Disclaimers: The characters in this story originate from Highlander: The Series, and are used without permission. This story contains an m/m relationship so don't read it if you don't like that.
MacLeod ran his thumb casually along the edge of the Turkish blade, a piece perhaps fifty years older than himself. Dull. A display piece, enjoyed as art. He withdrew his hand, suppressing his fidgets. He'd already examined every piece in Benny's gallery. He was beginning to suspect the whole matter of the death threats was going to blow over peaceably. Benny himself was in his office doing the paperwork associate with running a gallery that dealt internationally.
In a way, it brought a pleasant sense of nostalgia to stand here in a well-run gallery. His days an antique dealer, not that long past, coming to haunt his senses. But with them, came the memory of a grief so strong it had nearly destroyed him. The gallery felt like a haunted place. Loss haunted him. Loss he had been responsible for. Over the years, more and more places had come to feel like 'haunted places.' He wondered what it might be like for Methos. Were all places haunted places for him? Did the fear of loss stalk him like it did Duncan? Methos.
The sense of an approaching Immortal drew Duncan up straight. He turned to face the door.
"MacLeod," called in a rumbling friendly voice.
"Christopher!" MacLeod greeted the stocky blond Immortal. "How the hell have you been?" he asked reaching out to clasp his hand heartily.
"Fantastic. God! It's been years! How have you been keeping yourself."
MacLeod shrugged. "Good. Great. What brings you here?"
Christopher shrugged, glancing around the room. "Making an investment. And you? Hope you aren't planning on outbidding me!"
MacLeod chuckled. "Don't worry. Just catching up with an old friend."
"Mr. Lemarck, I assume? It's him I came to see. I've made offers on a couple of pieces."
"I'm sure his secretary will take you back. But listen, perhaps we can have dinner?"
"Gladly. I've got some more business in town, but if I could join you later...?"
"Eight o'clock?"
"Perfect. I'll swing back here, then I'll show you one of my favorite restaurants."
Duncan smiled. "Wonderful. Now it looks like Ms. Beckworth is anxious to show you back."
Ms. Beckworth was indeed hovering just outside the men's circle, waiting with an impatient air. With a shrug, Christopher followed her to Mr. Lemarck's office.
MacLeod leaned against the gallery wall while Benny locked up the back entrance.
"So, Mr. Reese was telling me you two are friends? Mr. Reese has excellent taste in art." Benny finished locking up and went to shut down the lights for the night. "The shipments to China went out a couple of hours ago. It looks like all these threats were so much bluster. But I want to thank you for coming down to visit anyway. Can I buy you a drink before you meet your friend for dinner."
"I'd like that," MacLeod said.
He grabbed his coat and followed Benny out the front doors, waiting while Benny secured those as well.
Duncan saw Benny to the door of his townhouse after their drink. Benny repeated his thanks one more time and expressed his hope that they meet again. Duncan shook his hand heartily, knowing the reality that they probably would not. And if they did, there would be too many questions for honesty.
Duncan stood outside the gallery waiting for Christopher. He glanced at his watch. He refused to wonder of something was wrong. Trouble had been clinging to him so strongly lately. The feeling of another Immortal played on the of his sense, and then drifted away. MacLeod looked around, confused. And then he saw it. Creeping dread spread through his limbs even as he ran towards the nearby park where lightening lit up the sky.
Duncan gasped. Even in the dark, even at this distance, he recognized the jacket Christopher had been wearing earlier. Standing nearby, clearly recovering, a slim man stood smiling broadly. MacLeod recognized the other him. An overly confident kid named Kennedy. Well, that had been twenty years ago.
"Ah. Duncan MacLeod. Just the man I was looking for." Kennedy, flourished his blade in a theatrically menacing manner. MacLeod ignored the posturing.
"It was you I came looking for. Your friend was just an accidental treat, you know," Kennedy taunted. "Easy. I wouldn't have even bothered, but I figured it would be a nice warm up before I met you."
MacLeod bit down on his anger.
The fight was brief but bloody. The sense of waste that Duncan felt as he knelt, recovering from the quickening, was overwhelming. It took him several minutes to pull himself together.
