacLeod spun Methos around, pushing him up against the brick wall of the underpass, careful for any tricks.  This man was not leaving his side tonight if he had to kill him and keep him dead until morning.  But there was no fight left in his companion.  Methos heaved great breaths of air, his eyes wide as they stared at Duncan.  “Methos...  “ MacLeod reached out to the man as he would a frightened child.  “Methos, come back to the barge.  Let's work this out.”

Methos opened his mouth and began to speak, then closed it.  Then he tried again.  “I--”

The headlight of a car suddenly flooded the underpass.  Not knowing who it could be, Duncan automatically threw himself against Methos, shielding him from harm and sight.

“Look!  Look!" a young woman called out from the passing convertible in French.  “I told you there were two men down here making love!  Maybe we should stop and watch!”

But the car never hesitated, never stopped.  MacLeod breathed a sigh of relief.  Kalas seem to have henchmen everywhere.  And the longer they stayed out in the open, the more vulnerable they would become.

“You know, MacLeod, “ Methos began, his voice muffled against the Highlander's shirt.  “As much as I'm enjoying this, maybe we should go to the barge.”

Startled, Duncan backed up.  Bright hazel eyes met his, broadcasting mild amusement, even seduction, a sharp contrast to the suicidal hysteria of a few moments ago.  MacLeod shifted uncomfortably, too surprised to find a suitable comment.  Instead he focused on more practical matters.  “Are you going to try to fight me again?”

“No," Methos promised He stepped away from the wall and picked up his sword.  There was a moment of hesitation, then the weapon disappeared into his coat.

Neither men spoke as they went inside the boat.  MacLeod shed his outer coat then held out his hand for Methos' “Insurance policy, “ he said with a smile.

The ancient man did nothing more than give him his coat, his face suddenly void of all expression, his body frozen like a statue.  MacLeod held back his frustration.  Darius could be like this, he remembered.  Flipping from one emotion to another without warning, angry one moment, patient as a saint the next.  And he was just barely 2000 years old Duncan remembered what a good friend, Sean Burns, had said about immortal psychology, how complex immortal personalities became after hundreds, even thousands of years.  It amazed Burns that immortals as old as Darius, or those even older didn't simply go insane.  He said it had to be the mysterious nature of being human that made it possible.

“Methos, you're soaked.  Why don't you get out of those clothes?  I have a robe for you.  You can even take a shower if you want,“ MacLeod offered, trying to motivate his guest into action.  Methos blinked, but said nothing.  Duncan turned towards the kitchen area, giving Pierson time to adjust, much as he'd always done with Darius.

“Do you know, “Methos said casually after several minutes.  “That I have never done that before?”

“What?"  Duncan asked from the kitchen area where he was making tea.

“I've never wanted to die before, “Methos replied as he moved down the steps into the living area of the barge.  His eyes scanned the interior.  “This is cozy.”

“Thanks...  I did it myself." MacLeod was proud of his work with the barge, but that wasn't the focus of their talk “Methos, I don't think you wanted to die tonight.  Did you?”

Methos studied Duncan carefully.  “Why are you doing this?”

MacLeod sighed at the challenging words.  This was going to be a difficult night.  “I'm doing it because you need help,“ he said simply.

“Fine!"  Methos headed back up the steps.  “And you've done your good deed for the night!"  Duncan growled the grabbed Methos to stop him.  "I want to help!  You're a friend!”  He licked his lips.  “At least I hope you are!”

Methos resisted the hold for several seconds, then closed his eyes in defeat.  When he opened them, they showed a renewed clarity.  “I've been watching you, MacLeod,“ he said quietly, his mood shifting yet again.  “I've been watching you since Darius began talking about you.

“You knew Darius?"  MacLeod asked, surprised.  He long understood his long dead friend was not in the habit of discussing other immortals with MacLeod or anyone else, unless the situation warranted it.  By not being a source of contact, Darius felt he at least put a dent in the Game he wanted to end.  But this rule, it seemed, didn't apply to Methos.  Maybe the fact that this man was thousands of years older than the priest made him a trustworthy confidant.

Methos nodded.  "He thought the world of you.  You were very important to him.”

Duncan blinked as his eyes burned.  He had expressed his grief about Darius to Tessa, after they had scattered the ashes of his friend into the Seines river.  Her presence in his life helped to heal many of the wounds.  But there was one secret he had kept from her, that Darius and he had been lovers, if only briefly.  Tessa always had trouble dealing with MacLeod's past, with his lovers, especially his immortal lovers.  It was an unspoken rule between them that she never asked, and he never told.

