Sleet (The next part of the Snow Series)

[dashamte]

The end of day five and the beginning of day six from Joe’s point of view.

Mature readers only. Yes. Seriously. And warnings for polyamory.



Sleet

Joe had seen these exercises before. When Mac had just come back from Indonesia, that spring when he'd been fighting Ahriman, he'd done this. It looked like X-treme tai chi. There was grunting and impossible stretches, and, apparently, you could do it in the rain while the temperature hovered just above freezing. Or perhaps just below. Ice was beginning to coat the trees. MacLeod gave no sign of noticing.

Twice Amanda had tried to convince Joe to come away from the window and join the ongoing pinochle game. "I'd don't know how to play," he said finally, hoping she'd go away.

She had wrinkled her cute little nose at him and said, "You're kidding. You're a Watcher. You must know every card game known to man. You must know some *I* don't know."

But he sent her away. It helped, standing here at the window. It helped *seeing* him. It helped watching him. Which did not say great things about how thoroughly Joe's job had saturated the rest of his psyche, but--

He could not do anything for Duncan. They were lucky he hadn't run away. The defeat of Scotland had taken decades to recover from. Little Deer's death had taken ten years, even with a miracle. Richie had taken a year, and still, MacLeod wasn't really recovered from that.

Outside it was getting dark. Even given how far north they were and how late in the year it was, that couldn't be a good sign. How long could the Highlander keep this up? At least every passing moment got them closer to tomorrow. When they got Connor safely in the ground, perhaps Mac could begin to let go, to move forward.

The hostess came over to see how we were settling in. Mostly, of course, she was worried about the man in her back garden who was sopping wet and freezing. She came, tisking and fussing, to Joe's vantage at the back window. Methos handled it. He deftly explained how Mac was a great martial arts champion who had studied for years on the steppes. His body was adapted to cold, and his control was so perfect that he was in no danger. The part about 'years on the steppes' was true, but the rest of it was bull. If he weren’t Immortal, Mac would be in serious danger of hypothermia and/or frostbite. As it was, somebody had to watch in case he dropped dead so they could drag him inside. But the nice lady bought it. Of course she did. People will believe any crock of shit if you said it came from the orient.

When she had been 'chatted up' and 'gotten round,' Gregor and Cory charmed her out the door and Methos came back into the kitchen. "Come on," he said. "We've been elected to go fetch dinner."

Joe laughed at that. "You've never run in any election."

Methos laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Enough," he said softly. "Tearing yourself to pieces will not help him."

Joe took a deep breath, forced himself to give in. "Right," he said briskly. "Where are we going?"

"Chinese," Methos brandished a scrap of paper. "We have a list."

The take-out place was almost ten miles away. Methos wouldn't order ahead by phone because, in an unknown restaurant, he wouldn't commit without quality control. "I want to smell the place before deciding," he said.

The weather was nasty, but the traffic was light. Methos drove very slowly. In the end, they got a little lost, and went through the same traffic circle four times before figuring out the address and hand-drawn map the hostess had given them. Methos pulled up at the front and let Joe out at the door before driving off to park.

The little restaurant smelled fine to Joe, but with Methos apparently in a weird, picky mood, he took no chances. He read the menu and waited until Methos joined him. Still playing picky and difficult, the Ancient asked to taste an egg roll before deigning to order. Apparently it was satisfactory, because he ordered the long list he'd brought with him.

While they waited for their food, Joe sat by the door and pretended to read a local newspaper. There were only two topics available for conversation: MacLeod's grief and the current awkwardness between Joe and Methos. Neither was a topic he wanted to face.

When the food finally came, the paper bag was completely full. Methos paid and carried it out into the dark night, and Joe wondered why he had been dragged along. Maybe he had just looked *that* pathetic staring out the window.

Outside it was freezing cold and the thin rain was hissing icily against the sidewalks. The lamp posts were clearly showing a translucent glaze. "Hell," Joe muttered, adjusting his collar to keep the worst of the cold trickle from finding its way down his neck.

He was thinking, ‘Well, damn. Tomorrow is going to be bad enough if we don't have to hold the burial in this weather. But there is no way I can see postponing it--' when the cane shifted slickly, and Joe felt his balance go. Startled, he reached out with his free hand--nothing to catch himself on--and Methos caught him by the upper arm. Swift and solid--the grace of having spent several thousand years in a body--Methos needed no special exertion to bring Joe back to stable. For a moment they froze, standing closer than they had in a very long time, still a little tense from the near miss, not at all comfortable with one another. Joe held his breath, but the Immortal said nothing and betrayed no expression with his eyes.

Abruptly, Methos let go and stalked toward the car. He did not move so fast--and it was not so far--that Joe was left very far behind. When he caught up, Methos was just wedging the bag with the food on the floor of the back seat so that it wouldn't spill. He stood up and closed the door, but when he would have opened his own door, he found Joe blocking the way.

He raised his eyes and met Joe's gaze squarely. His mouth was relaxed. His calm was nothing short of serene. It did not fool Joe in the least, and, realizing that he had been found out, Methos turned his head so that he was speaking to the empty space above the roof of the car. "Ignore me," he said. "I am a foolish old man."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Joe whispered.

Methos nodded. "Yes, I know," he murmured pleasantly. "You are my friend."

"I'm sorry."

And here, at last, Methos let slip a little of the bitterness that Joe had been dreading. "Yes. You said so at the time."

