Chapter One

In a white cotton tangle of torso and limb Duncan MacLeod floated slowly back through thick, soft layers of sleep to consciousness. He was warm, heavy and languid with sleep and satiation, the very air in his lungs sweet with drugging memory. The contented rumble that bubbled out of his throat as he stretched whispered between lips still swollen with the aftermath of passionate kisses. His tongue, as it vibrated against his teeth, still faintly tasted of the musky sweetness of sex. His skin tingled in a ripple that started at the level of his toes and thrilled him to the roots of his hair. Even the pleasant vague ache of his thighs left him smiling. He rolled languorously towards the reason for this early morning bliss and slid his hand up a long thigh.

A man. Life threw him some funny curves sometimes. Just when Duncan thought he had himself all worked out, all the aspects of his personality mapped and explored. In a single night he had managed to turn on its head everything he had known himself to be. But that was okay too, he realized, because it wasn't just anyone he'd fallen so hard for, it was Methos.

"Methos," he murmured and he slipped closer to his lover, catching up a hand and lacing sensitive fingers through his own.

Silk-fine eyelashes flickered at the sound of his voice and Duncan lifted his head to kiss the pale blue tracery of eyelids, incredibly soft beneath his lips. Methos tensed for a split second under Duncan's mouth, then opened his extraordinary eyes to meet the eyes of his new lover.

"Well, hello," Methos whispered as he mesmerized Duncan yet again with the directness of his gaze.

It was this look that had started it all, this open, guileless window into the soul of a five thousand-year-old enigma. It was like standing in the eye of a cyclone. Duncan was drawn into it then as he was now, gladly helpless against its pull, throwing caution and wisdom and reason to the cool Parisian wind. It was as if, with the force of that gaze alone, Methos had reached into Duncan's heart and split it wide open for him to amble on in.

***

The night before (was it only last night?) Duncan had farewelled his friends from the small party on board the barge. With O'Rourke's quickening still coursing white lightning through his blood, Duncan had said goodbye to first Joe, then Amanda and finally to Methos. He had laid his hand on that firm muscled arm, unwilling to let him go, even as Methos set his foot on the gangplank.

"Stay? Talk to me?" he asked, hating the needy tone he could hear in his voice. "I hope you didn't misunderstand what I said earlier, Methos…when I said I didn't know who or what you are? It came out all wrong. I should have said that I can never hope to completely understand your life…I don't think anyone can who hasn't lived it. It doesn't matter to me what you were, I know now what you are – my friend – and I had no right to judge you, that was stupid and short-sighted." He shook his head impatiently. "I'm not explaining this very well, am I?"

Methos had smiled and then his gaze widened to that hypnotically irresistible look that sucked the air from the surroundings and the thought from Duncan's brain with equal alacrity. It was a calm, warm place they were in so suddenly, small and inhabited by just two and still, so still. Then with a tiny quirk of his mouth it was gone.

"Not very well, no, MacLeod. Go, get some sleep. Too much quickening and not enough rest doesn't do much for your higher brain functions. We'll talk later."

Widening the smile creased Methos' eyes to sunrays and then he was gone, skimming over the gangplank and disappearing into the night in a swirl of black coat.

Duncan watched him go, feeling inexplicably alone and bereft. He sighed and went back below decks. That dream, hallucination, whatever it was, wouldn't leave him alone. What had it all meant, really? Surely he couldn't be so egotistical as to think that he was the only thing lying between the people he loved and a lifetime of unhappiness? Challenging and killing Methos, imagining that Methos had been the one to kill Richie, what was that all about? Duncan had long accepted the awful truth of that and he didn't want Methos dead, he wanted Methos to be…. He found himself unable to finish the sentence.

They needed to talk, that was the only conclusion that MacLeod could reach. His life had become so very strange – again – and of all the people he knew, Methos was the only one he could imagine having anything of value to say about it. The old man wouldn't put up with any of his angst-ridden Celtic bullshit. Just the thought of seeing him, of talking to him alone, hearing Methos laugh at his foolishness, poured a soothing balm over the abraded surface of Duncan's soul. Impulsively he grabbed his coat from the rack and fled the barge.

***

"Hey, where'd you go?" Methos asked gently as his fingers traced feather light along Duncan's brow.

MacLeod caught up the elegant hand in his own, pressed the back of the pale fingers to his lips. "Just thinking," he smiled, his eyes not leaving his lover's. "I didn't expect anything like this when I came here last night." He dropped a tiny kiss to each narrow fingertip in turn. "It was so amazing. You are so amazing. Why did we wait so long?"

"So long?" Methos' smile was heavy with irony. "Not long for us. Perhaps it was just right." He rolled up onto his side, and Duncan found himself pushed back into the softness of the mattress, with Methos looming over him, brushing the tangled curls away from his eyes. He saw the hazel eyes grow serious for a moment.

"Regrets?" Methos asked.

"Not for a second." Duncan smiled as his arms stole up to encircle this man who, it seemed, had magicked him into a strange, Methos-centric universe where nothing else mattered. "Never." Duncan wrapped large square hands around his lover's face, pulling the tender mouth within his reach once more. He felt energized, euphoric, ready to take on the world once more.

"Never mind never, just be here now," Methos whispered, a little cryptically.

Before Duncan could ponder the meaning of Methos' words, conversation and communication were left to the old ways of hands and skin and heart.  No room was left for misunderstanding, the thoroughness of touch, pure and clear. The slip of skin on skin sufficed for words, the sharp hot sting of possession for meaning. Nuances of tone and expression lived in the gentlest pressure and the firmest grip. The trembling of limbs was a question answered with the shouted joy of a thrust. Even the silence of completion hummed with a quiet song of synchronicity.

From the depths of a loose-limbed embrace Methos sighed. Duncan felt the gentle movement under his ear and pushed away a little to look into his lover's eyes.

"Something wrong?" he asked with a small frown pulling at his mouth.

"No…uh, yes. I promised Joe I'd go round there this morning. He needs a hand with some old chronicles HQ just unearthed." Wistful regret sighed again between his words and he reached up to brush a thumb across Duncan's lips. "I'd rather stay here and make love with you all day but..."

"You promised Joe," Duncan finished with a smile and a gentle nip at the thumb so temptingly close to his teeth.

"Yeah." Methos' answering grin was lopsided and endearing. "You could come with me? Hang out at the bar?"

"I'd like that."

"Gods, MacLeod, all this agreement and acquiescence, Joe won't recognize us." The lopsided sweetness had slid into something a little more sardonic. "Hell, I don't recognize us."

'Must be love,' Duncan thought, as he smiled broadly at Methos.

"What are you thinking, MacLeod?" Methos asked in a tone so squarely between wariness and fond indulgence that Duncan almost told him.

"Later…" Duncan murmured, as Methos slid from the bed with a questioning glance.

Duncan watched the clean, spare figure cross the apartment, admiring the movement of sleek muscles under the flawless skin as Methos headed to the bathroom. "Oh," he called after the retreating figure, "I'll need to stop by the barge for a change of clothes on the way to Joe's."

"Yeah… Whatever..."

***

It was the smell of blood that came to them first. Sickly sweetness and coppery hardness twined together to tease at their nostrils as the two Immortals crossed the gangplank to enter the barge.

"Mac!" Methos hissed – a sudden thick flood of adrenaline prickling his skin. Something was very wrong here, there was no buzz of Immortal presence, not even the lingering ozone of a spent quickening, but that battlefield stench of blood spilled and bodies rent could never be forgotten.

Duncan stilled instantly at the warning, his eyes searching wildly. Methos' ears strained for the drop of a footfall or the sigh of a breath, but the barge was still and silent as the grave. Together the two men crept around the deck to the aft entrance that led into the bed area. Tentatively, MacLeod reached out and tested the doorknob, it turned, the door swung in about halfway, then stopped as if blocked. The foul odors grew stronger.

Methos watched the familiar stubbornness firm the Highlander's jaw, saw the powerful muscles of shoulder and back bunch and clench beneath his coat and braced himself as Duncan thrust his weight and strength at the obstacle. Something heavy and hard clattered away and then the door swung free. Together, Methos and Duncan descended the last few feet straight into hell.

Red. So much red, red blood.

Even for men inured as they were to violence and death close at hand and by their own, it was difficult to process the scene before them. Methos found himself focusing on the elongated object that lay at their feet, the source of the blockage at the door, broken, twisted and liberally painted with gore. Legs. Prosthetic legs.

The Immortals stood as if rooted to the spot as they unwillingly absorbed the horror. Blood painted the walls, the spartan furnishings. Heart-pumped splatters trailed lazily over every surface and pooled darkly on the floor – already congealing. So much blood to come from one man, but Methos knew the truth of that without thinking. Exsanguinated, one human body held more than enough to have caused all this. But there was more. Methos looked up to his left to where a gruesome tableau lay in wait.

He tore his unwilling feet from the sticky floorboards and moved towards the bed platform, willing this to be a dream, another nightmare like so many before. But his subconscious had spared him this. Laid out in the center of Mac's wide bed, laid out like an unfinished autopsy performed by a demented child was a heavy, truncated, nude figure. Joe Dawson.

The flesh was so pale; the torso split open from sternum to pubic bone, the organs and structures beneath hacked into an almost unrecognizable mélange. Dawson's arms were spread wide at right angles to his body…a battered crucifix. The throat was slashed – a vast horizontal wound that gaped like obscene smile beneath the short-cropped beard. Unseeing eyes, the color dulled by death, appeared fixated on the ceiling. The body itself was oddly clean, only the margins of the vast wounds dark-crusted with blood. The bed itself was stained scarlet-black, a jarring contrast with the too-pale flesh.

Methos felt Duncan's sudden rush of movement and grabbed him before he could launch himself towards the corpse. Duncan resisted, fighting to reach his friend with all the determined strength of his body. Methos wrapped his arms around his lover and tried to quiet his struggles.

"You can't do anything for him Mac, he's gone. You know he's gone. Nobody could survive…that. You'll just disturb the scene if you go up there now and that won't help Joe."

"But… I have to—" MacLeod protested.

Methos cupped his hands around Duncan's face, looking into his eyes seriously, stroking comfort into his lover's skin with the gentle rub of his thumbs. "Mac, we have to get out of here, call the police. This isn't one of us, this is a mortal death." Methos swallowed hard. "Joe's death. We have to do this by the book. Now come on, let's get out of here, now." He tugged his silent friend up the stairs towards the door again, out of the copper-sweet stench and into the air.

Duncan followed, allowing Methos to lead him. The depth of his shock was clear in the whiteness of his face beneath his tan, the glassiness of his eyes, the tremors in his cold hands. Methos led him to the stone steps by the side of the quay and sat him down. Duncan was still deadly quiet. Turning away from his lover for a moment, Methos slipped his cell-phone from his coat pocket and dialed the police.

***

Two hours later Duncan and Methos still sat on the cold stone steps, watching the buzzing turmoil of the crime scene unfold.

"Do you think it was random?" Duncan asked into the silence of the gray afternoon.

"You mean like a serial killer? Just some lunatic on a killing spree? Something like that? I don't know, Mac," Methos shrugged, "I guess it could be. Why?" He realized with a sudden pang why Duncan was asking him this, and he found himself pleading with long-forgotten gods that this killing would be random, and not in any way connected to Duncan's past. Was that too much to hope for?

"He was a good man, he didn't deserve to die like that."

"No one deserves to die like that, but since when has that had anything to do with it? You've been around long enough to know that." Long practice kept the tearing hurt trapped firmly inside him, under control for now and his tone was calm, almost academic in its detachment.

Methos felt the weight of Duncan's disbelief in the look his lover shot him as he rasped, "Don't you feel anything? Some bastard… " he choked over his next words, "butchered Joe…left him displayed like a side of beef and that's all you can say about it?" Duncan pushed away when Methos' arms would have drawn him close, lurched, stumbled and almost fell on the uneven flagstones. "He was your friend!" he shouted, tears streaming freely. "He was my friend," he whispered amongst his sobs.

Ignoring Duncan's ineffectual attempts to fend him off, Methos pulled him into the safety of his arms. While he released his grief in harsh choking spasms, Methos held him tight, bolstering his lover's strength with his own. Together they sank back down onto the steps, desperately trying to shut out the horror in the circled sanctuary of an embrace. Methos felt Duncan's shudders stilling slowly, heard the deep intake of breath that signaled Duncan tugging his control back into place.

A throat cleared close behind them and Methos felt Duncan jump in his arms, pushing away from him instinctively. Methos turned to look at the speaker; it was the Inspector in charge of the investigation.

"Excuse me, Monsieur MacLeod. May we speak?" he asked in a tone that brooked no refusal.

Duncan swiped at his remaining tears with the back of his hand and turned to the detective. "Yes?"

"Monsieur MacLeod, a few questions if I may?" At Duncan's nod he continued. "Mr. Dawson, he was a friend of yours, yes?" Duncan just nodded again. "Do you know why he was at your barge when you were not at home?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know. Maybe he came around looking for me. We had a small party here last night; perhaps he forgot something and came back for it. I'm sorry, I just don't know. We were supposed to meet him at his bar this morning. He wasn't supposed to be here…" Duncan trailed off, his eyes glistening.

Methos saw Duncan's heart break anew and folded his lover back into his arms. Duncan buried his head in the crook of a broad shoulder.

"I should have been here. It should have been me. At least I would have stood a chance," he whispered against Methos' neck.

"No, Mac, don't. Don't do this to yourself, please." Methos' hands smoothed down the length of Duncan's back, trying to soothe the pain.

"It doesn't matter what I do, does it? I save his life one day and he's dead the next. What's the point to any of it?" he hissed into Methos' ear, his voice bleak with disbelief.

The police officer interrupted again. "I'm sorry M. MacLeod but I must ask you, do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm M. Dawson? Any enemies at all? Any threats made against him?"

Duncan gently disentangled himself from his lover's grasp. "No nothing – no one. I can't imagine anyone Joe knew wanting to do that to him.  I mean… God!" His voice broke again and he sat down heavily on the cold stone again, resting his head on folded arms.

Methos put his hand on the detective's shoulder and steered him away from the distraught Highlander. "Inspector LeFavre, is there really any need to go on any further right now? You can see we know nothing about this. You can contact us at my apartment if you have any further questions; your man has the details already. All right?"

"Very well. I sure there will be more questions later on, but for now you both may go." The detective paused, his attention distracted by a signal from one of the uniformed officers by the side of the barge. "Excuse me M. Pierson. Would you wait one moment, please?" He hurried back to the boat.

"Come on Mac, let's get out of here." Whatever else the cop wanted would just have to wait; Methos had seen Duncan like this before and knew how close his friend was to the edge right now.

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Two

Duncan followed Methos unresistingly from the quay to the quiet avenue where Methos lived. As they covered the short distance, Methos glanced at Duncan from time to time. He was hunched into his coat, his eyes downcast, and his feet dragged as he walked. Most worrying was the silence. He remained quiet as they entered Methos' apartment building, as they ascended the single flight of stairs, and as Methos unlocked the door to let them in.

Methos watched Duncan drift into the room and sink down onto the sofa with a grateful sigh.

"Drink, Mac?" he asked, then went ahead anyway and poured generous amounts of scotch for them both.

"Hmm? Yeah…" Duncan accepted the glass, drained it in a single swallow.

Methos slid into the sofa beside him, his arm resting along the backrest – just close enough so that his fingers brushed Duncan's shoulder.

"Mac? How are you doing?" Methos began tentatively. "Really?"

At last, liquid brown eyes flicked up to meet his, still wounded but Methos thought he could discern some return of life.

"I'll live," he answered, grimly ironic. "It's just the shock. I'm still having trouble believing it. I mean…Joe? I always knew we'd lose him someday, but like this? It's too much. What was he doing there?"

Methos wished he had answers, for both their sakes. "Perhaps we'll never know. It could have been any one of a hundred things," he answered carefully, watching as Duncan frowned and withdrew further into himself. "Mac? What is it?"

"Ever since we found him, something's been nagging at me…something from the past. He looked so much like something I've seen before. I just can't…" His eyes widened, then his face paled. "Oh God, it is because of me… Joe died because of me. This is all my fault."

Philadelphia 1824
June

"Hey there, MacLeod! How's business?" a voice boomed from close at hand.

Duncan turned towards the speaker, stopping his progress down the sidewalk, and smiled. "Peter McKimmins! I haven't seen you since... Damn, how long has it been?" He extended his hand to grasp the other man's.

"Two years at least," McKimmins answered as he shook Duncan's hand. "Come and have a drink with me, we can catch up. I can tell you all about my trip to Peru...you'd love it down there, MacLeod."

Duncan looked at his mortal friend. Peter's spare, lanky frame had not filled out any on his jungle adventure but his blue eyes were bright with the passionate energy of a born adventurer that Mac remembered well. His red hair was squashed under a dusty, broad-brimmed hat with a leather band that sported the feather of an improbably colored bird. He could have stepped straight from the pages of one of the highly exaggerated adventure stories so popular at the time.

Caught up in his friend's enthusiasm, Duncan's agreement was on the tip of his tongue, when he remembered the appointment to which he'd been hurrying when they'd met.

"Damn it! Peter, I'd love to hear all about it but I have a meeting in..." he pulled out his pocket-watch, "five minutes ago. Damn. Look, this won't take long. Why don't you head on over to the Silver Dollar Saloon on South St and I'll meet you there when I'm done?"

McKimmins smiled his broad, snaggle-toothed smile. "Sure, Mac. See you there. First beer's on me." He walked away, turned the corner and disappeared.

Duncan never saw him again – not alive anyway.

He'd waited impatiently at the Silver Dollar, puzzled by his friend's absence. His business had taken a little longer than anticipated but he had really expected Peter to wait for him. After half an hour, MacLeod grew impatient and, after throwing a bill onto the bar to pay for his beer, he walked out into the glaring summer sunshine. As he approached an alleyway Duncan noticed the buzzing of a small crowd of people gathering in the shadowed entrance. Shocked whispers and exclamations floated out on the slight breeze and, curious, he stopped.

"What's happened?" he asked a woman, whom he recognized as the wife of a local storekeeper.

"Dead man back there," the woman replied shortly.

Duncan pushed his way to the front of the group. It was the hat he recognized first. It lay on the body, the broad brim covering the neck and chest below the empty-eyed face, the ridiculous feather still poking up jauntily. Before he could really think about the wisdom of his actions, Duncan stepped forward and lifted the hat. The woman behind him screamed and he turned suddenly, dropping the hat to the pavement.

"Get her out of here," Duncan ordered, catching the eye of the man next to her. "You," he barked, pointing to another man, "go get the sheriff." He shepherded the rest of the crowd back with a sweeping gesture of his arms. "The rest of you can get out of here."

As the crowd dispersed, Duncan turned back to his friend's body. He had never expected to see such a wound here, away from the battlefield and on a mortal man at that. Peter was split open from just below his jaw to the end of his breastbone. Duncan could see the top of the blood-filled wound – see the gruesome details of fragmented bone and torn muscle tissue beneath the jagged edges of lacerated skin that was curling back on itself. It looked almost like it had been hacked open with a sword, only… who but an immortal would carry a sword in this day and age and what Immortal would kill a mortal in such a way? Peter McKimmins had posed no threat to anyone and it had been months since MacLeod had encountered another Immortal in the city. Duncan stood back and waited for the sheriff to arrive.

August

Peter McKimmins was only the first. That summer Philadelphia had trembled with fear, locking its doors each night wondering where the slasher would strike next. Eight more times the bodies of the slain had been recovered from the lonely outbuildings and alleyways that were their killing fields. The South St Slasher, as the newspapers quickly dubbed him, seemed as elusive as mist, evading all attempts to track him down. He always killed in the same way, a deep hacking wound to the chest and neck, although there was frequently some variation in the length and direction of the cuts.

What the public never knew was that Duncan himself had recovered two more bodies that he'd never reported to the police. They were Immortals, beheaded but with the telltale signature of the slasher marking their bodies. Duncan had found them and disposed of the bodies, judging that to add mysterious beheadings to the hysteria would only confuse things. Eleven deaths and still no clue as to who or why.

Duncan spent many sleepless nights patrolling the streets with the other men of the town – hastily deputized for the task. For weeks there was no sign of the killer, only the grim leavings of his sport. The break, when it came, was so accidental that Duncan was chilled by how close he came to missing it.

He was walking along the street. It was early afternoon and the previous night's patrolling was just beginning to catch up with him. Duncan was headed towards the barbershop – it had been too long since he'd had his hair cut and his moustache needed a trim too, he decided, passing a hand over his face. As he passed an alley he felt the unmistakable buzz of Immortal presence. With his hand pressing against the reassuring weight of his katana in his jacket, MacLeod went to investigate. The buzz grew stronger as he entered further into the alley darkness. He withdrew the katana from its hidden sheath.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he announced. "Show yourself!"

There was an answering scuffle of feet further down the alleyway, a wet meaty thud and a scraping of boots against the pavement. Duncan held his sword out in front of him and warily moved towards the other Immortal. Hot coppery blood-tang struck him as he moved closer, filling his mouth and nose with its greasy sweetness.

"Show yourself, damn it!" The scent of blood and the rising adrenaline coursing through his body shortened his temper and frayed his patience.

He gripped the katana's ivory hilt more tightly, hit a drainpipe a ringing blow and stepped forward once more. At last he could discern movement in the deep shadows. A figure appeared, the front of his dark clothing glossed scarlet like a butcher's apron, a bloodied Spanish rapier clutched in his hand. He stepped further into the light and his features coalesced from a pale blur to the thin, slightly nervous face of an apparently young, seemingly fearful, man.

"It's you!" Duncan blurted. "You've been killing all these people. Who are you?"

"I am Two," the Immortal replied, raising his sword, the fearful expression being replaced by one of solemn pride.

"You are dead, that's what you are, little man." Duncan was not about to play word games and extended the katana and tapped it hard against the other man's blade.

The ringing steel echoed loudly off the narrow brick walls of the alley, loud enough to make Duncan wince at the thought of their being interrupted in the midst of the challenge. He engaged the killer's blade quickly, hoping to end the fight before they were interrupted.

To his surprise, the other Immortal easily parried his initial combination of cuts and thrusts, not conceding an inch of his 'line'. Although the killer was a far smaller man than Duncan, he was quick and deadly accurate. MacLeod hastily revised his estimation of the man's age and skill. Still working furiously to penetrate his opponent's defenses, Duncan failed to hear the sound of running boots behind him until it was almost too late.

He had just set up the other man so that he would have him in the next three moves – Connor would be proud – when the noise of the impending interruption finally seeped into his consciousness. Goddamn it all to hell!  Duncan just managed to slip his sword into his jacket in time to hide it from the sheriff. The other Immortal simply threw his sword aside and tried to make a break for it. MacLeod caught him and hurled him up against the wall, grabbing one hand and hauling it up between the man's shoulder blades.

"Easy, MacLeod…" the sheriff said in a low voice. "Is this who I think it is?"

Duncan tugged the thin arm a fraction higher, as if trying to reach up to the man's neck. "Go have a look down there," he tilted his head in the direction of the end of the blind alley.

The sheriff followed the direction of MacLeod's nod. "Lord have mercy... What a mess," his voice echoed hollowly in the alley as he backed away from the concealed evil. "He got a woman this time, she's dead but he mustn't have had time to do the other business," the sheriff finished somberly, shaking his head.

"Can you tell who it is?" Duncan asked, tightening his grip on the murderer.

"Maybe one of Lula's girls from the Black Rose. Looks kinda like she might have bin a workin' girl. Come on, MacLeod, let's get this piece of shit outta here." The sheriff slipped his pistol from its holster at his hip and pressed the muzzle to the captive's head firmly as MacLeod released his hold on the man. "Move, you little bastard. Slow and easy. Don't give me an excuse to blow your ugly little head off." He shoved the killer in front of him as they walked.

As the three men walked down the street they attracted the attention of a growing number of townspeople. The gossip spread like wildfire from person to person as the identity of the sheriff's captive became known. The mood grew uglier the further they advanced along the wide street.

"Hang him!" a man's voice called above the din.

"String him up!" shrieked a woman.

Rumbles of agreement spread throughout the crowd and the sheriff shot an anxious look at Duncan. If the crowd turned violent there was no way the two of them could prevent them exacting retribution. Then the killer took the decision from their hands. With a surge of speed both sudden and shocking, he tore away from his captors and bolted down the street.

Duncan glanced at the sheriff, saw the quick, satisfied look that passed across the man's face as he raised his revolver and fired, and could not condemn him for it. The killer crumpled like sails becalmed and fell to the ground. The sound of the shot echoed starkly in the suddenly quiet street.

The crowd still boiled around them as Duncan and the sheriff ran up to the body. The man was dead, temporarily, at least. The 'fact' of the man's death, however, did little to appease the crowd's anger. Once the initial shock had worn off a few bolder ones surged forward, slamming booted kicks into the 'corpse'.

"That's enough! Stop that! Get back!" The sheriff drove them back with a flourish of his drawn gun. "He's dead, and that's the end of it," he said more calmly, as the crowd ebbed and quieted. "You know," he began, looking over his shoulder to MacLeod, "a hundred years ago they would have strung the body up anyway, in one of them gibbet things. The old one's still there out the back of the cells. Goddamn strange looking thing it is too."

Having the 'body' encased in an iron cage held an undeniable appeal for Duncan. With this unnamed Immortal, 'Two' – whatever that was supposed to mean – safely imprisoned Duncan would have ample opportunity to take his head later on and prevent him from taking any more mortal lives.

"Any reason we couldn't drag it out of retirement? Some times the old ways aren't all wrong. Give these good people some peace of mind."

The sheriff looked surprised for a moment, considered it and then nodded curtly.

The Following Day

Dawn was still a vague pink promise on the horizon as Duncan approached the vast tree where the gibbet had been hung. Peering through the monochrome gloom he could just make out the man-shaped cage swinging in the fresh breeze, but there was something odd about the outline. He ran the last yards to the tree, drawing the katana, panic tight in his throat.

"Fuck!"

