Snow: Day One
Snow: Day One
The quickening was horrible.
Wave after wave of pain crashed into him, saturated with ugliness and hatred, bitterness and anger. And even so, as bad as it was, the pain could not wash away the terrible emptiness, the great grief.
When it finally ended, every light was out as far as MacLeod could see, and the tortured atmosphere began to leak a sour-tasting drizzle. From midtown he could hear the angry honking of drivers who had ground to a halt in the face of darkened street lights. Slowly, stumbling a little, he turned his back on Kell's body. Let it rot there, or let the Watchers have it.
The lights came back up before he had gone half a block. Half a block more and a sedan pulled up beside him. Against the deafening roar of Kell's quickening, which still burned against the inside of his skin, Methos' familiar resonance was barely a whisper. The passenger side door opened. "Get in," Methos said.
The hesitation wasn't indecision, it was only trying to remember why it would or wouldn't be a good idea and if there was some reason why the answer might be important. In the end, he realized that probably it didn't matter, and got in.
The traffic snarled by the power failure was still sorting itself out, and they moved very slowly. Duncan looked out the windows, remembering when New York had had cobbled streets and carriages and five stories had been considered a tall building. The first time he'd come here he'd been with Connor--
Stopped at a corner, Methos handed him a wad of tissues. "Clean your sword, Duncan."
Neither of them said anything else until MacLeod looked out and saw that they were crossing one of the bridges. "Where are we going?"
"Brooklyn. I have a house."
For a moment MacLeod was awash in disorientation, trying to picture their route, but he quickly gave it up. It didn't really matter where he was going, after all.
Methos stopped the car on a narrow, dim street and pointed through MacLeod's window. "There. Let yourself in. I'll go park." Methos dropped a key into his hand, then leaned past him to open the car door. "If there's someone there, it's probably Amanda and her puppy. She should be in by now."
MacLeod roused himself. "You called Amanda?"
"I didn't." Methos didn't elaborate and MacLeod got out.
MacLeod climbed the steeps of a brownstone that seemed, in the relief cast by the streetlights, to be just like the thousands that surrounded it. There was no buzz from another immortal as he keyed the lock, and the lights were off inside. By touch, he found a light switch. An entryway with stairs and an opening to the left. He found a second light, peered in. The room was narrow and small, but nicely furnished and warm. Warm--for the first time, MacLeod realized how cold he was. He shut the door and went to sit down on the couch.
***
When he woke the room was more dimly lit, and Methos was asleep in a chair, a book open in his lap. There was no shock of memory upon wakening. Even asleep, Duncan had known where he was. And why. But while his memory wasn't a surprise, the pain still rose up in a fresh wave.
He closed his eyes. So many times over the last ten years he'd wished he'd just known what had happened to Connor. So many times he'd thought that even knowing the worst had happened would be better than fearing it and wondering.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Distantly, he heard a patient knock. Distantly, he heard Methos rise and hurry to the door. He didn't feel another immortal, though. This wasn't Amanda. He wouldn't have to face her yet.
"You're late." A wave of cold came in on the heel of the whisper.
"Not yet, but soon, yeah, probably. You gonna let me in?" Dawson, MacLeod realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Damn, damn. He'd wanted more time before he'd had to have that conversation. Now, when everything was lost, when he couldn't pretend anymore...he would have to ask. And face the answers. And make some decision, take some action.
"You look like hell." The door shut, closing the winter wind out. The sound of footsteps in the hall.
"Thanks. Tell me you've still got him."
"And behold, there he sleeps."
A sigh. "Good. Thank you." Joe was whispering, now, too.
"Joe, it's after three in the morning. Where the hell have you been?"
"Getting screwed, buddy, getting screwed. You're looking at the new Interim Director of New World Operations."
"Crap."
"No kidding. Look. There's a problem, actually."
"What, you mean besides the thankless desk job? Come into the kitchen and sit down. We'll talk about--"
"No, I--Adam, look. You may not want me staying here. My first order of business is cleaning out Kirk's people. It'll take us several days to find them all...and they'll probably try to kill me before I get the chance. I wasn't followed, but I shouldn't stay here--"
"You won't go anywhere else."
"Adam, they may find me--"
"And you won't argue with me. You'll wake MacLeod."
They moved on past the door, still whispering together. Duncan kept his eyes shut. When he woke again, it was to the sound of the phone. Although the noise was startling, it was also a relief. He'd been dreaming of fire. There was terror and loss and horrible guilt. One of Connor's dreams....
He was sitting up, running his hands through his hair and trying to shake himself free from the claws of sleep when Methos hung up the phone. "That was Amanda," he said. "They're snowbound in Chicago. The earliest they can get here is tonight."
MacLeod nodded. Amanda had brought her new partner to meet him once. He was glad enough not to have to face them right away.
Sighing, Methos came to the couch and sat down next to him. "Is there anything I can do?" He asked softly.
MacLeod flinched. Methos was worse than Amanda. Oh, so much worse. But he couldn't put off the question. "Aye," he said heavily, "You can tell me you didn't know. You can tell me you didn't send my grieving kinsman to the hell that destroyed him."
Methos nodded slowly. "I see."
"Do you? Whatever state he was in when he went into that place--"
"MacLeod, you have no idea what state he was in."
"You're not saying it, Methos. Don't put me in this position. Don't make me avenge him on you, too!" He stumbled to his feet and began to pace. He had the presence of mind to walk away from his sword; his rage hadn't burnt itself out on Kell, and despite his fury, he didn't want to fight Methos. "Why did he go to you! Why did he trust you--"
"For a start, because he didn't know me very well. We met during...some war or other. It doesn't matter. He was a hero, and I was a doctor. He knew I was old. He thought I was kind and wise. A pacifist."
"Did he know? Who you were?"
"No. Nothing, really. But we met again, in eighty-nine, in New York. A history conference at Columbia. His wife was presenting....I can't tell you how frightened I was when I felt him. The Asian history department at Columbia was cheek to jowl with Watchers in those days. But of course he didn't do anything anyone would notice. We barely spoke. I didn’t see him again until ninety-three."
"Ninety-two," Duncan corrected. "Rachel died in December of ninety-two."
"June of Ninety-three. He'd been running, hiding from his life."
Oh, Connor! "Why didn't you come to me?"
"I didn't know you then," Methos answered reasonably.
"Ah. Well. You've known me for seven years since! You knew I was worried. You knew how I missed him!"
"Yes."
"You knew, and Dawson knew--"
"To be fair, he didn't."
"What?"
"Joe. He didn't know about Connor," Methos articulated very slowly, "When he was interim supervisor for the Northwest he had the clearance to find out who was in Sanctuary, but he was...busy at the time. Perhaps you remember? He found out about Connor the same day you did."
He shut his eyes. It was a relief Dawson hadn't known. As much as he owed Joe, he could not have allowed himself to forgive that betrayal. It would have been the end of them....
The relief was short-lived. So much else was so wrong. There was going to be no easy way to forgive Methos. There was no way to get rid of the terrible anguish he was carrying, his own and Connor's. MacLeod sat down in the chair Methos had slept in. "Ten years in that nightmare. Ten years...is it any wonder?" Oh, Connor. Locked into that--iron thing, motionless and blind, drugged-- "And it was you who sent him to that. He came to you for help. He trusted you."
"Yes, he did. His wife had died not long after I encountered them. His daughter had just been brutally murdered. He was afraid you were next."
"And he went to you for help. Because you were so wise and good. To you and not to me." MacLeod did not care how bitter he sounded.
"That's right. He came to me for help and asked me to take his head. Because he did not want to ask so much of you."
MacLeod swayed. "No," he said. "Not Connor."
"Yes, Connor! Damn it, MacLeod have you not been paying attention at all--"
"You could have sent him to Sean--"
"He didn’t want to get psychological help. He wanted to die."
"So you sent him to hell."
"It was all I could think of....I didn’t want to kill him."
"And all those years--all those years you left him in that hell--"
"It would not have done any good to tell you. Kell murdered a dozen people to breach Sanctuary. It took a small army. And even if you could have fetched him back out, he was still suicidal." Methos' eyes were hard, unrelenting. "In any case, I could not tell you."
"Why not?"
"Follow the logic. Adam Pierson did not have the clearance to access the Sanctuary files. You knew only one person who had ever had access to that information."
"Dawson--"
"If you had freed Connor, his superiors would have assumed he'd betrayed them. Especially considering that it was already obvious that he would do anything you asked. For compromising Sanctuary they wouldn't even have bothered with a Tribunal. They would have just sent a sniper to finish things from a distance."
"Aw, god...."
"There is my guilt, Duncan. I chose Joe over your suicidal kinsman. How will you judge me? And perhaps.... perhaps I should have done more than I did. I pitied him, but not enough. I did not know about Kell, or at least...I did not know that he'd been stalking Connor on and off for four hundred and fifty years. All I saw was a man who'd been very unlucky, who didn't have the courage to face his immortality. I pitied him a little, but-- I did not want his head."
"So you just sent him off to hide, to rot in that nightmare--"
"I let you run off to hide. For pretty much the same reasons, as far as I can tell."
And that, finally, brought Duncan up cold. "It wasn't the same," he said.
"Yes. You were conscious and meditating. And you let Joe and me visit on birthdays. Thank you. So much, by the way."
"Methos--"
"I missed you! I missed you, damn it."
MacLeod buried his face in his hands. Surely they did not have to go through this yet again. "We almost lost Joe and Amanda. O'Rourke would have killed them to reach me. Out of the Game, I'm not a threat to anyone."
"And it's much easier, much safer, isn't it, to walk away from them than to love them. To tell us you care for us and then leave us to our fates."
"That's not fair."
"No. It wasn't. Not to any of us. I think you must have been related to Connor, somehow. You have the same selfish streak."
"He wasn't--"
"No?"
"He was...he was broken. He was..." the unbearable pain that had haunted him all the long day since Connor's quickening rose up again. The hurt of it. "If you had needed me I would have come! Always--"
"Where were you, when Amanda had to kill her pre-immortal student to save him? And the year she spent trying to find him because the angry, ignorant child ran away to sulk? Where were you when Michelle Webster took her first head? She could have used your advice then, your good example. Where were you in September when Joe took a bad fall and spend three days in hospital with a concussion? While you were on Holy Ground giving up violence and protecting us from your presence, we needed you."