At the time. Two years before, Joe had gone on vacation to Italy. It had been his first time off since the three weeks he'd taken to straighten out personal business in the States after MacLeod defeated Arhiman. He'd gone someplace he'd never been, where nobody lived whom he knew. He'd wanted to make new memories. He'd wanted to forget himself for just a little while.

The second day Methos had turned up. The old man knew Rome very well--the pretty churches nobody ever visited, the best frescoes, the most overlooked museums. Going to a monument with him was a historian's dream, and Methos had been very generous that trip. He had talked without coaxing or complaint. The days had been filled with incredible art and the nights spent in the best bars. It had been the sort of vacation people wait their whole lives for and then never have. And then, on the fifth day, in a quiet corner of a garden in an estate outside of town, Methos had kissed him.

Joe had freaked.

Then, he had apologized.

Methos had been as generous a spurned lover as he'd been a tour guide. He had pretended that nothing had happened.

There, in the cold, damp night, Methos smiled thinly and said, "The heart cannot be commanded. It isn't your fault." At the time of that vacation, Joe had not dated since before Richie had died. He'd been lonely. And, with MacLeod locking himself in a monastery in a desperate flight from intimate relationships, his prospects had looked hopeless. Not that Mac had ever given him the slightest sign of encouragement anyway. Even if you didn't take into account that he was aging and disfigured, Joe would have numbered among the 'desperate.' And still, he had refused Methos. Wasn't that the nastiest of insults? 'Not even if you were the last man on earth who would have me?' Dear god. But Methos only shrugged. "I am not angry. You did nothing wrong."

"*I* was wrong. I was stupid. I took the easy way out. I didn't want to have to figure out who I was all over again."

Methos shrugged again. "Given the times you live in, I can scarcely blame you. Fag is such a dirty word."

"I never--!"

"No. It was only for yourself that it was too terrible to contemplate."

"Stop being an ass." But what could he say? For two days now, Joe known he'd been caught in his own lies to himself. When it had only been Duncan who turned his mind to mush he could excuse it as the madness of love or obsession. It hadn't counted. Now, though, face to face with the fact that infatuation had turned to affection, he was forced to admit that affection...felt the same. "I'm so sorry. I don't even know what those words mean anymore. It's all gotten so...fuzzy."

"Fuzzy." A fleeting sadness passed over Methos' eyes. Over five thousand years, all the words must change. More than once. What meant anything to Methos, anyway?

Joe took a deep breath. "What I felt worst about," he said softly, "was that I knew that for you it was different. Being somebody's comrade was just as good a reason as being somebody's husband."

"Better. A well brought up Hellenic matron had no interest in sex and wasn't very good at it."

Joe barely noticed the tempting history bait that Methos was offering. "And I knew that it would feel like I was refusing that, too. Being your friend--"

"The world has changed," Methos said firmly. "I live in the present."

Joe felt a little dizzy and just as afraid as he'd felt that warm afternoon in Rome. It would be so easy to blame that fear on the male anatomy he'd been trying not to think too much about for years now, but, oh, he was much, much more afraid than *that*. "My God," he gasped, "How do you do it? How do you live in the present? After--After everything you've lost, Methos, how do you...risk trying one more time?"

Methos smiled sadly. "What's the alternative?"

Right. Put like that, it wasn't a very hard choice, was it? Hurt both of them now and cope with the next time Methos dropped off the face of the planet, or seize this moment now and--well, still cope with the day he was alone again. But at least, if he did this, he wouldn't have regret to compound his loneliness. Joe leaned forward and kissed Methos firmly on the mouth.

The old man shied back. "If you aren't sure--"

"I'm sure."

The wind picked up. The rain was definitely sleet now, and it was blowing in vicious little balls of half-melted ice. Methos wiped his damp face. "You pick your moments. We can talk about it in the car."

Joe nodded and went around to the passenger door.

"Look," Joe said, shutting his door. "Just tell me what you want. I know you're angry--"

"I'm not angry. I'm just not sure you know what you're doing this time, either."

"Yes, you are. You know I know exactly what I’m getting into. That's why you're pissed. Because I didn't figure it out sooner." 'Because you'd comforted yourself with the idea that I was incapable doing this at all, so it couldn't be my fault. I didn't fail you, I was just flawed'. But Joe had failed him. It turned out Joe had it in him to love Methos after all.

Methos said nothing.

"It isn't like you to keep a mad on like this," Joe said quietly.

"I'm not a nice person. I never said I was."

"Yeah. Right." Joe smiled suddenly. "But I am. I'm a very nice person. Amiable. Forgiving. Humble."

Despite himself, Methos smiled back a little. "Really. All that and humble, too?"

"Oh, yeah. Cuz' see, I can apologize. I can apologize abjectly. And earnestly. And in detail. I’m very sorry. Mostly I'm sorry because I know the thing that bothers you most is wasting time, and--"

He didn’t see Methos move, but suddenly he found that Methos had firmly entrapped his hand. Even through the damp glove, the grip was warm. Joe imagined he could feel the pulse in the thumb that pressed into his palm. "Enough," Methos whispered, but Joe had already stumbled to an uncertain halt.

"Are you still so angry that what you really want is to punish me?" Joe whispered.

"No. Anyway, you are the best ally I have right now. I would be a fool to keep antagonizing you. You are a very nice man, but your good will won't last forever."

His best ally? Joe thought of Amanda. And the very capable Gregor. And the earnest and helpful Derek for that matter. "It will," he said.

Methos leaned over and kissed him then. It felt...good. And natural. And soft.

It felt like flying. Or dancing.