He stood and began the slow walk back to his hotel. As he passed by the gallery, he felt the presence of an Immortal once more. Looking up, he saw a woman standing quietly at the corner. As MacLeod approached, her features resolved themselves into a familiar pattern.
"Michelle! What are you doing here?"
Michelle smiled a little sadly. "I was hunting Kennedy. I guess I'm too late for that. He hurt someone I care about, you know?" She looked away.
Yes, MacLeod knew.
"I'm sorry about Christopher," she ventured. "I met him back in '58. He was a good man."
MacLeod nodded, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. A good man. A good man who might not be dead if he had made a decision differently. Met him at the restaurant rather than the gallery. Been at the gallery when Kennedy arrived. Not been the man Kennedy was hunting for.
"Hey, are you all right? Why don't you come back to my place for a while. I can get you a drink. We can talk. It helps, you know."
The room Michelle was renting at the La Maison Blanche was plush, the soft lighting a comfort. Her request for a bottle of good scotch was quickly fulfilled by the efficient staff. Duncan leaned back into the couch savoring a sip.
They talked long into the night, sharing stories of the departed. MacLeod remembered Christopher. Michelle shared the life of the student Kennedy had taken from her. They both got a little drunk.
Eventually, the fell into silence. Duncan bowed his head and images assailed him. Christopher fallen on the grass. Methos kneeling in Paris side-street. He shook his head, banishing that particular image.
No. Methos was safe.
Nonetheless, when he closed his eyes, it was to dreams of Methos at the end of an enemy sword.
Duncan awoke gritty-eyed and still tired in the morning. He went into the bathroom and splashed water onto his face and rubbed at his eyes. He ran his wet fingers through his hair and then re-tied it. Still, he felt like he had been run over by something fast moving very recently.
When he came out, Michelle was packing her bags. "What are you going to do now?" Duncan asked her.
"I'm going to go back to my home Italy. Life goes on. And for the most part mine is astoundingly normal."
"I wish I could say that. But lately. I've forgotten what normal is."
"You? You're Duncan MacLeod. When had your life ever been normal?"
Duncan sighed. How could she understand the last few years? He wouldn't if he hadn't lived them. Death all around.
"I'm sorry," she said seeing the darkening expression on his face. "I don't know." Then she smiled. "Sometime's you just have to take a break. Come home with me. Stay a while. It's peaceful, I promise you that. Holy ground. No blood. No death."
Yes.
"Yes."
Michelle was right. Her home was peaceful. At first it felt wonderful relaxing in safety. Her elaborate gardens were beautiful and her library was extensive. It seemed the perfect way to recuperate.
By the second week he was feeling restless. And he was aware of the root of his restlessness: Methos.
He was avoiding Methos. He was honest enough with himself to admit that. But he didn't understand why. He could hardly explain to himself the reason he had run out in the first place. The feelings he had felt at seeing Methos almost lose a challenge had some how changed from pounding fear to a feeling of stifling over night. The farther away he got, the safer he had felt.
MacLeod sat down on the patio steps, enjoying the early morning light. He was happy to finally greet the morning. The nightmares had been back last night. He drank his coffee, appreciating the view from Michelle's patio. Shortly after, she joined him on the steps, sitting softly next to him.
"So, do you want to tell me about it?"
"About what?" he asked
"What you've been avoiding for the last month."
Duncan laughed lightly, "I haven't been avoiding--"
"Duncan..."
"Alright, alright," he said, standing up. He began to pace in front of the steps. "It's just this friend of mine. Sometimes things just get so complicated." He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair.
"Ah." Michelle rested her chin on her knees.
"I've only known him for a few years, and we've already been through so much. It hasn't always been easy. He's starting to mean a lot to me, and...and everywhere I go, I see my friend's fall." MacLeod finished abruptly. "So I left."
MacLeod peered at Michelle and realized, "That sounds ridiculous."
"It sounds like you care. Do you always try to protect your loves by leaving them?"
Duncan stopped up short, memories assailing him.
"You do don't you?"
Duncan smiled slightly in memory. "They don't always let me. But they were mortal! Women. This is different."