"Methos."
"As much as you needed him, we needed you." Methos came and squatted before him, taking MacLeod's face in both hands. "I let Connor have his oblivion. I sent him to Sanctuary. I shouldn't have. I will not let you go. I will not relent, if I have to chase you to the ends of the earth."
MacLeod felt his eyes burn and fill. The weeping would hurt, all the weeping so far had hurt. He tried to pull away. "My teacher--"
"Died. Because it was the only way he could think of to save you. Because he knew you were next, and he could not bear to lose you. You were the only joy he had left in all the world. Will you waste it?"
"Leave him alone. He's suffered enough."
Methos jumped at the unexpected voice, then glared upwards, past MacLeod's head, scowling. "Joe, we agreed that I would handle this," he said warningly.
"He's hurt enough. He's lost more than I can even imagine having. If he needs to rest...let him go. Don't put him through this."
"He's not safe as he is. And don't think he'll hurt any less if I leave him alone."
"This isn't helping."
Slowly, Methos stood up and went around to Joe. "You agreed to let me handle this. I need you to trust me. Please. Please, Joe?"
"Aw, hell."
"Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower. Hmm? Trust me."
There was a long pause during which MacLeod could not force himself to look up and face either of them.
"Fine."
"It will be all right. Trust me." He whispered something else, and then Joe turned and left them alone again.
MacLeod steeled himself for another round of Methos' brutal judgment, but he only went and sat on the couch, not looking at MacLeod. MacLeod had a sudden vision of him, covered in a bloody smock and crying, shouting in some strange Germanic language. It was a memory laced with the kind of respect and affection MacLeod himself usually held for Grace or Darius. This was a vision of the paragon Connor had sought out to take his quickening.
Abruptly, Methos stood up and picked up a tee-shirt that had been sitting on an end table. "Come on. Put this on, and let's go find something to eat. There isn't much. I haven't had time for shopping."
After a long, uncertain moment, MacLeod changed out of the torn and bloody shirt and followed Methos out into the short, narrow hall. Besides the stairs, there was a closet and a half-bath and a tiny den that barely held a computer desk and a couch. The kitchen, because it was also the dining room, was large enough to move around in. There was a window over the sink that gave a cozy view of a tiny courtyard filling up with snow. "I see we're getting the other end of Amanda's snow storm," Methos said. "Do you like maize porridge?"
"Grits or polenta?" he asked, rousing himself.
"For breakfast, corn meal mush."
There were eggs and left-over steak and cheese (Methos always had cheese) and mangos. Duncan sat at the table, half-watching while Methos bustled around the kitchen, preparing some meal that might be breakfast. It was domestic, but far from comfortable. Methos was still angry. MacLeod was so heartbroken that he hardly cared.
"I'll have to go shopping. Nick eats like a horse. Maybe a roast. Pork? Or beef?"
He seemed to want a response. "Whatever," MacLeod sighed.
"Will you stir this? So it doesn't burn?"
"Uh?" MacLeod asked.
"The shower's been off for about five minutes now. I need to go check on Joe. Will. You. Stir. The. Porridge?"
Without bothering to answer, he rose and accepted the wooden spoon. Methos gave him a dark look before leaving him. As difficult as being with the old man had been, being alone turned out to be worse. Too empty, too quiet.
*God. Connor. Why didn't you come to me?* But he hadn't known about Kell, not until it was too late, not until he was so broken and empty that he didn't have the heart to fight any more. He hadn't known it was an enemy he was fighting and not his own despair. *Why didn't you come to me?* But maybe he was coming, that afternoon that Rachel died. Maybe if they'd met that night at the bar, maybe--
Maybe Connor--
*My true brother.*
It seemed like a very long time before Methos and Dawson appeared. Methos sat his guests down and fed them fruit and cheese, strong spiced tea, and eggs. It was a strange breakfast. When the porridge was done, he served that too, with honey and a little milk. Throughout the meal, no one said much of anything, and both of them watched MacLeod with sad eyes.
"I need to shovel the steps and go shopping," Methos said as he cleared away the plates.
MacLeod thought about cold air and snow and being able to move. "I'll come with you," he said.
Methos laid a hand on his shoulder. "No, you will stay here and stand guard." He pointed at Joe. "There sits our future, the only one we can live with. *There* is the Watcher leadership that does not believe in kidnapping immortals and warehousing them against their will in eternal torment. If we are not very careful, he will be replaced."
"All right."
Methos sighed and hugged him.
Joe disappeared into the den and soon he could be heard on the phone. No doubt there was a lot of work to do. He probably wouldn't have field assignments any more....
MacLeod began to clear the table, but he had not had a dishwasher since the antique store, and he could not remember if the glasses went on the top or the bottom. Then he could not find the soap to do the dishes by hand, and it struck him as evil and unjust, that he should be worried about washing up when Connor was dead.
He went to the back door and pulled aside the curtain so he could look out onto the tiny courtyard. It was paved, of course. Like Duncan, Methos must never have gotten used to the idea of lawns. There were small evergreens in huge pots and a bench. The snow lay over everything, nearly an inch thick now. The cold leached through the glass and jumped several inches to lie, cool and soothing, against his face.
"Mac?"
He had not heard Joe coming, but he did not jump at the sound of his voice. It was all he could do to nod that he was listening.
"I wanted to say, I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm so, so sorry for the role we played in it. Connor MacLeod. He was...." Joe stopped and swallowed. "We--we have him, Mac."
"I know." He had knelt, weeping, with Connor's body in his arms. A part of him never wanted to move, but Kell was still out there. *Come here,* he'd shouted. *Whoever you are get over here now*. Stumbling, terrified, a man had crept out of the shadows: Duncan's current Watcher, he'd supposed. *You take him*, Duncan had ordered. *And you take care of him. I'm taking him home, do you understand me*? The man had gulped and nodded, and MacLeod had forced himself to let go of Connor and walk away.
"I'm so sorry."
The tears rose again at that. They burned in his eyes and throat. There were a pressure on his face and a terrible weight in his heart. MacLeod gritted his teeth against the mounting pain. "Please, go," he gasped, his throat closing on whatever else he might have said. He could not bear this kindness. He did not deserve it. Or perhaps, he did, because, oh, how it hurt. Perhaps it was just that he hurt this much....MacLeod closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the cold glass, trying to beat back the tears before they swamped him again.
*Connor*. There was so much he should have said. So many things he could have done. *But you said them, didn't you. You told him you loved him. You offered him everything. And it still wasn't enough*.
Shuddering, he forced the tears back. And again. And again. In a moment of sudden, unwanted sympathy, he understood the grief that was so great that Connor had wanted to die--which only, perversely, made him angrier at Connor for leaving him.
Methos stormed into the kitchen and tossed an armload of grocery bags onto the counter. He was in stocking-feet, with his jacket still on and snow melting in his hair. "What the hell did you say to Joe?" he thundered. "He has gathered his things. He has called for a car. He is waiting by the door--"
Before he had finished, Duncan was running. Frantic, unsure what had gone wrong, but understanding that it was happening again, that he was the cause, *again* and unable to bear it.
The hall was short; it gave him no time to think. When he staggered to a halt in Methos' tiny living room, MacLeod had no idea what to say, or how to fix it, or even what, exactly was driving Joe away. He opened his mouth--and had nothing. The pain rose up again, and this time he could not stop the tears that followed.
Joe, putting on his coat, paused to look at MacLeod in hesitant confusion.
Don't leave, he thought, and his throat seized around the words and produced a horrible sound. Methos gently caught him from behind. MacLeod turned and shoved him off. "Damn you! Damn you for leaving me!" He was horrified that finally he could speak and *that* came out of his mouth. It wasn't even Joe or Methos he meant, it was Connor, and Connor had never *mean*t to--
Connor had exactly meant to leave him. And since Methos would not kill him and Sanctuary could not hold him, he had forced Duncan to carry his quickening.
Duncan began to scream.
***
The world was quiet and slow. MacLeod was back on Methos' couch, he realized. The yelling had stopped, and so had most of the terrible pain. He was on his side, facing rearward, but he was not alone; Methos sat behind him, pressed against his back, and he was reaching around to wipe MacLeod's face with a damp washcloth. A solitary sob heaved through him, but it was a weak thing and it was only one.
Methos hushed him gently and then said, "Believe it or not, this actually a good sign. It is poisonous to live in a world that treats grief so poorly. He'd be much better off if he had a good way to honor his pain. Something formal."
"Do I even want to know," Joe muttered.
"Like not bathing for a year. Or wearing rags. Or sitting in an ash pit for a while." He sighed and wiped away a stray tear with the cool cloth. "That's what happens when the death rate drops. Grieving becomes uncool." He sighed again. "Joe...this may take a while."
"I understand," Joe said. "You're warning me. Longer than my lifetime."
"N-No!" Frantic again, MacLeod turned over. "No, I promise!"
Murmuring reassurances, Methos caught him mid-flight and shifted them both so that MacLeod was in his lap. "It's all right. Relax. Yes, I know. Joe is fine. He is not going anywhere. I have convinced him you are distraught, and I cannot manage you by myself." He leaned down to add in a whisper, "I could not have done that last without your enthusiastic help. Well done, by the way."
MacLeod tried to smile to return their kindness, but another tear leaked out. Methos made little tisking noises and caught this tear, too. "Joe, why don't you make some of that tea, hmmm?"
Joe left them alone in the quiet, quiet room. Methos began to gently card Duncan's short hair. A quieting gesture, and he felt himself relax. "I'm sorry," he said.
"What for? For this? Duncan do you remember the night I brought Alexa to Paris? You met the plane and took me home with you. I spent most of the night weeping in your arms. And even if I didn't owe you this and more, it would be no trouble to me."
MacLeod thought about that. "Why?" he asked.
"Because I love you, as you very well know."