Joe stripped off his gloves so he could touch Methos' face, his hair, the back of his neck. The skin was cool and slightly damp--and soft, so soft.

For several perfect moments they tasted and explored one another. They were short moments, though. The car was cold, and they both started shivering very quickly. Body heat might have helped, but they had no chance for it in bucket seats.

"Damn," Methos said. He pulled back and started the engine.

Back at the house, Methos took the food into the dining room and Joe headed to the kitchen. Mac was still at it. Someone had turned on the outside lights, so the slow, formal dance was clearly illuminated. Joe wondered if Duncan was feeling the cold, and if he was, if it was some kind of self-punishment. It hardly seemed likely, but...nothing like this had ever happened to him before. To lose Connor was bad enough. For it to happen like this--in Duncan's place, Joe wasn't sure he would be able to cope at all.

Methos came up behind him and slid an arm around his waist. "He can't be comforted, not right now. The only thing he can do is let the pain pass through him. He's doing exactly the right thing."

"Great. Glad to hear it."

Methos sighed. "Come," he said. "Eat something. Sit down. You cannot help him." When there was no answer, he added, "Damn it, Joe, I will need you tomorrow."

Gracelessly and ungratefully, Joe gave in and followed Methos into the dining room, where he ate Chinese food and didn't complain. There was, again, red wine. Eventually, Methos noticed the dirty looks he was giving it and murmured impatiently, "It's not that bad. You're getting no sympathy from me!"

"No, it's not bad," Joe conceded. "It just reminds me of the time I spent more than two weeks hiding in the wine cellar at 'Shakespeare and Company.' Have I told you about that? No wait, you were there."

"Yes, I was. And *that* wasn't that bad either."

"Oh, yeah. Nice little vacation. Wasn't worried about anything." Except that Methos had left for most of every day, playing Watcher in the great hunt for MacLeod. Joe had had nightmares about what Shapiro would have done if he'd discovered what Adam Pierson was.

And maybe Methos saw what Joe was thinking, because under the table Methos took Joe's hand and held it very tightly. Joe was so distracted by that hand--it was warm and solid and lean and long--that he didn't notice at first when the conversation turned to a competition of the 'worst ways I have died' variety.

Actually, if he'd thought about it, exchanging gruesome war stories was just the sort of thing he'd expect from Gregor or Cory. He was surprised, though, at how good *Amanda* was at it. The woman took chances. And, boy, could she tell a story. After letting the others gross Derek and Michelle and Nick (and Joe) out with stories of knife fights and improbably high falls, Amanda related a story about going down with the ship in very cold and possibly shark-infested waters. Although she could swim, there was no land in sight, no clue what direction to swim in, and the possibility that if she drowned or died of hypothermia, she might wake up having been snacked on by a shark....

The story itself was pretty boring; ship goes down, woman treads water, woman dies, woman wakes up on beach. But she built so much suspense while telling it that for a moment Joe forgot that he already knew she'd survived.

When she was finished, Gregor, who seemed to suspect that Methos was pretending to be older than he was, said, "What about you, Mr. Smith? Any good stories?"

Methos shrugged. "A few." He frowned thoughtfully. "I'd have to say the worst was being flayed alive, but that didn't count, since I didn't actually die."

There was a moment of utter silence. Methos, still holding Joe's hand under the table, squeezed reassuringly. Michelle grabbed and drained her glass of wine, and the others, appalled, would not look each other in the eye.

Before the silence could stretch too long, the front door banged open and a some of the other guests came in; a family of five who were laughing and shoving each other playfully as they passed the door to the dining room on the way to the stairs. The smallest child, a boy of about eight, paused to wave.

Joe got to his feet and began to collect empty take-out boxes. After a moment, Amanda and Methos joined him. "I've got kitchen duty," Amanda said. She wasn't talking about washing up; they hadn't used any dishes.

The others drifted away to play with their computers or clean their swords or do whatever younger Immortals did. When they were gone, Amanda slapped Methos gently on the back of the head. "You really know how to empty a room."

Methos blinked innocently. "He asked." He glanced at Joe. "It doesn't matter," he said.

Amanda went to the kitchen and Joe followed Methos into the common room. The couch had been put back, and it didn't look like anything had been broken in all the sword-waving-around. Methos sat and held out an arm for Joe to join him.

Joe wondered if he should say something. If your friend mentioned being flayed alive, was it kind to ignore it, or just cowardly? Damn. Joe really had no excuse for being so easily shocked.

"You're thinking it was Kronos," Methos murmured. "It wasn't."

"I--" Joe had honestly not thought that far yet. "How are you doing?"

The question caught him by surprise. "With regard to what?"

"Now. This moment. How are you doing?"

"Oh. I'm fine," he said easily. "I'm always fine." When Joe didn’t believe that, he added, "I get the feeling that we are about to embark on a grand adventure. I really hate grand adventures."

Despite himself, Joe laughed at that.

"No, really. 'Join us on the grand adventure!' was how they advertised the Trojan War, and you see where that led. Nothing but trouble. But watch; in about two days, MacLeod is going to decide to save the world or something, and then there we'll be, going along for the ride on an *adventure*."

"They *advertise* the Trojan War?"

"More or less." For just a moment it seemed that Methos wasn't saying all that he knew, but before Joe could put his finger on what Methos might be pretending not to mean, the conversation had moved on to the Trojan War, and although Joe was fairly sure the old man had not actually been there, he told a good story.