He slashed a vicious cut into the tree trunk. The cage was empty, the door swinging free. There was no way the killer could have opened the door by himself; someone must have released him. But who would want to do that?

He said he was 'Two' –- could there be a 'One'? A pair of killers? Improbable but not impossible…

It was then that Duncan noticed the small pale square wedged into the hinge of the gibbet. Picking it up, it turned out to be a square of thick creamy writing paper. He unfolded it and read the note.

"One day," the note began in a beautiful, calligraphic hand; "we will meet again, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Be ready. Two."

Duncan crumpled the note and swore in impotent anger.

***

"And you think that this 'Two' is here now, killing again?" Methos asked into the ensuing silence.

Some time during the telling of his story Duncan had migrated into Methos' arms and now they lay sprawled together along the sofa, Duncan lying with his head resting on his lover's chest, with Methos' hand stroking softly across the sable silk of Duncan's hair. It was if he could feel the pain of self-recrimination resonating from Duncan's skin as he held him and tried to soothe his hurt.

"Or One and Two. It seems a hell of a coincidence otherwise. The same type of killing... Christ, Methos, when will my past stop getting the people I care about killed?" Duncan pushed away from him and fled across the room, stopping before the front window. "No one else dies because of me," he repeated in a self-mocking tone. "Who was I kidding? Did you want to laugh at my arrogance when you heard me say that, Methos? You should have. How could I be so stupid? When have I done anything but get the people I care about killed? You should get as far away from me as you can, while you still can." He broke then, the weight of his pain seeming to bend him in two until he was crouched on the floor, hugging his knees.

Methos watched him fold, felt his own heart break anew in sympathy. He went to Duncan and pulled him into an embrace. "Come here," Methos rasped, his throat thick with repressed emotion.

Duncan sank into his arms, wrapping his own tightly around Methos, burying his face in the curve of Methos' shoulder again as they kneeled together on the floor. Methos stroked the shuddering back with long, gentling sweeps of one hand while the other tangled in Duncan's hair, massaging his scalp. MacLeod made a small, pleased sound at the touch and his lips pressed more firmly into the base of Methos' neck. In the space between one heartbeat and the next comfort sparked into passion. They kissed, longing and need merging in a gentle, heated exploration of lip and tongue. For a few timeless moments the outside world ceased to exist.

Methos' lips left the sweetness of his lover's mouth and burned a trail of fire along his neck. He drew back a little, unbuttoning and gently peeling aside Duncan's shirt and baring his golden skinned chest. Duncan was so unbelievably beautiful, Methos thought, all lush, golden heat, so intensely sexual, responsive beyond his wildest imaginings. As he kissed down the rounded plane of Duncan's shoulder, he felt the younger man trembling under his mouth.

With the stunning shock of a plunge into ice water it was all ripped away. Methos found himself shoved away brutally, sliding across the polished hardwood floor until he collided with the sofa. He lay there stunned for a moment, trying to work out what the hell had just happened.

Duncan meanwhile had leapt to his feet. "I can't do this! I'm sorry, I have to get out of here."

"If that's what you want," Methos replied coolly as he sat up, slipping his dispassionate mask neatly into place, unwilling to show the depths of his pain. "No one's keeping you here."

"This...you...me. It's all wrong. Joe's dead and ... and..." MacLeod floundered for the next words as he buttoned his shirt haphazardly.

"I know Joe's dead, MacLeod!" Methos hissed with sudden venom, fully on the defensive now. "He was my friend too. For ten years! Don't you think I'm hurting too?"

"You'd never know from the way you're acting. You've hardly said two words about it," Duncan snapped.

"Just because I don't feel the need to spill my guts to all and sundry and bawl my eyes out doesn't mean I don't care!" Methos yelled back.

"You could hardly wait to get back here and seduce me again! Joe's dead and all you can do is use it as an opportunity to get laid!" Duncan flung back.

Duncan's words cut straight through him and Methos sought only to cut in return – anger driving out commonsense. "Seduce you? You didn't take much seducing in my recollection. You've been panting for it for three years. You were just too much of a coward to do anything about it..."

Duncan interrupted in the space of a breath. "I'm a coward?! Look who's talking."

Methos ignored the insult. "You know, If I'd known how easily you would roll over and spread your legs for me I might have pushed it a little earlier. Or maybe not," he finished with silken cruelty.

Whatever lingering joy had remained from their night together turned to dust under the heat of the scorn being poured on it. Methos saw it shatter in Duncan's tragic eyes and felt ill at the reckless damage he'd caused.

"You fucking bastard," Duncan rasped. "What the hell was I thinking? How could I have ever thought I was in love with you?" He backed away, shaking his head. "I'd sooner bed a viper."

He snatched up his sword and Methos tensed, disbelieving that it had come to this so soon. Methos' eyes measured the distance between his sword by the door and the floor where he still sat. Then MacLeod grabbed his coat from the rack and whirled out the door.

Then there was only the lonely echo of the slammed door reverberating through the apartment. Methos folded his arms over the tops of his bent knees, rested his forehead on his arms and let the tears fall. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Three

Duncan flagged down a taxi in front of Methos' building. In a voice that still shook with the adrenaline of the argument, he directed the driver to a small hotel that he knew of, not far from Notre Dame. As he sank into the backseat of the cab he replayed the argument in his mind. How could he have been so wrong about Methos? How could he have opened his heart to someone capable of such wanton cruelty? He shivered and pulled his coat around him more securely.

The taxi pulled up in the porte-cochere of the hotel. Duncan paid the driver and hauled his weary body from the passenger seat. He dragged himself into the hotel foyer and to the desk. After a short conversation with the clerk, during which his lack of luggage, or any belongings other than the clothes he stood up in – became an irritating feature, he found himself slipping an electronic key through the front door of his room.

The room was small and bland, but the bed was invitingly wide and soft when he sat on it. It was only the afternoon but several hours of blessed unconsciousness seemed an excellent idea, until MacLeod recalled that the police were going to want to talk to him again and besides, he wanted to know what was going on with the investigation. With a sigh he picked up the telephone beside the bed and called the police station to advise them of his current location. When he finally hung up he was tenser than ever, it pulled at his shoulders and drove spikes of pain through his tight neck up into his pounding head. Exhausted beyond belief, Duncan lay back on the bed, toed off his shoes and fell almost instantly into sleep.

He had known he would dream of it, expected it to be so and yet, when the vision came, it was so shocking that it drove whatever he'd expected far from his mind.

Duncan dreamed in the surrealistic color of a Dali landscape, bright and improbable. Images hurled themselves to the forefront of his brain, bloody and violent. From nowhere a cascade of heads tumbled out of the azure sky, a waterfall of endless death, the faces grinning obscenely as they bounced on the barren ground. His heart jackhammered in his chest as he realized they were all the same. They lay in random piles all around him, laughing through blackened mouths – scathing, mocking laughter.

Blood rained down upon him, hot and reeking from lurid flesh-pink clouds. He felt it sink into every pore of his body marking him with its stain. He heard his own voice echoing mournfully, "I am marked by blood. Forever. Everything, everyone I touch."

He stood in a gaudy yellow desert, alone, the trackless wastelands spreading out around him into infinity. Loneliness seemed to envelop him, heavy and thick, impenetrable loneliness, as wide as the saffron plain in which he stood. Unfulfilled longing rose in his heart, threatening to burst it. He wanted to weep with the loneliness that pressed down and threatened to smother him.

He wanted to cry and scream and rail at the unfairness of it all. But the desert was in him now, he was arid and dry inside. Empty. He looked down at his body, feeling more hollow by the second and was remotely shocked to see the yellow sand feathering away on the blood-scented breeze from the hole where his chest used to be. He was disappearing. His heart had turned to dust and soon there would be nothing left at all.

In the blink of an eye the desert was gone and he was standing in the cool green gloom of the forest. A forest such had not existed since long before the days of even his youth, untouched, virginal, the tall, straight trees rising towards the far-off sky, the leaf-littered forest floor dotted with bracken. He was alone, lost in the time and place, unsure even of his own name. The dark-shadowed trees surrounded him, crowding him in a claustrophobic press. All he knew for certain was that he was alone…

Then the Horned One had him in his arms and they were dancing. He was just like the legends he'd been told so long ago: beautiful and elemental, antlered and terrifying, utterly male. Sex, death, rebirth, immortality, all were one in the antlered god's presence. The Horned One spun him around and around until Duncan was dizzy and sick with the whirling. He was out of control, the grip was iron and the motion was all in the hands of the old Celtic god. Flames of a thousand solstice bonfires leapt in the god's peculiar eyes as he fixed them on Duncan's face. He gave himself up to it, allowed the Horned One to lead him where he would. For a few stunningly intense moments he was one with the god, no longer alone but bound and joined, connected body and soul. Then as suddenly as they had begun, they stopped.

The Horned One spoke and Duncan woke with a half-choked cry trapped in his throat.

He threw himself from the bed in one fluid movement, fled as far as possible from it in the confines of the small room as if to distance himself from the horrors of the dream. His adrenaline-flooded body sweated and shook,  his heart palpitating. He steadied himself against the television cabinet to keep from falling. There was a chair at a minuscule table in the corner of the room and Duncan sank down into it, unwilling to return to the bed at all.

Duncan didn't believe in the prophecy of dreams. At least that was what he always told himself. He was no longer the superstitious village lad, not for a very long time. The figure in the dream was only articulating his own worst fear, he reasoned. There was absolutely no reason to believe the words of a mythical figure from a nightmare. But the fear refused to be reasoned away; it ate at him incessantly. The heavy, cold stone that had sat in his gut since that awful moment on the boat, grew in size and weight until he was sure if he put his hand on the flat of his belly he'd be able to feel it there.

The horned man's words echoed in Duncan's head.

"Methos is next. It's too late to stop it. He will die. You have killed him."

***

Methos picked himself up from the floor still disbelieving that their argument had gone so far so fast. His own words echoed cruelly in his ears, taunting him.

Could you possibly have been more stupid? You could see why he was acting like that and you went ahead and played his game anyway. He has himself convinced this is all his fault and what do you do? Attack him for being exactly what you love about him. Kick him when he's down. You really are a stupid, sad, fucked-up son of a bitch, Methos. Well he's gone now.  That was fast, even for you. He'll never trust you now. Best thing you've had about a thousand years and you've gone and fucked it up royally.

Methos could have continued to lacerate himself for his stupidity but he realized he could still smell the sickening odor of the barge and a tentative sniff of his shirt told him why – the foul smells were adhering to his clothing like a greasy film. Methos went into the bathroom, shedding his clothes along the way. A shower was definitely called for; followed in short order by large amounts of alcohol: a toast or twelve to absent friends.

Poor bloody Joe.  You got lost in the continuing saga of MacLeod and Methos. What a fucking hideous day…

As he stepped into the spray, adjusting the heat past hot to excruciatingly scalding, Methos shrugged his shoulders, stretching in an attempt to work out the tension. His muscles were knotted tight with anger, guilt and grief. He leaned against the shower wall, pressing his forehead against the coolness of the tile. He was idly engaged in the futility of wishing the whole day away when he felt the first irritating vibration of Immortal presence.

The realizations that it was not MacLeod and that there was more than one closing in rapidly, came almost simultaneously.

"Fuck!" Methos swore softly to himself as he stepped quickly out of the shower.

He grabbed a towel and rubbed it haphazardly over his skin on the way to pick up his jeans from the floor outside the bathroom. He slipped them on, tugging the denim over his damp skin and was buttoning the fly as he stalked towards the kitchen where he'd left his sword.

Woefully unprepared, old man. Very, very careless. Any more of this and you won't have to worry what MacLeod thinks of you at all.

He made it to the nearest sword in time, snatching it up from beside the fridge as he passed.

Gun, gun, gun... Where'd I leave the sodding gun? A distant part of Methos' mind was lacerating him for this level of carelessness. Suicidal, that's what it is, old man. With a sudden gasp of clarity he recalled the location of the missing pistol. Coat pocket, dimwit! Then the door burst open.

***

Duncan's pride and his love were at war again: not a new battle by any means, more the continuation of a centuries old feud. His pride was telling him that he could never go back to Methos now, not after everything they had said to each other. Love, on the other hand, was an annoyingly persistent voice in his head telling Duncan that Methos needed him, that he was in danger, that they needed one another if they were to survive this at all. Indecision plagued him, had him spinning in mental circles.

When Duncan sliced away all the peripheries of expectation, of anger and guilt and pride one single fact remained, he needed Methos. Not even this realization was without its pain, however. His need for Methos had cost him. The picture he'd always carried of who and what Duncan MacLeod was and should be was forever changed.

It said something about him, Duncan felt, that he could need another man with this intensity. But the fact remained, he did. The knowledge came to him as a fact long known, understood and accepted. Methos was essential to him. Nothing else mattered, not his past; not Methos' past, not gender, not convention or custom, just as long as he could have Methos in his life. Of this, at least, Duncan was sure.

The fact that it was a man that Duncan needed suddenly seemed less important than who that man was. Methos was an enigma, a mystery certainly, but there were some things about him that Duncan knew incontrovertibly. Methos had shown him, time and again, the lengths to which he was willing to go for a friend. No matter how much he protested his detachment, he'd shown him the depths of feeling of which he was capable. Where Methos loved, he loved without reservation or equivocation, with a ruthless dedication to the loved one, almost frighteningly intense.

Not even the way they had parted, the harsh words and unfair accusations flung in the heat of grieving anger, could dim the brightness of the need that burned within him. He needed Methos as his friend, as his lover, as his touchstone, an affirmation that, in time, anything is possible and everything may change. Of this Duncan was also sure.

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Four

The reinforced door had not been sufficient to withstand the combined effort of the two Immortals forcing their way in. The splintered wood banged hollowly against the wall as the pair filled the frame. Methos weighed the broadsword in his hand, bouncing almost imperceptibly on his toes as he waited for them to make a move.

They were a strange-looking twosome, Methos observed dispassionately. Both small and slight, with a faintly pinched look about their faces that gave them the odd, wary appearance of rabbits. They were dressed identically: neat charcoal gray suits with an almost imperceptibly old-fashioned look to the cut, starched, white shirts with button down collars and thin black ties knotted neatly below. Dark brown hair was worn slicked from identical partings on the left of narrow pale faces. At first glance they could have been taken for twins, but Methos discounted this out of hand, having never seen such a thing in five thousand years. No, they were not identical, merely similar, their similarities compounded and played upon until the appearance of twins emerged. Their oily, brown eyes darted warily over him, assessing him as he had done them.

"You are not he whom we seek." The odd man's voice had the cadence of another time and place in its solemn depths.

The strange form of address sent a spark of reckless amusement through Methos and he replied, "Well, okay then, it was nice of you to stop by. We must do it again in a thousand years or so. Don't let the door hit you in the arse as you leave." His lips twitched into a sardonic smile but it failed to reach his eyes – narrowed and glittering with death. He gestured minutely with his sword.

"He whom we seek was here. We have seen him. We think we shall wait here for him to return." The second man's voice was rougher, more graveled than the first's.

"Do we? Well, actually that's not terribly convenient right now. Why don't you leave a number and I'll have him get back to you," Methos quipped, readying his stance for the coming battle.

Methos' continued refusal to take them seriously was having the desired effect on the pair. Anger showed in the tightness of their mouths, the paleness of white-knuckled grips on identical Spanish rapiers and the deepening lines spreading from small dark eyes. One of the men stepped forward to engage him.

"So, boy, which one or you, One or Two?" Methos asked haughtily as he tapped his broadsword against his opponent's in a dismissive salute.

The other man looked puzzled. "We are The Two – there is no One – only Two."

"Oh good! Two for the price of one. My lucky day." Keeping the other of The Two in full view, Methos began the fight.

Unfortunately, Methos' pistol remained in the pocket of his coat on the rack by the front door. His fingers itched to get hold of it but the second of The Two remained resolutely in his place, blocking access to the weapon as he stood guard by the door. A sharp sting in his left biceps reminded Methos that attention to the present was warranted; the challenger had drawn first blood.

Methos allowed the challenger to push him back further into the apartment, back into the living area. He parried each of his opponent's thrusts, vaguely surprised at the strength behind the blows. Methos felt the backrest of the sofa firm behind his legs and slipped alongside it, pausing and then changing from defense to attack. Slashing down from left and right at the other man, Methos drove again and again into his opponent's defenses. The ringing tones of finely honed steel echoed around the small room as Methos pushed the other Immortal back towards the small, screened bedroom area.

The small man started as he backed into the freestanding Chinese silk screen that separated the bed and living areas. Methos pressed his advantage further, swinging a huge circular blow towards the other man, bending at the knee to lower its range. His opponent stumbled back into the screen, toppling it, and almost overbalancing himself completely. The small man ducked under the next blow and retaliated, stabbing forward with the point of the rapier and then moving quickly into a series of rapid, skilled blows, pushing Methos backwards again.

Methos could see the triumph in his challenger's eyes, knew that the man thought he had him beaten. Satisfaction was a small warming glow in the back of Methos' mind; this was when battles were won, at the moment when the other man thought you were finished. Once more the back of the sofa touched the back of his thighs, a reminder of his position in the room. He allowed the smaller man to get in close, accepted a thrust through his side as the price of victory and then made his move.

The challenger was so close now that Methos could smell the sweat and fear and bloodlust that poured off him in waves. In a single, graceful movement Methos knocked the rapier from the other man's hand, using the pommel of his broadsword as a hammer to smash the other Immortal's wrist, then Methos grabbed the slender shoulders and twisted, hurling the man over the back of the sofa. A lightning fast stab of the broadsword into the other man's gut completed the sequence. Then instead of finishing the fight, he pulled back.

Methos barreled across the room towards his gun. He couldn't risk taking a quickening with either one of the Two still alive and in the room; he would have to shoot them both and make his escape. Then something red-hot slammed into Methos' back and with a small sound like despair, he sank to the ground and died.

***

Duncan was still debating the wisdom of his decision as the cab wove through the heavy late afternoon city traffic. The question of how he was going to justify his return to Methos nagged at his mind. He could well imagine the scornful look spreading across the sharp features as Duncan tried to explain the significance of the dream. Duncan could hear the crisply accented tones deriding his superstitions, see the narrowed hazel eyes looking down that nose as an eloquent eyebrow arched. A vibrantly intense wish to talk to Joe about it crossed his mind in the millisecond that it took him to remember that he could never do that again. Feeling more alone than ever, Duncan stared silently out the taxi window.

After an eternity of stop lights and traffic snarls the cab pulled up outside Methos' apartment building. Duncan paid the driver and stepped out onto the curb. He slipped through the front door as a tenant was leaving and taking the interior stairs two at a time, ran up towards Methos' apartment. Immortal presence buzzed loudly into his consciousness, followed immediately by the realization that it was not Methos that he sensed.

Time grew thick and slow as Duncan forced himself closer to the battered front door, drawing his katana silently. He could see the door swinging freely, another step and he could see into the apartment.

"No!"

His anguished bellow startled The Two. They crouched beside Methos, who lay in the middle of the floor arranged as if crucified. Duncan almost couldn't look at what they had done to him. They held their hands inside the bloody cavity that had been Methos' chest. With a sickening rise of his stomach Duncan realized that they each had a hand around Methos' heart and one held what looked to be a black stone knife in his hand. Christ they're going to cut out his heart! They scowled in an eerily identical fashion as Duncan hurled himself into the room. He stopped to stand poised opposite The Two, glaring across Methos' fallen body with the katana ready to block any move of the strangely shaped knife.

"We have won. The Two shall take that which we require. You may not interfere, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Duncan sneered defiantly at the man who had spoken. He realized with a start that he couldn't differentiate between the pair, didn't recognize which one he'd fought so long ago. Then he found it didn't matter - they were merely dead men walking anyway. The Two... Not one and two at all…

"What ever happened to all challenges being strictly one on one? Being a bit selective with the rules, aren't we? Who's it gonna be? Tweedle-Dee or Tweedle-Dum?" he snarled ferally as he taunted them.

The Two regarded him blankly, as if they had never before heard the reference. Then they stood and turned to one another; their bloody hands still clasped, then a small expression of tenderness passed from one face to another. They spoke, but it was like no language Duncan had ever heard, more a seemingly random mix of many languages, thrown together like paint at a wall. He grew impatient with their procrastination and with delicate precision Duncan lunged the tip of the katana forward, deftly knocking the strange knife from the small man's hand. The stone knife skittered away into a corner of the room. With a low growl The Two separated and one drew his sword.

"Very well then, the one which we seek shall die and then the other. It is unimportant to us. The circle will be complete"

"And why am I the one which you seek?" Duncan found himself unconsciously imitating the man's strange speech patterns.

They circled around Methos' body as they spoke, eyes locked, swords extended, waiting.

"You interrupted the Taking, prevented the circle from being complete. The power can not be shared if the circle is not joined. We must share the power."

Clear as mud.

"I don't think so." With that Duncan struck the first blow.

The katana hit the rapier's blade close to its guard and the small man pushed his weapon upwards, deflecting the blow and moving back as he did. Duncan leapt lightly over Methos' body, following the retreating Immortal across the small living area. He slashed again, a wide, swinging horizontal blow, blocked by an inverted blade. Still Duncan drove the challenger back, back towards the tall bookshelves that lined the corner of the room. He risked another high horizontal blow, but the smaller man ducked under it, retaliating with a low thrust. Duncan pivoted to avoid the blade but its edge caught his hip a glancing blow and he felt the hot sting of the cut.

A small sound behind him reminded Duncan that he had turned his back on his lover. He turned and gasped to see the other of The Two with his rapier poised to strike. Duncan swung desperately at his opponent, and followed the blow with a roundhouse kick to the man's gut, knocking him back into the bookshelves, tumbling the contents down around him. In a split second Duncan turned, went down on one knee, and lifted his arms to raise the katana high above his head and hurl it at the Immortal who stood over Methos. The elegant weapon spun end over end as it arced towards the other of The Two.

The blade found its target. With a high, harsh groan the Immortal toppled to the ground, the katana still protruding from his chest. Duncan followed his weapon across the room. The ivory dragon's head of the katana was still wobbling with the dying breaths of the fallen challenger as Duncan ripped it from the man's chest. The temptation was strong to follow through, to slice the challenger's head from his puny body, to punish him for what they had done to Methos, but Duncan managed to restrain his anger – barely. To incapacitate himself now with another Immortal in the room would be suicide.

With a small sound of surprise, Duncan spotted the pistol that had dropped from the man's pocket as he fell. Gratefully, Duncan picked it up. Hovering protectively over Methos, Duncan gestured at the other one of The Two, his original opponent, who was struggling to regain his feet from beneath the waterfall of books.

"Take him and get out!" Duncan ordered.

He watched as the small man stood, approached cautiously, then grasping his partner under the arms, dragged him towards the door. As he passed his partner's sword the small man paused and glanced at Duncan.

"I don't think so," MacLeod growled in answer to the unasked question. "Go! Before I change my mind!"

The Two disappeared out the door and soon Duncan's sense of their presence faded too.

Duncan finally allowed himself to really look at Methos. The extent of the wound made his stomach lurch. He could see deep into Methos' chest cavity, see the ruined organs laid open like offal. The blue lightning of the healing was spinning the torn edges of his flesh back together even as Duncan watched. Satisfied that Methos would be all right, physically at least, in the long run, Duncan sat back on the floor beside him to wait.

Methos' face was untouched by the violence of the ritual, but it was ghostly pale and so very still. Duncan reached out to touch it gently, brushing just a fingertip across the white brow. It was cool and unresponsive as yet. He continued to stroke his lover's face, unaware of the wistful expression on his own. Slowly the Immortal healing sealed layer after layer of Methos' internal structures. Duncan kept up his gentle repetitions, his fingers sliding down into his lover's silky hair.

Sadness chilled him. Duncan allowed himself to feel the fullness of what he had lost: everything that he and Methos were and could be. That was all gone, gone in the snap and thrust of unthinking anger, and they could never retrieve it. The immeasurable loss of the past twenty-four hours settled a damp, cold cloak over him and Duncan shivered beneath it. He would wait until Methos was back to himself and discreetly disappear. He would deal with The Two on his own terms.

Duncan watched as the healing seared along the bright red straps of muscle, re-attaching their ends, and as the skin began to fizz with the lightning, Methos gasped. Duncan slid back, away from the reviving man, schooling his features into an expression of calm disinterest. Color seeped back into the old man's face, forcing back the sickly pallor. Hazel eyes flickered open, found Duncan's, and for a tiny moment Methos' face was open and unguarded; he smiled wearily.

"Glad to see you could make it..." he breathed. Then Methos sat up with a sharp groan of pain, conflicting emotion clear in his eyes. "The Two?"

"I had to let them go – for now," Duncan answered harshly. "It won't happen again."

Silence spun out between them, as thick and heavy as suffocation. Duncan stood, then shifted uncomfortably, his hands and feet feeling unaccountably awkward. Methos' eyes narrowed and his face tightened perceptibly, and the loss of what they had once been slapped Duncan's face again.

"Well, grateful as I am for this little white knight riding to the rescue routine, MacLeod, as you can see I'm perfectly all right now, so..."

"Now we're even."

"Even?"

"If you hadn't interfered when you did O'Rourke would have taken me. Now we're even," Duncan answered coldly. He walked to the door and paused. "I'll see you around." He spun on his heel, sheathing the katana in a smooth movement, and stalked out the door without another word.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Five

The police, LeFavre and another man, were waiting for MacLeod when he returned to his hotel. He felt their suspiciously assessing gazes as he approached them across the foyer. Duncan remembered the bloody slice in the side of his jeans and pulled his coat around him more tightly.

He acknowledged the police officers with a small nod. "Bonsoir. You have some news I hope, LeFavre?"

"In a manner of speaking. May we speak in your room?" The Inspector's tone was unrevealing.

"Of course, follow me." Duncan nodded towards the lifts.

He stood silently beside the two men as they rode up to the fifth floor. Tension was singing a vivid low hum along his nerves; this day was spinning into an endless spiral trapping him within its pull. Duncan was beaten, battered almost to numbness, enough to wish for numbness. The surcease of pain was all he could realistically wish for and he knew with deadly certainty that his wish would not be granted. The lift jolted and groaned as it stopped and the three men stepped out.