"Yes it is. You have the same fears, though. You are going to have to make a decision, if you love him."
Duncan stared at her. Love Methos? He thought back over their friendship. It had been filled with brief, incredible flares of intensity from the beginning. Early on these bursts had left him feeling angry and frustrated, tempered only by the pleasures of companionship he found with the old man. More recently that intensity translated into pleasure as often as anger. Yet the consistency of the patterns of their interactions made it easy to pretend that their friendship hadn't changed.
He knew it was time to go back to Paris.
Duncan approached the barge with some apprehension. It was finally time to face that which he had been avoiding for so long. His month in southern Italy with Michelle had seen the weather turn cooler. There was already the hint of an autumn chill in the Paris air. During the past month, he had thought very little of Methos, almost deliberately pushing away any thought of the man until Michelle had forced him to it. But now he was almost all he thought about. That and the guilt he felt for his unfair departure. Strangely he almost expected...hoped for...the feel of the presence of another Immortal as he came into range. It was ridiculous, he told himself, there was no reason Methos would be here after all these months. He had made sure of that. Still, he felt a strange disquiet in his heart as he boarded the barge and the stillness was unbroken.
He dropped his bags to the floor. They landed with a thud, kicking up a cloud of dust, making MacLeod cough repeatedly. In the near darkness, he saw the raised blanket of dust settle over his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. He kicked at them in disgust before moving to find a broom.
Duncan woke up with a gasp from a nightmare that was already fading fast. He flicked on the light by his bed and sat up, leaning forward until the beat of his heart slowed to a normal rate. He slipped on his slippers by the side of the bed, and set the tea kettle to boil. He wandered over to the book shelf, fingering the titles he currently had with him. None of them were the one he wanted. He checked again just to make sure he had not missed it. He even checked between some of the larger books to make sure the smaller volume had not gotten shoved back between them. He search became somewhat frantic as finding the book Methos had given him _now_, in the middle of the night, suddenly seemed very important to him. He left the neat row of books in some disarray to begin shuffling around under the papers on the desk below, just to make sure it had not fallen down and gotten misplaced. His distress became evident as he repeatedly looked under the same piles and finally returned to shuffle through the book shelf one more time. With a sigh of frustration, he leaned his head against his hands resting on the edge of the book shelf. The book was gone. Like everything else. Why had he thought it would be any different? He had wrought this himself. Suddenly, when he needed some evidence to prove he had not been so successful, why did he expect he would find any redemption?
MacLeod tried to occupy himself. He fixed up the barge, and then began preparing it for the winter. The days seemed to pass slowly, even after he picked up some work editing history manuscripts purely for the distraction he hoped they would provide.
Setting aside the texts he had been reviewing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He leaned back, stretching the muscles of his back and shoulders. Finally, he let his mind drift where it had been trying to go for days.
MacLeod closed his eyes, remembering the first time Methos had taken him. It had been in Seacouver in his own bed. It was a union he had wanted on a purely physical basis. He hadn't even known what to expect. He remembered the feel of Methos stretching him with two oil-slick fingers. He remembered how he had thrust back against those fingers, wanting so much more and yet not understanding what he wanted at all. The remembered feeling even now was enough to start an ache in his groin.
When they had finally begun the joining, Methos had felt incredibly large just inside him. It had even hurt a good bit, and yet still MacLeod had wanted more, so much more. Surely the feeling of being filled completely, when it came, was like nothing MacLeod had ever experienced before. Duncan moaned as the memory consumed him. The repeated cycle of withdrawal and filling had only driven his need to be filled to an even greater level, a need he had never imagined would have been nearly as intense as it was. The memory of Methos thrusting into him, the friction and the joining, had MacLeod's hips moving to meet remembered thrusts. He was so ready to be taken right then. He needed it. But he was alone on the barge. There was no one to make him feel that way. He slipped his hand in his pants, wrapping it around his cock, milking it as he had that night, and thrusting against an imagined cock. He remembered how it had felt at the end, as his flesh began to tremble and he felt control slipping away. Methos had come first. Methos thrust in with one last great, powerful thrust that nearly put Duncan over the edge. Duncan remembered being able to feel the pulse of the organ, almost like a second heart-beat, growing ever more erratic deep inside him. The feel of hands digging into his hips, keeping them locked in tight union as the old man spilled over the edge. What Duncan had felt then he would remember forever. The feeling of being filled with Methos' hot come had been like being filled with warmth to his very core. Possibly the most erotic thing he had ever experienced. It had been what had pushed him over into his own orgasm that night. The memory of it now left him hard and aching. He had never imagined being taken by Methos would be like that and he now feared he would never feel that again.