Sometime during the long, quiet evening Methos turned the tables and started asking questions. Joe found himself talking about Lauren and Betsy and Helen. About growing up in Chicago. About his first field assignment, who was an utter dweeb working under the name Dwight Begley. "He was this musician wanna-be. A *bad* musician wanna-be. I mean really bad. He used the proceeds from some lucky long-term investments to subsidize his tiny band that played dives in the American Midwest. He went through three imbedded watchers in half a year. We got them in as the bus driver, but he'd get drunk and pick fights with them and fire them."

"Charming. I don’t remember the name."

"You wouldn’t. Anyway, shortly after he tossed our third guy out on his ear and the guy in assignments was climbing the walls in frustration, Ian--" Joe hesitated, the memory coming back colored with layers of regret, "Ian Bancroft. He was coming through Chicago, trying to make a formal ID on a suspected student of Darius....Anyway, he'd met the guy handling assignments and he mentioned that I could play the guitar. Maybe good old Dwight wouldn't fire a musician so fast, you know? They usually quit before he could fire them."

"And that got you into the field," Methos said softly.

"Bingo." The 'guy' in charge of assignments had been James Horton. Before Ian had said anything, he hadn't given Joe much thought. Joe might have spent his whole career hidden away as a historian. Damn, damn. There were so many reasons he didn’t normally talk about his own past. "That was the good news. The bad news was that he played Bluegrass."

Methos gaped for a moment, then he laughed. "You're kidding."

"You know I'm not. You must have read my records."

"Not that closely! My god, how did you manage Bluegrass?"

"I was good at it!" Joe protested. "I was nauseous most of the time, sure. But you have to understand, back then I would have done *anything* to get into the field." He smiled. "It probably wouldn't have been so bad if he'd had any talent at all."

"I do remember you weren't fired. You got a commendation for turning in a detailed account of your first assignment's last Challenge."

"Yeah...."

"So will you play something for me?" Methos asked, his eyes shining. "I'm partial to 'Salty Dog.' Oooh! Or 'Fox on the Run.' I know you've got your guitar."

"You tell anyone about the Bluegrass and I will deny everything."

The conversation drifted from there. Joe found it harder and harder to concentrate. He felt warm and calm. Despite everything, he was more comfortable than he'd been in a long time.

The next thing he noticed was that Methos was nudging him gently, firmly trying to wake him up. "Come on. As lovely as this is, we cannot spend the night on the couch."

Blinking, Joe looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. "Mac--" he started.

"Amanda took him up to bed a little while ago."

"Oh." He rubbed his face. "Sorry."

Methos smiled, his eyes gleaming. "Think nothing of it. Anyway, it's a well known fact that as men get older, they become more interested in cuddling than fireworks."

Irritation brought a wakefulness that gentle prodding had not managed. "Now hold it right there. I may not be twenty anymore--"

Methos grinned, "Who was talking about you?" And it was funny, but it wasn't.

"Will you stay?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes. Please stay."

So Methos followed Joe to his door instead of heading upstairs.

The décor in Joe's room was kind of alarming. He didn't know what the other bedrooms looked like, but the hostess was using this one to store her egg cup collection. Three of the four walls were covered in curio cabinets. He entered the room and turned on the lights and looked at those egg cups. He avoided turning around to look at Methos behind him. This was the awkward part. "I don't suppose you'd like to run upstairs for your tooth brush. Or something?" he suggested helpfully.

"Hmm. No. I wouldn't."

Joe turned around and glared, then, but it did no good. "Fine," he growled. "If you want me that badly, you can have me." He stalked to the bed and sat down.

When he looked up, Methos was still standing in the open doorway, watching him with such open approval and admiration that for a moment Joe couldn't breathe. The eyes that were always so sharp and unreadable were...soft. Yes, soft. Joe had never expected that.

Unhurried, Methos closed the door, came to the bed and climbed up behind Joe. Kneeling, he played almost absently with Joe's hair. "This is the best part," he whispered, his breath a soft stroke on Joe's neck. "Right now, as we get to know each other. This is the first time. It's all new."

Joe almost had to laugh at that. "Nothing could possibly be new to you. There are no surprises left." He though about that. "Which isn't all bad. Even the difficult shit has to be old hat to you."

Methos hugged Joe from behind with one hand and continued to play with his hair with the other. "It's not a surprise. But it is new. I've never been this intimate with you before. That's new. And the man I am when I'm with you, that's new, too. I like the man I am when I’m with you."

New? Five thousand years and *anything* was new? Methos was expecting him to buy that? But the caressing fingers had moved from Joe's hair to his ear, and it was getting harder to concentrate. They felt good, these little touches that should have been nothing.

"Do you see it?" Methos breathed. "This beautiful moment that will never come again?"

"Holy shit," Joe muttered. "You're a complete fraud!"

Methos slid his teeth along the back of Joe's neck. "Am I?"

"You-you pretend you're the biggest cynic in the world. You're not impressed by anything, history is unstoppable so there's no point in trying to shape it, morality is relative--It's all a load of crap!"

Methos laughed. One hand was gently untucking Joe's shirt, seeking skin. "Yes. All of it."

"You're a romantic. A big mush ball. I can't even count the times I fell for your bull!" Barely listening to his own teasing, Joe leaned back into the solid shoulders behind him. Methos' hand was spread across Joe's stomach now, moving slowly. It was getting hard to remember what he'd been talking about.

"A hopeless romantic." Methos scooted to the side, changing angles so they could see each other's faces. And then Methos leaned in and kissed him.