Looking at Methos, however, Duncan could see the knowledge and understanding in the ancient eyes, even compassion for the void Darius' death had caused.  “He was important to me, too, “ MacLeod confessed, looking away.

"I'm sorry,“ Methos offered, his tone softer.  “I didn't mean to open old wounds.”

“It's all right.“  MacLeod blinked several times, pushing away the painful memory.  “Sometimes the waste of it tears at me."

There was several minutes of silence, each man regrouping.  Then Duncan noticed his guest shivering in the middle of the living room.  He gestured towards the bathroom.  “I really think you'd be more comfortable if you got out of those wet things.  There's a robe on the back of the door in the bathroom."

Methos shrugged.  “Yes, all right."  He stripped off his wet shoes then padded towards the bathroom.

MacLeod breathed a sigh of relief, feeling as if he'd won a significant battle.  The Highlander busied himself with a light dinner.  He'd been bringing home groceries when the fight caused him to drop the food.  Now he explored nearly empty cabinets for what he could throw together for himself and Methos.

Twenty minutes later, there were sandwiches, but no Methos.  MacLeod listened, thinking the immortal had opted for a shower after all.  But there was absolute silence.  Sighing with frustration, Duncan went to the bathroom door and knocked gently.  “Methos?”

No answer.  MacLeod could feel the ancient quickening close to his body and knew his friend had to be on the other side.  He tested the door.  It was unlocked.  But Duncan held back from invading the man's privacy.  “Methos, please say something or I'll have to come in.”

No response.  MacLeod braced himself and opened the door.  Methos sat on the closed toilet seat, shaking violently, his skin nearly white.  He'd never taken off his clothes and was entering the first stages of hypothermia.  “Methos.”

“Don't, MacLeod!"  Methos yelled through quivering lips.  “I'll be all right, eventually.”

The Highlander didn't bother to listen anymore.  He walked in, opening the door to the glass-enclosed shower to turn the water on.  “I don't know what you're trying to play at right now,“ he told Methos as he tested the water's temperature.  “But you're not going to die on my barge, because I'm not leaving you here defenseless when I go meet Kalas tomorrow.“  He turned to Methos.  The ancient immortal's were shadowed as they stared up at Duncan.

“I'm not your concern," Methos remarked coldly, his voice shaky.

“Yes you are," Duncan countered, his own emotions shifting.  When he first met Methos, he thought how handsome the young face was, how remarkably aristocratic.  But as he spoke to him, he took an instant liking to the ancient immortal, much as he had Darius.  Now those feelings were deepening Methos was already becoming important to him for no other reason than he liked the older immortal for who he was.  “You have a choice,“ MacLeod said quietly.  “You can undress yourself or I'll do it for you.”

Some emotion washed into Methos' eyes.  “You hardly know me, Highlander,“ he observed.  “How do you know I'm worth saving?”

“Because you're here,“ MacLeod replied, wishing he could be more specific.  It was a feeling, something he couldn't explain.  “Methos, I don't know what you want to hear.  I want to help you.”

Methos looked away, his shiver more obvious.  "I miss Don.”

There was a lonely sound to the words, something MacLeod easily recognized.  Don Saltzer?  Duncan swallowed his surprise.  His first and only meeting with the American bookstore owner/Watcher had been to see the mortal bleed to death after his tongue had been cut out by Kalas.  The mortal had been doing research on the Methos Chronicles, along with and assistant, Adam Pierson.  Saltzer desperately tried to warn MacLeod, to help Adam.  “He knew who you were.”

“Yes,“ Methos affirmed.  “Don and I were...  friends long before I returned to the Watchers as a researcher.  He protected me, even at the end...  I didn't deserve that.”

“You and he were...”

“Lovers,“ Methos finished impatiently.  “Yes, we were.  He was my closest friend... next to Joe Dawson.  But he was also married to a woman who would never understand all this.  He loved us both.”

Duncan raised his eyebrows at the mention of Joe's name.  “Does Joe know who you are?”

“Not at the moment."  The ancient immortal shrugged.  “But I'm sure you'll tell him now.”

"I won't unless you give me leave,“ Duncan promised.  “But I know you can trust him.  He won't give your secret away.”

“I know Joe better than you do, Highlander,” Methos stated firmly.  HE lifted his sweater, pulling it over his head, revealing a smooth, lean torso to MacLeod.  “If it hadn't been for his relationship to Horton, and your presence in his life, we'd be much more than good friends today.  Maybe one day we will be.“  He eyed Duncan.  “Unless you and he are--”

Methos' suggestion threw MacLeod off balance.  His relationships with other men were few and scattered.  Joe had become important in his life.  He'd thought he'd seen something in the mortal's eyes, thought he'd felt something when they were close.  But the risks of finding out for sure were too high, to the mortal, to their friendship.  “No, we're not lovers,“ he said honestly.  “It would be too dangerous for him.”