_God, what a mess!_ he thought. He was not usually so ignorant of his own motivations, but in this case he had been utterly blind from the beginning.
It had been easier not to think about what they meant to each other...at least until the graphic threat of loss threw the altered state of their relationship into his face. Leaving was easier than dealing with the fear of another loss. And ignoring reasons was easier than facing the fact that he was as afraid of losing Methos as he had been for any mortal lover he had run from to protect, choosing to ignore the point when friendship became love.
So he had lied to himself again and again. Trading one lie for another. Like Methos' fox tales. _Maybe this is what Methos meant by telling me that story._ Had he known all along Duncan was going to do this to him? And if so, why had he stayed?
His idleness gave him too much time to think. Even as he analyzed his reactions yet again, Mac realized he was ready to take a chance: but Methos was gone. He needed help. He also needed a friendly ear. Luckily, he had just the friend.
MacLeod called Joe and confessed the whole matter to him. And it did feel like confessing. He should never have cut Joe out.
"He's probably long gone by now Joe. I don't stand a chance of finding him if he doesn't want me too." MacLeod continued his pacing on the barge.
"But are you sure he doesn't want to be found? I'm not. If he cared about you the way you say, he may leave the avenue open to you."
MacLeod stopped his pacing suddenly. "Do you know where he might have gone?"
"I'm not sure he left Paris," Joe stated.
"What!"
"Look, think about how long you've lived in Paris and how long Methos has lived in Paris, and you two never met before Kalas. He's careful. You won't accidentally run into him. But he'll be there. He's probably still using the name Adam Pierson. Finding him if you choose to should be a breeze. I think he meant it to be." Joe paused, the continued more softly, "If you choose."
"I don't know..."
"Who did the leaving, MacLeod?" Joe snapped.
"Alright, I'll try. It's a place to start anyway."
"Good. Now Mac, I do expect you to keep me informed from now on. If not as your Watcher, then at least as your friend."
"Joe..."
"I know, Mac. No apology needed. This time."
The bookstore Adam Pierson now worked at was not that different Shakespeare and Company. Only here, he was merely a clerk, not the owner. MacLeod watched him through the window, reading idly behind the counter. The man could look so young when he wanted to. Another student doing part time work to get by. That image was a long way from the Methos MacLeod knew.
MacLeod entered the bookstore, relieved to find no patrons inside.
"MacLeod."
Curt. Perfunctory. What else did he expect?
"Methos," he tried to put warmth into the greeting.
"Welcome back to Paris, MacLeod. Can I help you with something?"
"Come over for dinner tonight?"
"I don't think so. I'm closing up here tonight."
"Tomorrow? I'd like to talk to you."
"I really don't know if I can make it. Perhaps next week or something..."
"I was wrong. I want to make it up to you."
Methos blinked and shook his head. "It's not necessary, MacLeod. Everything's forgotten. Flings never last that long anyway." Methos' tone never betrayed a hint of interest in the conversation.
"That's not what I meant!" MacLeod ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'd like to talk about what happened. It's important to me. You're important to me."
"Really, it's in the past, MacLeod."
The man's apparent indifference maddened MacLeod. Had he been wrong about Methos? No, that could not be true--he remembered the emotion he had seen in the other man's eyes. He wasn't wrong about that. MacLeod watched the hazel eyes now, and behind the facade he saw pain.
They stared at each other for a long moment without saying a word. The Methos he found was steeped in his sadness and fatalism. It was Methos who broke the silence.