There was a lot of kissing. It wasn't like kissing Mac. That had been dizzying, tingling, electric. It had been an irresistible, stunning, burn in his skin, in his groin, in his brain. The pressure of Methos' lips was almost familiar. The word 'pleasant' floated to mind. 'Pleasant' and 'warm' and 'filling.' The sensation of the touch upon his skin wasn't fire but *sweetness*. It wasn't a lesser experience. That sweetness, once his flesh tasted it, fueled an urgent hunger all its own. More. More.

He tugged at Methos' sweater, seeking with hands, forgetting how uncertain he'd been a few minutes before. A liquid honey-feeling was spreading from the outside in. It was surprising. It was amazing.

There was no time to be amazed. Of their own will, Joe's hands had found the waistband of Methos' pants. Teasingly, his fingers glided over the narrow hips. He could trace the bones, the sleek muscle. Methos sighed. Joe couldn't reach nearly as much as he wanted to, and with his legs still on, he couldn't move very much on the bed. "Give me a minute," he said, forcing himself to pull back and undress.

Methos gathered up their clothes and tossed them into the room's only chair, then turned down the sheets as best he could with both of them sitting on top of the lace bedspread. Bare, the air in the room was a little chilly, but Methos didn't climb under the covers. Instead he ran his fingers lightly over Joe's throat and chest. It was a lovely stroke, but the look in Methos's eyes was a little haunted.

"What?" Joe asked gently. Then, "It's all right."

"Yes," but the answer was shaky--and not because of passion.

"Methos, you've seen me naked before. It's not--" He had been going to say, 'It's not that bad; you have to have seen a hell of a lot worse.'

"Right. And this time you are not covered in blood...." Methos closed his eyes. "It's all right. I am over this." It wasn't a very good lie. The old man was scrambling for his disinterested façade, but he had let himself put it aside and now he couldn't seem find it again.

"You've got some baggage about...all that." Joe had meant to sound reassuring, but it came out a question. Baggage? Methos had gone to pieces in Brooklyn over the Tribunal. If MacLeod hadn't been there things could have easily gotten out of hand.

"All that. Yes." Methos pulled away suddenly, crawling under the covers, hiding. "I have a little baggage about *all that*."

Moving slowly, Joe followed him. "You were...very calm, at the time." From what Joe remembered. It was hazy. There had been a lot of pain, and Methos continually prodding him and feeding him things. "You were very calm."

The sheets were cold, but Methos cuddled close at once and his skin was almost hot. He hid his face in Joe's chest. "Oh. Well. Calm. You cannot be a doctor in a blind rage. And you cannot do it and remember love."

It seemed to be a non sequetor. "I don't understand." Methos was very still. "Talk to me. What happened? I wasn’t real alert, cut me a break here."

"I was packing to leave when MacLeod called me. I was furious. You were the last mortal I loved in that life, and you had been murdered by my superiors. For saving their backsides, by the way. How dare they forget!" He held Joe tighter, steadied himself. "I didn't want to be Pierson any more, and if I'd stayed--I was afraid of what I might do." He was petting again, the nothing touches that reached so deeply. Gently, he caressed Joe's shoulders, his throat. "You cannot perform surgery hating. And you cannot do it if you let yourself remember that if you make a mistake your friend will die."

"Damn."

"Or that even if you do *not* make a mistake he may die."

"Methos...."

"You cannot let yourself remember that you would-would not be doing surgery if you hadn't been a fucking idiot."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I never thought they would kill you--"

"All right. Easy now."

"And then it was over, and we were cutting off your clothes and washing you...."

"You did excellent work." He had a painful thought. "And I was such a terrible patient!" The word "quack" had come up almost daily. So had "butcher." Joe felt ashamed.

"Not at first." Methos was still distant and sad. "For three days you didn't argue with us, you obeyed without question. You were too weak to put up any kind of fight." Methos hid his face again. "I kept--"

Joe shook him gently. "I was on morphine! Quit being melodramatic."

"Right. Of course." He managed a smile. "You were no worse than anyone else after surgery. It all came out right in the end." Methos roused himself, the smile turned teasing. "You realize I was provoking you on purpose? When I fed you with the choo-choo noises?"

And Joe had grabbed the spoon away and called Methos a shit and said he'd do it himself, even though the movement hurt and really, he'd just wanted to be left alone. "Come to think of it, you were a pain in the ass. I’m taking the apology back."

Methos hugged him. "You didn't actually apologize."

"Well, I was going to."

Instead of cheerfully zinging something back, Methos' gaze softened and he whispered, "What a wonder you are."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah."

Methos began kissing a line along Joe's left shoulder. "Do you know when I loved you? I liked you always. You were good company. And kind. And not full of crap. But do you know when I loved you?"

Joe couldn't answer. The kisses Methos was using for punctuation had moved to Joe's chest. They felt impossibly sweet on his skin, as though they were honey and he could somehow taste it.

"You actually tried to protect me from Jacque Vemas." Methos pulled back just far enough to see Joe's face. "Me. As though I really were some shy, defenseless, well-meaning researcher whose patron had just died and had no one to look out for him."

'Some pissant grad student screws up a Watcher system that has worked for thousands of years--' "It wasn't your fault. But as always, the first thing Vemas did was look for someone to blame--" Joe blinked, thinking it through again. That had been the defining moment? Joe had made a fool of himself and gotten knocked on his ass.

"Yes. He was a real bastard. He made you look very good; honorable and kind and reasonable." Methos captured Joe's mouth in a soft kiss that put a quick end to the conversation. It felt so natural, as though this had been their relationship for years. As though he had been expecting just this kiss.