Oh. Yes, he did know. "Will you forgive me?"
"If you go back to that monastery, then no, I will not."
The threat made the hollowness inside expand. He whispered, "I won't go back."
Methos only patted his shoulder and continued to stroke his hair.
"Are you and Joe together?"
Methos sighed, making a show of amused regret to cover any deeper pain. "Alas, no. He has convinced himself that his feelings for you are some sort of ... aberration, and that he isn't actually interested in men. However. He has forgiven me for trying to change his mind."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
"Is it still snowing?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. There may be no Amanda tonight, either."
"Ah."
Joe returned then with a cup of tea. Obediently, MacLeod sat up and drank. He tasted spearmint and catnip and mugwort and something pungent and strange. As soon as he finished, Methos tucked him with a pillow and a blanket. Already, he was feeling a little light headed. Obviously, he'd been sedated, but never mind. Surely it was time he gave up and conceded that Methos might, somehow, know what he was doing.
***
When he woke it was dimmer and he could hear distant sounds of traffic. He could also hear what seemed to be Joe chewing someone out, but since the pauses were not filled by Methos, he assumed that the argument must be taking place over the phone.
MacLeod rose slowly, worrying at his new beard with the tips of his fingers. Too long since he'd shaved. Too long since he'd washed at all. Ugh, he had not even taken off his shoes since...night before last? Hoping he did not stink too badly, he wandered out to the den where Joe had made his encampment.
"I have taken note of your concerns, Tse, but the decision is made. Sanctuary is in my jurisdiction, and it's my call. Until we have a secure location and some kind of humane plan of operation, the project is shut down...." Joe's French was still just barely passable, and Duncan found himself correcting it in his head. "You are welcome to do whatever you want in your territory. No....No....No....No...." He caught sight of MacLeod lurking in the doorway and smiled briefly, "No....If it's necessary.....No."
Silently, Duncan crept in and laid a hand on Joe's shoulder.
"No....No, that's up to you..... Au revoir." Joe snapped the cell phone shut and tossed onto the couch. It wasn't a far enough throw to make the gesture look very satisfying, but a wordless snarl vented the irritation he'd been keeping check on the phone. "Sorry I woke you, Mac."
"Forget it. I've slept most of the day, I think."
"How are you doing?"
Reluctant to lie and unwilling to look too closely at the truth, MacLeod shrugged and changed the subject. "How much trouble are you in?"
"At this point, not much. I've got my own people stationed up the street and there are only three questionable persons still at large anyway."
"Your own people? How many people have you got?" He shifted the phone out of the way and sat down on the couch.
"Oh. Some. I've...Well, I've been running the Academy for the last year or so."
MacLeod blinked in surprise. "Really? You're kidding. You never mentioned it."
"Yeah. Well. I didn't think you wanted to talk about Watcher business."
Running the Watcher Academy. For a year. "It's in Geneva!"
"I've been traveling a lot. And don't look at me like that. You had my phone number." Not saying, you could have called at any time. Not saying, you never did.
"So...do I say 'congratulations on the promotion'?"
"Good Lord, no. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to keep this organization from self-destructing and taking your people with it. And frankly, Mac--"
The computer desk butted right up against the couch. He didn't even have to lean forward to reach out and take Joe's hand. "If anyone can work miracles, it's you, Joe." He'd meant that to be encouraging. Even to himself, though, it sounded patronizing. Joe grimaced, but didn't call him on it. Something else he was indebted for.... "So how'd you get the job?"
"The former number 2 guy had to be sanctioned for interfering with a Challenge last night."
And that sound so ominously *wrong*. "What?"
"He decided to kill three birds with one stone; solve the Sanctuary problem, neutralize the (completely horrifying) current frontrunner in the Game for cheating, and take charge of an Immortal who keeps interfering in Watcher business. Very tidy. Also in violation of policy. We're pretty sure his boss wasn't in on it, but he's been suspended while we investigate his incompetence. So."
It was clear from the description which Challenge he was talking about. It was also clear, from the look in Joe's eyes, that he was the one who had interrupted the plan to do the 'sanctioning' and what form it had taken. "Damn."
"Yeah. Well. Thems the breaks. Mac--I didn't know about Sanctuary."
"Methos told me you didn't know about Connor."
"I didn't know *anyone* was being held under those conditions. And I wasn't looking for Connor. I was sure he was dead."
"Really? You never said. You just kept saying...if he was sighted you would tell me."
"Yeah. Well. It was just my opinion, and you weren't ready to hear it. It wasn't even a professional opinion. I just....I couldn't believe anyone would run out on you. No matter what."
MacLeod closed his eyes on the tears that rose up again. "I'm sorry!" Joe said, and slid an arm around his shoulders. "I didn’t mean--Connor was in a bad way. He had reason. He didn't--"
MacLeod shook his head. The tears weren't for Connor this time. He, himself, had run out, and he had never called. He'd thought only of protecting them. He had thought nothing of loving them. "Methos forgave me. For leaving. Can you--" He stopped and breathed. "I’m sorry. I should not have left my life."
Joe looked at the floor. "I understood," he muttered.
"If it's not too late, I'd like to come back."
"Can you? The problem wasn't that you didn't want your friends near you. The problem was that you couldn't *bear* us near you."
"I'm still...afraid, Joe. I still dream about O'Rourke. I still dream about Richie. But I will not do to all of you what Connor did to me. I know I can't...live with that."
"Then we'll find a way."
The front door opened and a minute later Methos appeared, in stocking feet again and red from the cold. "It's stopped snowing. Amanda may make it after all. I've cleared the steps and walk, but it's very cold and I don’t recommend going for a walk. Anyone for cocoa?"
When they got to the kitchen, though, MacLeod forgot about the cocoa. The sky was clear, and although the sun was too low to shine directly, the snow looked translucent and inviting. He slipped out the back door and down the short set of steps to the tiny courtyard. Leaving his shoes and socks at the foot of the steps, he padded silently into the undisturbed snow. The cold was shocking and painful against his feet, but it was also real in a way that the nightmare that haunted him had been denying. Air and light and the cold, solid ground. The weight in his soul eased a little.
Tentatively, he made the first few moves in a form he'd learned from Mai Ling. They had done this in the snow, so many times. He could remember the quiet night sky and the peace of the steppes. At first, the cold bothered him. So did the sight of Methos and Joe, watching worriedly from the window. After a few minutes, all that faded away, stripping him of everything but the shape of movement and the rise and fall of his own chi. His mind cleared, leaving him with a wordless pain, but soon that pain faded, too.
When he finished it was dark, and the snow around his feet was trampled into half-melted ice. Panting, dripping with sweat, he stumbled over to collect his shoes and pulled himself up the steps to the kitchen door. Joe and Methos looked up from their coffee as he came in, Joe with frank concern and Methos with patient encouragement. Methos offered MacLeod a glass of water (which was eagerly drained) and said, "The shower is upstairs. I laid out some clean sweats."
Grateful but inarticulate, MacLeod nodded and headed upstairs.
The water felt wonderful. Cool against the fevered heat of his workout, it leached out the filth and some of the emptiness as well. For a moment he felt guilty about how very good it felt, standing in Methos' shower, feeling the water pelt his skin....How could he be comfortable and happy, in a world where Connor was dead? What right did he have to joy, when he had *let* his only kin fall into such desperation and hopelessness that death had seemed his only option? He laid his hands flat against the tiles of the wall and groaned. He had no business finding comfort in living.
Downstairs, Joe and Methos waited. They both loved him dearly. They had risked their lives to protect his--and not only in the last week, but many times before--and they were offering every kindness they had. He had no right to refuse comfort while they lived and cared and waited for him. He would not do to them what Connor had done to him. Never. *And Connor*--
MacLeod closed his eyes and turned his face to the water. *My suffering and guilt would mean nothing to him now. He's dead. That's what dead means.*
Oh, it hurt.
*Yes, it hurts. But I will not let myself become him*.
When he finally left the bathroom, clean and dry and dressed in Methos' sweats, he was calm and in control. Halfway down the stairs, a fresh buzz hit him, two more Immortals tangled against the background hum of Methos. A moment later the doorbell rang, and Amanda's voice crowed, "It's us."
MacLeod waited unmoving as Methos passed the bottom of the stairs and went to open the door. From where he was standing he could see Amanda and Nick. She leaped through the door and hugged Methos hard, whispering something in his ear before spotting MacLeod and sprinting up the stairs to embrace him.
She had changed her perfume, but underneath he could smell pure Amanda. Her hands around his waist were solid and familiar. MacLeod felt the soft burn of threatening tears again.
Her soft lips brushed his ear as she whispered, "Now we are both orphaned," and pulled him closer. "Oh, my love, I am so sorry."
"I'm glad you came," he managed. He was surprised to find how glad he was. He let himself lean into her arms, and she clung strongly, holding him back.
For a long time they stood like that, then Amanda leaned back and captured his face in her hands. "What ever you need from me," she breathed. "I mean it, Duncan. Anything."
Involuntarily, he glanced down to the entryway, where Nick was pretending to pay attention to taking his coat off and talking to Joe and Methos.
"Don't worry about that," she told him. "We've talked about it. It's all right. He understands."
MacLeod hugged her once more, kissed her forehead, and steeled himself to go downstairs.
***
Methos had made chicken stew for dinner, an old fashioned kind with carrots and prunes and served over potatoes. It was good. MacLeod wasn't hungry, but he made himself eat. Conversation was subdued, and what little there was was carried by Joe and Amanda who stayed on neutral topics. Packed in around the small table, drinking Methos' good wine and listening to Amanda go on about the horrors of air travel these days...It was cozy. It was comfortable. It was safe.
Afterward, he could never have repeated any of the conversation, but he did stay present enough to watch. Nick spent the evening hesitantly looking from MacLeod to Amanda and back again, like someone pretending they weren't watching a tennis match. Joe, meanwhile, was watching MacLeod and Nick worriedly, even while he listened to Amanda. Methos seemed to be playing host; filling wine glasses, getting more gravy, offering desert. You could never really tell what Methos was thinking unless he wanted you to.