Moments later they sat in the tiny hotel room, the police officers arranged on and at the small corner table, Duncan perched on the bed.

"So, Inspector, you have something to tell me?" MacLeod began.

"A question actually. Where were you the night Joseph Dawson was killed?"

"I was staying at a friend's apartment. What is this about?" Duncan asked impatiently.

"And this friend is Adam Pierson, yes? He was with you when you found the body?"

"You already know that." Impatience was giving way to serious misgivings. "We told you that this morning. What is this about, Inspector?"

"And you're sure neither of you left at any time during the night." It wasn't a question.

"Absolutely certain. If one of us had left the other would have known."

"But if M. Pierson was asleep in his bed, then how would he know if you left yours?"

There was something lurking in LeFavre's eyes that told Duncan the cop already knew the answer to that, but if he wanted to play games then he could certainly oblige. "Because we were in the same bed." There, you bastard, happy now?

LeFavre regarded him coldly. "I see. So you are...?" He let the question hang obviously waiting for Duncan to fill in the blank.

Duncan ignored the opening, raising his eyebrows disdainfully.

An impatient snort and LeFavre did it himself. "Lovers?"

Duncan merely narrowed his eyes. "None of your business."

"And if I was to ask you where you and your 'lover'," he pronounced the word with such a theatrical sneer that Duncan almost laughed, "were at the times of all the other murders, would that also be none of my business?"

"Other murders? There have been more? You didn't mention that." Duncan leaned forward as he sat, staring intently at the Inspector.

"Didn't I? An oversight on my part. Indeed there have been eight such crimes in the past two months, your friend Joseph Dawson was the ninth. All were committed with a similar weapon and modus operandi, with extreme violence and mutilation combined with definite ritualistic features, but all the other murders were committed out in the open, the bodies found in alleyways and such. This latest one was the first to display any difference at all, which leads us to question what was different this time. Did M. Dawson perhaps encounter the criminal at his bar? Could he have known his killer personally?" LeFavre raised an eyebrow significantly.

"I think this is where this discussion ends, Inspector." Duncan stood, using his size quite deliberately to intimidate the cop. He smiled with only the thinnest veneer of civility. "I'm sure if you have any further questions you can direct them to my lawyer." He steered the detectives to the door. "Goodbye," he said firmly, holding the door open in a pointedly obvious gesture of dismissal.

"We will speak again, MacLeod. You can count on that," LeFavre threw in as they moved past Duncan into the narrow hallway.

"Look forward to it," Duncan answered with his voice full of ice. His hands twitched to flatten the arrogant cop, to snap off a deadly combination of blows to put this man down, and obliterate that supercilious smirk forever. But instead he breathed deeply, letting the outrage flow away in the simple exhalation of breath. There was no way he would give the cop the satisfaction of making him lose it.

LeFavre let the moment go. For whatever reasons of his own he chose to walk away and Duncan gave him credit for being smarter than he'd first thought. Or maybe he's just playing another game... Duncan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, studiously relaxed, watching the officers as they departed. He waited until the two detectives stepped into the lift before he relaxed his guard and stepped back into his room, shutting the door.

Duncan slumped down on the bed, his heart thudding with the aftermath of all the adrenaline pumping into his system. Jesus, like they didn't have enough problems, now the cops thought they'd one this awful thing? He wasn't so much worried for himself as worried by the thought that if the cops thought he and Methos were the culprits, chances were they weren't looking for the real killers. Damn, and if he or Methos were arrested over this their chances of ever stopping The Two dramatically decreased. Despite what he'd told himself earlier Duncan knew there was no real way either of them could defeat The Two working alone.

And therein lay the dilemma.

***

Methos was torn. Neither of his standard responses to unforeseen events would work here. He could run; he'd done it before, times without number, simply walked away without a backward glance and let events take care of themselves. He could do it now. Walk out of his apartment, close the door behind him and start over somewhere else. He had the knowledge, the resources to do so. All he lacked was the will. He'd even gone so far as to pack; the duffle bag sitting in the corner of the room was a silent testament to his indecision. The strength of will, which had always been his private pride, was trapped, suspended and frozen out of time and space in a gossamer web of conflicting desires.

He could do nothing, was doing it now in fact. He could sit back and wait for the police to do their job and catch The Two before they continued their sick little game and the body count rose. He could wait for MacLeod to forget about him and go back to Amanda or the next beauty du jour, perhaps he already had. He could go about his daily business at the university and the bookshop and wait for the puckered scar tissue in his heart to heal, as he knew it would, in time. And if in the meantime he carried a belly full of ice and his eyes slid away from his reflection in the mirror while the minutes spun out into hours with the steady insolence of ticking clocks, he would get over that too. In time.

Methos smiled thinly as the decision made itself. He picked up the duffel bag, slipped into his coat, and walked out the door.

***

Duncan tossed and turned on the bed. The day had caught up with him at last and he had surrendered to sleep's lure only a few hours earlier. Dreams teased at the edges of his consciousness, fleeting scraps of sound and vision trying to show him...something. Even as he slept, Duncan yearned to find what it was; his mind reached out to it with open, supplicating hands. Always it was just out of his reach. The wanting cut through him, made him whimper aloud to the deaf, blind room as he tossed again, flipping onto his belly.

Then, with the frightening clarity of the best and worst of dreams, an image solidified, coalesced from the scattered pictures swirling in his head. The Moment, he called it in his mind, although when it had come to take on that capitalized significance in his memory, he couldn't say – only that it had.

Methos was laughing, but it wasn't the cutting sardonic laughter that made Duncan feel more like a callow youth than he had in about four hundred years, it was free and easy and utterly entrancing. Methos was throwing back his head so that the curve of his beautiful (since when had he started thinking that?) throat became even more pronounced and laughing until a single tear trickled down the sharp curve of his cheekbone. Duncan was grinning in reply and without waiting for permission from any part of his mind, he reached out to brush the tear away with a stroke of his thumb. The laughter faded and Methos turned luminous eyes on his guest.

There was that look again, that mesmerizing, magnetically hypnotic stare that felt as if it was passing through every pretence and facade that Duncan had ever constructed with the ease of cold steel through flesh. Ancient, ageless eyes fixed him, froze him, seized his limbs with a lovely, languid, expectant torpor. And when a long, elegant hand slipped up to cup the back of his neck and draw him near, Duncan could not break the gaze but merely allowed himself to be drawn in, inhaling the heady spice of arousal as he breathed.

The breath became a moan as their lips found each other at last. Just a subtle brushing taste at first, revealing surprising textures of beard stubble, firm fleshed lips and the faintest hint of satiny tongue. Duncan opened his mouth to it, beckoned it into his own mouth, sucking it gratefully when it heeded his summons. It was a testing, tasting, tantalizingly exquisite moment in time where nothing else mattered.

Part of Duncan recalled his very vague sense of surprise at his complete acceptance of this turn of events. It was so vague that the very vagueness of it was in itself a surprise. He should have been shocked and surprised and horrified at the thought of Methos kissing him, of kissing Methos back with such undeniable relish, but the fact remained that he was not. The rightness of inevitability suffused The Moment until it felt like fate.

It had been inevitable that one day it would come to this. From that first startling meeting, through extremes of light and dark and every shade of gray in between, they had been moving towards this very thing. They had flirted and teased, fought and hated, but through it all, the one constant had been their passionate feelings for each other. Sometimes cloaked in anger, sometimes in the rush of physical battle, but always lit by the fire of their passion, the only question had ever been, when.

Duncan woke with a sob and an arch of his body against the roughness of the bed sheets. He was painfully hard, the ache of his flesh a throbbing reminder of all he had lost. He willed it away but it seemed that his cock was just another thing over which he had no control anymore. Impatiently he flipped onto his back and took it in his hand.

He tried to keep his mind blank as he roughly jerked along the length of his shaft. He wouldn't think about Methos, refused to think of him. His hand beat a steady rhythm, solely designed to bring him off quickly and allow him to regain some modicum of peace. But even Duncan's mind seemed beyond his control at this moment. Methos came unbidden to that place of memory behind his eyes and Duncan could see, as clearly as he had on that wonderfully terrifying night, his lover's moonlit figure, shadowed and silvered, rising above him as they paused in the seconds before they were joined. The blinding flash of pleasure remembered shot through him and almost without realizing it, Duncan came.

The orgasm left Duncan empty and spent, restless and unfulfilled. It was a loss, an ending, a sadness, and his skin ached with the absence of touch. Rolling onto his side Duncan curled into his pain, embraced it, and let the darkness take him where it would. It was a long time before he slept. The unquiet hours brought the gift of clarity in their chilly hands, his realizations did not make him happy, but he knew that sometimes a measure of peace without happiness is possible.

Unwelcome sunshine poured through his reddened eyelids and dragged Duncan from his restless bed. It seemed like only minutes since he had last been conscious but the stiffness of his limbs spoke of many hours immobile. He sat on the side of the bed, grim determination in the set of his jaw and the small creases between his eyebrows. He was finished with it. He had done with wallowing in self-pity, there would be no more. There were things that needed doing and railing against the unchangeable reality was not going to get them done.

~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Six

If Duncan had to tear Paris apart one arrondissement at a time to find and destroy The Two, then that was precisely what he would do. Obliterating feeling with purpose, Duncan threw himself into the day. With the barge still sealed as a crime scene, he would need new clothes. The ones that lay in a neat pile beside the bed reeked of almost two days of wear, not to mention his jeans had that hard-to-explain sword slash ripping open one side. A quick call downstairs to the concierge solved the simplest of his day's problems. A call to room service to order breakfast solved another simple one. The rest of the day, Duncan knew, would be less easy.

A short while later, fed and dressed and feeling slightly less battered, Duncan left the Metro and quickly walked the short distance to the barge's mooring. A chill slid through him, insidious as a shadow, as the boat came into sight. He pushed it aside and increased his pace. Crime scene tape still fluttered haphazardly about the bank and across the deck. He almost fancied he could still smell the coppery-sweet taint of blood on the breeze. He wasn't ready to go back in there just yet, not right now. Fortunately he'd kept his car keys with him that night; they jangled in his pocket as he jogged down the stone steps. His Range Rover still stood where he'd left it. Duncan spared one more regretful glance at the barge, stepped into the vehicle and drove away.

He need to find out what The Two were up to, what motivated them, what they wanted from all this. If he could understand that then perhaps he could anticipate where they would strike next and that was when it would be over. He needed information and in Joe's absence that was going to be difficult, but not impossible. Going around LeFavre and his suspicions and bigotry would be harder still but Duncan still had a few friendly contacts within the Surete.

Duncan pulled up outside the police station ten minutes later. He was just entering the front door when he heard a voice calling his name. He turned towards it and a disbelieving smile lit his face. Renee Delaney. Talk about a blast from the past...

"Renee!" He walked towards the tall, blonde CID agent, holding his hands out to grasp hers in greeting.

"Duncan MacLeod, it's been ages. How have you been?" she drawled as she took his proffered hands and pulled him close to kiss his cheek warmly.

They moved away from the busy doorway, standing together at the side of the entry steps.

"Not great," Duncan admitted with a small grimace, "a good friend of mine was murdered yesterday. I was just coming in to see what I could find out about it."

"That's awful. I'm so sorry," Renee commiserated. "Who's handling the investigation?"

"An Inspector LeFavre. Do you know him?"

"Yeah, just a little." Her expression told Duncan he wasn't the only one to dislike the detective. "He has a reputation for being...thorough; he's certainly tenacious enough or least that's what I've heard. He's not going to tell you anything though. All these Paris cops are so close-mouthed it isn't funny."

'He's not going to tell his prime suspect anything, anyway,' Duncan thought as he caught Renee's eye with a sincerely pleading look. "I really need this information, Renee. Joe – my friend – was one of a series of nine murders and they'll just go on if we don't stop them now," Duncan finished with a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

"Oh, those murders... Okay, MacLeod, I'll see what I can find out from LeFavre. He might talk to me; I helped him out on a fraud case a couple of years back. You wait out here and I'll go on in."

Duncan nodded in acknowledgment and watched her go in. He leaned casually against the stair rail, the calmness of his demeanor belying the tension in his soul. It was a good fifteen minutes before Renee re-appeared. She looked troubled, as if she'd been told something unexpected and didn't quite know how to broach it.

"Renee?" Duncan began eagerly. "What were you able to find out?"

She avoided his eyes, shifting her feet uncomfortably as she leaned back against the railing. "I didn't speak to LeFavre; he's gone to Marseilles for the day on another case. I spoke to his partner, Reynard, instead. He was pretty chatty for a cop..." she trailed off, feigning interest in some hand-cuffed suspects being marched up the stairs by a couple of uniformed officers.

"Come on, Renee," Duncan prodded, "tell me what you found out."

"Okay, okay. All they have so far is that two weird-looking guys were seen near your barge yesterday morning: short, dark haired. The witness thought they might have been twins. No decent forensic evidence – no hairs, no fibers, no body fluids and obviously no useful prints, except yours and your friends' of course. All the killings appear to have been done where the bodies were found. They still don't know why your friend Dawson was the only one killed indoors, unless of course you did it. I did tell him that was ridiculous, by the way."

"Thanks."

"You might have mentioned you were a suspect before I went in there though," Renee added without heat before continuing. "The other scenes were scattered at random all over the city, no discernible pattern to the kill-sites. Does that help any, Mac?" Renee finished with an uncertain look.

"Was that all?" Duncan asked, knowing there was more.

"It's nothing really, just something Reynard said in passing. I shouldn't even bring it up." She looked away again.

"Renee?"

She sighed and looked into his eyes for the first time since she'd returned outside. "Reynard said the only reason you weren't there when the murder happened was that you were staying the night at your lover's apartment – your male lover. I told him that he must be mistaken, but he seemed pretty sure of himself." A flush rose to her cheeks and she folded her arms across her chest protectively. "This is really none of my business, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Oh."

"Is that all you're going to say? Oh?"

"What are you asking, Renee? Yes, I was at Adam's house that night and yes, we were together and no, we aren't any more because I screwed it up big time. Was there anything else?" he asked harshly.

"I'm sorry, Duncan, it was just so unexpected. I mean, I never realized…"

"No, neither did I until I fell in love with Adam. I made such a mess of things with him, Renee," Duncan added bitterly, "he's never going to forgive me for it."

"Then he's an idiot."

"No. He was right." MacLeod went quiet, the loneliness and pain taking over. He started a little as he felt her arms wrap around him, then reciprocated the hug, pulling Renee close. For long minutes they hugged and Duncan let the comfort of human touch ease his pain. Gently, he broke away and dropped a soft kiss against her mouth. "Thanks, Renee, for everything. Keep in touch, okay? I should go, I'll see you around." He turned from her and jogged back down the stairs.

"Duncan?" Her voice made him stop suddenly, turning to look at her still standing at the top of the steps. He waited as she made her way down to him, an oddly guarded look on her expressive face.

"Renee? What is it? Something you forgot?"

She still looked conflicted but she swallowed hard and looked up into his eyes. "There is one thing the press won't be told, they're holding it back until they know what it means. You're not going to thank me for telling you this, Duncan; it's not very pleasant. In each of the murders the victim's heart was cut out. They haven't recovered any of them and no one knows what the killer does with them."

Christ, it was worse than he thought. Duncan shook off the mental images of violated corpses and returned Renee's look. "I appreciate your telling me," he said sincerely. "Is there anything else?"

She shook her head, her pale blonde hair falling across her eyes in a silky cascade. "I'm sorry, Duncan, that's all we know right now."

He reached out and pushed the hair back out of her eyes. "Thanks." Without another word he spun on his heel and walked away.

***

Methos watched from the front seat of his car down the street as he recognized the tall man wrapped around the voluptuous, blonde-haired woman in front of the police station.

Well that didn't take long. I shouldn't have expected anything else. Gods, I am such a fucking idiot.

He watched Duncan kiss her, then he couldn't look any more. Methos leaned forward and rested his head against the steering wheel for a second, letting the shaft of fresh pain abate. He lifted his head, started the car and, throwing it into reverse, drove quickly away. He refused to let himself dwell on either the vicissitudes of life or the fickleness of lovers. There was work to do and that was all he could let himself think about. Maybe when The Two were sliced into bite-sized pieces then he could let himself wallow in self-pity for a decade or two – maybe somewhere warm...

***

The only comforting thing that Duncan could glean from his time at the police station was that at least they weren't much further ahead of him, so it was unlikely that they would find The Two before Duncan could shred them into Immortal mincemeat. On that satisfying thought, he drove away from the police station and headed towards the bar.

Le Blues Bar was quiet and empty when Duncan arrived. He picked the back door lock expertly and let himself in. Everything around him spoke of Joe; everywhere he looked his mind's eye supplied memories of conversations, of moments both funny and poignant.

I'm sorry Joe. Sorry I wasn't a better friend to you. This is all my fault, Joe and I'd give anything to be able to change what happened if I could. But you'll have your justice, my friend. The Two will die, I promise you that.

He pulled up a chair to sit at the crowded desk in front of the computer and switched it on.

Half an hour later Duncan still wasn't having any luck breaking into Joe's Watcher files. He knew his way around a computer, but he didn't have Methos' level of expertise, not to mention his knowledge of the Watchers' computer records. He was trying another six-character combination as a password when the rattle of keys in a lock told him that he was not alone. No presence, so the intruders were mortal. Duncan quickly depressed the computer's power button and slipped out the back door into the alley.

Damn! Talk about bad timing…

He chanced a quick look through the nearby window. A man and a woman, both unremarkable in every way, until Duncan saw the woman reach up to Joe's bookshelf, taking down a few volumes. The tattoo that marked her wrist told him all he needed to know. Watchers. Come to strip the office of all evidence of their existence, no doubt. Duncan was vaguely surprised they hadn't come sooner. There was no point in hanging around any longer. Duncan went back to his car and drove away.

He pulled up a little way down the street, realizing suddenly that he didn't know where he was going. There really was only one person he could think of that could possibly help him, whom he trusted enough and who had the requisite skills to penetrate the Watchers, someone in fact who'd done it before... Methos. It was one thing to acknowledge he couldn't take The Two alone; it was quite another to have to swallow his pride and go ask for his help.

Just thinking of him sent a fresh frisson of pain through Duncan's chest. How could he ask Methos to work with him after the things that they'd said to each other, the way they'd behaved? He'd be lucky if Methos didn't greet him with a sword. But how could he not go to Methos for help, after the friendship he and Joe had shared? Methos would no doubt be searching for The Two as well; it was ridiculous for them to be duplicating each other's efforts. He had convinced himself; he could only hope that Methos was as easy to sway.

Duncan shoved the Range Rover into gear and pointed it into the flow of traffic. After battling the Paris traffic for a short but frustrating time, he pulled up in front of Methos' building. Nervousness made his mouth dry and his heart pound as his fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his thighs. Before he could talk himself out of this, Duncan double-timed up the stairs and jogged down the hall towards Methos' apartment.

There was no warning, no prickle of premonition that forearmed Duncan against the sight that awaited him. The hallway was empty and unremarkable. The door was closed although he could see the splintered wood from the forced entry of the day before. In fact, until his knock went unanswered and he opened the door and looked inside, there was no reason for him to fear anything more than an unfriendly reception.

The devastation that greeted him left panicky white noise buzzing in his head. The apartment was trashed, the simple, elegant furnishings upturned and broken, the gutted sofa spilling its innards over the floor; viciously wanton destruction evident throughout. A knife edged pain sliced through him as he realized the special attention that had been paid to Methos' books, the coldly deliberate annihilation of each and every volume. Then his eyes were caught by the huge bloodstain marking the floorboards, dull red-brown and dry as yesterday's tears. Surely that was left from the fight yesterday, when they attacked Methos?

Duncan shuddered and advanced into the room. No presence, not a glimmer of Methos' signature, anywhere. Cautiously, Duncan moved through the rooms. No more blood, no bodies...no Methos. Yet in every corner of the apartment the same wanton devastation had occurred. There was no purpose or reason to the other things that were destroyed; it was as if the joy in their destruction was reason enough. The Two. It had to be. Perhaps looking to retrieve their lost weapons. But then, where was Methos?

A vision of Methos as he had found him yesterday almost buckled Duncan's knees: his body a bloodied crucifix on the floor, his beautiful body hacked open and The Two kneeling beside him about to cut out his heart. They'd already shown themselves to be willing to break any rule they chose. Could they have taken Methos, somehow? In any case, where was he? With his heart thudding in his chest, Duncan fled the apartment.

He found himself more able to think clearly once he was back in the open air. The books, something about the books teased at the back of his mind but he couldn't get at it. Think! The answer, when it came to him, was so appallingly obvious that he almost clapped his hand to his forehead to punish his brain for its slowness. The bookshop.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Seven

Shakespeare and Co had been Methos' bolt-hole before; it was entirely possible he was using it again. Only one way to find out. With a renewed sense of hope Duncan jumped back into his car and drove away. Throughout the short drive to the bookshop Duncan tried to imagine what he would say to Methos when he found him. He wouldn't mention their 'relationship' – what ever that was anyway – he would be reasonable and rational, appeal to Methos' loyalty to Joe and his need for vengeance against The Two. He could only hope that it would be enough.

A Mercedes bearing a large number of children and a harassed looking mother pulled out of a parking spot just in front of him and Duncan slid the Range Rover into the gap. The bookshop was just on the next block of Quai de Montebello and he quickly left the car to make his way to it. A light rain began to fall as he walked along the street and Duncan turned his collar up against it, pulling his coat more closely around himself.

Shakespeare and Co was closed, as he had expected, so Duncan made his way around to the back entrance that he remembered when Methos had sheltered Joe and him against the wrath of the Watchers. Might have been better if you'd gone then, Joe. A quick bullet would have been a lot kinder than what you got in the end. With an impatient toss of his head Duncan threw off that train of self-defeating thought and tried the lock that fastened the back door. The lock didn't resist his touch for long.

Duncan headed to the hidden door on the right and found the secret panel already open. Immortal presence assailed his senses as he slipped through the doorway. His heart leapt and for a split-second he smiled. Then reality crashed in on him once more: not Methos at all. With a sudden surge of bright anger he hurtled down the stairs to the wine cellar. He pulled his katana from the concealed sheath inside his coat, holding it ready before him as he burst into the room.

The Two were waiting for him. Duncan recognized the extent of his error approximately two seconds too late to do anything about it. The first stood at ease before him in the center of the room, rapier drawn, the second was behind him waiting beside the end of the staircase. As his momentum carried him into the basement he looked around and found himself trapped squarely between them. They regarded him silently; eerily identical expectant looks on their small faces.

"He has come," said the first, raising his sword and stepping closer to Duncan.

"We were correct to wait," agreed the second, lifting his blade to a hair's breadth from the nape of Duncan's neck.

"Which one of you is it going to be this time? You, One? Or you, Two?" Duncan slowly moved around in a circle as he spoke, the katana raised high, trying to keep both of The Two in his line of sight. He shrugged his coat to the floor, not wanting to be encumbered by its heavy weight.

"We are one," The Two answered together, as if they had rehearsed that very response. "We shall take you as one."

Duncan sneered and swung the first blow towards the man in front of him, at the same time he felt the subtle shift of air on his skin that heralded the swinging blade behind him and ducked just in time to avoid it. He spun away and found them both before him. They advanced as if they were practicing sword forms in unison; the identical thrust and cut of each blade surprisingly simple to parry. But for all that, they still advanced on him, pushing him deeper into the huge underground room.

A solid shape blocked his backwards motion and Duncan spared a brief glance to find out what it was: a neat pile of boxes, stacked floor to ceiling. Could be useful... He worked the fight around, subtly maneuvering the man on his right so that he stood between Duncan and the boxes. Just then the man on his left began a rapid series of diagonal slashes that took all Duncan's attention to fend off. He felt rather than saw the incoming blow from the man on his right, it whistled in high, quick and deadly, aiming directly for his neck.

Duncan bent at the waist away from the blow and at the same time kicked out with a high, snapping, reverse kick. The move caught the small man on the point of his chin and sent him spiraling into the stack of boxes which collapsed all around him. He was knocked him to the floor, his sword skittering away from his lifeless hand. Duncan straightened out of the maneuver barely in time to block an incoming thrust from the other of The Two. Their blades clanged dully and Duncan went on the attack at last.

He rolled his shoulders; loosening muscles cramped by too long on the defensive and fixed the remaining one of The Two with a lupine grin designed to intimidate. Using the katana as if it too was a rapier, holding it one handed and in front with his other hand placed arrogantly on his hip, Duncan pushed the smaller man back with moves learned so long ago in Spain. MacLeod traded blows with other Immortal, growing more confident by the minute as the fight went on.

As they wove around the old furniture and statues that Methos had stored haphazardly around the room, Duncan changed the flavor of his attack yet again. Grasping the ivory dragon's head of the katana in both hands and bending his knees to avoid the rafters, Duncan swept a huge circling overhead blow towards the other man. It was blocked at the last second by a desperate, vertical blade held inches from its owner's throat. Duncan growled low and menacing deep in his throat and advanced again, aiming brutal, two-handed slashes at the other man. Victory was singing wild and strong in his veins as Duncan drove the smaller Immortal back against the far wall of the cellar. If it had not been for the tiny betraying look of relief crossing the small man's face, Duncan may never have noticed the approach of his opponent's partner.

He was almost too late to avoid the incoming thrust. A glimmer of movement at the farthermost edge of his peripheral vision was all the warning that Duncan received of the second Immortal's return to the battle. He sidestepped a split second too late to avoid taking the tail end of the blow and took a deep cut to the large muscle of his thigh. Duncan hissed breath into his lungs and spun out of the way. He could feel the hot blood pumping from the wound as he desperately played for enough time to heal.

The Two advanced on him in unison once more. The futility of his position struck Duncan suddenly, as he continued to fend off The Two's attack. Barring the improbable scenario of his being in a position to take both men's heads at once, his only hope was a quick exit, hopefully in one piece, even that was looking increasingly unlikely as The Two continued to batter his defenses with their uncannily similar styles.