Methos laughed, a sound that echoed playfully off the bathroom walls.  “That is for Joe to decide, my young friend.  You have to decide if you care for him well enough to let him into your life.”

Duncan frowned.  “You're assuming he'd even want me...  if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I have a feeling that won't be as much of a barrier as you think.”  Adam slipped out of his pants then pulled off his socks.  He stood naked before the Highlander, openly quaking in the steam rolling out from the shower stall.  “Come warm me, Duncan,“ he invited, his arms held out, his manner hesitant.

MacLeod's eyes roamed over the narrow frame of the smaller man, taking in the suddenly needful expression, the slight arousal between the legs.  He considered the pros and cons for a moment.  With women, sex for the sake of easing heavy hearts was easier.  But in his life, he had found his sexual relationships with men to be deeper, more committed.  MacLeod studied Methos, seeing the longing for solace in the green-gold eyes.  But there was more.  His instincts told him that this was merely the beginning of a longer journey, an important event presented in a casual gesture.

Duncan swallowed at his own awesome thoughts.  Then he relaxed, making himself see only the needful man that stood before him, the beautiful stranger he'd just brought onto his barge.  Silently, he disrobed, his cock rising quickly under the ancient immortal's watchful gaze.  When Duncan was done, Methos walked up to him, his lips brushing MacLeod's, then again, demanding more response....

[Seacouver, USA...  Present]

Duncan groaned as his lover's tongue invaded his mouth, claiming it with skillful caresses.  Methos was on top of him, a position he seemed to like and which made good use of the limited space on the wide bed where Dawson slept soundly by their side.  Both men were fully aroused from their sexual play with the mortal, but sought completion with each other.

“Darius was right about you,” Methos said as he kissed Duncan's bare shoulders, sinking his teeth into the firm skin.

MacLeod gasped, his cock rubbing against his lover's rump, seeking release.  “What about?”

The ancient immortal laughed.  “You are so wise, yet so innocent.”

That made no sense.  “Care to explain that?"  Duncan managed between groans.

Methos cocked his head.  “You inspire.  You forge bonds.  Without you, Joe and I would have nothing... not even our lives.  Yet you don't even understand what you're doing, do you?" 

MacLeod shrugged.  “I do what I think is right.  I'm not a hero.”

“Yes, you are."  Methos picked up the tube of ointment from the bed covers.  “In my eyes, and in the eyes of anyone who has met you."  He reached behind him, and MacLeod bit his lip as delicate fingers slid over his engorged cock.  “Relax, Duncan.  Enjoy this.”

In a single motion, Methos impaled himself onto MacLeod's cock.  Duncan shouted as warm, tight muscles surrounded his swollen organ.  “Methos, I--”

“Shhh…“ the ancient immortal soothed.  He moved his hips as he leaned forward.  “Let me fill you as you fill me.”

The immortal's tone was commanding.  Duncan felt the first rush of energy, a kind of quickening immortal's shared when making love to each other.  But this was different, even from the first time they'd made love a year ago.  The tendrils of power were deeper and darker.  They seduced and healed, invited and enclosed.  MacLeod's pumped into the man above him, saw Methos throw his head back with a guttural cry so ancient Duncan could only bear witness.  In the midst of their coupling, the Highlander's hand wrapped around Methos' hard cock, massaging and squeezing with careful skill.

Outside, there was a crack of thunder, the darkening of bright morning skies.  As lightening flashed, Duncan came, crying out in his own native tongue.  Methos followed, his words lost in the crack of thunder.  Then both bodies calmed, the energy ebbed.  Methos and Duncan collapsed against each other, asleep almost at once, a smile on each man's lips.

Somewhere around noon, Dawson stirred.  Thunder filled his ears.  Brief lightening flashed in his eyes from the window at just beyond the foot of his bed.  Another typically rainy day in Seacouver.

For a moment, Joe simply lay quiet, remembering the morning's events, the events of the last few days that changed his life.  When he turned over, he took in the sight of his immortal lovers wrapped around each other in an embrace that showed they had been well involved in lovemaking before falling asleep.

Dawson felt his cock stir, his body tingle.  He touched the arm closest to him, then caressed lightly.  Methos opened his eyes, his lips turning in a knowing smile.  With some shifts and moves, Joe was settled between his lovers, kissed and embraced as they all returned to sleep.

Outside, rain beat gently against the window.

THE END

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