It was almost midnight by the time they'd finished eating and washing up. "Joe has the den and I am taking the living room sofa. The rest of you get the second floor."
"I've seen closets smaller than your den," Amanda complained. "You can't put Joe there. What about your third floor."
"My third floor is storage. I've....accumulated a few things."
Joe patted her shoulder. "I'm avoiding the stairs."
The main bedroom upstairs was large and spacious. It accomplished this by taking the entire width of the townhouse and almost half the length. The rest of the second floor was divided into the bathroom, a tiny laundry room, and two claustrophobic 'guest rooms,' each barely large enough to hold one double bed pushed against the wall. There were shelves and triangular closets, but no dressers and the walkway was tight.
Looking at the layout, MacLeod realized that Methos meant for Amanda to join him in the bigger bed. He shook his head. "Amanda, you and Nick take the big room. You'll be more comfortable."
She looked at him worriedly. "Duncan--"
He put an arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "He's too young. When I was with Tessa--"
"He understands! And anyway, I came here for you. Whatever you need--"
The child with Amanda might have said that he understood, but he was still clearly living his first life. He had no idea what love meant, not when it wasn't tangled in a trap of fear and speeding time. "I need you to be my friend. My oldest friend, now. I need to know you'll be there--"
"Always. Always."
Duncan closed his eyes. He had not meant this conversation to be so difficult. "I’m going to Scotland. I don’t--I don't want to go alone." He should go alone. Surely, it was his burden to bear. Surely his friends did not deserve to be dragged with him halfway across the world for this sad and ultimately empty gesture.
She squeezed his hand. "Never. I promise." She brushed at her own tears, than his. "And, hey, by the time we get to Scotland, we'll practically have an army."
So they took Methos' room and he took one of the guest rooms. Clean and well fed and so tired, he fell asleep almost at once. But he woke up again before very long and was faced with the darkness and his own lonesome company. Outside it was still night, and snow was falling again, glittering in the streetlights.
Two nights ago, Kell had slaughtered another half-dozen Immortals. His own people, probably, Dawson would know. And then Connor--
MacLeod could not imagine taking so many quickenings at once. A man who could might well win the Game. No wonder Connor had been afraid. *Imagine if there was only one person left in the world whom I loved.*
How can I forgive you?
*How can I forgive myself for failing you?*
Outside, the snow was coming down harder. He should rouse himself tomorrow to find a weather report. Sooner or later he would have to make travel plans. Amanda had implied that quite a number of people would be traveling with him.
*How will I lay you in the ground and say good-bye?*
The darkness and stillness was unbearable. He got up and, wrapped in a bathrobe Methos had left for him, padded into the hall. The wooden floors were cold and creaked ever so slightly. There was no nightlight, and he found his path by tracing a finger along the wall.
Amanda was asleep. He could hear her quiet breathing. And Nick's snores. He supposed they made a cute couple. Amanda had long threatened to settle down and play house for sixty or seventy years...He would help, if he could figure out how. Amanda deserved love and trust and stability if she wanted it.
But he would stop pretending it was none of his business and ask Dawson about this Nick Wolf, though.
He crept down the stairs. He did now want to wake anyone. Joe and Adam had probably not gotten a lot of quality sleep these last few days. Still, he did want to check on them. Just to make sure everything was all right.
He should have checked on Connor more often. It was too late for that now, though.
The door to Methos' tiny den was shut. There was no light coming under the crack and no sound from within. MacLeod wanted--badly--to open it and be sure that everything was all right. But everything in this house seemed to creak. If he opened the door and woke Joe, he would have to explain, never mind costing the poor man some sleep. He turned and crept to the living room, instead.
A little light came in the windows here, but still he couldn't make out the couch where Methos would be sleeping. In the distance he could hear a snowplow. It was late--or rather early--and daylight and certainty both seemed very far away.
"Duncan? What's wrong?" The whisper floated out of the darkness of the living room.
"Nothing. I couldn't sleep."
"Come here." And then, as he hesitated, it came more gently: "Come here."
Setting each foot carefully, he tried to picture the layout of the furniture as he crept to the couch. There were patterns of light on the ceiling, but the floor and furniture were in utter darkness.
"Here," Methos said, and following the whisper like a trail, MacLeod knelt beside the couch. There was a rustle of covers. "Get in, it's cold out there."
"Not that cold."
"MacLeod--"
"No. No, it would be using you."
"Using me?" Methos sounded more irritated than amused. "Because you don't think I'm beautiful?"
MacLeod found himself smiling at that. "You know I do."
"Then because you don't want me?"
"From the moment I met you."
"Then because you don't love me?"
"Methos, don't--"
"It's that then? You don't love me."
"You know I do."
An extravagant sigh. MacLeod found himself wishing he could see the old man's face; he must be putting on quite a show. "If it's because you have no honorable intentions, I don't want to marry you anyway."
Despite himself, MacLeod laughed. And then he clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the mirth before it could become tears.
"Get in. It's cold."
Still, he hesitated. They had never been lovers. They had been headed that way, more than once, but first Alexa had come up and then Kronos.
"Please, Duncan. I promise it's better than wandering around the house all night."
He hitched up the robe and slipped under the blanket. The couch was just wide enough that if they lay on their sides and held on to one another, MacLeod would not fall off. He braced himself against Methos' bear shoulder and sighed.
"You're cold."
"Sorry."
Methos pulled him closer. "It wasn't a complaint....Mmmm. Much better."
"You know I used to think about this. About wanting you."
He felt the tolerant smile it was too dark to see. "Used to?"
"Last spring, when the flowers were blooming. I kept seeing you lying in the new grass...."
"You have mistaken me badly if you think I'll make love to anyone on new grass. Or any grass at all."
"Right. What was I thinking? Furs?"
"Not hardly."
MacLeod found a small laugh escaping and let it go. "A really narrow couch?"
"Doubtful. But maybe in a few weeks. If you are very nice to me..."
"Oh, I've missed you! Seriously. Methos. We--I--"
Under the blanket it was warm. Methos' body was long and solid. "I will be here when you are ready."
He could barely get a hand between them to run light fingers over Methos' nose. "And if I am ready now?"
"Now. Later. I have waited for you since the beginning of time, it's all the same to me. Actually, I've gotten quite used to waiting. I could just go on as I have." They were lying so closely that they were talking past each other's cheeks. Methos turned his head just a little and kissed him. "If all you need is to be known and loved, I am content."
MacLeod managed to hold back the words for nearly three seconds. "Make me forget--Please--" Now was *not* the time. MacLeod didn't care.
Methos was already kissing him. It very quickly became an amazing kiss, sweet and filling. Breathless, dizzy, MacLeod brought his hands up to Methos' soft hair--
--and nearly fell backwards off the narrow couch. Still kissing, Methos laughed as he caught him. "Only for you on a couch. And only this once."
MacLeod squirmed, got a knee under him, and shifted them both so that Methos was lying on his back and MacLeod was crouched over him. "At your venerable--" the tease would have been, "At your venerable age, I'm sure you've learned ways to compensate," but Methos twitched open the robe and fastened his teeth on MacLeod's left nipple. He lost words, he lost time, he could only gasp and squirm, as the wonder beneath him did *something* with his tongue and shivers of fire spread throughout MacLeod's body. "God--"
"Not for a very long time, and it wasn't actually as much fun as you'd think."
It was unfair that Methos was still lucid enough to joke. MacLeod couldn't even find his voice, let alone put meaning to words. He shivered as strong hands--gentle and loving and completely ruthless--caressed his stomach. He gulped for air. His arms would barely hold him now, but if he fell Methos couldn't reach his stomach.... He heard a low whimper and realized it was his own.
He had known--oh, he had known--that when the moment finally came he would be putty in Methos' hands. And he had known, all along, that the moment was coming. He had shied away from it and put it off, and now it had finally come and it was today, on the heels of his terrible loss.
How unfair, to Methos and to himself.
"Hush," Methos muttered, sliding his hand lower. He didn't fumble in the darkness. Steady and calm, the hands enveloped him, did something and a dozen fine points of pleasure ripped forth. Halfway through a yell, MacLeod clamped his teeth down and tried to breathe. "Relax. Just pay attention to this moment."
He could not relax. He could not ignore or resist the great burning pleasure, though. The fierce unhappiness faded until all that remained was the hovering sense that something distant and forgotten was important. His head dropped to bend over Methos' shoulder. He could not think. He could not seem to breathe enough. He wanted desperately to move, but he could not hold still enough. The pleasure was like thirst, he wanted more....
It began to climax, and all traces of order slipped away.
When the world crept back again he was lying on top of Methos, who was gently playing with his hair. "Sorry," he muttered. "You ok?"
"Oh, yes."
"I should--"
"Hush. Go to sleep."
When he woke again it was still dark. Winter nights in New York were long. They had turned on the narrow bed, so now they were lying on their sides, Methos spooned behind him. There was barely room. It was sweetly intimate.
A soft noise came from the hall by the door; a repeat, he realized, of the sound that had woken him. Gently, MacLeod detached himself from Methos and ventured out of the covers. His feet found the robe on the floor, and he covered himself and went into the hall.
Joe had pulled aside the curtain that covered the narrow window beside door, and the light from the street outlined his face clearly. "What are you doing," MacLeod whispered. Joe was dressed.
"I have an early meeting. A car is on the way."
MacLeod wondered how to ask about the wisdom of this without sounding patronizing. He gave up. "Is it safe?"
Joe smiled mirthlessly at that. "Compared to what? Don't worry about it. Things are mostly under control. Besides, I can't stay here forever." He glanced out the window and frowned. "There's my ride. Don't worry. I'll be back tonight."
Before MacLeod could say anything else, he was gone in a burst of cold air. MacLeod stood in the entryway, unable to put his finger on what had been wrong with those last seconds.
"No," Methos said from behind him, "We can *not* go with him. Not if he's to have any credibility at all. Now come on," trailing the corner of the blanked he'd wrapped around his shoulders, Methos headed up the stairs.
"Where?" MacLeod asked, unsure why he felt so thick and stupid.
"To a real bed. I told you, never again on that couch. Lock the door and come on."