Duncan had never seen two Immortals fight so identically, never in all the battles of four hundred years. He wondered, briefly, what Methos would do to get out of this situation, before deciding that Methos would never have been caught like this in the first place. Thoughts of the eldest Immortal brought his concentration snapping back into focus.

A window of opportunity presented itself so unexpectedly he was almost too surprised to take advantage of it. He had been driven back towards the center of the room again, back towards the collapsed stack of boxes. Books had spilled from a ruptured carton and they littered the floor like fallen leaves under a tree. Duncan felt one at the back of his heel and stepped lightly over it.

The thought came to him suddenly, a gift from his subconscious, and as his back foot passed over the heavy volume he kicked it forward sending it skimming across the floor. It was just enough. It hit the foot of the nearer of The Two, making him stumble forward. As the man battled to regain his balance his free arm flailed forward wildly, and for a shocked millisecond all Duncan could think of was his first battle with Xavier St Cloud. With a sweeping downward cut Duncan sliced down and through flesh and bone, cleaving the Immortal's forearm in two. The severed limb thudded to the floor, dark blood flowing from the ragged end.

Bright arterial blood pumped from the massive wound as the injured man dropped his sword and collapsed to the floor, bellowing in despair. Duncan refused to look at the fallen man, still desperately trying not to bleed to death on the floor. His partner, infuriated, leapt after Duncan, swinging wildly. They traded blows back and forth, neither conceding an inch of ground, each man down to last reserves of strength now.

Sweat poured from Duncan's brow, running into his eyes in a stinging stream. He blinked desperately, trying to clear the blurring from his vision, returning the blows more by instinct than anything else. Duncan took a glancing blow on the forearm as he fended off an ambitious upward slash, before retaliating with a wide, swinging cut on the backhand, the katana's razor-sharp edge reversed towards his opponent. The little man ducked under the cut at the last second, the blade missing him by the tiniest of margins. The momentum of the blow carried the katana far beyond its target, crashing solidly into the brick wall.

It lodged there, deep in the mortar between the brickwork, defying Duncan's attempts to yank it free. Frantically he jerked at the hilt but, seeing him virtually unarmed, other Immortal was coming in for the kill. There was nothing else for it but to abandon his weapon and get the hell out of there. Duncan's opponent came in close, bloodlust bright in his small, dark eyes. Duncan waited, poised for the final blow.

It came. A huge over-confident swing telegraphed from far, far away. Duncan waited for the moment that it was too late for the other man to pull the blow and leapt into a lethal roundhouse kick that caught the smaller man high in the chest, hurling him back into the center of the room. With a last futile tug on the jammed katana, Duncan gave it up and scrambled up the stairs out of the basement.

He burst out of the stairwell and into the pale afternoon sunlight, sucking the cold air into his lungs with conscious gratitude. It was wonderful after the blood-tainted closeness of the basement. Adrenaline still coursed a desperate rhythm through his system as he jogged quickly down Quai de Montebello, towards his car. He unlocked the door and slid in behind the wheel, his hands still shaking with the nearness of the battle. Too close by far.

He was going to need a new strategy if he was going to defeat The Two. He needed a new sword – that would have to be first on his agenda, which would probably mean disregarding the police tape and going back aboard the barge. Duncan was fairly certain the police search hadn't included the hidden compartment that was his weapons storage cache, he'd probably be sitting in a jail cell right now if they had, he reasoned.

It wasn't far to the barge from the bookshop; Duncan started the car and drove away. A few minutes later he pulled up on Quai de la Tournelle near the mooring. A quick look about the quayside confirmed that the police were no longer guarding the scene. Moving swiftly, Duncan left the Range Rover and boarded the barge, ignoring the fluttering crime-scene tape that was supposed to keep him out. Unlocking the door, he breathed deeply – once, twice – steeling his spine with his hand poised on the cold metal of the doorknob, before he took the plunge and went below.

His heart thudded desperately as he re-entered the living area for the first time since that awful moment. The slaughterhouse scent had faded somewhat and the bloodstains had dried to a dull red-brown ochre. The thin mattress with its telltale stain remained although the bedding had all been removed. 'Taken with the body for forensics, most likely,' he thought and then had to resolutely steer his thoughts away from that subject before the memories became overwhelming.

Unwilling to spend any more time on the barge than strictly necessary, Duncan went straight to the galley and opened a small cupboard beneath the bench. He knelt down and removed the few saucepans that were stored there and then, pressing firmly on a concealed lever, lifted the false bottom of the cupboard away. The cache was undisturbed, much to his relief; several swords and other bladed weapons lay there, each wrapped in oilcloth. He chose a katana, similar in size and weight to the dragon-head, but austere where the other was ornate.

He set the sword aside carefully and returned the cupboard to its former state. Rising quickly from the floor, he sheathed the new katana. He had been forced to leave behind his long coat in his flight from the bookshop so he grabbed another from his wardrobe and then, forcing himself to walk and not run, left the barge behind. It was not until he was sitting behind the wheel of his car that Duncan released the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.

'Methos, where the fuck are you?' he wondered impotently.

He needed time and space, to think and plan his next move. A vision of wide green spaces, of gentle order and elegance came into his mind, chased by a memory of another time when he and Methos had been far apart. Duncan sighed once, started the engine and drove away. He headed away from the barge, winding his way through the city streets away from the Seine.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Eight

Duncan left the car parked on the wide street and crossed over into the Luxembourg Gardens. He walked through the calm green space, oblivious to the lovers and families and children scattered about the park, feeling the simple benediction of fresh breeze against his skin. He walked until he came to a familiar place, a quiet section of the gardens marked by a simple statue of the Greek god Pan. Duncan shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets and sank onto a nearby bench.

He sat there, deep in thought, as life milled and flowed around him. He felt apart from it all, separate, alien. Not an unfamiliar sensation for him or any Immortal, so why did he feel the sudden fervent need to talk to Methos about it? Methos... Where are you? When did this all get so fucking complicated? They had been friends much longer than they had been lovers and yet that was how Duncan's heart remembered Methos – as a lost lover. Sensory memories ached and prickled along his skin, need and loss and desire mingling uneasily.

So when the first tinkling strains of Presence played along his sensory pathways and the recognition came that the lanky figure shambling towards him was indeed the one he sought, it was not all surprising that Duncan's heart leapt into a shaky staccato rhythm. Pride and memory kept him seated, though, and he merely raised his head to acknowledge Methos' presence.

"Room there for me?" Methos asked as he drew close enough.

"Free country," Duncan replied shortly, looking off into the middle distance.

"Nice day for it," Methos ventured with a hint of wry amusement flavoring his voice as he sat.

Duncan couldn't play word games; he leapt to his feet, rounding on Methos. "Where the hell have you been, Methos? Do you realize I've been looking all over Paris for you? Now you just show up here out of the blue and all you have to say for yourself is 'nice day for it'?" he yelled, remembering at the last moment that they were not in private and restrained his outraged bellow somewhat belatedly.

Methos looked up at him calmly, only a faint trace of annoyance ghosting across his features. "Sit down, MacLeod, before you attract a crowd." He waited for Duncan to comply before he went on. "Why do care where I've been? I thought you made it perfectly clear you never wanted to lay eyes, or anything else, on me ever again." He slouched even deeper into the bench and extended his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, a picture of unconcerned innocence.

"I went looking for you at your apartment – you weren't there." As if that explained it all.

"I thought, given that our little friends knew where I lived that a strategic withdrawal was in order. I'm staying…elsewhere for the moment."

"They've been to your place, it's trashed."

"See? I was right. They probably wanted their little toys back. Tough luck." Methos paused for a moment. "What did you want, anyway?"

"When?"

"You came looking for me at my flat. You must have wanted something, MacLeod. What. Was. It?" Methos enunciated the last question so carefully his lips drew back from his teeth like a snarl.

"Oh. I needed to talk to you about Joe – about the investigation."

"And? Will you please find a point and get to it soon? Gods!"

Duncan winced a little at the exasperation and shook off the distraction that was fogging his head. "I think we need to access the Watchers' information to get a line on The Two. I tried to get into Joe's computer at the bar but the Watchers got there just after me and I couldn't crack the password anyway. I had to get out of there before they saw me. I was going to suggest we work together on this, to try to find The Two before the cops do. They've been at the bookshop, you know."

"The cops? What would they be doing—?"

Duncan interrupted, "No. Not the cops – The Two."

"And you would know this because…? Because you were there too, of course," he answered himself in exasperation. "What did you do? Take them both on?"

MacLeod didn't answer but continued to study the statue of Pan as if it held all the answers that he sought.

"You did! You bloody idiot. What is it with you, MacLeod? Got a fucking death wish? Damn it, I am not sticking around to watch you throw your head away on some piece of crap like that pair. Commit suicide on your own time, I'm outta here." Methos rose smoothly from the seat and stalked away without a backward glance.

"Methos, wait!" Duncan called, breaking into a jog as he went after him.

Methos ignored the call, pulled his coat more tightly around himself and kept walking.

Duncan caught up with him, grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "Wait, Methos! It wasn't like that at all! Please, just listen to me for a minute?"

Methos drew himself up to his true height, death glittering behind his eyes, making Duncan's breath hitch in his chest. He slammed one large hand to the center of Duncan's chest and forced him back into the trunk of a tall tree. "Do not put your hands on me again, MacLeod," he hissed, low and deadly. "You were not invited."

Duncan went from anger to blinding arousal the second Methos touched him. He was so close Duncan could smell the heat rising from him, could see every color in the chameleon eyes, and see the hint of pink tongue behind the parting of small sensual lips. Methos was so beautiful. Duncan ached for him, every cell in his body sang with intense, unbidden want.

***

Methos was furious. It wasn't enough that the idiot Scot laid down his sword and offered his head to that moronic little Irishman, O'Rourke – no, practically the very next day he had to go chasing down two Immortals at once and ones who had only a passing acquaintance with the rules at that. It was beyond stupid, it was suicidal and there was no way that Methos was ever going to watch Duncan MacLeod with a blade to his throat again. It was just too much to ask.

"Methos, I really wasn't trying to take on The Two on my own," Duncan began in a lower voice. "They ambushed me in the wine cellar," he whispered as his eyes gazed into Methos'.  "I was lucky to get away at all…" His eyes drifted down to fix on Methos' mouth. He inhaled raggedly as Methos leaned in closer.

Sometime while Duncan was speaking in that honeyed tone and looking at him like he was the feast at the end of Ramadan, Methos' fury evolved into something darker and sweeter, something that coiled like a sun-warmed python in his belly. Duncan was looking at him with such hunger, such melting, yearning desire that Methos would have had to have been made of stone to resist. He slipped his hand up from Duncan's chest to lay it gently against Duncan's cheek, propping his weight on his other arm against the tree.

"Don't look at me like that if you don't mean it," Methos whispered roughly, his eyes intent on devouring Duncan.

"You mean, like I want you?" Duncan rasped, his hands stealing out to rest on Methos' hips.

Methos leaned in to press his body closer. He could feel the hard ridge of Duncan's arousal pressed against his own. "Yes."

"But I do want you." 

The low intimate whisper crept in through Methos' defenses and melted the last icy shards from his heart. Duncan's mouth was irresistible. So he leaned in and took it. His tongue darted out to trace the seam of Duncan's lips and felt them open to invite him in. Their bodies pressed close against the tree as their arms tightened around each other. There was such passion, desperation and sadness mixed up in the kiss that when they finally broke apart, trembling and gasping for breath, they could not speak but only held tight to each other.

"We really can't do this now," Methos began after a long moment, his words heavily laden with regret.

"I know," Duncan answered. "There's a little matter of Immortal serial killers running around Paris. Joe was the ninth victim. We have to stop them, Methos."

"I know, but I wasn't really talking about that. I mean this – us. I really don't think we should go making any major decisions right now, it's all too raw, too intense. Let's just get The Two permanently shortened and then we might be able to catch our breath long enough to be rational about this. Okay?" Regretfully, Methos pushed away from Duncan's entangling arms and stood just in front of him, waiting for an answer.

Conflict warred across Duncan's face as he battled desire with good sense. "I know you're right," he said roughly. "But I can't help wanting you." Duncan looked across into Methos' eyes. "I need you, Methos. I thought I could do it all without you but I can't." He swallowed hard, his larynx bobbing in his throat. "I don't want to."

Methos' self-control wobbled a little in the face of this open declaration. "Gods, Duncan, don't look at me like that," he whispered ruefully. "Someone has to be sensible about this. Not quite sure how I got the job," Methos quipped with a self-deprecating smile as he raked a hand through his hair. "All this," and he waved a hand between them, "will just have to wait," he repeated with more certainty than he felt.

"I know. Of course you're right."

Methos smiled. "Now if you can just keep on remembering that we'll get along just fine." He moved aside to let Duncan step away from the tree. "Have you eaten?"

"Not for a while, you want to get something?" Duncan asked as they began to walk through the park.

"Yeah, and then we can work out how we're going to catch up with The Two. It's not going to be easy you know. They've been doing this a long while and they're good at it."

"Yeah, but so are we," Duncan answered with that wide, cocky smile that could make Methos forget his own name.

"Indeed."

***

"So are you going to tell me who the blonde was?" Methos dropped the question casually into the middle of their relaxed lunch conversation.

"Blonde?" Duncan frowned over a mouthful of club sandwich.

"Yes, the very blonde female you were wearing outside the police station. Remember her?"

"Oh…you mean Renee." Duncan made a face as if he'd forgotten that morning had ever happened. "She's an old friend and I was not wearing her." Duncan shot Methos his most charming smile. "It was just a hug for an old friend who helped me out. What were you doing there anyway?"

"Looking for information, same as you. Only no pretty blonde cops kissed me," Methos teased. "Find out anything new?"

"You could say that. A lot's happened over the last twenty-four hours."

Methos made a questioning face around a forkful of quiche. So Duncan filled him in, sparing no detail.

"I still can't believe they think we could have had anything to do with it. Renee did mention that Joe was the only one they found indoors, all the rest were found outside, alleys and places like that." Something dark flickered over Duncan's face as he said, "I think that they knew he was my friend, I think it was a deliberate act of cruelty to kill him like that where they knew I'd be the one to find him. Payback for the past."

Duncan's voice was taut with rage and Methos only nodded in agreement, what could he say that wasn't a shallow platitude? It was abundantly clear to him that the attack on Joe had been intensely personal.

"Did you know he was the ninth?"

Methos shook his head. "No…I haven't been back in town very long this time and I haven't kept up with the news. They have been busy little boys, haven't they?"

"Not for much longer. It was a lucky break running into Renee like that, it's been years since I've seen her."

"She was good friend, then?"

Duncan's mood seemed to lift a little and he smiled that warm, intimate smile that spoke of happy memories. "Yeah."

"Bet she doesn't know you're toying with playing for the other team," Methos threw out with a careless grin edged with a fine patina of cynicism. He wished he'd never spoken when he saw the look cleaving the happiness from Duncan's face.

"Toying with? Playing?" Duncan's voice was utterly incredulous. "Is that what you think I'm doing? That this is some sort of an experiment on my part? You really don't know me at all, do you?!" He shoved back his chair and stood, hurling some bills onto the table. He began to stalk away and got about half a step before Methos clamped a hand around his wrist.

"Sit down," Methos growled between tightly clenched teeth.

Duncan glared back, but didn't move. "Fuck off!" he hissed, trying to tug his hand away.

"Sit down MacLeod, before I break your wrist," Methos ground out. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."

Duncan glanced around the small brasserie, hesitated, then apparently decided to comply. Methos released the wrist he held and Duncan rubbed it, still glaring furiously.

"I'm sorry – all right?" Methos apologized, though his eyes didn't quite meet Duncan's. I didn't mean for it to sound like that. That's not what I think at all. This is why we can't do anything about the personal stuff right now; we're neither of us quite rational. Can we just set it aside until all this other business is sorted out?" he waited for Duncan to answer but the Scot was resolutely silent. "Duncan?" Methos repeated.

Duncan's jaw was tight and his eyes were obsidian-hard as he looked across the table at Methos. "Fine. For Joe's sake. I'm finished here, shall we go?"  He pushed away from the table and went to stand up. "If you've no objections, that is," MacLeod added, a sarcastic twist to his mouth.

"None at all," Methos answered with chilly correctness. "Let's go."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Nine

They reached Methos' hotel room not long after. He'd chosen a discreetly elegant establishment not far from the Luxembourg Gardens, tucked away in a side street. Good security and front and back entrances, just in case. Methos swiped the electronic key to the door of his room and stood aside to let Duncan go in ahead of him. Duncan strode in without a word. Methos pushed the door closed behind them and went straight to the small desk where his laptop was already set up.

"Right, I think we should see what our little friends have been up to lately. I downloaded what little the Watchers have on them last night, the printouts are over there if you want to look at them." Methos gestured at the nightstand beside the bed as he settled himself at the desk.

Duncan sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the sheaf of papers. What he found there didn't make him happy.

He read aloud, "Jaime and Rafael de la Hoya – AKA The Two. First recorded in 1650 in a remote village in Galicia, Spain, as the wards of one Manuel de la Hoya: Immortal. Second-hand information at the time stated that de la Hoya and his mortal wife adopted Rafael first and then Jaime the following year. He raised them as twins, apparently, that's interesting. Where did he find them, I wonder?

"Jaime had his first death in 1675; their Watcher thought Jaime was responsible for Rafael's first death a few months later. They shared the same teacher, Manuel de la Hoya – big surprise there. Here's something else that's interesting…their Watcher thought one or both of them was responsible for de la Hoya's death in 1677, but he was never able to confirm it.

"They dropped out of sight for about a hundred years, no Watcher records at all for that time. They next show up in the States, probable sightings in the mid-west connected to a series of bizarre killings across several states." Duncan paused, unable to quite comprehend what he was reading. "Methos, this says they are thought to have committed up to sixty murders! How is it that no one's dealt with them up 'til now? All those innocent people… Why haven't we heard of this pair before this?"

Methos looked up from the laptop screen, turning his head slightly to talk over his shoulder. "They've been out of action a long time, they dropped out of sight after that business in Philadelphia. No one seems to know where they go or what they do when they drop out of sight, but every so often they drop back in again and the killing starts up once more. What we need to do is figure out what their next move's going to be and beat them there. I'm just trolling through the Watcher reports for Paris in the last couple of months, see what they have to say for themselves…" Methos trailed off as his attention was drawn back to his research.

"What about all that crap they were talking about, 'The Taking' and 'completing the circle' or 'sharing the power'? Do you think that could help us find them?"

"I truly have no idea, Mac. Just hush up for a while and let me finish this," Methos replied with an impatient note in his voice.

Duncan, feeling like an impertinent child put in his place, sat back against the headboard of the bed, glared at the older man and waited in sullen silence. Methos could be so bloody high-handed sometimes. If he wasn't so damned…compelling, this would so much easier. If the sheer proximity of the man wasn't enough to set every nerve in Duncan's body to a fine, humming tremor, making him yearn for things he would, in all probability, never have, then he could sit here on Methos' bed surrounded by his scent and pretend that they were just friends, comrades working together to defeat a common enemy – but they weren't and he couldn't. Not any more.

There was so much more at stake here than even the need to avenge Joe's death. Duncan knew, with an unerring certainty, that what happened in the next few days would decide the course of both their lives. If they could manage to work together, to communicate and cooperate with one another then there might be some hope for a future together. Otherwise all they had was heat and lust and as much as he craved it, Duncan knew it could never be enough for him in the long run. It came to him suddenly that he wanted the long run with Methos, wanted everything that went with that and he wanted it with a certainty and clarity that astounded him.

***

Methos looked up as Duncan made a small surprised noise behind him. He turned to look inquiringly over his shoulder at the Scot. Duncan was sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard looking at Methos with an expression of one whom has just received an unexpected epiphany.

"Mac?" Methos began, "everything all right?"

At first Duncan appeared not to have heard his question; then he shook his head and replied with an oddly beatific smile, "I'm fine, Methos. Everything's fine. I was just…thinking, that's all."

"Well, don't hurt yourself," Methos quipped and turned back to his work.

Duncan had been through a lot these last few days and Methos was beginning to think that he should be taking it a little easier on the boy scout. He'd been through a hell of a time, even for him, and they had a long way to go before it was over. Over. Now that was a word he didn't want to think too closely about. Once all this was over then chances were that they would be too. As much as he wanted things to be otherwise, Methos was too much of a realist to hope for the sort of miracle that would keep Duncan at his side and in his bed once the fire, or the novelty, wore off.

It would wear off, of that he no doubts at all. Methos was certain that once all this insanity was over Duncan would fall head over heels for the next pretty (female) face and that would be it for him. Methos flicked a glance at the man on the bed behind him and felt his body react automatically. Methos turned quickly back to the computer, shifting a little uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the crotch of his jeans as a flurry of mental images swept through his mind.

***

Duncan watched Methos closely as the changes came over his body. He could see the tension growing in the broad shoulders as he wriggled in the chair, heard the little catch in his breath, and most telling of all, saw the rosy flush spreading over the pale skin on the back of Methos' neck. Duncan could imagine the bulge that would be filling those soft, faded jeans to uncomfortable tightness and found that his own body was doing that very thing. Disregarding all the sensible rational reasons why he shouldn't and silencing that intrusive voice of reason that was screaming, wait! Duncan slipped from the bed and padded across the thickly carpeted floor to stand behind Methos.

"Methos?" Duncan's voice was thick and rough.

In a single smooth movement Methos stood, pulled Duncan into his arms, walked them the two steps to the bed and pressed Duncan back into it, following him down, not letting go for a second. Their bodies fitted perfectly together, Methos' weight was a delicious pressure bearing Duncan down onto the bed. He looked up into the hazel eyes, seeing only desire gleaming in their depths.

"Yes?" Methos answered at last. "Something you wanted, Mac?"

Duncan met his eyes, unflinching in his honest need. "You. I want you, Methos."

***

Were there ever four more treacherous, dangerous, hazard-filled words in this or any other language?

Methos took one last grasp at reason: "We said we'd wait 'til this was over…"

"I know. I can't wait." Duncan's arms tightened around Methos' waist. "I want you now, Methos." He bent one knee to rub his thigh along Methos' leg, arching his hips up to rub their erections together. "Do you want me?"

The tiny hint of vulnerability Methos could see in Duncan's eyes was his final undoing. By way of an answer he lowered his mouth to the full soft lips below him and with gentle reverence claimed them for his own. The spark that was lit by that feathering touch caught so quickly neither man had time to catch his breath as they swept each other into a ravenously needy kiss. Clothes were tossed aside by skin-hungry fingers, mouths searched and teased and claimed.

Duncan's hands clutched and stroked over Methos' skin, the contrast of the gentle caress of rough hands its own unique stimulation. The hands traced every surface they could reach and Methos found himself arching into their touch, frantic to prolong it. He claimed Duncan's mouth again, plunging his tongue into the sweetness of it, losing himself in the taste and feel of his lover as he responded with desperate, heedless hunger.

Then Methos was kissing down sweat-slippery surfaces; over the pure burnished gold of Duncan's chest, over the tense, tight muscled belly, his nostrils full of the heady musk of Duncan's arousal. If his hands shook a little when they pushed aside soft cotton to find the velvet-sheathed cock, then it could only be the sudden surge of adrenaline caused by this unexpected turn of events, not through any excess of emotion.

At least that was what he told himself as his trembling hands held Duncan's cock upright for the first caress of his tongue. He breathed hard to keep control as Duncan gasped and heaved and writhed in counterpoint to every touch of lips and tongue to his heated flesh.

"Oh god, Methos! Please!" Duncan gasped as Methos swallowed him whole, slipping his mouth up and down along the thick shaft.

Was there ever in the whole of his life a lover like this? Methos couldn't remember anyone ever making him feel quite like Duncan did, alternately powerful and humbled. Strange sensations, yet strangely familiar, plunging wholeheartedly into the terror that was life in the orbit of Duncan MacLeod, while simultaneously keeping his distance. Methos made a conscious effort to drag himself back to the here and now and flicked the tip of his tongue softly and quickly across the little spot along the edge of the underside of the head of Duncan's cock, relishing the bone-deep shudder that rippled across the golden body.

"Methos…oh fuck!" Duncan gasped as his back bowed off the bed. "Please…ohpleaseMethos…" Duncan trailed off into total incoherence.

An insistent electronic warbling thrust itself into their notice. A tune played over and over, surrealistically appropriate.

Methos let Duncan's cock slip from his mouth. "Fuck!" he hissed under his breath as he rested his forehead against Mac's hipbone.

"Oh Christ," Duncan groaned, "you better answer it."

Methos slithered off the bed and snatched the cell-phone from where it sat on the desk still tinkling its mini-version of muzak.

"Yes!" he snapped by way of a greeting to the unfortunate on the other end. He listened, transferred the phone from his right hand to his left, and bent over the desk to jot down notes as the caller spoke. "When?" He wrote some more, ignoring Duncan as he came to stand close behind him. "Are they still there?" He shrugged off Duncan's hand as it made a gentle foray into the hair at his nape. "Thanks, Jeff, appreciate it." He snapped the tiny cell-phone closed.

***

Duncan watched as all traces of the passionately focused lover of minutes before faded completely and were replaced by the hard, determined face of concentration that Methos now wore as he listened to the unidentified caller. Duncan reached out to him, unable to still his need to touch, to connect physically with this man that called to his soul on so many levels. The brush-off hurt – hurt deeply – even though he understood Methos' need to focus on the conversation without distraction. He turned away and went to find his far-flung clothes and put them on.

Duncan looked up sharply as he heard the click of the cell-phone being shut off. "Is it them? Do you have a line on where they are?" he asked as he zipped his jeans gingerly over still-engorged flesh.

"We might," Methos answered as he picked up his own pants from the floor. "Jeff does data-entry for the Watchers, he sees the field reports before they get entered into the system. Kind of a useful guy to have on-side."

"And he's calling you out of the goodness of his heart?" Duncan interrupted suspiciously.

"Well, no. Of course not." Methos shook his head, apparently amused at the very thought. "He owes me. Convenient, isn't it?" he smirked.