Methos pulled Joe tighter and then rolled them, so that Joe was lying on top. With his bodyweight molding them together, the sweetness of skin to skin was intoxicating. There was also a firm pressure on his groin. The steady, reliable, unassuming hard-on he'd gotten accustomed to as he'd grown older was swelling and throbbing at a rate that startled him. The last few days had been a real shock in that department. Methos wiggled a little, and Joe had to drop his head onto the bony shoulder beneath him and pant. Dear. God.

He could not contain these feelings. He did not know what to do. He could not bear it. He could not cope.

"Trust me," Methos whispered, gently carding through his hair. "It's all right."

Quivering, Joe lifted his head and looked into the patient eyes beneath him. "Hold still."

Methos froze, but his hazel eyes showed approval.

Joe lifted himself on one arm and with his free hand, gently traced the line of Methos' nose. Cheekbones, eyelids, lips. The skin was soft, the bone and muscle beneath fine and intricate. The jaw was solid. Then Methos tipped his head back, giving Joe easy access to the only vulnerable spot he had. Joe leaned down and kissed the long line of the throat. Again and again. Methos whimpered softly, and his throat vibrated slightly with the sound.

Touching was just as dizzying, as disorienting as being touched. Feeling almost drugged, Joe found his hands roaming over the broad, pale shoulders by compulsion. He did not know how to stop. He didn’t want to.

Methos was flushed and sweating. His eyes were open, but unfocused. His hands, spread over Joe's hips, pressed and released in unsteady restlessness. He squirmed. He shivered. He whimpered pleas in a language that made no sense to Joe at all. The most canny, careful being in the planet, and Methos had let himself be seduced into helplessness. It was flattering. It was astonishing. It was...a little scary. Possibly a lot scary, if Joe thought about it, but he couldn't think clearly. He was sweating himself and oblivious to everything in the world but his beautiful, sweet partner.

And then, for a moment, Methos was completely still before arching his back and grinding his teeth. Joe was frightened. It put him in mind of a seizure. In less than a second, terror grounded him, and he froze until he realized that this was somehow--impossibly--a climax. Methos was coming. Joe had not touched his dick, and Methos was coming. Just from this cuddling. When Joe had been in high school, they'd called it 'heavy petting,' and everyone knew you couldn't go all the way just from that--

Methos opened languid eyes and smiled up at Joe peacefully. 'Well. I'll be damned.' Joe slid to one side and laid his head on a shoulder that was not nearly as soft as the shoulders he'd once been accustomed to. "How'd you do that?" he whispered.

"I'll tell you a secret," Methos whispered. "I'm very, very old."

"Bastard." Joe muttered playfully. The jolt of clarity his brief panic had given him was beginning to fade. "I suppose there's no way you can teach it, then."

"Well...you would have to commit to a lot of practices. It might take months. Years even." Immortal stamina. Already, Methos was recovering. He turned sideways and with the hand Joe didn't have pinned, began a slow stroke that started at the shoulder and ended at the hip. "But we won't start tonight. I've teased you enough."

"Teasing? You're crazy. This is--I've never--I mean, I didn't know!"

"We're not finished." The slow, strong hand slid sideways, found the nest of hair, the hardening shaft. Joe gasped, expecting to be overwhelmed, but the touch remained slow and careful. This caress was no more demanding than the others had been. "The trick is, to be present for every moment," Methos whispered. "To pay attention. To fear nothing." The touch strayed from shaft to head, slow and gentle and without the shortcut of rhythm. It had the same sweetness. It was nearly too powerful to bear.

At first he tried to pay attention, to participate, to help. Soon it got completely away from him. He was aware, but unable to coordinate a movement. Methos eased on top of him, pressed his own hardness between their bodies, petted and stroked and tickled. When Joe came, Methos followed a moment later.

***

When Joe woke the illuminated numbers on the clock said three-thirty. The light was off and the other side of the bed was empty. He had only a moment to wonder why he felt disappointed when he heard a soft step in the room and the mattress sagged slightly as someone climbed in on the other side. "Methos?" he whispered. "How is he?"

"Fine. Sleeping." Methos rolled closer. His nose was cold. "Tomorrow is going to be hell."

"Sh." Joe adjusted the covers and put an arm around the solid shoulders. "Get some sleep."

***

Joe didn't manage to follow his own advice for very long. Almost at once it seemed he was staring into blackness, taking deep breaths and trying to flee the nightmare that hovered at the edge of his mind. Mercifully, it was already fading, but he could still remember too much: James. A guillotine. Mac--

He opened and closed his eyes several times, holding very still. He didn't want to wake Methos.

That was the thought that calmed him. He wasn't alone in the dark in some strange bed. Methos had stayed; the canniest, the shyest, the most careful of ancients was sleeping beside him, close enough that Joe could feel the warmth of his body.

James would have put Methos at the top of his list, if he'd believed that Methos wasn't a myth. It didn't matter any more. James Horton was dead, and Joe was in a position to erase the paranoia and fear that had tainted the Watchers for the last decade. He would see it through, if it took the rest of his life--

And if he wasn't quite sure, at this moment, what 'it' was, well... Whatever peace took, he'd do it. They might well be rebuilding the organization from scratch. They'd need a plan for that, though. It was fair to spend a few weeks putting together some kind of vision. He would enlist Miles. And Barbara. And probably those "South Asian Radicals" everyone was always gossiping about. Radical might be just what they needed. And he would talk to Methos, who might just have it all figured out already.