The quickening was horrible.
Wave after wave of pain crashed into him, saturated with ugliness and hatred, bitterness and anger. And even so, as bad as it was, the pain could not wash away the terrible emptiness, the great grief.
When it finally ended, every light was out as far as MacLeod could see, and the tortured atmosphere began to leak a sour-tasting drizzle. From midtown he could hear the angry honking of drivers who had ground to a halt in the face of darkened street lights. Slowly, stumbling a little, he turned his back on Kell's body. Let it rot there, or let the Watchers have it.
The lights came back up before he had gone half a block. Half a block more and a sedan pulled up beside him. Against the deafening roar of Kell's quickening, which still burned against the inside of his skin, Methos' familiar resonance was barely a whisper. The passenger side door opened. "Get in," Methos said.
The hesitation wasn't indecision, it was only trying to remember why it would or wouldn't be a good idea and if there was some reason why the answer might be important. In the end, he realized that probably it didn't matter, and got in.
The traffic snarled by the power failure was still sorting itself out, and they moved very slowly. Duncan looked out the windows, remembering when New York had had cobbled streets and carriages and five stories had been considered a tall building. The first time he'd come here he'd been with Connor--
Stopped at a corner, Methos handed him a wad of tissues. "Clean your sword, Duncan."
Neither of them said anything else until MacLeod looked out and saw that they were crossing one of the bridges. "Where are we going?"
"Brooklyn. I have a house."
For a moment MacLeod was awash in disorientation, trying to picture their route, but he quickly gave it up. It didn't really matter where he was going, after all.
Methos stopped the car on a narrow, dim street and pointed through MacLeod's window. "There. Let yourself in. I'll go park." Methos dropped a key into his hand, then leaned past him to open the car door. "If there's someone there, it's probably Amanda and her puppy. She should be in by now."
MacLeod roused himself. "You called Amanda?"
"I didn't." Methos didn't elaborate and MacLeod got out.
MacLeod climbed the steeps of a brownstone that seemed, in the relief cast by the streetlights, to be just like the thousands that surrounded it. There was no buzz from another immortal as he keyed the lock, and the lights were off inside. By touch, he found a light switch. An entryway with stairs and an opening to the left. He found a second light, peered in. The room was narrow and small, but nicely furnished and warm. Warm--for the first time, MacLeod realized how cold he was. He shut the door and went to sit down on the couch.
***
When he woke the room was more dimly lit, and Methos was asleep in a chair, a book open in his lap. There was no shock of memory upon wakening. Even asleep, Duncan had known where he was. And why. But while his memory wasn't a surprise, the pain still rose up in a fresh wave.
He closed his eyes. So many times over the last ten years he'd wished he'd just known what had happened to Connor. So many times he'd thought that even knowing the worst had happened would be better than fearing it and wondering.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Distantly, he heard a patient knock. Distantly, he heard Methos rise and hurry to the door. He didn't feel another immortal, though. This wasn't Amanda. He wouldn't have to face her yet.
"You're late." A wave of cold came in on the heel of the whisper.
"Not yet, but soon, yeah, probably. You gonna let me in?" Dawson, MacLeod realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Damn, damn. He'd wanted more time before he'd had to have that conversation. Now, when everything was lost, when he couldn't pretend anymore...he would have to ask. And face the answers. And make some decision, take some action.
"You look like hell." The door shut, closing the winter wind out. The sound of footsteps in the hall.
"Thanks. Tell me you've still got him."
"And behold, there he sleeps."
A sigh. "Good. Thank you." Joe was whispering, now, too.
"Joe, it's after three in the morning. Where the hell have you been?"
"Getting screwed, buddy, getting screwed. You're looking at the new Interim Director of New World Operations."
"Crap."
"No kidding. Look. There's a problem, actually."
"What, you mean besides the thankless desk job? Come into the kitchen and sit down. We'll talk about--"
"No, I--Adam, look. You may not want me staying here. My first order of business is cleaning out Kirk's people. It'll take us several days to find them all...and they'll probably try to kill me before I get the chance. I wasn't followed, but I shouldn't stay here--"
"You won't go anywhere else."
"Adam, they may find me--"
"And you won't argue with me. You'll wake MacLeod."
They moved on past the door, still whispering together. Duncan kept his eyes shut. When he woke again, it was to the sound of the phone. Although the noise was startling, it was also a relief. He'd been dreaming of fire. There was terror and loss and horrible guilt. One of Connor's dreams....
He was sitting up, running his hands through his hair and trying to shake himself free from the claws of sleep when Methos hung up the phone. "That was Amanda," he said. "They're snowbound in Chicago. The earliest they can get here is tonight."
MacLeod nodded. Amanda had brought her new partner to meet him once. He was glad enough not to have to face them right away.
Sighing, Methos came to the couch and sat down next to him. "Is there anything I can do?" He asked softly.
MacLeod flinched. Methos was worse than Amanda. Oh, so much worse. But he couldn't put off the question. "Aye," he said heavily, "You can tell me you didn't know. You can tell me you didn't send my grieving kinsman to the hell that destroyed him."
Methos nodded slowly. "I see."
"Do you? Whatever state he was in when he went into that place--"
"MacLeod, you have no idea what state he was in."
"You're not saying it, Methos. Don't put me in this position. Don't make me avenge him on you, too!" He stumbled to his feet and began to pace. He had the presence of mind to walk away from his sword; his rage hadn't burnt itself out on Kell, and despite his fury, he didn't want to fight Methos. "Why did he go to you! Why did he trust you--"
"For a start, because he didn't know me very well. We met during...some war or other. It doesn't matter. He was a hero, and I was a doctor. He knew I was old. He thought I was kind and wise. A pacifist."
"Did he know? Who you were?"
"No. Nothing, really. But we met again, in eighty-nine, in New York. A history conference at Columbia. His wife was presenting....I can't tell you how frightened I was when I felt him. The Asian history department at Columbia was cheek to jowl with Watchers in those days. But of course he didn't do anything anyone would notice. We barely spoke. I didn’t see him again until ninety-three."
"Ninety-two," Duncan corrected. "Rachel died in December of ninety-two."
"June of Ninety-three. He'd been running, hiding from his life."
Oh, Connor! "Why didn't you come to me?"
"I didn't know you then," Methos answered reasonably.
"Ah. Well. You've known me for seven years since! You knew I was worried. You knew how I missed him!"
"Yes."
"You knew, and Dawson knew--"
"To be fair, he didn't."
"What?"
"Joe. He didn't know about Connor," Methos articulated very slowly, "When he was interim supervisor for the Northwest he had the clearance to find out who was in Sanctuary, but he was...busy at the time. Perhaps you remember? He found out about Connor the same day you did."
He shut his eyes. It was a relief Dawson hadn't known. As much as he owed Joe, he could not have allowed himself to forgive that betrayal. It would have been the end of them....
The relief was short-lived. So much else was so wrong. There was going to be no easy way to forgive Methos. There was no way to get rid of the terrible anguish he was carrying, his own and Connor's. MacLeod sat down in the chair Methos had slept in. "Ten years in that nightmare. Ten years...is it any wonder?" Oh, Connor. Locked into that--iron thing, motionless and blind, drugged-- "And it was you who sent him to that. He came to you for help. He trusted you."
"Yes, he did. His wife had died not long after I encountered them. His daughter had just been brutally murdered. He was afraid you were next."
"And he went to you for help. Because you were so wise and good. To you and not to me." MacLeod did not care how bitter he sounded.
"That's right. He came to me for help and asked me to take his head. Because he did not want to ask so much of you."
MacLeod swayed. "No," he said. "Not Connor."
"Yes, Connor! Damn it, MacLeod have you not been paying attention at all--"
"You could have sent him to Sean--"
"He didn’t want to get psychological help. He wanted to die."
"So you sent him to hell."
"It was all I could think of....I didn’t want to kill him."
"And all those years--all those years you left him in that hell--"
"It would not have done any good to tell you. Kell murdered a dozen people to breach Sanctuary. It took a small army. And even if you could have fetched him back out, he was still suicidal." Methos' eyes were hard, unrelenting. "In any case, I could not tell you."
"Why not?"
"Follow the logic. Adam Pierson did not have the clearance to access the Sanctuary files. You knew only one person who had ever had access to that information."
"Dawson--"
"If you had freed Connor, his superiors would have assumed he'd betrayed them. Especially considering that it was already obvious that he would do anything you asked. For compromising Sanctuary they wouldn't even have bothered with a Tribunal. They would have just sent a sniper to finish things from a distance."
"Aw, god...."
"There is my guilt, Duncan. I chose Joe over your suicidal kinsman. How will you judge me? And perhaps.... perhaps I should have done more than I did. I pitied him, but not enough. I did not know about Kell, or at least...I did not know that he'd been stalking Connor on and off for four hundred and fifty years. All I saw was a man who'd been very unlucky, who didn't have the courage to face his immortality. I pitied him a little, but-- I did not want his head."
"So you just sent him off to hide, to rot in that nightmare--"
"I let you run off to hide. For pretty much the same reasons, as far as I can tell."
And that, finally, brought Duncan up cold. "It wasn't the same," he said.
"Yes. You were conscious and meditating. And you let Joe and me visit on birthdays. Thank you. So much, by the way."
"Methos--"
"I missed you! I missed you, damn it."
MacLeod buried his face in his hands. Surely they did not have to go through this yet again. "We almost lost Joe and Amanda. O'Rourke would have killed them to reach me. Out of the Game, I'm not a threat to anyone."
"And it's much easier, much safer, isn't it, to walk away from them than to love them. To tell us you care for us and then leave us to our fates."
"That's not fair."
"No. It wasn't. Not to any of us. I think you must have been related to Connor, somehow. You have the same selfish streak."
"He wasn't--"
"No?"
"He was...he was broken. He was..." the unbearable pain that had haunted him all the long day since Connor's quickening rose up again. The hurt of it. "If you had needed me I would have come! Always--"
"Where were you, when Amanda had to kill her pre-immortal student to save him? And the year she spent trying to find him because the angry, ignorant child ran away to sulk? Where were you when Michelle Webster took her first head? She could have used your advice then, your good example. Where were you in September when Joe took a bad fall and spend three days in hospital with a concussion? While you were on Holy Ground giving up violence and protecting us from your presence, we needed you."