"So what did he say?" Duncan chose to avoid the touchy subject of Methos' habit of 'collecting' people who could be useful later, because very occasionally in the dark of the night Duncan wondered whether he fell into that category himself.

"There was a report of a head-hunter making a random challenge to a little man fitting the description of one of our 'friends' just off Rue Lamarck near Montmatre cemetery about an hour ago. The guy's Watcher thought it was weird when he realized his guy was fighting not one but two of the little bastards. Sound familiar?"

"So what happened? Did the head-hunter get one of them?" Duncan asked impatiently as he pulled his shoes onto his feet.

"Uh…no. Paris is now sadly down one headhunting Immortal. Pity that." Methos' sarcasm was as thick as ever.

"Did your friend say who he was?" Duncan finished tying his shoelaces and stood, raking fingers through his hair to tidy it.

"Some guy called Guy actually, well, Guy anyway," Methos corrected, giving the name its correct Gallic pronunciation with the flattened vowel sounds. "Guy de Challon, know him?" Duncan shook his head quickly. "Well poor old Guy is no more. Chalk another one up for The Two," Methos finished with a bleakly sardonic half smile, straightening the hem of his Henley over his jeans and reaching for his coat.

Duncan paused in the middle of slipping into his own coat. "Rue Lamarck? Near the cemetery? Holy ground's a convenient hiding place. Maybe a crypt or another building in the grounds? Worth a look, anyway." He raised an eyebrow in Methos' direction.

"Absolutely, let's go." Methos finished tucking his second blade into the sheath at his back, checked that his sword was secure in the lining of his coat and started towards the door.

Duncan put a hand to the plain hilt of the replacement katana hidden inside his coat and followed his lover out the door; an odd thought making him pause. "Uh Methos? Wasn't that tune your cell-phone played called, 'Another One Bites The Dust'? Isn't that just a little tasteless?" he asked, looking into suddenly sparkling hazel eyes.

The grin Methos flashed him was pure devilry. "Yep. Utterly tasteless. Like it?"

Duncan just grinned, shaking his head indulgently.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Ten

They crossed the Seine and Duncan watched silently as Methos threaded the SUV steadily through the avenues and boulevards towards Rue Lamarck. It was an interesting feeling to let the older man take charge, and trust in his ability to do so. Duncan had expected to want to drive, as he always did, to take charge, as he always did and yet here he was, sitting back and allowing Methos to run the show and it didn't bother him much at all. Very strange.

He knew he had changed over the past year but perhaps it was only now that he could appreciate just how much. The months after his return from Malaysia and his battle with Ahriman had marked such an essential change within him he doubted that Methos understood just how different he now was. He'd been adrift, disconnected and alone until Methos had closed the distance between them with a laugh and a soul-searing stare. He had found peace in those months alone but not happiness; understanding but not contentment. With Methos now in his life, Duncan felt as if he might have a chance at attaining those things too. If it wasn't too late – if the damage he'd done to their relationship wasn't irreparable.

They turned a corner as the cemetery loomed into view and Methos slipped the car into a gap on the side of the road. The crowded cemetery sprawled untidily before them. There were so many places The Two could be hiding, Duncan thought with a twinge of despair. How the hell are we ever going to search all of this place?

"One grave at a time," Methos answered grimly, as if he'd heard Duncan's thoughts.

Duncan turned to look at his lover, a query in the arch of his raised eyebrow.

"You think way too loudly, I could hear the wheels turning," Methos joked. "Come on, let's get on with it."

Duncan squared his shoulders and set off to face the endless rows of the dead, so lost in thought that he hardly noticed that Methos walked quietly beside him. He was so far inside himself that when Methos did speak Duncan was so startled that he almost jumped.

"It isn't your fault you know," Methos dropped into the broad silence. Duncan wanted to protest that he hadn't even been thinking about that, but he words wouldn't come and Methos went on: "Not any of them. You don't control who lives and who dies, and the sooner you stop thinking that you can, the happier you'll be." Methos paused as they walked between one row of graves and the next. "The only person you have any kind of control over is yourself, MacLeod. Everyone else's life, and death, happens in their own time according to their own fate and their own choices, not to punish you, not to teach you any sort of cosmic lesson. It's just life."

He paused again and Duncan waited for him to continue, not allowing the tumult of emotion he was feeling show on his face. It was too soon, he was too raw for this conversation, he could hardly believe Methos was forcing it on him.

"Mac? Are you hearing me? Does any of this make any sense to you? Or should I just go and tell it to that brick wall over there, give the stones the benefit of five thousand years of living?"

It was all too much. The facade cracked at last and Duncan met his eyes. "Can we please not do this now, Methos? Please?"

"Damn. I'm sorry, Mac." He laid a hand gently on Duncan's taut forearm. "But I do know..."

Duncan turned on him, anger flaring quickly, flinging off the hand and the offered comfort with an impatient gesture. He didn't need sympathy now, it cut too close, made him feel entirely too much. "Yes I know you know. You've done everything and been everywhere and felt everything its possible to feel. Well, forgive me for needing to work through it for myself! Your having done it before doesn't make it easier for me now, or haven't you learned that in five thousand years?!"

***

Duncan stalked away anger fuming in every pore. Behind him he heard Methos' steps crunching on the gravel. Then he was beside him at the end of a row of gravestones. "Mac? I'm sorry, okay?" he said softly.

Duncan shrugged off the apology. "Just leave it for now, Methos," he asked in a bone-weary voice. "Please? Let's just find these murdering little bastards and stop them before they kill anyone else."

"Fine," Methos answered shortly.

There was no trace of Immortal presence to be found as they trekked further and further into the maze of graves and crypts, statues and memorials. The air chilled around them as the rain set in yet again, a fine soft shower falling from the leaden clouds. Duncan was ostensibly ignoring his lover, watching him covertly from the corner of his eye as Methos shivered and pulled the collar of his coat up against his neck, wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

Duncan was lost in thought, his senses automatically searching for a hint of presence but the rest of his consciousness searching for answers, for elusive truths. He couldn't accept everything Methos was telling him, no matter how fervently he wanted to. There was order and meaning in the universe, there had to be, otherwise everything in which he'd believed all his life was a lie. There had to be more to life, to existence, than this simple philosophy of responsibility for the self and no other.

Duncan had been raised to believe that his strength, his abilities were a gift, given him to use to protect those less able. This had to mean that there was order and meaning to life, that he was put here for a purpose. Anything else made no sense at all. And yet there was a seductiveness to Methos' philosophy; the idea that the death that seemed to dog his every footstep was random, unconnected to him in any meaningful way pulled at his heart like a treasured dream.

He didn't believe it though, not deep down. The belief in his heart was too strong, too deeply embedded to be so easily swayed.

It seemed as if they'd been walking for hours up and down all these graves, famous and infamous, people great and small, some they'd both known at different times. But there was no trace of The Two – anywhere.

"This is pointless, Mac," Methos exclaimed as they rounded the last corner. "They aren't here. Perhaps they were on their way somewhere else entirely when they crossed paths with de Challon."

"But if they were walking around here then wouldn't that mean they are staying around here somewhere?" Duncan asked, puzzled, as he stopped in the middle of the row with his hands on his hips.

"They could have been coming from one of the Metro stations or any one of a thousand places around here."

"I just don't want to quit just yet. I feel like they're around here some place. Not far away but not here either, you know?" Duncan gestured futilely. "But where?"

"Come on, we can do a slow cruise around the area in the car, this rain isn't getting any warmer."

Duncan hesitated for a moment and then nodded. "I guess you're right, they aren't here."

The Immortals walked back to the car. Several times Duncan opened his mouth to begin to explain how he felt, why he'd reacted the way he had, but each time he thought better of it and remained quiet instead. There would be other times for this, when they both weren't so vulnerable. It was complicated and he wasn't sure he could make Methos understand anyway.

Their slow sweep of the neighboring area was proving as fruitless as their painstaking search of the cemetery. There was not a trace of Immortal presence anywhere. The silence grew tense once more and Duncan longed to untangle the snarl of emotions knotted in his chest and clear the air between them. A creature of honesty and openness, he was finding the half-stated facts and ill-defined feelings between them unbalancing to say the least. A furtive glance at Methos' tensely set face did nothing to encourage him.

And then there were The Two. Duncan felt a great surge of anger welling up inside every time he thought of Joe's butchered body, of Methos' treatment at their hands, of how close he'd come to killing them – twice – without being able to finish the job. More than anything, he wanted to hear the sound of their heads dropping to the floor, even if it did mean taking their poisonous Quickenings.

"You're going to need to lose that anger if we're to beat them, you know," Methos said into the silence.

"How did you...?"

"MacLeod, did you ever have an emotion you didn't wear all over your face? You're not exactly difficult to read." Duncan could just see the corner of a tight smile as Methos concentrated on navigating them through a crowded intersection.

"I keep forgetting you're such an authority on me," Duncan answered sullenly.

"Can I help it if I'm just naturally astute?" Methos' accompanying smirk was even more annoyingly smug.

The quip had the desired effect though and the tension eased a tiny fraction; Duncan relaxed back into the seat, a small smile playing about his lips. "Naturally full of yourself maybe," he shot back good-naturedly.

"Well, that goes without saying," Methos conceded with half a smile. "I meant what I said though, about being angry. You're going to need to set it aside when we find them. It won't do you a damn bit of good."

"I know Methos, believe me I know. I won't be letting them get away when I catch up with them."

"Hey, what's all this 'I'? Two of us, two of them, sounds like 'we' to me. Do the math, MacLeod. We have to do this together or it'll never work."

Duncan was quiet for a moment before he answered, "Yeah I know... I just... I just don't want to risk losing you too."

A thick silence spun out between them. Methos' voice was a little rough as he replied, "I'm getting kind of used to you being around, too…"

They settled back into silence once more, but this time it was neither strained nor uncomfortable.

***

The satirical chirp of Methos' cell-phone broke the quiet spell as the two Immortals were crossing the Seine on their way back to Methos' hotel. With one hand on the steering wheel he rummaged through his coat pockets to find and answer it.

His fingers closed around it at last, "Hello?" and then a short time later, "Yes?" and then several minutes later, "Damn!" Methos snapped the phone closed and tossed it onto the dash with a disgusted snort.

"What happened?" Duncan asked.

"The police have them," Methos answered simply, letting the implications wash over them both. Hell! Damn! Fuck!

"Shit!" Duncan hit the dashboard so hard with his fist that Methos was sure he heard the small crack of a bone and he flinched in sympathy.

"Feel better now?" he asked with a quick sideways glance at the Highlander who was now cradling his injured hand gingerly in his lap.

"Not really, no," Duncan ground out through gritted teeth. "Damn it Methos! What are we going to do now? Either they go to jail and we can't touch them, or they suicide in custody and escape that way and we lose them. Either way they still stay alive. We can't let that happen! What they've done goes far beyond mortal justice. We still need to find where they've been hiding, though. I'm sure they'll head back there the minute they're free."

"Yeah, I think you may be right there. Not a lot we can do about it now though, is it? Come back to my hotel and we'll talk about it."

"Yeah, we do need to talk."

Methos glanced quickly at the younger man, wondering at the weight of hidden meaning in the simple statement, but made no further comment.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Eleven
 

"How's the hand now?" Methos asked as they entered his hotel room. Duncan didn't lose his temper often but when he did he certainly didn't stint.

"Good as new," Duncan answered, flexing the now-uninjured extremity to prove it.

"Beer?" Methos reached into the mini-bar and withdrew a couple of green bottles.

"Yeah, thanks." Duncan sat on the edge of the bed.

"You know, Jeff mentioned something interesting when he called," Methos began as he passed Duncan a beer, popping the top off his own bottle. "He said de Challon's Watcher thought The Two took the Quickening together, that they both had their hands on the blade that took de Challon's head."

"Could that be what they meant by sharing the power, taking the Quickening together? I know we shared one, but that was from two Immortals, not just one…" Duncan trailed off, glancing warily at Methos.

Methos' saw the look, and knew it for what it was. The subject of the Horsemen was still one they avoided and they'd never really discussed what had happened during the joint quickening. Now wasn't the time to start. Instead he just answered mildly, "Yeah I think that could well be what they meant, but there's no way of knowing for sure until we get our hands on them."

"Is that possible? I've never heard of such a thing."

"Anything's 'possible' Mac," Methos retorted sharply. "Is it likely? No, not really. But then what's the likelihood of two Immortals pairing up like that? They can't be related, and yet they've obviously been raised as brothers. Psychologists would call it 'twinning' I think, strange syndrome any way you look at it... I wouldn't have thought it possible but there they are, like two twisted peas in a pod."

"You don't think they'll try to plead insanity, do you?" Duncan interjected.

Methos thought a moment, frowning deeply. "Maybe if this was the States, France is whole different kettle of fish, though...even without the death penalty. Hard to say what they'll do though. Mad little bastards."

"So... You never said where and how the cops caught them," Duncan began as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely cradling the beer bottle between his legs.

Methos sprawled a little deeper into the chair where he sat, appreciating the view of Duncan looking so relaxed again. "From what I could gather from the little my Watcher contact knew, they were caught in the act. They'd carted off de Challon's body to an alley and were up to their elbows in innards performing their little ritual when a gendarme on his beat happened to stumble across them."

"Just like that? By accident?" Duncan shook his head disbelievingly. "What part of the city were they in?"

"The cop found them in an alley near the Metro station at Porte de Clichy," Methos answered as he drained the rest of his beer.

"They didn't get too far, then, from where they took de Challon." Duncan looked thoughtful as he rose and crossed the room to gaze out the balcony doors. "It may be that their base is somewhere in that area. I'm sure it could tell us something if we found it. Do you have a city map?"

"Hmm... That's not a bad idea..." Methos trailed off as he turned to face the computer. "I haven't actually got one on hand but give me a sec and I'll find us one we can use on the Internet." Methos was quiet as he did a quick search and found the sites. "Here we go... Have a look at this."

Duncan turned away from the view of the gray Paris afternoon and went to stand close behind Methos, bending to look over his shoulder at the small laptop screen. "Okay, well here's where they were caught," he started, pointing to the station icon on the page. "Here's Rue Lamarck where the Watcher saw them, Cimetiere du Montmatre in between the two. It has to mean that their home base is somewhere around there, doesn't it?"

"That's still a big area though. We're really no closer – lots of Holy Ground though. Churches, cemeteries, even Sacre Coeur if it comes to that." Methos could feel the heat radiating from Duncan's body as it came so close to his own, and struggled to concentrate.

Duncan's warm, strong hand suddenly grasped Methos' shoulder. "Wait a minute! No... They wouldn't, it's too..."

Methos turned to face his friend, trying to ignore the tendrils of heat flowing through his body from the touch of Duncan's hand. "What MacLeod? Are you going to share this revelation or am I to remain forever ignorant?"

"Sacre Coeur? Sacred Heart?" Duncan answered as Methos noticed the rapid pulse beating in the younger man's throat and ached to taste it.

"Yes, I do know that translation, MacLeod. I was speaking French before you were an itch under your father's kilt; I'll have you know. What's that got to do with The Two?" Unconsciously, Methos wet his lips, finding them suddenly too dry for comfort.

"What do The Two take as a souvenir of their bloody little game?" Duncan's voice rasped a little over the question as Methos watched the younger man's eyes follow the path of his tongue.

Meaning dawned on Methos' face, fighting through the fog of his growing arousal. Not the time, old man. "Hearts. It does make a certain twisted kind of sense I guess. They wouldn't be hiding out there though, would they?"

"The Benedictine order that lives there runs a kind of hostel for pilgrims, but it's not inconceivable that they were hiding somewhere in the grounds too. I doubt they'd really want to be around a lot of people. There's hundreds of other places they could have used." Duncan's eyes were taking on the unmistakable color of lust and Methos could have let himself drown in them.

Methos stood, his long body flowing from the chair in a deliberately sensual way. Neither man retreated an inch, so when Methos was finally upright he stood so close to Duncan that he could feel the rapid feathering of the younger man's breath on his skin. For a long moment they stood, almost touching, almost climbing back over the fragile barricades, almost giving in to the passion simmering just below the surface.

Methos broke the tension and the moment fled like shadows before the light. "You're not just a pretty face after all, MacLeod," he quipped with a sardonic smile as he turned and gathered up his coat from the bed. "It's open for another few hours yet – definitely worth a look. Coming?"

***

Duncan let the insult slide, his only comment a raised eyebrow. This time. He shrugged into his own coat and followed Methos out the door. Slow-burning arousal still warmed strategic places on the Highlander's body as he followed the retreating figure down the hallway to the lifts.

He wanted Methos more now than he ever had, more than he ever thought it was possible to want another human being and the realization rocked him a little. Did he really want to put himself in the position of being that dependent on Methos? How could he reconcile the man he knew himself to be – the man he wanted to be – with this needy, desperate creature willing to do anything to keep Methos in his life? But was it need and desperation, he wondered, or was it simply his soul's recognition of its other half?

Methos stopped in front of the lift doors, pressed a button and turned to look at Duncan. It was that same look that started it all, Duncan was instantly drawn into that strange place where he and Methos were the only inhabitants, a vacuum of time and space where he was swallowed up by the vision of himself reflected in those luminous eyes. Doubt, worry and self-consciousness fell away in that brief stunning moment and Duncan was left with only the essential parts of himself. It was then he knew the truth: this man answered every true part of himself, every strength and talent, every dent and flaw, and that was more than enough.

Methos broke into his reverie. "You coming with me or not, Mac?"

"Always," Duncan answered, refusing to see the question in his lover's eyes. There would be time enough for explanations, later.

***

Tourists were crowded thickly onto the funicular that ferried them up the hill to the Basilica as the two Immortals left Methos' SUV and approached by foot up the steep slope. Even after they reached the church the multitudes made almost no impression on Duncan as memories of that strange dream journey he'd taken with Fitz flooded his mind. There were the steps where they had sat, joking and reminiscing. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. He walked to the railing where he'd looked down on Tessa and her children. The smile fled, his brows tightening quickly at the brief flash of pain that memory brought.

"Mac?" Methos' quiet voice filtered through the memories. "Duncan?" His hand clasped the younger man's forearm. "Are you okay?"

Duncan shook off the feeling of deja vu and turned to look at Methos. "We were here, this where Fitz brought me in that dream I told you about. God, Methos, it was so real and yet the world was so strange...so different."

"Oh, was this the Duncan MacLeod Changes The World dream? Or 'It's a Wonderful Duncan MacLeod'?" Methos asked with a wicked grin curving his mouth.

Duncan matched the expression. "Very funny. You know full well it was, I told you all about it the other night. Fitz took me all over Paris but it was here that I saw – dreamed I saw – Tessa. I wish you'd had the chance to meet her Methos, she was truly one of a kind." His smile turned bittersweet, poignant snatches of memory drifting through his mind.

The teasing fled from Methos' expression as he smiled gently into Duncan's eyes. "The best ones always are..." and he slipped his hand to briefly grasp Duncan's as it rested on the railing. "Come on, we've things to do," Methos said after a moment, turning to walk up the steps towards the domed church.

Duncan turned away from the view and followed him.

***

Sacre Coeur was a very big haystack in which to search for two small needles, Duncan realized two hours later. The massive Basilica with its huge triple-domed roof was only the beginning; there were also the extensive grounds and assorted outbuildings as well. The shadows lengthened and the air grew even cooler as the sun disappeared. The Immortals ignored their increasing discomfort and refused to give up.

The only Immortal presence they found during their long search belonged to an elderly nun, small and slight as a child. Methos and Duncan were crossing the shadowed gloom of the Crypt when they sensed her. Her serene, almost androgynous face creased in brief concern, as she became aware of them. Duncan gave her his best, reassuringly charming smile as they approached.

"Sister? May we speak with you a moment?" Duncan asked quietly.

The nun tucked her hands demurely into her flowing, old-style habit and nodded once.

Duncan took her elbow and guided her away from the crowd to a quiet alcove. "Sister, my name is Duncan MacLeod. My friend and I are looking for two Immortals who may have been here recently."

The nun's face closed off and grew hard. "This is a holy place, your game has no business here. I can't help y'all, I'm sorry," she answered in the surprisingly exotic accents of the southern United States and she moved to glide past them.

"Sister, wait!" Duncan called, too loudly for the whispering space. "Sister," he said again, more quietly, "please, it isn't like that. Give me a moment and I can explain."

She stopped. Eyes as palely blue as a watercolor sky searched his face. "One moment then, young man." Her eyes narrowed as she fixed them on Methos. "Do I know you? You look a little familiar to me…"

"Me?" Methos asked as Duncan recognized the old Immortal's best innocent face and bit his cheek to keep from laughing. "No Sister, I don't think so. I would surely have remembered a face as lovely as yours."

Duncan almost snorted at the obsequious charm.

The nun wasn't fooled either, she harrumphed inelegantly and looked back to Duncan. "Well, get on with it then. I ain't got all day you know."

"Of course," Duncan answered, growing serious. "These two Immortals have committed a long list of horrible murders, mortal murders, Sister. One of those that they killed was a very dear friend of ours. We need to find these Immortals and make them face justice." He let the earnestness of his expression emphasize his plea. "Have there been any Immortals hanging around the grounds or the buildings recently?"

The tiny nun was silent as she thought. Then she cocked her head to one side in a bird-like gesture and answered, "Kinda like twins? Little? Not tall, strappin' fellas like you two?"

Duncan nodded tightly. The bastards had been here after all.

"They were here, several days ago. We had to ask them to leave the Basilica as a matter of fact." Her pale cheeks colored and she cast her eyes down.

"Can you tell us why?" Duncan prodded gently, seeing the woman's obvious discomfort.

The nun pursed her lips in distaste. "They were behavin' in a most inappropriate manner up in the bell tower. I haven't seen them since. Now if you'll excuse me. I have to attend evening services." Without another word the nun bustled away.

Duncan rushed to stop her, catching her after two long strides. "Sister, will you take this card with my telephone number?" He scrawled his cell-phone number on the back of an old 'Duncan MacLeod: Antiques' card from his wallet and handed it to her. "Please, if you see them again, or if you remember anything else, will you call me?"

She tucked the card deep in a pocket at the side of her habit and hurried away.

"Thank-you, Sister," Duncan called after her.

The two men looked at each other in her wake. With a shrug, Duncan turned to follow her from the Crypt and Methos went with him.

"Inappropriate behavior?" Methos' eyebrow shot skyward as he smirked. "What do you think they've been up to?"

"Anyone's guess with those two," Duncan replied as they walked up the stairs. "So where'd you know her from?" Methos' acquaintances showed up in the most surprising places.

"Sister Mary-Kathleen? I don't really know her as such. I was on the same boat that brought her to Europe in...it must have been 1865 or 66. Kind of a sad story really, she had her first death aged seventy during the dying days of the American Civil War. A Benedictine protégé of Darius' found her and brought her with him to Europe. She was in Paris before this place was even built and she's lived on Holy Ground ever since. She's been with the order here since the day this ground was consecrated. She can never leave. Immortality's not always a guarantee of eternal youth and strength..." Methos trailed off, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Duncan reached out to him, dragged him back to he present. "So where to now? It's getting late, they'll be wanting to close the place to the public before long."

"Not much more we can do tonight. Not with The Two safely locked up for the moment, anyway. Guess I'll head back to my hotel, how about you?" Methos' eyes caught Duncan's and held, fixing him in place for a breathlessly long moment.

"We could get some dinner..."

"Room service?" Methos suggested, his voice a dry rasp.

"Yeah...that sounds good," Duncan breathed in reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twelve

True exhaustion was tugging at Methos' whole body by the time they arrived back at the hotel room. The day had seemed truly endless, a roller coaster of emotion and action that had left his mind reeling and his bones aching. As he let Duncan precede him into the room, Methos could see the signs of strain on his face too.

Duncan was pale under his tan, and his teeth worried at his full bottom lip. As he passed Methos, Duncan yawned, then smiled a little apologetically.

"Sorry, Methos. I guess today's taken more out of me than I first thought. It seems like I've been awake forever."

"We don't have to do this now, Mac. You probably want to get back to your hotel and get some sleep." Methos rubbed his hand over his own face and combed his fingers through his hair. "I don't mind eating alone."

Duncan frowned at the suggestion and appeared to make a conscious effort to look a little livelier. "Don't be silly, I'm fine and I'm starving. So let's order, okay?"

"Anything special you want?" Methos asked as he found the hotel directory and looked for the number.

"Whatever you want's fine with me. Just so long as it's food I'll be happy." Duncan went to the television and turned it on. "I wonder if there's been anything on the news about the murders?"

Methos watched as Duncan settled himself on the bed and began to channel surf for some news. He was so distracted by the Highlander stretched out so casually all over his bed he almost missed the room service operator answering his call. After a moment he came back to reality and ordered the meals, choosing the first thing that came into his head.

"Steak okay?" Methos asked as he crossed the room to perch on the edge of his bed, squinting at the small screen.

"Hmm? Oh yeah, that'd be great." Methos watched Duncan's attention become drawn back to the television as the Scot trailed off.

Duncan pointed the remote at the set and turned up the volume as Methos saw pictures of the latest kill site flash across the screen.

"Police today detained two suspects in the series of horrific murders that have been committed in Paris over the last two months," the newsreader intoned over the location footage.  "The two men were arrested whilst allegedly in the process of decapitating and mutilating a man near Porte de Clichy Metro station, bringing the grisly toll on these crimes to ten. More facts are expected to be released by police tomorrow as information is obtained from the suspects and from the ongoing investigation."

The pictures crossing the screen turned back to the bland face of the newsreader and Duncan lifted the remote control as if to turn it off. Methos saw an achingly familiar grin fill the screen and reached his hand out quickly to halt the movement. "Wait! Stop, Mac... It's Joe." His hand closed around Duncan's as they watched silently.

"Police also released the name of yesterday's alleged victim of these horrifying killers. He was this man: Joseph Dawson aged fifty – an American citizen living for the past few years in Paris. Mr Dawson was attacked early yesterday morning while at the home of an acquaintance, on a barge moored near Ile de la Cite. No further details have yet been made available on this shocking crime." The newsreader invoked a suitably solemn expression and went on to the next story.