Joe turned over so that his nose rested an inch away from the warm shoulder of his lover. Methos was sleeping soundly, trustingly, for all that he had a Watcher in his bed. And despite the fact that Joe had treated him very badly. He had turned Methos down with the most insulting of excuses, a transparent lie. It really didn't matter that Joe himself hadn't seen through the lie at the time. He really, really should have cared enough to try, no matter how afraid he'd been at the time.

How afraid he'd been of everything....

He'd believed his own lies.

'Oh, Lord,' he thought. 'I've been in idiot, but I've got a second chance now. Lots of second chances, and I won't waste them. Oh, please, I'll take care of them. I'll protect them. Just, please, give me a little time'. How much time? Fifteen good years was obviously too much to ask. Even ten was probably more than he could hope for. Five, though...surely that wasn't unreasonable to expect. 'Even five more good years--I won't waste it. I'll put the Watchers right. I'll protect them.'

Methos turned over and wiggled closer. "Do you want to talk about it?" he whispered.

"What?"

"The nightmare that woke you." And then, "Are you all right? Joe?"

"I’m fine. I'm fine."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"No," Joe pulled Methos closer. "Just trying to decide if I'll respect you in the morning."

Methos laughed softly at that. "You don't respect me now. In fact, I don't think you've respected me since the early nineties."

"Sorry, buddy, not even then. In nineteen eighty-nine you were responsible for planning Bradford's bachelor party, and you had a singing telegram instead of a stripper. That pretty much spoiled your image forever."

Methos was in his arms, giggling sweetly. "I'll tell you a secret. It wasn't a mistake. Millicent bribed me."

Joe had to laugh, too. "You dog."

"Hush. People will think we're up to something." Somehow the smirk was audible.

Joe kissed his shoulder. "We are up to something."

***

It was after seven when they got up, but it was still dark out. Methos went upstairs to change, and Joe got out his grey suit. He left the tie and jacket laid out on the bed. He wouldn't wear them until he absolutely had to.

Damn, but today was going to suck. The last thing he wanted to do was attend Connor MacLeod's burial. What a mess. But once they had the burial behind them, Mac might start to recover. Or he might run away. Whatever happened, it would be difficult.

Joe left his room just as Amanda and Nick were coming down the stairs. Amanda looked Joe over with open curiosity and then hopped down the last few steps and caught him in a light hug. "All is forgiven?"

Joe could only nod.

"Oh, I want to hear everything!"

Joe snorted. "I bet you do!" but for half a second, he was almost tempted to tell her. Amanda understood everything, judged nothing. From what was written in her chronicle, you would never guess that she would make a good friend. On paper, she was anything but stalwart. She traveled without notice, didn't keep up with her correspondence, lied, cheated, stole--and she had left MacLeod to confront angry lawmen (or angry ex-partners she had double crossed) no less than five times that the Watchers knew of. But just as the living Amanda did not resemble her pictures, the Amanda Joe had come to know had a decent and generous spirit. She was soft without being weak. She was kind, and surprisingly easy to be kind to. She was as graceful and fearless as a hostage who was bound hand and foot as she was chatting idly in a bar and drinking wine. Joe knew. He'd done both with her.

She hugged him again. "Tell me you're happy," she breathed in his ear.

Joe thought about the funeral. He thought about gathering more than a dozen Immortals at a burial plot that wasn’t on holy ground. He thought about a meeting he had tomorrow with three of the middle-eastern coordinators. He thought about Nick watching him with open dislike over Amanda's head. "I'm happy," he whispered.

Breakfast was solemn, awkward, and distinctly weird. Methos was tripping on Joe's diet again. He had become rigid in his enforcement of his dietary standard. A zealot. Or maybe a fascist. If Joe asked for something to be passed, if it was the *wrong* thing it simply did not arrive. If he took a piece of disallowed food himself, it disappeared from his plate. At the same time food he had not taken appeared in its place. Methos did not argue or bully or nag. He just took over.

And it was curious. He might have predicted the massive amount of fruit on his plate, but some of the other decisions Methos insisted on making for him made no sense that Joe could see. Sausage was out, but eggs were allowed. No coffee, but tea was compulsory. He knew enough to understand why the oatcakes had materialized in front of him. But what was wrong with the perfectly good piece of bread that they had replaced? And why had the margarine been moved out of reach and replaced with butter? As little has he knew about diet, Joe had heard that butter was absolutely forbidden. Wasn’t it?

He was trying to stay bemused and curious, because this was sure as hell not the place to start an argument. Amanda would think it was adorable, and she would never let him live it down, for one thing. For another, it was not an argument he was willing to lose, and Methos generally won when it was important to him. He needed a strategy.

The whole thing was also...worrisome. Just a little more than a week before, Methos had been perfectly content to let Joe take all kinds of crazy chances ('I'll take care of security,' he'd said, 'but you are going to have to fetch MacLeod'). He had trusted Joe to carry sharp objects ('If you cannot rouse him, this is a very powerful stimulant. Be careful with that needle: even a partial dose would probably kill you'). He had sent him into the teeth of the lion with only the most minimal weapons ('It's going to have to be a tazer. If we kill anyone we are all as good as dead'). He had never looked worried. He had never paused to ask, 'can you do this?' And now, suddenly, Joe couldn't even be allowed to pick his own breakfast?

It was weird. And worse, Joe had no more idea what he ought to be worried about than he was certain there was anything to worry about at all.

Aside from the puzzle of Methos and the forbidden food, breakfast was uneventful. No one talked much. MacLeod arrived last--again, and normally he was a very early riser--and greeted them silently. He was very subdued. He ate almost nothing, and left with Amanda after only a few minutes.