"Methos."
"As much as you needed him, we needed you." Methos came and squatted before him, taking MacLeod's face in both hands. "I let Connor have his oblivion. I sent him to Sanctuary. I shouldn't have. I will not let you go. I will not relent, if I have to chase you to the ends of the earth."
MacLeod felt his eyes burn and fill. The weeping would hurt, all the weeping so far had hurt. He tried to pull away. "My teacher--"
"Died. Because it was the only way he could think of to save you. Because he knew you were next, and he could not bear to lose you. You were the only joy he had left in all the world. Will you waste it?"
"Leave him alone. He's suffered enough."
Methos jumped at the unexpected voice, then glared upwards, past MacLeod's head, scowling. "Joe, we agreed that I would handle this," he said warningly.
"He's hurt enough. He's lost more than I can even imagine having. If he needs to rest...let him go. Don't put him through this."
"He's not safe as he is. And don't think he'll hurt any less if I leave him alone."
"This isn't helping."
Slowly, Methos stood up and went around to Joe. "You agreed to let me handle this. I need you to trust me. Please. Please, Joe?"
"Aw, hell."
"Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower. Hmm? Trust me."
There was a long pause during which MacLeod could not force himself to look up and face either of them.
"Fine."
"It will be all right. Trust me." He whispered something else, and then Joe turned and left them alone again.
MacLeod steeled himself for another round of Methos' brutal judgment, but he only went and sat on the couch, not looking at MacLeod. MacLeod had a sudden vision of him, covered in a bloody smock and crying, shouting in some strange Germanic language. It was a memory laced with the kind of respect and affection MacLeod himself usually held for Grace or Darius. This was a vision of the paragon Connor had sought out to take his quickening.
Abruptly, Methos stood up and picked up a tee-shirt that had been sitting on an end table. "Come on. Put this on, and let's go find something to eat. There isn't much. I haven't had time for shopping."
After a long, uncertain moment, MacLeod changed out of the torn and bloody shirt and followed Methos out into the short, narrow hall. Besides the stairs, there was a closet and a half-bath and a tiny den that barely held a computer desk and a couch. The kitchen, because it was also the dining room, was large enough to move around in. There was a window over the sink that gave a cozy view of a tiny courtyard filling up with snow. "I see we're getting the other end of Amanda's snow storm," Methos said. "Do you like maize porridge?"
"Grits or polenta?" he asked, rousing himself.
"For breakfast, corn meal mush."
There were eggs and left-over steak and cheese (Methos always had cheese) and mangos. Duncan sat at the table, half-watching while Methos bustled around the kitchen, preparing some meal that might be breakfast. It was domestic, but far from comfortable. Methos was still angry. MacLeod was so heartbroken that he hardly cared.
"I'll have to go shopping. Nick eats like a horse. Maybe a roast. Pork? Or beef?"
He seemed to want a response. "Whatever," MacLeod sighed.
"Will you stir this? So it doesn't burn?"
"Uh?" MacLeod asked.
"The shower's been off for about five minutes now. I need to go check on Joe. Will. You. Stir. The. Porridge?"
Without bothering to answer, he rose and accepted the wooden spoon. Methos gave him a dark look before leaving him. As difficult as being with the old man had been, being alone turned out to be worse. Too empty, too quiet.
*God. Connor. Why didn't you come to me?* But he hadn't known about Kell, not until it was too late, not until he was so broken and empty that he didn't have the heart to fight any more. He hadn't known it was an enemy he was fighting and not his own despair. *Why didn't you come to me?* But maybe he was coming, that afternoon that Rachel died. Maybe if they'd met that night at the bar, maybe--
Maybe Connor--
*My true brother.*
It seemed like a very long time before Methos and Dawson appeared. Methos sat his guests down and fed them fruit and cheese, strong spiced tea, and eggs. It was a strange breakfast. When the porridge was done, he served that too, with honey and a little milk. Throughout the meal, no one said much of anything, and both of them watched MacLeod with sad eyes.
"I need to shovel the steps and go shopping," Methos said as he cleared away the plates.
MacLeod thought about cold air and snow and being able to move. "I'll come with you," he said.
Methos laid a hand on his shoulder. "No, you will stay here and stand guard." He pointed at Joe. "There sits our future, the only one we can live with. *There* is the Watcher leadership that does not believe in kidnapping immortals and warehousing them against their will in eternal torment. If we are not very careful, he will be replaced."
"All right."
Methos sighed and hugged him.
Joe disappeared into the den and soon he could be heard on the phone. No doubt there was a lot of work to do. He probably wouldn't have field assignments any more....
MacLeod began to clear the table, but he had not had a dishwasher since the antique store, and he could not remember if the glasses went on the top or the bottom. Then he could not find the soap to do the dishes by hand, and it struck him as evil and unjust, that he should be worried about washing up when Connor was dead.
He went to the back door and pulled aside the curtain so he could look out onto the tiny courtyard. It was paved, of course. Like Duncan, Methos must never have gotten used to the idea of lawns. There were small evergreens in huge pots and a bench. The snow lay over everything, nearly an inch thick now. The cold leached through the glass and jumped several inches to lie, cool and soothing, against his face.
"Mac?"
He had not heard Joe coming, but he did not jump at the sound of his voice. It was all he could do to nod that he was listening.
"I wanted to say, I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm so, so sorry for the role we played in it. Connor MacLeod. He was...." Joe stopped and swallowed. "We--we have him, Mac."
"I know." He had knelt, weeping, with Connor's body in his arms. A part of him never wanted to move, but Kell was still out there. *Come here,* he'd shouted. *Whoever you are get over here now*. Stumbling, terrified, a man had crept out of the shadows: Duncan's current Watcher, he'd supposed. *You take him*, Duncan had ordered. *And you take care of him. I'm taking him home, do you understand me*? The man had gulped and nodded, and MacLeod had forced himself to let go of Connor and walk away.
"I'm so sorry."
The tears rose again at that. They burned in his eyes and throat. There were a pressure on his face and a terrible weight in his heart. MacLeod gritted his teeth against the mounting pain. "Please, go," he gasped, his throat closing on whatever else he might have said. He could not bear this kindness. He did not deserve it. Or perhaps, he did, because, oh, how it hurt. Perhaps it was just that he hurt this much....MacLeod closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the cold glass, trying to beat back the tears before they swamped him again.
*Connor*. There was so much he should have said. So many things he could have done. *But you said them, didn't you. You told him you loved him. You offered him everything. And it still wasn't enough*.
Shuddering, he forced the tears back. And again. And again. In a moment of sudden, unwanted sympathy, he understood the grief that was so great that Connor had wanted to die--which only, perversely, made him angrier at Connor for leaving him.
Methos stormed into the kitchen and tossed an armload of grocery bags onto the counter. He was in stocking-feet, with his jacket still on and snow melting in his hair. "What the hell did you say to Joe?" he thundered. "He has gathered his things. He has called for a car. He is waiting by the door--"
Before he had finished, Duncan was running. Frantic, unsure what had gone wrong, but understanding that it was happening again, that he was the cause, *again* and unable to bear it.
The hall was short; it gave him no time to think. When he staggered to a halt in Methos' tiny living room, MacLeod had no idea what to say, or how to fix it, or even what, exactly was driving Joe away. He opened his mouth--and had nothing. The pain rose up again, and this time he could not stop the tears that followed.
Joe, putting on his coat, paused to look at MacLeod in hesitant confusion.
Don't leave, he thought, and his throat seized around the words and produced a horrible sound. Methos gently caught him from behind. MacLeod turned and shoved him off. "Damn you! Damn you for leaving me!" He was horrified that finally he could speak and *that* came out of his mouth. It wasn't even Joe or Methos he meant, it was Connor, and Connor had never *mean*t to--
Connor had exactly meant to leave him. And since Methos would not kill him and Sanctuary could not hold him, he had forced Duncan to carry his quickening.
Duncan began to scream.
***
The world was quiet and slow. MacLeod was back on Methos' couch, he realized. The yelling had stopped, and so had most of the terrible pain. He was on his side, facing rearward, but he was not alone; Methos sat behind him, pressed against his back, and he was reaching around to wipe MacLeod's face with a damp washcloth. A solitary sob heaved through him, but it was a weak thing and it was only one.
Methos hushed him gently and then said, "Believe it or not, this actually a good sign. It is poisonous to live in a world that treats grief so poorly. He'd be much better off if he had a good way to honor his pain. Something formal."
"Do I even want to know," Joe muttered.
"Like not bathing for a year. Or wearing rags. Or sitting in an ash pit for a while." He sighed and wiped away a stray tear with the cool cloth. "That's what happens when the death rate drops. Grieving becomes uncool." He sighed again. "Joe...this may take a while."
"I understand," Joe said. "You're warning me. Longer than my lifetime."
"N-No!" Frantic again, MacLeod turned over. "No, I promise!"
Murmuring reassurances, Methos caught him mid-flight and shifted them both so that MacLeod was in his lap. "It's all right. Relax. Yes, I know. Joe is fine. He is not going anywhere. I have convinced him you are distraught, and I cannot manage you by myself." He leaned down to add in a whisper, "I could not have done that last without your enthusiastic help. Well done, by the way."
MacLeod tried to smile to return their kindness, but another tear leaked out. Methos made little tisking noises and caught this tear, too. "Joe, why don't you make some of that tea, hmmm?"
Joe left them alone in the quiet, quiet room. Methos began to gently card Duncan's short hair. A quieting gesture, and he felt himself relax. "I'm sorry," he said.
"What for? For this? Duncan do you remember the night I brought Alexa to Paris? You met the plane and took me home with you. I spent most of the night weeping in your arms. And even if I didn't owe you this and more, it would be no trouble to me."
MacLeod thought about that. "Why?" he asked.
"Because I love you, as you very well know."
Oh. Yes, he did know. "Will you forgive me?"