Methos realized he was still hanging on to Duncan's hand as if his life depended on it as the picture of Joe's smiling face disappeared from view. He snatched his hand away and made a fairly transparent attempt to cover the gesture by motioning theatrically at the TV. "Bloody vultures, I wonder where they got that photo from? Did you recognize it, Mac?"

"No, maybe someone at the bar gave it to them? One of the staff?" Duncan shrugged.

"Maybe..." Methos trailed off, needing another distraction from the sight of Duncan so comfortably at home on his bed. "You know, Mac I think I'll go and grab a quick shower while we wait for the food. Just sign for it if they get here before I'm done, okay?"

Duncan looked at him with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows but agreed, "Sure, no problem."

Methos could feel Duncan's eyes fixed on him as he fled into the bathroom. A hot flush crept over Methos' skin as he climbed out of his clothes, dropping them absently on the bathroom floor. Duncan was out there, just a few feet away, lounging in all his unselfconscious sex appeal, all over Methos' bed. Methos' cock twitched at the thought and he regarded it warily.

"You just behave yourself," he murmured as he stepped into the shower and turned on the water.

For once the rebellious appendage seemed to listen and Methos completed his shower in relative peace. He stepped out again and a faint banging caught his attention. Food must be here. That was quick. He grabbed a towel and began to rub himself dry. The knocking returned. With an exasperated snort Methos wrapped the towel around his hips and strode out into the room.

"Mac, I thought you were going to get the door," Methos threw over his shoulder as he peered through the peephole at whoever was waiting on the other side. It was room service; the young man standing beside a wheeled cart loaded with covered trays and a bottle of wine. Methos opened the door and motioned him inside.

"Merci," Methos said to the attendant as he crossed the room to find his wallet for a tip.

He took two steps towards the bed, where his wallet lay on the nightstand, and stopped short. Mac lay still on the bed, his body curled gently around Methos' pillow, and he was soundly asleep. The warrior rests at last... After a moment Methos realized he was staring and forced himself to move again. He continued his path to retrieve his wallet and finally, with a murmured thank-you for the tip, the attendant wheeled the trolley out of the room and left.

As he pushed the door closed, Methos sighed and briefly inclined his forehead against the cool woodwork. He was desperately trying to remember all the really good reasons why it was so important that they wait until all this was over, but the sight of Duncan in his bed was making it a difficult task. A sudden rumbling noise broke his concentration and he almost laughed. His stomach was reminding him that his body had other needs, no matter how much he desired Duncan right now. Methos smiled ruefully and turned away from the door and went back into the room. They had time; delayed gratification was character building, or supposed to be at any rate. Although after five thousand years how much more character do I really need?

Duncan was still asleep as Methos dropped the towel and pulled on a pair of old sweat pants that he dragged from his duffle bag. He took one tray from where it rested on the table and carried it to the bed.

"Mac…" he began quietly as he sat on the other side of the bed. "Mac, wake up, the food's here." He lifted the cover off the plate and let the savory aroma waft across to the sleeping man.

Duncan's eyelids flickered, his nostrils flaring a little as he breathed in the smells. When he opened his eyes he appeared wholly unsurprised to find Methos' gaze matching his own, their eyes locked as Duncan smiled sleepily and sat up.

"Hi," Duncan's voice was husky with sleep as he yawned and stretched. "I guess I was more tired than I thought. Sorry." He turned his attention to the food. "Christ, that smells good."

Duncan at that moment looked more edible than any dish Methos could ever remember being served. His eyes were wide and soft, and his cropped hair was as wayward as it had been that morning when they'd woken tangled together and loved each other in the pale morning before their lives had been turned upside down. He was beautiful and Methos wanted him; it was as simple, and as complicated, as that. With conscious regret and an almost physical wrench, Methos pushed the desire aside again.

"I ordered wine, do you want some?" Methos rose from the bed and retrieved the bottle, pouring two generous glasses of the cabernet sauvignon.

"Yeah, thanks, Methos."

As Methos handed the glass to Duncan, he let his fingers brush gently across the other man's as the stem passed from one hand to the other, a frisson of electricity sparking in the touch. He saw the hunger flare in the younger man's eyes before Methos turned away again, ostensibly to pick up his own wine but using the opportunity to gather his unraveling self-control.

Duncan was hungrily plowing through the meal, while still sprawled across the bed. Methos retrieved his own tray from the table and joined him. They half lay, half sat together on Methos' wide bed, devouring rare steak, baked potatoes and small mountains of vegetables in completely companionable silence.

There was a small clatter as Duncan laid his cutlery down on the plate as he finished his meal.

"This was nice," he said as he slipped from the bed to put the tray aside. "Being here, having a meal together, just us. Peace and quiet." He sat back down on the bed and looked at Methos with a little uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "You know?"

The uncertainty touched him at least as much as the admission and Methos smiled, "Yeah, I know."

"It's getting late. I should think about going," Duncan said, although he didn't move.

"You could stay," Methos suggested before he could stop his heart bypassing his brain, by way of his mouth. He reached out a hand to enfold Duncan's and felt the younger man shiver. "Stay with me?" He didn't realize he was holding his breath until Duncan answered.

"Yes. Yes, I'd like that."

Methos smiled and felt as if his relief and joy were written in very large letters across his face for Duncan to read. He pressed Duncan's hand again.

***

Duncan returned the squeeze and the grin, suddenly lightheaded with expectation. It felt right, being here with Methos, knowing that Methos wanted him, needed him. Had it really only been a few hours since they'd almost made love right here on this bed? It seemed like days...

"I think I'll take a shower, if you don't mind?" Duncan asked as he released Methos' hand and unfolded himself from the bed.

"Be my guest," Methos smiled lopsidedly. "I'll be right here…"

Duncan's heart was hammering in his chest as he walked to the bathroom and closed the door. Expectation was making him dizzy; he almost tripped over his jeans as he tried to take them off. He could barely think for the blaze of desire burning in his veins. He rushed through his shower, lingering only long enough to get clean. His cock was already beginning to stir and he was acutely aware of it as he rubbed himself dry and wrapped the towel around his hips in a completely unnecessary concession to modesty. He flicked off the light switch and went back into the room.

Methos had cleared his own dinner things away and switched off all the lights but for a small reading lamp beside the bed. The bed itself was turned down and an elongated shape rested within.

"Methos?" Duncan whispered, surprising himself with the huskiness of his voice. The shape didn't move and Duncan spoke again: "Methos?" He looked down at the face of the oldest Immortal and his heart skipped a few beats. How many people could look that seductive sprawled all over a bed, fast asleep? He was curled on his side and Duncan could see the curve of a pale shoulder as it rose above the covers. Just the memory of the feel and the taste of that shoulder against his lips made Duncan's breath catch in his throat.

He couldn't bear to wake Methos from such a sound sleep, though. Not when he knew just how exhausted the other man was. Despite his arousal he felt it too, the dragging, otherworldly sense of disorientation that comes with true exhaustion. Duncan sighed; at least he could sleep with Methos in his arms again. He discarded the towel and turned off the light, sliding beneath the soft covers, luxuriating in the sense of being surrounded by Methos; his scent, his warmth were all around him. Duncan breathed him in and wriggled closer, spooning in behind Methos' slender form. He kissed Methos once, gently, at the juncture of neck and shoulder and then Duncan too, fell deeply asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirteen

They came together in the night, silent and slow and trembling with need. Duncan clung to Methos as if he was a pale spirit, an apparition likely to disappear with the dawn. Methos spun out his possession of Duncan's body and soul, teasing and tantalizing him until Duncan was a gasping, shaking mass of abraded nerve endings and sharp, biting desire. He begged Methos silently, with his hands, with his body, to take him over the edge. Still he did not speak, as if the fragile spell between them would be broken by words.

Then at long last Methos was inside him, behind him, all around him, owning Duncan with the touch of his hand and the thrust of his body. Duncan gave himself up to it as Methos' every move took him closer and closer to completion. He was tight, strung out like an overstretched bow as Methos held him hovering on the edge of orgasm for what seemed an eternity. Then with a deep, hoarse, shuddering cry Methos was coming; Duncan diving after him into the abyss as Methos collapsed against his back. Methos bore them gently to the bed, still joined and he held Duncan close against his chest.

"You are so beautiful," Methos whispered, so close to Duncan's ear that the hot tendrils of breath sent shivers down his spine.

"No, tis you that is beautiful," Duncan answered, wanting only to convince this man that he loved of the place he held in his heart. He lifted Methos' hand to his lips and dropped a lingeringly soft kiss on the palm. "Inside and out. You make my heart stop."

"I can't believe you're mine..." Methos murmured, dropping tiny drifts of kisses over the curve of Duncan's neck, as he slipped from Duncan's body at last.

Duncan turned to face him, meeting the wide hazel eyes with a lazy smile, warmed immeasurably by the claim. "Believe it." And he leaned in to capture the tender mouth again.

With the incautious honesty of three AM, the lovers touched and whispered, murmuring foolishness until their eyes grew heavy with sleep. Tucked against Methos' broad shoulder with an arm and a leg thrown across his lover's body, Duncan hovered on the far edge of sleep, listening to the rhythmic sound of Methos succumbing to its lure. He stroked a patch of incredibly soft skin just above Methos' waist, bathing himself in this moment, not wanting to end it by falling asleep.

***

Daylight came far too soon and they woke, sticky and sated and none-too-fragrant for all the sweetness of the moment. The soft light poured in from the balcony doors, highlighting the creamy-skinned beauty of the man in Duncan's arms. He could have happily lain there all day watching the way the shadows and light loved Methos in equal measure. He watched as a lazy catlike grin spread across Methos' face, and hazel eyes sought his.

"You look pleased with yourself," Duncan murmured, smiling as he propped himself up on a bent elbow.

"I'm here with you, why wouldn't I be pleased?" Methos smiled more widely and reached out to cup a hand at Duncan's nape and draw him close enough to kiss.

The easy familiarity, the lack of awkwardness or morning-after regret took Duncan's breath away. It was more than he had ever hoped to have. It was like coming home in some strange way; a homecoming in the arms of his lover. Duncan tightened his arms and deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with his lover's in the hot, dark cavern of Methos' mouth.

Methos pulled away, regret clear in his eyes. "I don't think we've really got time for this, Mac. Places to go, people to see and all that."

"Yeah I know you're right," Duncan admitted, grinning wickedly, "we still need a shower though. We have time for that, don't we?" The grin became a faint leer as his hand brushed Methos' ass.

"Oh yes, I believe we do have time for that," Methos smirked as he rolled out of the bed, extending a hand to Duncan.

Duncan took the hand and kept holding it even after he stood, using the grip to pull Methos close. He was so beautiful this morning, Duncan thought, still a little flushed with sleep and his eyes sparkling with something that might have been amusement, or joy.

"What's so funny?" Duncan asked as he wrapped Methos in the circle of his arms, nibbling along the strong column of his neck.

Methos shivered. "Nothing at all," he answered. "Just happy, if I remember how that goes."

Duncan heard the wistful tone, the underlying sadness, in Methos' voice and his heart tore for all the hurt he'd been responsible for inflicting on this man in his arms. He stood straight, cradling Methos' face between his palms, looking seriously into Methos' eyes. "I'm sorry," he said gravely, "I'm sorry for all the pain I've put you through, all the things I've said to hurt you. I'm sorry for asking you to take my head after...Richie, and I'm sorry for not listening to you about O'Rourke. I've treated you badly so many times and I don't know why you're still here. But I'm so glad you are." He brushed a gentle kiss across Methos' mouth, following it with a sweep of his thumb across the tender lips.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else, with anyone else, not for any reason," Methos whispered fiercely as he claimed Duncan's mouth.

Worlds and words fell away as they lost themselves inside the swirling sensations of mouths and skin. There was forgiveness and promises in the depths of that kiss, an expression of emotion too poignant to voice aloud.

***

Eventually, Duncan let Methos drag him to the bathroom. As the steamy spray beat down on them, Duncan's toes curled against the tile as Methos held him close from behind, rubbing the washcloth in lazy circles over his chest, his belly, his swelling cock. It felt so good, Methos' slippery smooth skin sliding against his back, the firm nudge of Methos' hardness against his ass, the sinewy, muscled strength of Methos' arms as they wrapped around him. He turned in the circle of Methos' embrace, taking the cloth from him.

"Let me..." Duncan murmured as he soaped the cloth again and in-between kissing Methos until they were both trembling, washed, rinsed and explored every inch of Methos' body all over again. He pressed Methos against the wall, a sudden need flaring within him to have some part of Methos inside him, now. Duncan sank to his knees, the water streaming over his back, and with a final heated look into his lover's inscrutable eyes, took Methos' cock deep into his mouth.

Such a beautiful cock, Duncan thought, as he pushed the foreskin back with a gentle press of his lips, revealing the sensitive head to the touch of his tongue, thick and straight, throbbing with the beat of Methos' heart. It was the same beat he could feel in the core of his body when Methos was inside him, the strong pounding rhythm that made Duncan's heart want to beat in time with it. He tickled his tongue along the vein that snaked along the underside and felt the beat become more rapid as Methos moaned and thrust into him a little more deeply.

Duncan slipped a hand up the inside of Methos' long thigh, tracing a slow journey to finally cup and weigh the lightly furred sac, teasing a finger at the smooth skin behind. Methos moaned again and spread his legs a little further apart. Duncan sucked harder, finding a rhythm at last. God, but he loved this, having Methos inside him – any part of him – as long as it was Methos. He leaned slightly into the touch of Methos' hand as he caressed Duncan's head, his fingers tangling in Duncan's hair. Oh yes...

Duncan could feel his own cock tensing, the arousal flaring higher as Methos began to thrust more strongly, the thick shaft slipping more quickly between his lips. As need coiled hotly in his belly Duncan slid one slippery-wet finger inside Methos and curled the tip against the hard little gland that he found there. Methos shuddered and with a sharp exultant cry, spilled himself deep into Duncan's throat. Duncan swallowed, drinking in Methos' essence, the taste, the feel and the sound of Methos' orgasm enough to send him tumbling into his own.

Duncan held Methos inside him, caressing and licking until the last tremors faded away and Methos' shaft softened. Then he released it and lay his head against a narrow hip, his hands stroking the fine skin behind Methos' thighs. Methos bent to him and drew Duncan up into his embrace again. Duncan could feel each ragged, shuddering breath his lover took as he buried his face in the curve of Methos' shoulder.

"That was...words fail me," Methos breathed, close to Duncan's ear.

Duncan lifted his head and grinned. "First time for everything," he teased gently.

Methos smiled crookedly. "You stun me, Duncan MacLeod but if we don't make a move soon we'll have spent the whole day in the shower and, as much fun as that sounds, we do have other plans."

Duncan knew he was right and reluctantly loosed his hold, stepping from the shower. Methos shut off the water and followed. Duncan snagged a towel from the rail on the wall and moved to dry Methos with it, only to be warded off with a smiling gesture.

He snatched the towel from Duncan's hand. "I think this might go faster if we keep our hands to ourselves, Mac."

"Spoilsport," Duncan mock-grumbled as he picked up another towel for himself.

***

"So where do you want to start?" Duncan asked as they climbed into Methos' truck, preparing to start the search for The Two again.

Methos started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. "Back around Montmatre, I think, don't you? That seems to be where they've been seen the most frequently," Methos answered, looking a little curiously at MacLeod. He had never seen Duncan so reticent, so willing to go along with whatever Methos wanted.

Even last night when they'd made love the younger man was passive, giving and responding but not taking, not initiating. It had been wonderful, but the faint shadow of worry still lurked at the back of his mind that it was not all of Duncan that he was seeing. The confident, aggressive Duncan of the early days of their friendship, so sure of himself and the rightness of his actions, was barely recognizable in this yielding, acquiescent man. It worried Methos more than he liked to admit, even to himself, that this change might also be due, at least in part, to their changed relationship.

Becoming lovers had changed everything, and not just for Duncan, Methos realized with a small hitch in his chest. Being this close to Duncan was terrifying, a high trapeze without a net, addictively, inherently dangerous. It wasn't something he wanted to change, even if he could, but the thought of taking anything away from the man MacLeod was cast a pall over his heart and he frowned.

"You okay?" Duncan asked.

Methos heard the note of concern and made a conscious effort to smile. "I'm fine, really. Just thinking."

"What—" Whatever Duncan was about to ask was lost as the chirp of Methos' cell-phone interrupted.

Methos pulled it from the depths of a coat pocket and flipped it open. "Hello?"

The voice at the other end was familiar but not immediately recognizable, faintly accented, German – no, Austrian. "Adam? How are you? It's Richter, Franz Richter."

Recognition dawned, Richter was a Watcher; they'd gone through the Academy together this time around. Joe had mentored Franz for a short time, after he graduated. A mental picture of the soft-spoken, stockily built, blond man flashed into his memory.

"I'm okay, Franz. What can I do for you?"

"I can't talk long, I shouldn't be talking to you at all, the powers that be are still quite annoyed with your little trick, as you can imagine. But I had to call you about Joe. I was just sickened when I heard about it. You know they're Immortals?"

Something cold and dark curled in Methos' gut. "Yeah, Franz I know, but how exactly do you know?"

The Austrian's voice was matter of fact. "We are Watchers, Adam, we watch. We're not supposed to interfere, no matter what the Immortal does. You know that. But the police have them now, ja? They cannot kill anymore."

"And the coincidence of The Two being caught in the act yesterday?" Methos asked with suspicion darkening his voice.

"I won't ask how you know their name, Adam, but I know you were never one to believe in coincidences. Let's leave it at that shall we?"

"Pity you couldn't have lost your qualms before they gutted Joe Dawson!" Methos snapped, tired of the urbane chitchat.

"Dawson had a lot of friends here, there are a lot of people regretting sticking to the rules at the moment. I did what I could, Adam. I'm sorry it was too late."

Yeah, with that and two francs you can ride the Metro, Methos thought bitterly. "Franz, do you know where they were staying?" he asked surprising himself at the steady tone of his voice, his lack of emotion.

"I don't know that I can lay my hands on that information at this time," the Watcher answered in an odd tone that told Methos the man was no longer alone.

"Well, can you give me a clue?" he asked impatiently.

"Immortals aren't the only ones to rise from the dead," Richter whispered, then abruptly hung up.

"What the hell?" Methos clicked the cell-phone closed.

"What's that all about?" Duncan asked.

"Franz Richter, a guy I knew fairly well for a while when I was a Watcher. He knew Joe a little too. From what I can tell from what little he said, the Watchers almost certainly know where The Two were living, and it sounds like they might even have had someone on them before Joe was killed." He let the simmering rage he felt flavor his voice.

"Bastards!" Duncan exclaimed.

"Some things never change," Methos muttered, more to himself than to Duncan, thinking of his long and checkered history with the society. "Richter said something about Immortals not being the only ones to rise from the dead as a clue to where The Two had been living. Someone came in, he couldn't talk, apparently I'm still persona non grata over there. They were none too pleased to find out that Adam was an Immortal. I'm not really sure where he was going with that clue though. Bloody Watchers," he grumbled half-heartedly, "they think they invented the concept of cloak and dagger."

"And I suppose you did?" Duncan deadpanned, sounding so much like his old self that Methos shot him a quick look and caught the broad teasing grin, returning it before turning his attention back to the road.

"Exactly," Methos answered primly. "Now what about Richter's little clue?"

"Rising from the dead...Jesus? No, I can't think of anywhere that would suggest, off-hand, 'cept maybe a church."

A vivid memory flashed through Methos' mind. He was in an echoing library, the air thick with the musty-sweet smell of a thousand books, so thick the smell was closer to taste, seated on a hard, high stool, bent carefully over a vellum Christian bible. The sleeves of his robe were pulled up past his elbows, despite the spring chill, to avoid smudging the brilliantly colored inks, and he was illuminating details from another monk's illustrations of a new testament story...of a man resurrected from death. "Lazarus?" he suggested as the memory faded back into time.

"Rue St Lazare!" Duncan shouted excitedly.

"Yeah that could well be it; it's a place to start after all." Methos was cautiously optimistic; it was still a long shot and a very vague clue at best. Damning Richter's unknown colleague for silencing the man when he had, Methos turned the car at the next intersection and headed for Rue St Lazare.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Fourteen

"How about we split up and take one side of the street each?" Methos suggested as he parked the car beside the curb. "Faster that way, we can ask storeowners, people in the street, and so on. The Two are pretty conspicuous, maybe we'll get lucky and someone will remember them. Sound okay to you?"

"Yeah, good idea, Methos," Duncan answered easily.

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with the real Duncan MacLeod?" Methos asked grinning, but even to him it felt pretty insincere.

"What are you on about, Methos? What have I done now?" Duncan turned puzzled eyes towards Methos.

"You have never once in the whole time I've known you, said, 'Yeah, good idea, Methos.' What's going on?" He searched Mac's face for some clue.

Duncan turned away, apparently staring at the passing traffic. "You haven't been around much this past year, have you?" he answered quietly.

"No... But what's that got to do with this?"

"I've changed a lot over that time, I'm not who I was. This past year has probably had more effect on me than any one year in all of the rest of my life. I know I don't have all the answers, hell I don't know if I even know the questions anymore. But I know it's okay for me not to know, if that makes any sense to you." Duncan ran his hand over the cropped waves of his hair. "Did you think the changes were all cosmetic?"

Methos replied quickly, "No of course not. But—"

"Whether you want to see it or not, Methos, I am different. Fighting Ahriman did something to me; it's hard to explain. I've felt so...apart from everything and everyone since then. It's taken a long time to heal the wounds from that time but I think it's starting to happen." Duncan looked back at Methos, meeting his eyes squarely.

Gods, Duncan, don't look at me like that. I'm nobody's savior. I can't even save myself and there's a hell of a fall coming. Methos swallowed hard over the lump that had formed in his throat and answered a little lamely, "I'm glad you're starting to feel better."

"We should probably get started. You coming or not?" Duncan asked as he opened the door and slid out of his seat.

Methos followed him out of the car and on to the sidewalk. Duncan took the opposite side of the street, as he crossed it, he tossed a final, blindingly brilliant smile over his shoulder in Methos' general direction. Gods, he's beautiful. Look at him: the epitome of everything that terrifies me and yet here I am. If I had half a brain I'd run. Face it, old man, if you had half a brain it'd be lonely. Methos shook his head at himself, and went to start the search.

***

Duncan followed the aroma of fresh-baked bread into the small bakery, his stomach reminding him that he'd had no breakfast that morning. Killing two birds with one baguette, he bought a fresh roll from the smiling young woman behind the counter. He returned her expression as she handed him back the change.

"Merci. I was wondering if you'd noticed two men around here recently… You might think they were twins, they're quite alike: small, about so tall," he lifted his hand to approximately five and a half feet from the ground, "dark haired, dressed similarly, unusual accents?" He opened the paper bag and pulled a fragment of baguette free, popping the morsel in his mouth as he listened for the girl's response. Damn that's good...

The young woman frowned and chewed a hangnail absently. "I don't think so, M'sieur, I think I would remember seeing two such as that, yes?"

It had been too much to hope for so soon, he'd only covered a few shops so far. Duncan shrugged, "Probably. Thanks anyway, I'll keep looking." He went to push open the swinging door, when her she spoke again.

"Wait! Just a moment, sir. I haven't seen them but last night my boyfriend Henri was telling me that two very strange men had come into the gallery where he works – he thought they were twins. He said the manager threw them out."

"Why was that?" MacLeod asked, swallowing another mouthful of roll.

"He said they were just really intense. They got very upset when Henri told them they couldn't buy the pieces they wanted – they were already sold or something. That's all he said," she finished with a shrug.

"Where can I find this gallery?"

"It's just down that way," the girl pointed, "down towards Rue de Londres. It's the only one: Gallerie Mehica."

"Thank you," Duncan said again as he left the bakery, "thanks a lot." He gave her a dazzling smile as he spoke.

"You're welcome, and tell Henri that Jasmine sent you."

"I will. Thank you, Jasmine."

Duncan wolfed down the remains of the baguette as he strode down the street in the direction the young woman had indicated. Yesterday's rain had cleared for the moment, and the morning was clear but still cool. He stepped up his pace, lengthening his stride in his hurry to reach his destination. There it was, a small entranceway to an upstairs level, marked only by a discreet brass plate fixed to the wall between a grocery store and a wine merchant.

***

Methos extricated himself from the overly chatty clutches of the patisserie owner and waved his farewells as he strode away. The woman would have talked his ear off all day if she were let. He'd been to about half the shops on his side of the street and so far none of the people he'd spoken to had been very useful. He was beginning to think that this was going to be another wild goose chase, like Sacre Coeur: a day late and a dollar short. He sighed and was about to trudge into the next shop, a pharmacy, when he noticed Duncan striding from the bakery, heading down the street with purpose clear in every line of his body.

Deciding that finding out what Duncan was hot on the trail of was a much better use of his time; Methos crossed the busy street and hurried after him.

"MacLeod!" he called just as Duncan was about to enter the stairwell.

"Hey," Duncan smiled, walking back towards Methos. "I think we may have a caught a break here," he said as he drew closer. "The girl at the bakery says her boyfriend mentioned seeing some guys that sound like The Two at the gallery upstairs."

"Well, come on then, what are we waiting for?" Methos motioned for Duncan to go in ahead of him, following after shooting a glance up and down the street, a movement so quick and automatic he hardly realized he was doing it any more. And there was just what he'd hoped not to see: leaning against a lamppost, reading a newspaper was his, or Duncan's new Watcher.

Damn.

Methos slipped up the stairs and into the gallery as if he'd never seen the middle-aged man leaning against the lamppost. Duncan was already bailing up the young man at the back of the room, plying him with questions. Methos walked up to them and lounged against a display case of Meso-American slab figures.

"So, Henri," Duncan asked, "these men you saw yesterday afternoon, did they say anything to indicate where they might be living? Mention a street, a hotel perhaps?"