"I don't blame you MacLeod. We're too different to work together. Can you really, honestly, imagine us together? Dating? Courting? Living together? It's comic. Too different to be similar; too similar to be opposites. I'm just glad you realized it before we went to far--"
"I don't realize it!" MacLeod protested. "It's not true!" How could the man stand here and talk about it as if it was all something distant and all but forgotten? 'I don't blame you, MacLeod.' Did he think he was getting out of this that easily?
MacLeod reached for him; Methos stepped back.
"Duncan, you don't want me. Surely you can see that. This is just some fascination for you, or some feeling you've worked yourself up to out of guilt over Italy."
MacLeod couldn't help but notice the use of his first name. Even in the heat of passion the man rarely used it, but that Methos did so now while trying to convince him that his love was not real did not escape Duncan.
"No," he said. "That's not true."
"Really?" His mouth twisted unkindly.
Duncan grabbed the man above the elbows, nearly shaking him.
"Really!" he asserted. "Give me the chance to show you," he said more quietly.
"Here's your chance. Show me, or let go," the other man practically snarled.
MacLeod recognized the brand of standoffishness the older man had used to drive him in the past, both away and to actions he had later regretted.
"Are you so set on driving me away then?" he asked, more calmly.
Methos blinked at him. "I just want you to see things the way they are."
"The way things are, or the way you want things to be?"
"You think I want it to be like this?" Methos' features were etched in disbelief.
"It _would_ be so much safer this way, now wouldn't it?" MacLeod asked, letting sarcasm color his voice.
Methos' jaw clenched. "Don't you ever suggest it was an easy decision."
"A decision you made with out me--"
"You weren't here."
"I made a mistake!"
"How was I supposed to know that at the time? Was I supposed to let my wounds continue to bleed on the off chance you might change you mind? I survive, MacLeod, survive, by learning when to stop feeling. Else, I'd be dead long ago."
"It can't be like that." Duncan wasn't sure if he was talking about them, Methos' past, or his view of life in general.
"Duncan," Methos paused, gathering himself. "Duncan, I've put my heart out many times and mostly it has ended in grief or pain. Alexa was the first in a long time. But looking back, I knew a time frame. It sounds terrible, but I knew when the pain would be coming. I wasn't facing the unknown. I've also kept my heart tightly locked away many times. Don't say it MacLeod. Yes it is lonely. Yes it hurts. But not the same. On that path all feelings are dulled, tolerable."
"Like now?"
"Yes, I guess so. MacLeod, I took a chance on you, too. Jumped into the unknown, so to speak. And guess what? I got hurt. In fairly short order, at that. I'm not such a masochist I want to play the love-struck fool twice."
"Methos, life is sometimes about pain. It is also about joy. Without that--"
"No, MacLeod. Come back in another couple of thousand of years and see if you can say that. You won't be able to."
"That's it then? You got hurt and so now your giving up on us...on me?"
"That's pretty much the size of it, MacLeod."
"Methos..."
"No, MacLeod. I'm sorry." His face betrayed no sadness now. He turned back to his book, apparently intent on the words, refusing to look up again.
Dismissed, MacLeod turned to the door, but paused.
"Methos, if you change your mind, you know how to find me."
"Yes, Duncan. Good-bye."
Duncan spent all evening trying to tell himself that he had done all he could. That it was up to Methos now. But he knew the old man too well. He knew that if left to his own devices, Methos would do nothing, choose the path of least resistence, fade away from Duncan. _That_ alternative was unthinkable.
Duncan knew he had to act.
MacLeod drove to the building where Methos was now renting a flat hoping to arrive before Methos could decide to skip town, if that was his plan this time. Apparently, however, he had arrived before Methos. He had little compunction about letting himself in. He knew what he planned to do.
Methos warily entered his apartment, one hand tucked into his coat, grasping the hilt of his sword. He let out a sigh, and rubbed his eyes when he saw MacLeod lounging on his couch, obviously waiting. Duncan's eyes flickered up, sweeping Methos with an intense and unusually unreadable gaze. Duncan stood then. Something in Duncan's demeanor alerted some instinct in Methos, who stepped back, wary.
"MacLeod, I thought we had come to an understanding."
"Well, then I changed my mind." MacLeod stated, pulling his katana from the folds of his coat.