After breakfast, Joe retreated to the common room. From the window he could see the quiet, charming street. He could also see the footprints Mac and Amanda had made in the dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. Maybe it was the comfort of old habits that had him Watching MacLeod again. Or maybe it was just that it had been so damn long since he could. He'd spent eight months camped in a rented room just up the road from that damn Buddhist monastery. When it finally sunk in that his assignment was staying put, he'd taken the posting back to Paris--a coordinating position in assignments, a measurable promotion--and turned the tiny room over to an eager new graduate who sucked up shamelessly and emailed detailed (but short and repetitive) reports of the Highlander's non-activity every night.

Joe heard a step behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Nick Wolfe hovered just inside the door. Wincing inwardly, Joe stepped away from the window and put his back to the wall. Probably, Wolfe would not physically attack him, but it was hard to be sure. They had met only once in the last three and a half years, and that had been by accident. Throughout the brief encounter, Wolfe had pretended that Joe didn’t exist.

Frankly, Joe didn't blame him.

For a moment, it looked like the young Immortal was going to retreat, but he collected himself and stepped into the room casually. "So. How does it feel to be the only normal guy here?"

From the dislike in Wolfe's eyes, it was clear that the words were meant as a barb. The tone fell far short, however. Joe heard curiosity, uncertainty, and envy in his voice.

"Same old, same old," he said noncommittally. He judged it safe to step away from the wall. "You can get used to anything."

Wolfe's head snapped up and his mouth opened. He shut it again and looked away.

Joe discarded the impulse to go over and smack him upside the head It wasn't easy, though. Years past his first death and Nick Wolfe was still wasting his energy *hating* his fate....And yes, there was a lot to hate. Yes, the price of immortality was too high. But if the kid couldn't adapt to the world he was in, he wouldn't be immortal for very long.

And it would hurt Amanda so badly to lose this one.

Joe tried to look less unfriendly. "The crowd getting to be a bit much?" he asked. It wasn't so hard to dredge up a little sympathy. Well, very little, but some. Joe had had decades to get used to the idea of Immortals, and still the company he was traveling with weirded him out at odd moments.

This tiny kindness seemed to unlock Wolfe a little. "You have no idea. Cory Raines...."

Ouch. Joe could well imagine what Cory might have to say about Amanda. "Yeah, well. Don't pay too much attention. Only about half of what he says is true." Too late, Joe winced at his words. Nick wasn't too impressed with Joe's own honesty. Apparently, though, Nick was too absorbed in his own confusion to take advantage of the opening Joe had just handled him.

"So he wasn't the inspiration for about half the Robin Hood legends?"

"Oh. No. That part is true." Showing an unusual jump on the normal Immortal learning curve, Cory had figured very, very early in his life that you couldn't make the world a better place through revolution. Despising the 'haves' who mercilessly exploited the 'have nots,' he nevertheless didn't waste his time fighting the system as such. He delighted himself by being a predator of predators, intent on his own unique vision which combined anarchism, idealism, and a complete lack of a concern for consequences. It was the sort of approach that had to drive Nick as crazy as it drove MacLeod. Both of them believed in order, justice, and the social contract.

"And it just gets more surreal from there. Did you know that Greg crossed from St. Lewis to California *in a covered wagon*? Do you know how Derek got to be Immortal?"

Joe nodded slowly. "I know," he said, not quite sure where this was going.

Wolfe seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Of course you do," he said bitterly. Then his face fell. "But you're the only person who makes any...sense."

'Not quite true,' Joe thought. He was just the only mortal here, the only 'normal' person from Wolfe's life before. "They're just people, Nick," he said softly. "Just like you. Just like...me."

"Amanda says there's a man running around out there who's five thousand years old."

"That is true," Joe said softly.

"Five thousand years old," Wolfe repeated. He looked a little sick. "And I think it's Reggie."

In a heartbeat Joe closed the distance between them. "My God, you are an idiot." Any thought of being supportive was long gone. "First of all, *idiot,* you don't make speculations about that in private, let alone in public--and *not* in front of a Watcher. Yes, I mean me. You don't know what I know. Second of all, 'Reggie' doesn't need the crap that's going to rain down on him if a nasty rumor like that gets started about the value of his head. And frankly--'Reggie' is a hell of a lot more ruthless than I am, and if he thinks for one moment that you are a danger to him, his affection for Amanda will not keep you alive."

Wolfe was almost as tall as MacLeod--if not quite as solidly built--and hard to intimidate. He took a step back from Joe, though. "Look, I didn't--I wouldn't--"

"No. You won't." Wolfe wouldn't keep score in the Game, and he wouldn't challenge a friend. He was absolutely moral. Joe didn't need to threaten him, just wake him up a little. But the idea that this idiot--even by accident--might endanger Methos had Joe angry enough to hang him by the balls.

Wolfe stared at him. He looked uncertain and a little sad. "What?" Joe snapped.

"How do you...I mean how do you live with this? You know how it has to end. The Gathering is coming. Amanda and Reggie and MacLeod--they're all your friends. And they all play the Game. How--how are you going to--" And then he stopped, his eyes hardening. "But of course you aren't going to live that long. You get to miss that part."

Joe sighed. "Do you remember what I said to you about having faith?"

"I remember you said there were no happy endings."

Joe closed his eyes. Yes, he had said that. He'd said it when he'd lied to Wolfe and told him that Amanda was dead. "Look, let's just get through today. Okay?"