Duncan was good at this, Methos thought as he watched his lover operate. Did he even realize how manipulative he could be? Was it even conscious? His voice, his posture, his whole body language said: 'Trust me, believe in me, tell me everything I want to know'. He was sure that most people Duncan tried this on wouldn't have the first clue why it was they felt the sudden, overwhelming need to tell this handsome, smiling man everything he wanted to know.

Methos shivered imperceptibly at the thought of how much more adept Duncan would be in another four hundred years and how difficult he himself would find it to resist. He was damn near irresistible now, let alone when he was any more skilled at drawing people in and bending them to his will.

Methos brought himself up short with that train of thought. Since when was he thinking about being with Duncan in another four hundred years? That really wasn't in the game plan. 'Oh yeah?' a voice in his head snickered rudely, 'since when has any of this been planned? You've no idea what the hell you're doing, old man. Face it, you're back to making it up as you go along.' Damn. It always had been easier to lie to others than to himself. Methos forced himself to pay attention to the conversation in front of him, shutting the door on his mental wanderings.

"Okay, Henri, thanks for that. I appreciate the help." Duncan turned back towards Methos. "Coming?" he asked as he passed.

"Hmm? Yeah, right behind you, O fearless leader."

The quip brought Duncan's head snapping back to look at him quizzically. Methos raised his eyebrow, smirked and ambled out of the gallery with his hands stuffed nonchalantly in his pockets.

"So did we learn anything useful from your young friend? Methos asked as they came back out into the cool morning.

"You were there, weren't you paying attention?" Duncan's voice was tinged with impatience.

"Sorry," Methos answered in a tone designed to let Duncan know unequivocally that he was not. "I had a few things on my mind, so sue me."

"Maybe later. According to the boy, The Two came in late yesterday and wanted to buy some Aztec artifacts the gallery had on display. Unfortunately they had already been sold and The Two became very agitated when told the items were unavailable. Henri said he thought they'd have to call the police to get them out of there."

"Interesting." Methos stole a quick glance into the reflection of a plate glass window as they passed; the Watcher was hot on their heels. "Did he say what the pieces were?"

"A hascha – a stone knife – obsidian apparently, and a Shaman's offering bowl."

"I found the knife they lost after the fight at my old apartment, odd shaped little black thing. As for the bowl...I don't think I want to know what offerings they're thinking of making."

"He also said the one with one arm did all the talking. The other one just stood and stared."

"What one with one arm?" Methos couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stopped and drew Duncan to one side of the sidewalk, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. "Last time I saw them they were both fully armed, pardon the pun."

Duncan looked a little uncomfortable before he answered, "When I tangled with The Two in the bookshop cellar I cut it off…"

"And you didn't think this was important enough to mention before now? Is there anything else you haven't told me?"

Duncan looked away, sighing. "I lost my sword," he said quickly and quietly.

"Jesus, Duncan, exactly how close did they come to taking you?" Methos felt the color draining from his face, felt his gut turn to ice. He couldn't do this; it was too much. Duncan might think he'd changed but here he was the same reckless Highlander, determined to throw his life away for the cause. Suddenly he was freezing, Methos pulled his coat tightly around himself, his arms crossed protectively around his middle, he put his back to the shop front, leaning against the glass.

"Pretty close," Duncan admitted in a low voice. "But as you can see I'm perfectly all right. I got out of there okay, even without the katana. I can take care of myself you know, Methos, I've been doing it for four hundred years now."

"So you're walking around without a sword?" This was beginning to look more and more like one of his nightmares.

"Of course I'm not walking around without a fucking sword. How stupid do you think I am?" Duncan hissed, grabbing Methos by the arm.

Methos looked at him, wanting to tell him everything. He wanted to tell Duncan how essential he was to him; how much he worried about Duncan's fearless idiocy would get him killed; how much he feared that he wouldn't survive Duncan dying. Most of all Methos wanted, beyond anything reasonable or rational, to tell Duncan how much he was loved. But he didn't, he simply snatched his arm back, pulled his face into its familiarly haughty expression and answered: "You have before."

Duncan looked stricken. "That was different. You know that. Christ, Methos I'd... I'd..." He lowered his voice with a look around at the passers by who were watching them curiously, using the moment to drag a deep breath into his chest. "I'd killed Richie with that sword. Are you surprised I didn't want it in my hand? That I didn't feel I could be trusted with any blade in my hand? This isn't then – not remotely like it. Of course I have a sword, I went back to the barge and got one," he finished with an exasperated gesture in Methos' direction.

And there was a new worry. "You didn't let the cops see you, did you?"

"Hell, Methos, give me some credit. You really do think I'm stupid, don't you? Thanks a lot." Duncan whirled on his heel and stalked away down the street, leaving Methos staring after him in mute disbelief.

***

Duncan couldn't get away from Methos fast enough. How dare he? Methos really did think that he was stupid, that much was clear. Why was it the only time he ever felt that he knew what Methos was thinking was when the old man was putting him down? Methos was all for Duncan seeing him as he really was, why didn't Duncan merit the same consideration?

MacLeod knew there were many facets to Methos, it was one of the many things he loved about the man. Being around him was like living on the river, always the same on the surface but it was always changing too – if you looked it always had something new to show you. But it was so bloody frustrating to be treated in return like a big dumb boyscout too stupid to look after his own head. Why can't he see me for what I am?

Mac had been striding along without paying too much attention to his direction or the distance he covered. When he finally did look around he found that he'd managed to walk quite some distance. He'd left Methos far behind and it was raining again, he realized, as fat drops spattered against his head. Duncan spotted a cafe across the street and made a dash for its doors just as the heavens opened and the rain started pouring down in earnest.

With a steaming latte in front of him and the cafe's heating warming him from the outside, Duncan was able to think again about the situation with Methos. This was stupid. He couldn't let Methos go, not without a fight. They would just have to talk it out, no matter how reluctant Methos was to do that. Duncan fished his cell-phone from his inside coat pocket and made the call.

***

Methos was so startled when his cell-phone rang that he almost dropped it in his haste to answer it. Slipping into old habits, he'd found the nearest open bar and finally succeeded in driving out a little of the chill with several shots of Ouzo. He couldn't order scotch, couldn't actually even look at the bottle on the shelf, he realized with a mirthless snort of laughter at truly pathetic that was. So here he was, pining for Duncan like a lovestruck schoolboy, drowning his sorrows with vile, over-priced booze in a cheesy tourist bar. Pathetic didn't even come close. He drank up and let the distinctive taste form the free-floating associations that would take him on the sure path to a major Drunken Brood.

He was still cold; the alcohol had only driven the worst of it out. Even if he no longer shivered there was still a kind of bone-deep ache as if he'd been in the snow too long. He wished briefly and fiercely that he had the strength to walk away from this. But he knew himself better than that; Duncan had claimed him with that first unquestioning statement of his name and nothing had been the same since. Everything before that moment seemed to pale in comparison. Or maybe knowing Duncan – especially now – made those times darker in comparison, like walking into an unlit room after being bathed in bright light only made the darkness more impenetrable.

Couldn't Duncan see what he was doing, risking himself like that? Didn't he know how important he was, and not just to the Game? Of course he wouldn't know that, Methos thought, impatient at his own blindness. Duncan thought nothing of his own importance, his own value. He knew nothing of how important he was to Methos because, Methos realized, he'd never let him know. They were Immortal; they had time, he'd thought, quite forgetting that nobody, not even Immortals, really knew that for sure. And some lives were infinitely more uncertain than others. Then the phone rang and startled him beyond all proportion.

***

In the end Methos came to Duncan, collecting the truck from the roadside and driving the mile or so to where Duncan said he was waiting. Cafe Verite...interesting name. He wondered how much truth they would be able to find. Duncan was inside; his presence greeted Methos with the familiar thrum that felt like coming home. He ran through the rain to find him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 Chapter Fifteen

Duncan looked up from his coffee as Methos slipped through the doorway, shaking the water from his head and brushing it from his coat. He was drenched; the rain was still pelting down outside. Duncan was vividly reminded of the day Methos had shown up fresh (although perhaps 'fresh' wasn't the word, considering how he'd smelt) from falling into the Seine while he was fighting Kalas, looking for all the world like a drowned rat. He looked every bit as miserable now.

"Have a seat," Duncan said as soon as Methos came close enough. "Do you want some coffee?"

Methos smelt of aniseed and his lips were so pale they were almost white. "Yeah, coffee sounds good. It's pissing down out there. Bloody Paris weather…" He tugged off his gloves and sodden coat and sat down, rubbing his hands together and shivering.

Duncan caught the eye of a passing waiter and ordered for Methos without waiting to be told what the other man wanted. He was stalling for time, Duncan realized, suddenly unsure where to start. Knowing they needed to talk and actually talking were turning out to be two very different propositions. As the waiter walked away an uncomfortable silence settled over the table. He watched Methos rake his fingers through his hair until it stood up in glossy black spikes; Duncan knew that gesture, it was what Methos did when he was acutely uncomfortable. Knowing the other man was just as apprehensive as he was himself seemed to help a little.

Duncan fiddled with his coffee cup, turning the cup inside the saucer with restless fingers. He looked up at Methos through the curtain of his eyelashes, struggling for the words to begin.

"Mac, I—" "Methos, I—" they began simultaneously.

Duncan gestured for Methos to go first, grateful for the brief reprieve.

"Mac, I'm sorry." Methos paused, obviously waiting for a response.

Duncan just looked at him expectantly.

Methos narrowed his eyes and gave a put upon sigh. "You're going to make me do this aren't you? The whole apology thing."

"Uh-huh."

"Fine," he snapped. "I'm sorry I treated you like a child. I'm sorry I over-reacted about the fight and the sword and everything."

"Why do you that? You make me feel like you don't think I'm capable of looking after myself. Why do you do that when you know it isn't true?"

"It isn't that at all Mac. Not even remotely that." Methos stared at the watercolors on the cafe wall as if the reproduction Monets held some kind of answers. "I know how capable you are, how resourceful. I know you're quite possibly the best swordsman I've ever seen." His voice dropped and Duncan had to strain to hear him. "But I've seen you lay down your sword. I've seen you once on your knees with a sword at your neck, I can't do that again." Methos' tone when he finished was barely a hoarse whisper. He was staring down at the table and rubbing at an imaginary spot with the tip of his forefinger, still not meeting Duncan's eyes.

His pain cut through Duncan deeper than any sword and without thinking about it he reached out and enfolded Methos' hand in his. "You're not going to lose me." Duncan settled his other hand over the top of their joined hands, squeezing gently. "I'm not going anywhere. You're not the only one who's afraid you know."

Methos flicked a wary questioning look in Duncan's direction but said nothing.

"You better believe I'm afraid, Methos. Almost everyone I've ever loved has died. My past comes back to haunt my present more often than not. I look at you and as much I want to be with you, that's how afraid I am that it will get you killed."

Duncan felt the full force of Methos' gaze on him again as Methos replied, "There is one thing and one thing only, that I do better than anyone else, MacLeod. I stay alive. Believe me when I say that if I thought that being here was going to get me killed, I'd be gone. I'm here because I want to be with you. For as long as we have."

Methos met Duncan's eyes for a long moment and the younger man saw such knowledge, sadness and wistful longing in the hazel depths that his heart seemed to contract in sympathy. Methos looked so...old at that moment, the weight of so many millennia of loss clearly visible in his expression. Duncan held the troubled gaze, returning it with the sureness of his own. Then the moment was gone. Methos looked around almost furtively and would have snatched his hand back if Duncan hadn't held tight to it.

"No, Methos. I don't care who sees. If I have to kiss you in the middle of the Champs Elysee to convince you how serious I am about this then I will."

Methos looked a little stunned for a second as he digested that piece of information, then with a shake of his head pulled his hand away. "It's not that at all, Mac, we're just not as alone as I'd like to be." He inclined his head minutely in the direction of Duncan's new Watcher sitting two tables away, apparently reading a newspaper. "We've picked up a little company," he added under his breath.

Duncan slid a sideways glance at the Watcher. "Damn. I suppose he's watching me then? You want to go?"

"Nah, finish your coffee. He's not going anywhere unless we do. We can always lose him later if we need to. Looks like your chronicle's going to get quite an update." Methos smirked a little, one corner of his mouth curving upward.

The prospect didn't bother Duncan as much as he thought he would. "You know what? I actually don't care. I don't owe the Watchers anything and now Joe's gone I don't care if I never hear anything about them ever again. If their fucking oath wasn't more important to them than a lot of innocent people's lives then Joe would probably still be alive," he finished bitterly.

"I know." Fresh pain ghosted across Methos' face. "Are you done? Ready to go?"

He stood and Duncan followed him out the door into the clearing aftermath of the storm. The Watcher quickly paid his bill and followed them, Duncan noticed as they walked in front of a wide shop front window. He glanced across to his lover as they walked side by side. God, but Methos was beautiful. Sweet, heady warmth stole through Duncan's body as he remembered the previous night.

The memory of the pale, silken body sweating and writhing against his own was almost enough to make him hard all over again. Well, if his chronicles were going to get an update they might as well have something worth writing about, he thought as an idea coalesced from the free-floating lust in his mind. If Methos had seen the wicked grin on his lover's face he might have been less surprised when Duncan seized him around the waist and dragged him into the alley next to the cafe.

As it was Methos gasped and struggled, but Duncan was stronger and he pushed Methos into the alley, crowding him up against the wall with the weight of his body. He'd started this as a bit of a joke to stir the Watcher's interest, but now with Methos pressed against his chest, panting softly with exertion, looking at him with wide eyes and parted lips it was suddenly no joke at all. Hunger roared through him and Duncan bent to plunder Methos' mouth.

Sweet coffee and aniseed flavored the tender mouth and Duncan devoured it, his tongue darting over every surface. His hands slid up between them, over the hard plain of Methos' chest, teasing at the hard, little nipples with the tips of his thumbs. Methos opened his mouth wider, drawing Duncan in, enticing Duncan's tongue further into his mouth then sucking it hungrily, grazing his teeth over the edges. Methos groaned as Duncan's thigh slipped between his legs and he rubbed his hardening length along it, as his hands clutched at Duncan's back under the warmth of his coat. Duncan's hands left their torture of Methos' nipples and skimmed up to cradle either side of Methos' throat, using his thumbs to tilt the strong jaw upwards so he could feast on the fine skin below. Methos shuddered as Duncan's teeth scraped his skin raw, needy little noises vibrating the skin beneath Duncan's lips.

"Oh gods, Mac...don't. I can't...please..." Methos was rubbing himself even harder against Duncan, pulling him near so that now it was their groins in close opposition stoking the fire.

He could feel the heat radiating from Methos as if he would spontaneously combust in his arms if they didn't do something soon. And they were in an alley in the middle of Paris in broad daylight, Duncan remembered in a jolting crash back to reality. He tore his mouth away, ragged breaths shaking his shoulders and roughening his voice. He rested his weight on his forearm against the brick wall, still standing close to his lover.

"That'll really give them something to write about, won't it?" Duncan rumbled as he gently ran a fingertip over the fading patch of red on the side of Methos' neck.

"Hmm?"

Duncan looked at the shaking remains of the world's oldest man and felt an odd little stab of emotion too complex to identify. Methos was having a hard time recovering his composure and the fact touched him unexpectedly. He could see the play of emotions across Methos' angular features as he fought to damp down the urgent need that had taken them both a little by surprise. Then he was back, his eyes snapping back into focus, locking on Duncan's and he squared his shoulders as he pulled his coat back into place.

"Christ, Mac, give a guy a little warning next time," he said as he walked past Duncan back out of the alley.

Duncan had no answer for that one, how could he have warned Methos when he'd had none himself? All he'd had was the sudden, overwhelming need to possess Methos, to make him shake and moan and crave Duncan's touch the way Duncan craved his. The violence of his own need had ambushed him, but by the way Methos had responded it hadn't been at all unwelcome. Duncan smoothed the short waves of his hair back into some semblance of order and followed Methos out of the alley.

"You know, Mac," Methos said as they approached his truck, "we might be going about this all wrong. I think we need to anticipate what The Two will do when they escape not just where they'll go. I think we need to understand why they do what they do – their rituals, their relationship. First principles."

Duncan resisted the urge to say 'I told you so'. "As in what they meant by the 'sharing the power', the 'taking', 'completing the circle'?" he asked remembering what he'd suggested the previous day. He waited for Methos to unlock the doors, then got into the passenger seat.

Duncan watched Methos slip into the driver's seat, saw the slightly abashed expression coloring his face.

"Well, yes, among other things."

Duncan didn't reply, merely raised an eyebrow and looked as smug as he felt.

Methos snorted and drove away.

"So where do we start? Any ideas?" Duncan asked after a few minutes.

"I often find the beginning's a very good place to start."

Duncan made a moue of exasperation at Methos' obliqueness. "Which in this case would be?"

"I'm not sure, but I think I can get a look at some older chronicles if I ask the right people 'nicely' enough. I think the teacher's records bear looking into, whatshisname...de la Hoya? There's a few other things I wouldn't mind checking out about them too."

Duncan didn't think he wanted to know what constituted Methos asking the Watchers 'nicely'. Instead he said, "I was thinking it might be an idea if I made the rounds of the other antiquities dealers in the area. I still have a lot of contacts in the business, even if I'm not actively involved anymore. Maybe The Two found what they were looking for elsewhere, they don't seem the types to take no for an answer very readily."

"Yeah, why not," Methos agreed easily. "We should split up, cover more ground that way. I'll take you back to your car and we'll get started."