"MacLeod, what are you doing!?" Methos exclaimed, concern evident in his voice.
"Draw your sword," MacLeod said, slowly, clearly.
"Have you gone insane?" Methos asked, but he was already reaching for his own blade.
Duncan engaged him before he really even had his blade free. Methos retreated but was hampered by the limited space. His heart was beating wildly. He would never have expected this sort of action from MacLeod. The man was not pulling his blows and Methos found himself literally fighting for his life. It had always been clear that MacLeod was the superior swordsman. Confusion and surprise also warred against Methos. He knew his hidden second blade might be his only chance.
When an opening came, he tried to bring the small dagger into play, but Duncan saw it coming and blocked the maneuver effectively. After that, the fight was down hill, and real fear accompanied Methos the whole way. In the end, he found himself backed against the wall with MacLeod's blade to his throat.
He was panting roughly from exhaustion and desperation, each uncontrollable breath pushing his throat against the blade. He was aware of the incontrovertible boundaries the edge of a blade and the weight of a strong body put on his world.
"Do you feel this?" MacLeod snarled, pressing the blade into Methos' throat. "And what about this? Do you feel this?" he said, leaning forward to capture the Methos' lips in a demanding kiss. Forceful, demanding, and utterly passionate. Methos felt those lips like fire on his own, that tongue claim places beyond the first frontier. He could feel the blade still pressing against his neck and the Highlander's muscular body pressing against him. He moaned as the sensation rocked him. He moaned, and he _felt_.
Duncan felt the trembling in the other man's body and it seemed to him that he could feel the moan that escaped his lover's lips arise from deep within that body. After that, he felt Methos' lips part completely for him as the older man gave over to the passion that sparked between them. He had succeeded, but not even the warm glow of triumph could outshine the bright flame that was burning in Duncan now.
Duncan carefully pulled the katana away and cast it aside. A small sigh escaped Methos as the length of the blade slid lightly across his delicate skin.
Mac kept Methos pinned up against the wall and continued his devouring assault on the man's mouth. He let his hands explore beneath Methos' shirt. Methos had wrapped his arms around the Highlander's neck and was making it clear that he didn't want the kiss to stop. Duncan had slipped a thigh between Methos' legs and was stroking the other man's erection with a muscled thigh.
Methos' reactions were more than he expected when he started this desperate venture. He was so relieved that despite everything he had this solid proof that this was what Methos had wanted all along. He was almost frightened by the vehement reaction of the other man, but he had no choice but to be seduced in return by the display of Methos' passion.
He knew when the kiss he was sharing with the other man turned one more shade of desperate. And he let one of his hand's drift down to the closure of Methos' jeans. As his fingers began working the snap and then the zipper, he felt Methos mouth press harder against his own, fingers gripping tightly around his shoulders.
As he eased the straining cock out of Methos' jeans he knew he didn't have much time. But he didn't need much. He steadied the other man's thrusting hips with his spare hand and began a steady rhythm on the organ. Methos had become about as vocal as was possible while sustaining a kiss as all-encompassing as the one that was now the focal point of his universe.
Duncan held Methos through the intense orgasm and beyond, even after the man seemed to have fallen out of touch with the world. MacLeod knew this surrender had been as much emotional as physical. He held Methos and let him slowly recover in his arms.
Methos returned to awareness with a contented sigh. He gently stroked the side of MacLeod face. It was all he could manage for the moment. "Well, I certainly felt _that_," Methos mused. Duncan could feel the man's lips curve into a smile against his neck. Duncan smiled back.
Later, as they lay side by side, Methos said: "It was a stupid game to play, MacLeod.. Someone could have gotten hurt. What if you had slipped? Or what if I had won and then taken your head, never knowing what you were trying to do?"
"One, I don't think you would have taken my head. Two, I am the better swordsman. And three, I was willing to take the risk. Any other questions?"
Methos laughed. "Oh, sure of ourselves, are we? There's still a thing or two I could show you!"
"Unless they involve being horizontal, they can wait until later."
Methos turned his head and grinned: "Okay then, let's try this one." MacLeod got no more warning before he pounced.
"Oh!"
The End