"If you go back to that monastery, then no, I will not."
The threat made the hollowness inside expand. He whispered, "I won't go back."
Methos only patted his shoulder and continued to stroke his hair.
"Are you and Joe together?"
Methos sighed, making a show of amused regret to cover any deeper pain. "Alas, no. He has convinced himself that his feelings for you are some sort of ... aberration, and that he isn't actually interested in men. However. He has forgiven me for trying to change his mind."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
"Is it still snowing?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. There may be no Amanda tonight, either."
"Ah."
Joe returned then with a cup of tea. Obediently, MacLeod sat up and drank. He tasted spearmint and catnip and mugwort and something pungent and strange. As soon as he finished, Methos tucked him with a pillow and a blanket. Already, he was feeling a little light headed. Obviously, he'd been sedated, but never mind. Surely it was time he gave up and conceded that Methos might, somehow, know what he was doing.
***
When he woke it was dimmer and he could hear distant sounds of traffic. He could also hear what seemed to be Joe chewing someone out, but since the pauses were not filled by Methos, he assumed that the argument must be taking place over the phone.
MacLeod rose slowly, worrying at his new beard with the tips of his fingers. Too long since he'd shaved. Too long since he'd washed at all. Ugh, he had not even taken off his shoes since...night before last? Hoping he did not stink too badly, he wandered out to the den where Joe had made his encampment.
"I have taken note of your concerns, Tse, but the decision is made. Sanctuary is in my jurisdiction, and it's my call. Until we have a secure location and some kind of humane plan of operation, the project is shut down...." Joe's French was still just barely passable, and Duncan found himself correcting it in his head. "You are welcome to do whatever you want in your territory. No....No....No....No...." He caught sight of MacLeod lurking in the doorway and smiled briefly, "No....If it's necessary.....No."
Silently, Duncan crept in and laid a hand on Joe's shoulder.
"No....No, that's up to you..... Au revoir." Joe snapped the cell phone shut and tossed onto the couch. It wasn't a far enough throw to make the gesture look very satisfying, but a wordless snarl vented the irritation he'd been keeping check on the phone. "Sorry I woke you, Mac."
"Forget it. I've slept most of the day, I think."
"How are you doing?"
Reluctant to lie and unwilling to look too closely at the truth, MacLeod shrugged and changed the subject. "How much trouble are you in?"
"At this point, not much. I've got my own people stationed up the street and there are only three questionable persons still at large anyway."
"Your own people? How many people have you got?" He shifted the phone out of the way and sat down on the couch.
"Oh. Some. I've...Well, I've been running the Academy for the last year or so."
MacLeod blinked in surprise. "Really? You're kidding. You never mentioned it."
"Yeah. Well. I didn't think you wanted to talk about Watcher business."
Running the Watcher Academy. For a year. "It's in Geneva!"
"I've been traveling a lot. And don't look at me like that. You had my phone number." Not saying, you could have called at any time. Not saying, you never did.
"So...do I say 'congratulations on the promotion'?"
"Good Lord, no. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to keep this organization from self-destructing and taking your people with it. And frankly, Mac--"
The computer desk butted right up against the couch. He didn't even have to lean forward to reach out and take Joe's hand. "If anyone can work miracles, it's you, Joe." He'd meant that to be encouraging. Even to himself, though, it sounded patronizing. Joe grimaced, but didn't call him on it. Something else he was indebted for.... "So how'd you get the job?"
"The former number 2 guy had to be sanctioned for interfering with a Challenge last night."
And that sound so ominously *wrong*. "What?"
"He decided to kill three birds with one stone; solve the Sanctuary problem, neutralize the (completely horrifying) current frontrunner in the Game for cheating, and take charge of an Immortal who keeps interfering in Watcher business. Very tidy. Also in violation of policy. We're pretty sure his boss wasn't in on it, but he's been suspended while we investigate his incompetence. So."
It was clear from the description which Challenge he was talking about. It was also clear, from the look in Joe's eyes, that he was the one who had interrupted the plan to do the 'sanctioning' and what form it had taken. "Damn."
"Yeah. Well. Thems the breaks. Mac--I didn't know about Sanctuary."
"Methos told me you didn't know about Connor."
"I didn't know *anyone* was being held under those conditions. And I wasn't looking for Connor. I was sure he was dead."
"Really? You never said. You just kept saying...if he was sighted you would tell me."
"Yeah. Well. It was just my opinion, and you weren't ready to hear it. It wasn't even a professional opinion. I just....I couldn't believe anyone would run out on you. No matter what."
MacLeod closed his eyes on the tears that rose up again. "I'm sorry!" Joe said, and slid an arm around his shoulders. "I didn’t mean--Connor was in a bad way. He had reason. He didn't--"
MacLeod shook his head. The tears weren't for Connor this time. He, himself, had run out, and he had never called. He'd thought only of protecting them. He had thought nothing of loving them. "Methos forgave me. For leaving. Can you--" He stopped and breathed. "I’m sorry. I should not have left my life."
Joe looked at the floor. "I understood," he muttered.
"If it's not too late, I'd like to come back."
"Can you? The problem wasn't that you didn't want your friends near you. The problem was that you couldn't *bear* us near you."
"I'm still...afraid, Joe. I still dream about O'Rourke. I still dream about Richie. But I will not do to all of you what Connor did to me. I know I can't...live with that."
"Then we'll find a way."
The front door opened and a minute later Methos appeared, in stocking feet again and red from the cold. "It's stopped snowing. Amanda may make it after all. I've cleared the steps and walk, but it's very cold and I don’t recommend going for a walk. Anyone for cocoa?"
When they got to the kitchen, though, MacLeod forgot about the cocoa. The sky was clear, and although the sun was too low to shine directly, the snow looked translucent and inviting. He slipped out the back door and down the short set of steps to the tiny courtyard. Leaving his shoes and socks at the foot of the steps, he padded silently into the undisturbed snow. The cold was shocking and painful against his feet, but it was also real in a way that the nightmare that haunted him had been denying. Air and light and the cold, solid ground. The weight in his soul eased a little.
Tentatively, he made the first few moves in a form he'd learned from Mai Ling. They had done this in the snow, so many times. He could remember the quiet night sky and the peace of the steppes. At first, the cold bothered him. So did the sight of Methos and Joe, watching worriedly from the window. After a few minutes, all that faded away, stripping him of everything but the shape of movement and the rise and fall of his own chi. His mind cleared, leaving him with a wordless pain, but soon that pain faded, too.
When he finished it was dark, and the snow around his feet was trampled into half-melted ice. Panting, dripping with sweat, he stumbled over to collect his shoes and pulled himself up the steps to the kitchen door. Joe and Methos looked up from their coffee as he came in, Joe with frank concern and Methos with patient encouragement. Methos offered MacLeod a glass of water (which was eagerly drained) and said, "The shower is upstairs. I laid out some clean sweats."
Grateful but inarticulate, MacLeod nodded and headed upstairs.
The water felt wonderful. Cool against the fevered heat of his workout, it leached out the filth and some of the emptiness as well. For a moment he felt guilty about how very good it felt, standing in Methos' shower, feeling the water pelt his skin....How could he be comfortable and happy, in a world where Connor was dead? What right did he have to joy, when he had *let* his only kin fall into such desperation and hopelessness that death had seemed his only option? He laid his hands flat against the tiles of the wall and groaned. He had no business finding comfort in living.
Downstairs, Joe and Methos waited. They both loved him dearly. They had risked their lives to protect his--and not only in the last week, but many times before--and they were offering every kindness they had. He had no right to refuse comfort while they lived and cared and waited for him. He would not do to them what Connor had done to him. Never. *And Connor*--
MacLeod closed his eyes and turned his face to the water. *My suffering and guilt would mean nothing to him now. He's dead. That's what dead means.*
Oh, it hurt.
*Yes, it hurts. But I will not let myself become him*.
When he finally left the bathroom, clean and dry and dressed in Methos' sweats, he was calm and in control. Halfway down the stairs, a fresh buzz hit him, two more Immortals tangled against the background hum of Methos. A moment later the doorbell rang, and Amanda's voice crowed, "It's us."
MacLeod waited unmoving as Methos passed the bottom of the stairs and went to open the door. From where he was standing he could see Amanda and Nick. She leaped through the door and hugged Methos hard, whispering something in his ear before spotting MacLeod and sprinting up the stairs to embrace him.
She had changed her perfume, but underneath he could smell pure Amanda. Her hands around his waist were solid and familiar. MacLeod felt the soft burn of threatening tears again.
Her soft lips brushed his ear as she whispered, "Now we are both orphaned," and pulled him closer. "Oh, my love, I am so sorry."
"I'm glad you came," he managed. He was surprised to find how glad he was. He let himself lean into her arms, and she clung strongly, holding him back.
For a long time they stood like that, then Amanda leaned back and captured his face in her hands. "What ever you need from me," she breathed. "I mean it, Duncan. Anything."
Involuntarily, he glanced down to the entryway, where Nick was pretending to pay attention to taking his coat off and talking to Joe and Methos.
"Don't worry about that," she told him. "We've talked about it. It's all right. He understands."
MacLeod hugged her once more, kissed her forehead, and steeled himself to go downstairs.
***
Methos had made chicken stew for dinner, an old fashioned kind with carrots and prunes and served over potatoes. It was good. MacLeod wasn't hungry, but he made himself eat. Conversation was subdued, and what little there was was carried by Joe and Amanda who stayed on neutral topics. Packed in around the small table, drinking Methos' good wine and listening to Amanda go on about the horrors of air travel these days...It was cozy. It was comfortable. It was safe.
Afterward, he could never have repeated any of the conversation, but he did stay present enough to watch. Nick spent the evening hesitantly looking from MacLeod to Amanda and back again, like someone pretending they weren't watching a tennis match. Joe, meanwhile, was watching MacLeod and Nick worriedly, even while he listened to Amanda. Methos seemed to be playing host; filling wine glasses, getting more gravy, offering desert. You could never really tell what Methos was thinking unless he wanted you to.
It was almost midnight by the time they'd finished eating and washing up. "Joe has the den and I am taking the living room sofa. The rest of you get the second floor."
"I've seen closets smaller than your den," Amanda complained. "You can't put Joe there. What about your third floor."
"My third floor is storage. I've....accumulated a few things."
Joe patted her shoulder. "I'm avoiding the stairs."
The main bedroom upstairs was large and spacious. It accomplished this by taking the entire width of the townhouse and almost half the length. The rest of the second floor was divided into the bathroom, a tiny laundry room, and two claustrophobic 'guest rooms,' each barely large enough to hold one double bed pushed against the wall. There were shelves and triangular closets, but no dressers and the walkway was tight.
Looking at the layout, MacLeod realized that Methos meant for Amanda to join him in the bigger bed. He shook his head. "Amanda, you and Nick take the big room. You'll be more comfortable."
She looked at him worriedly. "Duncan--"
He put an arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "He's too young. When I was with Tessa--"
"He understands! And anyway, I came here for you. Whatever you need--"
The child with Amanda might have said that he understood, but he was still clearly living his first life. He had no idea what love meant, not when it wasn't tangled in a trap of fear and speeding time. "I need you to be my friend. My oldest friend, now. I need to know you'll be there--"
"Always. Always."
Duncan closed his eyes. He had not meant this conversation to be so difficult. "I’m going to Scotland. I don’t--I don't want to go alone." He should go alone. Surely, it was his burden to bear. Surely his friends did not deserve to be dragged with him halfway across the world for this sad and ultimately empty gesture.
She squeezed his hand. "Never. I promise." She brushed at her own tears, than his. "And, hey, by the time we get to Scotland, we'll practically have an army."
So they took Methos' room and he took one of the guest rooms. Clean and well fed and so tired, he fell asleep almost at once. But he woke up again before very long and was faced with the darkness and his own lonesome company. Outside it was still night, and snow was falling again, glittering in the streetlights.
Two nights ago, Kell had slaughtered another half-dozen Immortals. His own people, probably, Dawson would know. And then Connor--
MacLeod could not imagine taking so many quickenings at once. A man who could might well win the Game. No wonder Connor had been afraid. *Imagine if there was only one person left in the world whom I loved.*
How can I forgive you?
*How can I forgive myself for failing you?*
Outside, the snow was coming down harder. He should rouse himself tomorrow to find a weather report. Sooner or later he would have to make travel plans. Amanda had implied that quite a number of people would be traveling with him.
*How will I lay you in the ground and say good-bye?*
The darkness and stillness was unbearable. He got up and, wrapped in a bathrobe Methos had left for him, padded into the hall. The wooden floors were cold and creaked ever so slightly. There was no nightlight, and he found his path by tracing a finger along the wall.
Amanda was asleep. He could hear her quiet breathing. And Nick's snores. He supposed they made a cute couple. Amanda had long threatened to settle down and play house for sixty or seventy years...He would help, if he could figure out how. Amanda deserved love and trust and stability if she wanted it.
But he would stop pretending it was none of his business and ask Dawson about this Nick Wolf, though.
He crept down the stairs. He did now want to wake anyone. Joe and Adam had probably not gotten a lot of quality sleep these last few days. Still, he did want to check on them. Just to make sure everything was all right.
He should have checked on Connor more often. It was too late for that now, though.
The door to Methos' tiny den was shut. There was no light coming under the crack and no sound from within. MacLeod wanted--badly--to open it and be sure that everything was all right. But everything in this house seemed to creak. If he opened the door and woke Joe, he would have to explain, never mind costing the poor man some sleep. He turned and crept to the living room, instead.
A little light came in the windows here, but still he couldn't make out the couch where Methos would be sleeping. In the distance he could hear a snowplow. It was late--or rather early--and daylight and certainty both seemed very far away.
"Duncan? What's wrong?" The whisper floated out of the darkness of the living room.
"Nothing. I couldn't sleep."
"Come here." And then, as he hesitated, it came more gently: "Come here."
Setting each foot carefully, he tried to picture the layout of the furniture as he crept to the couch. There were patterns of light on the ceiling, but the floor and furniture were in utter darkness.
"Here," Methos said, and following the whisper like a trail, MacLeod knelt beside the couch. There was a rustle of covers. "Get in, it's cold out there."
"Not that cold."
"MacLeod--"
"No. No, it would be using you."
"Using me?" Methos sounded more irritated than amused. "Because you don't think I'm beautiful?"
MacLeod found himself smiling at that. "You know I do."
"Then because you don't want me?"
"From the moment I met you."
"Then because you don't love me?"
"Methos, don't--"
"It's that then? You don't love me."
"You know I do."
An extravagant sigh. MacLeod found himself wishing he could see the old man's face; he must be putting on quite a show. "If it's because you have no honorable intentions, I don't want to marry you anyway."
Despite himself, MacLeod laughed. And then he clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the mirth before it could become tears.
"Get in. It's cold."
Still, he hesitated. They had never been lovers. They had been headed that way, more than once, but first Alexa had come up and then Kronos.
"Please, Duncan. I promise it's better than wandering around the house all night."
He hitched up the robe and slipped under the blanket. The couch was just wide enough that if they lay on their sides and held on to one another, MacLeod would not fall off. He braced himself against Methos' bear shoulder and sighed.
"You're cold."
"Sorry."
Methos pulled him closer. "It wasn't a complaint....Mmmm. Much better."
"You know I used to think about this. About wanting you."
He felt the tolerant smile it was too dark to see. "Used to?"
"Last spring, when the flowers were blooming. I kept seeing you lying in the new grass...."
"You have mistaken me badly if you think I'll make love to anyone on new grass. Or any grass at all."
"Right. What was I thinking? Furs?"
"Not hardly."
MacLeod found a small laugh escaping and let it go. "A really narrow couch?"
"Doubtful. But maybe in a few weeks. If you are very nice to me..."
"Oh, I've missed you! Seriously. Methos. We--I--"
Under the blanket it was warm. Methos' body was long and solid. "I will be here when you are ready."
He could barely get a hand between them to run light fingers over Methos' nose. "And if I am ready now?"
"Now. Later. I have waited for you since the beginning of time, it's all the same to me. Actually, I've gotten quite used to waiting. I could just go on as I have." They were lying so closely that they were talking past each other's cheeks. Methos turned his head just a little and kissed him. "If all you need is to be known and loved, I am content."
MacLeod managed to hold back the words for nearly three seconds. "Make me forget--Please--" Now was *not* the time. MacLeod didn't care.
Methos was already kissing him. It very quickly became an amazing kiss, sweet and filling. Breathless, dizzy, MacLeod brought his hands up to Methos' soft hair--
--and nearly fell backwards off the narrow couch. Still kissing, Methos laughed as he caught him. "Only for you on a couch. And only this once."
MacLeod squirmed, got a knee under him, and shifted them both so that Methos was lying on his back and MacLeod was crouched over him. "At your venerable--" the tease would have been, "At your venerable age, I'm sure you've learned ways to compensate," but Methos twitched open the robe and fastened his teeth on MacLeod's left nipple. He lost words, he lost time, he could only gasp and squirm, as the wonder beneath him did *something* with his tongue and shivers of fire spread throughout MacLeod's body. "God--"
"Not for a very long time, and it wasn't actually as much fun as you'd think."
It was unfair that Methos was still lucid enough to joke. MacLeod couldn't even find his voice, let alone put meaning to words. He shivered as strong hands--gentle and loving and completely ruthless--caressed his stomach. He gulped for air. His arms would barely hold him now, but if he fell Methos couldn't reach his stomach.... He heard a low whimper and realized it was his own.
He had known--oh, he had known--that when the moment finally came he would be putty in Methos' hands. And he had known, all along, that the moment was coming. He had shied away from it and put it off, and now it had finally come and it was today, on the heels of his terrible loss.
How unfair, to Methos and to himself.
"Hush," Methos muttered, sliding his hand lower. He didn't fumble in the darkness. Steady and calm, the hands enveloped him, did something and a dozen fine points of pleasure ripped forth. Halfway through a yell, MacLeod clamped his teeth down and tried to breathe. "Relax. Just pay attention to this moment."
He could not relax. He could not ignore or resist the great burning pleasure, though. The fierce unhappiness faded until all that remained was the hovering sense that something distant and forgotten was important. His head dropped to bend over Methos' shoulder. He could not think. He could not seem to breathe enough. He wanted desperately to move, but he could not hold still enough. The pleasure was like thirst, he wanted more....
It began to climax, and all traces of order slipped away.
When the world crept back again he was lying on top of Methos, who was gently playing with his hair. "Sorry," he muttered. "You ok?"
"Oh, yes."
"I should--"
"Hush. Go to sleep."
When he woke again it was still dark. Winter nights in New York were long. They had turned on the narrow bed, so now they were lying on their sides, Methos spooned behind him. There was barely room. It was sweetly intimate.
A soft noise came from the hall by the door; a repeat, he realized, of the sound that had woken him. Gently, MacLeod detached himself from Methos and ventured out of the covers. His feet found the robe on the floor, and he covered himself and went into the hall.
Joe had pulled aside the curtain that covered the narrow window beside door, and the light from the street outlined his face clearly. "What are you doing," MacLeod whispered. Joe was dressed.
"I have an early meeting. A car is on the way."
MacLeod wondered how to ask about the wisdom of this without sounding patronizing. He gave up. "Is it safe?"
Joe smiled mirthlessly at that. "Compared to what? Don't worry about it. Things are mostly under control. Besides, I can't stay here forever." He glanced out the window and frowned. "There's my ride. Don't worry. I'll be back tonight."
Before MacLeod could say anything else, he was gone in a burst of cold air. MacLeod stood in the entryway, unable to put his finger on what had been wrong with those last seconds.
"No," Methos said from behind him, "We can *not* go with him. Not if he's to have any credibility at all. Now come on," trailing the corner of the blanked he'd wrapped around his shoulders, Methos headed up the stairs.
"Where?" MacLeod asked, unsure why he felt so thick and stupid.
"To a real bed. I told you, never again on that couch. Lock the door and come on."