"Sounds like a plan…"

~~~~~~~~~~~

 Chapter Sixteen

"Do I really need to remind you that you owe me, Greco…? Remember that time when you lost Amanda in London for a week and missed that fight she had with Michael Christian – the one the cops interrupted? Did I report it? Did I say to anyone 'hey, Victor Greco was too busy panting after the bartender at the Pig and Whistle to do his job'? No I didn't, instead I helped you fudge the records so it seemed as if you'd been there. And why didn't I report it? Because I'm your friend, Greco, and friends help each other... I knew you'd see it my way. Bring the chronicles to the parking lot at the Tuileries in half an hour, I'll meet you there. And Greco? Make sure you bring all of them."

Methos snapped the cell-phone shut, ending the call. It was just too easy sometimes. Still it'd be worth it if he could find something in the chronicle of The Two's teacher. There had to be some shred of evidence in the old records that would help them anticipate The Two's next move. They were running out of time, the police would have to have finished questioning them by now and they'd be back in a holding cell. A perfect time to commit suicide and escape. Methos tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for the Watcher to arrive.

***

"Jean-Pierre! Good to see you again."

"MacLeod! Where have you been hiding yourself? Come in, come in…"

Duncan walked through the office door, shaking hands with the old man inside. Jean-Pierre DuPont had been in the antique business as long as anyone he currently knew in Paris. Chances were, if there were Aztec artifacts to be had then DuPont would know where. The older man motioned him to a seat in the plushly furnished office.

"So what is it you're looking for this time my friend? Celtic jewelry? Old weapons?"

Duncan leaned forwards in his seat, fixing his eyes intently on the other man. "I'm looking for some Meso-American antiquities, Jean-Pierre, specifically Aztec. Who's dealing in that sort of thing these days?"

"In Paris? Hmm… Not many to be sure. Have you tried Gallerie Mehica on Rue St Lazare?"

"Yeah, I already have. They had what I was looking for but I was a little too late. Is there anywhere else?"

"Yes… Let me see there's the Gallerie de la Americas of course, Michel Batiste, or maybe Antiques De Chevalle might have a piece or two, although he tends more to North American items these days when he bothers to carry American pieces at all. Does that help?"

"Yes, it does. Thanks Jean-Pierre. Are you sure that all of them?"

"I think so. Of course there could be some private collectors out there advertising pieces for sale but I wouldn't necessarily hear about those. Are you going to tell me what this is about, Duncan? Or is another one of your mysterious quests?"

Duncan just smiled and rose from the chair. "Thanks, Jean-Pierre, I appreciate you seeing me at such short notice." He shook the man's hand again and moved toward the door.

"One of these days, MacLeod, you're going to tell me where you find these clients of yours that send you on such interesting searches," DuPont said, smiling conspiratorially as he returned the handshake.

"They just tend to show up out of the blue..." Duncan answered as he was leaving the office. "I don't go looking for them."

DuPont's disbelieving laughter followed Duncan out of the building.

***

"About bloody time," Methos snapped as he snatched the chronicles from the young, dark-skinned man who'd brought them.

"Were you always this much of a bastard, Adam, and I just didn't notice?" Greco pouted as he lounged insolently against the truck, folding his arms and cocking a slim hip in Methos' direction.

"Long as I can remember," Methos answered distractedly as he pored over the records.

"I've missed seeing you, Adam," Greco persisted in a seductive whisper, moving to stand closer to Methos.

"Are you still here?" Methos hissed – he was becoming seriously annoyed with this ingratiating little twit. They'd been casual friends once, Greco had wanted more and while Methos might have given him a tumble just for the hell of it, the boy was attractive enough, if a little too pretty for his taste. Adam was far more circumspect. So he'd kept the Watcher at arms' length. A fact for which he was now very grateful.

"Just you remember who got you those chronicles, Pierson," Greco spat heatedly. "I didn't have to bring them to you."

Methos sighed; the little prick was determined to be difficult. Well, Methos had written the book on difficult, so giving as good as he got was not going to be a problem. "No," he began mildly, "you didn't have to bring them to me. Just like I didn't have to help you falsify official chronicles, but I did anyway." His tone sharpened and he watched the fear grow in the young man's dark eyes. "Do you think HQ will be happy to hear about that, Victor? What do you think they do to Watchers who invent things for the records?" He went in for the kill. "Did you ever hear what they tried to do to Dawson for doing exactly that?"

Greco's expression reflected his obvious growing terror. "I heard that was breaking his oath, for talking to MacLeod."

Methos smiled thinly before continuing in a dangerous whisper. "No, that they could have forgiven, but falsifying chronicles? That they were going to blow his brains out for. I should know, I was there." He watched Greco crumble completely. "Now you be a good little boy and go wait in your car until I finish with these." He waited for the Watcher to move, but the man seemed transfixed. "Go!" Methos barked and watched in grim satisfaction as Greco all but sprinted to his car.

***

The dusty little shop front gave no clue to the wonders within. Duncan's nose itched with the dust stirred up by his rapid passage through the crowded interior. It reminded him more of a small private museum than an antique store; he spotted some truly extraordinary pieces and longed briefly to have a little more time to examine them. Duncan's time in Mexico and Central America had given him a keen appreciation of the art and culture of the native people of the region. As he passed a fingerprinted glass case displaying a few optimistically proportioned terracotta phalluses, he had to squash an extremely adolescent smirk. The proprietor was at the back of the store, sitting at an equally crowded desk; layers of detritus lying like sedimentary rock waiting to be excavated. The man raised a perfectly arched, blond eyebrow as Duncan approached.

"Michel Batiste?" He asked as he reached the desk. Whatever Duncan had expected it wasn't this breathtakingly handsome man who looked so incongruously well-groomed amidst the dirt and clutter of the shop.

"Yes, that's right. What can I do for you Mr...?"

"MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod." He reached across the desk to shake the proprietor's hand; the man rose and took it in a brief firm grasp. "I was told you might be able to help me locate some Aztec pieces for a client. He's looking for a hascha knife and an offering bowl. Do you have anything like that?"

Batiste frowned, the expression barely making a crease in the polished smoothness of his features. Duncan watched as Batiste came around the desk. The man was tall, easily as tall as Duncan was, but narrower, with less muscle bulk to spoil the impeccable lines of his tailoring.

"I had a couple of pieces like that, very rare good condition too. But I sold them on Tuesday."

Duncan allowed himself a small sigh of disappointment. "Can you tell me, were the buyers two smaller men, maybe twins? Dressed alike, hard to place accents?"

The man's ice blue eyes narrowed speculatively, he paused for a moment and Duncan found himself being assessed, examined closely under the scrutiny of that cool stare. Duncan smiled a little coolly in response.

At last the storeowner replied, "Yes, they were. How did you know?"

"They've beaten me to the punch before on a couple of items of this nature," Duncan lied smoothly. "I'd really like to get in contact with them if you have some details. Perhaps they'll agree to sell the pieces to me for a small profit?"

"Such things are always possible, for the right price." Batiste cocked his head to one side and looked at Duncan meaningfully.

Duncan shouldn't have been surprised but he was. It only took him a heartbeat to recover though. "Naturally I'd be willing to pay a finder's fee to anyone who helped me locate the items I'm looking for. Say, ten percent of the purchase price?"

"Twenty."

It was on the tip of Duncan's tongue to argue, but the urgency of his mission kept him silent. He nodded curtly.

Batiste gave a small tight smile and turned back to the desk, leafing through invoice books. Duncan got out his wallet.

Batiste wrote the address and the price from the invoice on a slip of paper and handed it to Duncan, who handed over the agreed sum and tried not to betray his relief at having the address in his hand at last. With a terse farewell to the storeowner, Duncan turned to walk out of the shop.

He looked at the address and realized that they had been so close earlier, it was frightening. Duncan pulled out his cell-phone to contact Methos with the news. He was so intent on passing on his news that as he punched the string of numbers into the phone he failed to notice the end of a small stone headrest protruding into the passageway. He tripped and stumbled, his finely honed reflexes preventing him from falling but the cell-phone dropped from his grasp and fell to the floor with a loud cracking noise that did not bode well.

"Damn." Duncan picked it up and looked at it closely. While the casing had a small crack at one end, the display still functioned and, relieved, he tucked it back into his pocket, deciding to wait to until he reached the car to make the call.

Duncan climbed behind the wheel of the Range Rover, his heart pounding. They had an address at last, and it was a relief to feel as if the hunt was finally moving forward. He dialed Methos' cell-phone again. Engaged. Damn. With a small shrug Duncan tossed the cell-phone onto the dash and drove away.

***

Methos' phone chirped its satirical little tone and he tossed the chronicle he was reading onto the passenger seat. Expecting Mac's call he flipped it open and answered warmly, "Hello…"

The voice that greeted him was female and completely unfamiliar in its twangy American tones. "Adam Pierson?"

"Yes?" Methos answered warily. "And who might this be?"

"Renee Delaney, Mr Pierson. I'm a friend of Duncan MacLeod's. It's him I'm trying to find, really. The cell-phone number I have for him doesn't answer and the police have this number as an alternate contact for him. Is he with you?"

"No, he isn't here right now," Methos replied neutrally. "Was it urgent? Is there a message I could pass on?" And while he didn't intend to add a note of smugness to his voice, it was there all the same when he said, "I'll be seeing him shortly."

"Okay, Adam, I shouldn't really be releasing this information yet but I thought Mac would want to know that those two guys we were holding on your friend's murder hung themselves in their cells early this morning. Sorry I couldn't have let you know sooner, but all hell's broken loose around here. They were supposed to have been under close observation…"

"So the bodies are at the morgue then?" Methos asked casually, as if the answer was of little importance to him.

"The medical examiner's office, I guess. Where else would they be?"

"I'm sorry, that was a silly question. I'm just a little surprised, that's all. Thanks for letting us know, Ms Delaney. I'll pass it on to Mac when I see him."

"Sure. And Adam?" Renee ventured, with a small waver in her voice.

"Yes?"

"You take care of Mac, you hear? He's a good guy."

The line went dead, and Methos closed the phone and looked at it thoughtfully. Damned Highlander's fan club was everywhere. 'Take care of Mac' indeed. He'd like nothing more, if he ever got the chance.

Hoping that he wasn't too late, Methos gunned the engine and took off in the direction of the main Paris morgue. If he could get there before The Two revived, then he could take their heads without Mac ever having to be involved. He could take care of that for Mac at least.

He completely ignored the look of abject horror on the face of the young Watcher whose 'borrowed' chronicles he'd just abducted.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Seventeen

Duncan still couldn't raise Methos on his phone. He tapped his fingers impatiently along the steering wheel as he frowned in concentration. He'd tried five times now and all he ever got was a busy signal. He didn't know who the hell the old guy was talking to all this time but when he finally caught up with him, Duncan had a few choice words for his chatty lover.

His lover...just thinking of Methos in those terms was enough to send a sweet warmth unfurling through Duncan's body and erase whatever ire he felt. Smiling to himself, he put the phone back on the dash and decided to check The Two's address out on his own. He could well imagine the look on Methos' face if it turned out to be another dead end. The Two were still in jail, it wasn't like he'd be putting himself in any danger, he reasoned.

He wasn't far from the address he'd been given, Duncan realized, as he turned onto Rue de Londres. He parked the Rover and headed towards the apartment block on the corner. Anticipation heightened his senses, the streetscape looked sharper, clearer somehow. It was that familiar heady feeling of adrenaline-charged lightness he always experienced just before going into battle. Even though he expected to find no enemies here, the simple fact of accomplishing this goal was enough. Duncan glanced again at the slip of paper that he held, confirming the address before he walked up the front steps of the unremarkable stone building.

Taking the steep wooden stairs two at a time, Duncan made his way up to the second floor. He followed the door numbers down the dank hall until he came to the one he sought: eleven. A quick glance up and down the hallway confirmed that he was unobserved, so he quickly broke the flimsy lock with a hard shove of his shoulder to the hollow wooden door. He stumbled into the apartment and the breath froze in his throat.

***

Turning off Quai de la Rapee into the nearly deserted rear parking lot of the Institut Medico-Legal, Methos hurled the truck into the nearest parking space. He slid out of the driver's seat and checked that his sword was securely hidden away in his coat. The last thing he needed was for some passing flik to wonder why he was concealing an ancient broadsword in his clothing. Methos slammed the door shut and walked quickly to the rear entrance of the old brick building.

There was no point trying the front door, all visitors were too carefully screened, escorted everywhere. Donning his best blending-in persona, Methos instead slipped through the wide service entrance at the back, where it was obvious the bodies were brought in. The key to getting in anywhere you're really not supposed to be, he thought as he walked, was to look as if you undeniably belong there. Time for the clipboard disguise... Methos snagged a blue clipboard from a nearby desk as he passed.

Surreptitiously noting the direction indicated by the signage, Methos strode off down the hall, clipboard tucked under his arm negligently. He kept his head high, his stance arrogant and assured, and his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point in the distance, he could have been a doctor, a detective, a lawyer. It didn't matter which, so long as his persona said in no uncertain terms that he belonged exactly where he was. It was the perception that mattered, not the fact. Methos found the area he was looking for and continued on inside.

It was cooler in this part of the building, but Methos took off his overcoat anyway, to leave it on now would draw unnecessary attention to himself. He folded it carefully over his arm, ensuring the hilt of the broadsword would be accessible immediately if needed. Seeing the outer room unattended, Methos slipped through the doorway to the refrigerated room where the bodies were kept.

***

Duncan couldn't decide which was worse, the sight that greeted him in The Two's apartment or the stench. Both were currently making his gorge rise in his throat and he took a moment, breathing shallowly, pulling himself back under control. He had seen a lot in four hundred years but never had he seen anything to equal this.

An unbroken white painted wall extended the length of the left-hand side of the apartment. The very center of the wall was 'decorated' with a huge and intricate circular design that reached from a few inches below the ceiling to a few inches above the floor and was equally as wide. Unwillingly, he drew near, unable to stop himself from examining the grisly 'painting' more closely. The design was incredibly complex, almost beautiful if one could ignore the medium in which it had been executed. The more closely Duncan looked at it the more it appeared to resemble the distinctive art of the Aztecs. He'd seen a carved stone calendar once, he recalled suddenly, that showed many similarities to this horror.

It vaguely reminded Duncan of an ornately decorated clock, as he drew closer in sickened fascination. But it wasn't like any clock he had ever seen. The dull red-brown of the paintwork could only be blood and the nine shriveled lumps of flesh, nailed at regular intervals, three quarters of the way around the circle, could only be the missing hearts of all nine of The Two's victims. It was too stunning to be fact; too hideous to be other than fantasy, but Duncan could not lie to himself: it was real. Forcing his rebellious stomach to remain calm Duncan tore his eyes from them and examined the rest of the design.

Concentric circles were spaced outwards from the central figure: a gruesomely grinning face, the mouth open and hungry. At either side of the face inside the next circle were huge claws, holding in their grasp what probably represented two human hearts. Between these two points was a symmetrical pattern of alternating square and round shapes, delicately detailing in more dust-dry blood, symbols of Aztec cosmology. Duncan recognized the symbols of wind, fire, water and the jaguar.

The next two circles were closely spaced, showing boxed figures of animals sacred to the Aztec peoples. The two circles that followed after those were also closely spaced and so finely detailed that Duncan could see the delicate brushstrokes that had been used to execute the horrifyingly remarkable artwork. The meaning of the symbolism here was not so simple to discern, the patterns of dots and shapes having many different connotations in different times and places.

The outer part of the huge wheel showed at its base an enormous mythical creature, a feathered serpent that coiled around twin human figures. The remainder of the outer circles detailed more familiar, less mythical symbols. Beautifully detailed swords crossed against a background of forked lightning, hands clasped together in warriors' salutes, and disembodied heads were just a few of the symbols Duncan recognized.

Duncan dragged his eyes from the intricate patterns of the interior to the poor lumps of flesh that marked nine out of the twelve intervals marked around the outer margin. They were all similar sizes; he registered as his disbelieving eyes swept over them, but the state of their degradation varied. The hearts placed at the beginning of the hideous wheel were dark and shriveled: hard looking. The later ones – and Duncan forced himself not to think of the identity of the last, still bright-red heart, the ragged ends of its severed vessels clearly visible – were redder, fuller, more recognizable.

Duncan was startled from his mesmerized examination by a sudden wave of Immortal presence washing over him.

***

Methos shut the stainless steel door quietly behind him, turning to face the room. The taint of death was strong in the air, despite the frigid air-conditioning. There were six trolleys in front of him, all covered with crisp white sheets. Unfortunately two of the sheets lay flat in blood-spotted puddles on the trolleys; he was too late.

Methos swore savagely under his breath and whirled back out of the room. The anger he'd been ready to unleash upon The Two was now simmering hotly in his gut without an outlet. Methos needed to call on several centuries worth of self-control to stop himself from tearing the place apart. Where the hell would The Two go now? Back to their hideout, wherever that was? How the hell was he supposed to find them now? Several morgue workers glanced up at him as he swept through their office on his way out of the building, but he ignored them all as he strode quickly from the room and no one questioned his right to be there.

He burst into the fresh air and as Methos reached his truck he grabbed his cell-phone from his pocket and tried to raise Duncan. All he got was the droning sound of the busy signal. With a shrug and an impatient exhalation of breath, Methos climbed back into the truck and drove away. After a few minutes, he picked up the phone and tried again, with the same frustrating result.

An uneasy feeling was beginning to form in Methos' gut; perhaps there was something wrong with Duncan's cell-phone…it was rare for him to be engaged for this long. The thought of what a quickening could do to the circuitry of the fragile equipment was ruthlessly squashed. What he really needed was to find where The Two had been staying when they were in Paris. He wondered if Mac's friend Delaney had been able to find that out. No, that was no good. If he went to her she'd just ask all kinds of inconvenient questions about why he wanted to know, after all to her they were dead. No, far better to follow Duncan through the calls he was going to make this afternoon, starting with Mac's friend, the antiquities king: DuPont.

***

Duncan drew the katana and stood ready to receive whomever it was about to appear through the door. He widened his stance and bounced slightly shifting his weight from foot to foot, loosening his muscles. Adrenaline sang in his veins – time to fight. There was nowhere to run, even if that had been what he wanted. The door was flung open and the doorway framed the small wiry figures of The Two. With a feral snarl Duncan advanced on them, his katana held poised to attack and death in his eyes. The quicksilver glint of movement caught his eye half a second before the one-armed man pointed the pistol at Duncan and shot him square in the chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Eighteen

The antiquities king had been affable and informative, so Methos headed out with the same list of names that DuPont had given to MacLeod. Where to start, though? DuPont had said that only two of the three names were really likely to have the goods in question; that narrowed it down considerably. But which one? Time was of the essence. If The Two were looking for Duncan and Duncan was looking for The Two then chances were they were going to find each other sooner or later. That meeting had to be prevented, no matter what the cost.

If The Two had worried Methos before, then the revelations he had found in de la Hoya's chronicle had increased that worry tenfold. He glanced quickly at the ancient records tossed negligently on the passenger seat like yesterday's newspaper. Reading between the lines of the ancient document Methos had found a tale of bloody obsession, murder and twisted ritual that had made his blood run cold at the thought of all that madness being focused on Duncan.

The Two's teacher, their 'father', had served in Mexico in the days of the early Spanish forays into that area of the continent, after the conquest of Cortez, and long before he had adopted the pre-Immortals that would become The Two. His Watcher had gone with him, enlisting in the same ship's company, traveling the same path. At first the reports were innocuous, the journey, the way de la Hoya interacted with his mortal shipmates, his liaison with the first mate during a tedious period of becalming somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Ordinary stuff really; Methos had seen a hundred or more chronicles just like it over the years.

Then the ship had reached landfall and everything changed. De la Hoya's Watcher described the rapid fascination the Immortal felt for the ways of the native people, particularly what the Watcher described as 'their strange and bloody heathen rituals'. Instead of stamping out the practices, as their mission demanded, de la Hoya's Watcher told of a man who spent every available moment learning everything he could about human sacrifice and the gift of blood and flesh to the capricious gods. The picture grew of an Immortal obsessed with death and especially the rituals of human sacrifice.

The Watcher could not maintain the usual sense of dispassionate distance from his subject as de la Hoya's excesses grew by the day. The language of the chronicle became more and more immoderate, railing against the Immortal's activities, and especially against his associations with the high priests of the tribes. The Immortal immersed himself in the native culture, forsaking his military duties completely. It was this that finally caught the attention of the Spanish commanders.

Methos' fine sense of irony appreciated the fact that after months of waging death on the populace in the name of his newly adopted gods, it took de la Hoya missing just three scheduled duties before he was called before the commander to account for himself. Unable to satisfactorily account for his actions, de la Hoya was summarily dispatched home on the next returning boat. Another Watcher had picked up the thread of the story when the Immortal returned to Spain, the original Watcher having stayed behind in Mexico, his fate unknown and unstated by the record.

Once back in Galicia, de la Hoya's life had been almost dull: marriage, the occasional challenge… Methos had skimmed forward through the pages until he found the entries that described his adoption of The Two. His mortal wife Consuela had brought home Jaime from Mass one afternoon in late 1650, the story around the village had been that the priest had found the child on the front steps of the church. Tongues had wagged long and loud when the following year Manuel had returned home from a long trip away with another foundling baby boy; the de la Hoyas took this one in too, naming him Rafael. De la Hoya and his wife had ignored the rumors, facing down those who had whispered of witchcraft and unnatural practices, and raised the pre-Immortals on their small farm until they were fifteen and sixteen years old.

The chronicles of those days were far more given to reporting rumor and innuendo, a fact for which Methos was increasingly grateful as he read on. Complaints and stories of mysterious fires set on the properties of their neighbours, of missing and mutilated livestock and of loud and frequent violent arguments abounded through the record. So we begin to see a pattern emerge...

Methos almost skimmed over the account of Consuela de la Hoya's death in 1666. He'd expected just another tale of mortal death, tragic and heavy with pathos probably, but nothing unusual. Then a single word had caught Methos' eye and he had gone back to pore over the text again. El corazon. The heart. Manuel de la Hoya had cut out his wife's heart.

The watcher's sketchy description was enough to make Methos' gut turn to ice. He knew now where The Two had derived the inspiration for their bloody ritual. One fine morning Manuel de la Hoya had woken up and sacrificed his wife to the gods. The ceremony had been interrupted by the farm's day laborers who, walking out to the fields, had stumbled upon the Immortal, his dead wife spread out naked on the ground before him slit from neck to pubis. The laborers told of how de la Hoya had held his wife's heart high above him in two hands, shrieking at the sky, covered in her blood.

De la Hoya was executed – hung – and the family disappeared from the village. Their house was burned to the ground after the village priest had been shocked by evidence of 'satanic ritual' that had been found inside. Methos quietly damned the false delicacy of the watcher in not recording just what had been found.

The next chronicle entries picked the three remaining de la Hoyas on the coast, in Valencia nine years later. Jaime's first death was recorded as being due to a 'farming accident' in which he sustained a fatal wound to the chest. Methos raised an eyebrow at the thought of exactly what the real circumstances of that death were. Still the 'twins' had stayed with their father and the chronicle recorded that de la Hoya had begun to teach Jaime sword-craft and the rules of Immortal combat.

Not long after, the chronicle recorded the death of Rafael. The record had, up to that point painted a picture of a disaffected young man, increasingly angry and hostile, given to whiling away the hours when he should have been working by drinking himself under the table at the local tavern. An unpopular youth, no one in the town had been particularly surprised or upset when three fishermen witnessed him apparently falling to his death from a cliff while he was walking with Jaime. The Watcher had noted a struggle viewed from a nearby beach, and observed that it was possibly 'a deliberate killing', although he couldn't be certain.

Their Watcher had followed them, three Immortals now, into the interior of Andalucia. Then at last had come the connection that Methos has been looking for. They were living in a small town near the Portuguese border when the Watcher reported a bizarre series of murders. Methos read between the lines and realized that the Watcher had known from the beginning who had been responsible for the heinous crimes, even though he had not witnessed them, but then as now, nothing had been done to stop them. The murders of 1678 had shocked the town, nine mortal men and women killed in quick succession through the summer. People were seeing devils and witches under their beds and accusations flew thick and fast.

It was the Watcher's description of the final 'sacrifices' that completely terrified Methos. If The Two were going to repeat this pattern again, as they had so many times already, then MacLeod was in deadly danger and he wasn't the only one. 'How the hell was this missed until now? ' Methos asked himself as he drove as fast as he dared through the heavy Paris traffic. 'Nine mortals, three Immortals…'

Methos was concentrating so completely on planning his confrontation with The Two and navigating through the traffic at the same time that at first the siren did not register. The flashing lights reflected in the mirror caught his eye though and he looked up at them in disbelief. No! Not now! Ice-cold fear trickled down his spine as Methos pulled the truck to the side of the road. He didn't need police interference at that moment, not when Duncan could be facing The Two on his own without knowing what they really intended. And yet he had little choice but to play along and cooperate, to call attention to himself at this time could be fatal, for both of them. He waited for the officer to come to him. Not a uniformed cop. A detective – not good at all.

"Out of the vehicle please, sir," the detective ordered, his hand hovering near the butt of his holstered pistol.

Methos complied, pulling Adam Pierson out of his repertoire with ridiculous ease. Cops liked Adam, everybody liked Adam; he was a Nice Guy, Methos thought cynically. He gave his best Adam smile. "Yes, officer? Can I help you? I wasn't speeding was I?"

The cop was unaffected by the charm. "Mr Pierson?"

"Yes, what can I do for you officer?"

"Detective Reynard, Mr Pierson. I have to ask you to accompany me to the station to answer some questions." The cop's request was mild enough but the steel in his eyes was plain to see.

"What's this about?" Methos/Adam asked ingenuously, wondering briefly if he wasn't stretching the bounds of credibility just a fraction.

"Would you come with me now sir?" the cop repeated stubbornly.

"Why can't you just ask your questions here? What do you want to know, anyway?"

"You need to come to the station to answer them," Reynard replied mulishly.

"Am I under arrest?" he asked with just the right touch of Adam-sweetness.

"Not yet," Reynard answered tightly.

"Then until you have grounds to arrest me, Detective Reynard, I suggest you let me go on my way." Methos let a hint of his real feelings slip through Adam's mildness and he stepped around the cop. He could feel Reynard's ire rising as Methos slouched negligently around him and slid back behind the wheel of his truck. "Have a nice day," Methos smirked as he drove away.

Damn that was close. Too much time lost.

***

Duncan gasped back into life, straining against the bonds he hadn't known he wore until that second. He was still in the apartment; that much he recognized. But the room was different somehow and he was not alone. Immortal presence raked his senses and he strained to see who and where they were. He could hear the soft, urgent sounds of a struggle and craned his neck up to see who it was. Damn! What's she doing here?

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Nineteen

Methos pulled the truck to a halt in front of the antique shop. He was acutely conscious of the passage of time; every wasted minute ate at him like a cancer. The first shop had been a bust; Mac had been there but they hadn't been able to be any more help than that. The need to find Duncan before The Two did was overwhelming every other consideration. He felt his hold on the conventions of civilized behavior becoming tenuous at best. He stalked through the shop, oblivious to everything but the man sitting expectantly at the untidy desk at the back.

"Batiste?"

"Oui, how may I help you?" Batiste rose from his seat and Methos felt the assessing gaze forming an opinion of his net worth and assets from the haughty examination of his customarily casual appearance.

'If you only knew,' he thought derisively, letting a little of his thought show on his face. "There was a man here earlier, tall, dark, well-built. I need to know where you sent him. Did you give him an address?"

"I don't recall seeing anyone like that, I'm sorry." Batiste studied the manicured fingernails of his right hand.

Methos looked down at the floor for a second, inhaling and focusing on restraining his temper. "I know he was here," he whispered, the soft-spoken menace tangible in his tone.

The blond man affected unconcern, shaking his head. "He may have been, but who remembers these things?"

Suddenly Methos' dagger was in his hand and he was on Batiste in the blink of an eye, pushing him down onto the desk, papers and books avalanching, the blade etching a paper-thin ruby streak into Batiste's throat. Methos' lodged his knee in the other man's solar plexus and his left hand closed over Batiste's collarbone with the thumb pressed warningly against the windpipe. "How's your memory now?" Methos asked conversationally, his tone diametrically opposite the death in his heart.

"I...I...remember him," Batiste sputtered, terror widening his eyes and drenching him with sour-smelling sweat.

"Yes?" Methos prompted impatiently, wrinkling his nose in distaste as the sharp scent of urine prickled his senses.

"Let me up, I'll get it."

Methos didn't move at first, reading Batiste's veracity with a flick of his eye.

"I haven't memorized it, I need to look at the book!" Batiste begged, sobbing with fear and humiliation.

Methos was upright again so quickly that Batiste lay as if stunned for a moment, then scrambled to his feet. Methos watched warily as the storeowner rifled through the fallen piles of papers, panic making him clumsy. More papers cascaded to the floor as the man's jerky movements upset the fragile balance. Relief was clear on Batiste's pallid, sweaty face as he grabbed an invoice book from the mess and flicked to a page near the end. In a trembling voice, so far divorced from his earlier oily tones as to be almost unrecognizable, Batiste gave Methos the information he sought and collapsed in a fear-soaked heap on the floor.

Methos didn't spare the man on the floor a second thought as he stalked from the store; the mortal had chosen his own path the minute he'd chosen to lie to him. Methos' full concentration now was on finding Duncan and The Two – in that order. He swept from the store without a backward glance.

He became aware of the tail a few minutes later. The police were following him a short distance behind and Methos cursed himself for his smug carelessness in not thinking to look for them sooner. There was no way he could let them follow him to The Two's lair. There was entirely too much at stake, the least of which was trying to explain satisfactorily to the police how two dead serial killers came to be walking around Paris. No, he had to lose them and quickly. Methos spotted an underground parking garage up ahead and the plan formed in his mind.

Methos turned his truck into the garage entrance without signaling, earning the wrath of the drivers behind him, who leaned on their horns and shouted obscenities. Methos ignored them and hurled the truck around the tight corners of the garage. He was down to the third floor down when he found a parking spot and threw the truck into it, breaking sharply. Grabbing his coat and sword, Methos fled the vehicle. He ducked his head as a car cruised slowly past, trying not to draw attention to his flight.

Methos slipped into the lift at the end of the row of cars and headed up to ground level again, fairly certain he'd been unseen. He stepped out of the lift doors being as unobtrusive and anonymous as he'd ever been. Still, even the best fugitives have bad luck, he thought later, when he again had time to think.

Methos walked out the front entrance of the garage and there, sitting in his car, clearly shouting into his radio by the livid expression on his face, was Inspector LeFavre. Their eyes met for a brief moment – intense dislike and suspicion passing between them – and then Methos turned and blended himself into the passing crowd. He was careful not to rush, not to betray his flight to any observer. Protective behaviors developed over the millennia of his life were brought out like old clothes from a trunk and slipped on as if they'd never been set aside.

A crowd was filing out from a movie theater on the next street corner. Methos headed into the heart of it, letting it sweep him along in its heated mass. He kept his head down and his hands jammed firmly in his pockets, slouching along as if he hadn't a care in the world, while internally his mind was reeling. Images of the attack on Joe melded with mental pictures of Duncan suffering the same fate. Breath hissed involuntarily between Methos' teeth at the pain that thought caused him. After a few minutes the crowd began to thin, people dispersing in various directions. Methos waited until he could see a taxi cruising past, then quickly moved to the curb and hailed it before he attract any more attention.

***

Duncan almost sobbed with frustration as he struggled uselessly against his bonds. The ropes were cutting into his skin and he could feel the blood running down his forearms and ankles. 'Have to get loose, have to stop them,' he thought as anger made him pull harder against the ropes. The Two were not in the room and he couldn't see them from where he lay although he could still feel their presence nearby. Duncan could hear the soft cries of their other captive and a quick look at what they had done to her already made him thrash and tear violently at the ties that bound him.

***

Methos was cursing every god he'd ever prayed to for the unending hell that was this day. A motorcycle had run a red light and plowed into a car at an intersection just ahead and the resulting traffic jam had blocked the street in both directions. He was still several blocks from Rue St Lazare, but Methos had had enough. A covert look at the surrounding area told him he'd lost the police for now but he'd have to be quick. He could hear the sirens in the background; soon the area would be swarming with emergency personnel. He threw a handful of francs at the surprised driver and all but flew from the cab. Abandoning stealth in the rising urgency of the moment, Methos loped off down the street, his long coat flaring behind him like wings.

***

The Two were back, Duncan realized with a sickened lurch of his stomach. He rolled to his side and was able to see them more clearly as they entered the room from what he assumed was a bedroom at the back of the apartment. They were almost nude; their thin bodies clad only in short hide aprons that covered their groins. Painted designs reminiscent of the ones on the wall decorated their skins and they wore bright feathers tied with rawhide thonging above their biceps.

The only difference between them now was the crudely amputated arm of one of the men. The one-armed man carried the black stone hascha and the other the footed offering dish. The Two ignored Duncan for the moment and he watched them turn their attention to their other captive, already stretched out face-up over a low stone altar that had been placed in front of the 'painting' on the wall. He saw her body stiffen as they drew near and spoke in words he did not understand. It was a different language from the last time he had heard them speak. That time he could catch familiar words here and there, plucked from the many European languages with which Duncan was familiar. No, this was different, the rhythm and meter reminding him vaguely of the native people's languages he'd heard while in Peru.

"Auh in ye iuhqui, niman ye ic conteca in teehcac," said the first, running a hand over the 'sacrifice's' bare skin.

"Conaquetztiteca," said the second, stroking the knife softly over the same path.

Sister Mary Kathleen looked up at them and screamed.

***

Sweat prickled uncomfortably down Methos' back under the wool of his coat as he ran and, not for the first time, he decided that Doc Martens were truly terrible shoes for running any distance. But he ignored his physical discomfort and dashed on down the street, not bothering to apologize to the people into which he bumped as his wild flight to the apartment block on the corner of Rue St Lazare. He bolted up the front steps of the building and forced his way through the foyer door.

Another minute's desperate flight saw him reaching the front door of the address he'd wrested from Batiste. Duncan's presence reached out to greet him, as welcome and as familiar as the man himself, and a part of Methos' mind almost sobbed with gratitude. He was alive and every other consideration came second to that. Methos drew his sword, took a step back and savagely kicked in the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty

Duncan frantically tried to slip his arms around the backs of his legs, to bring them in front of him. He'd managed to break his legs free from where they were tied to his wrists, although the sick snapping he felt in his left wrist as the ropes finally broke apart left him gasping, sweating and nauseous until the bone mended itself. It should have been a simple matter to slip his feet through the circle of his bound arms; he'd done it before many times. But the little bastards had wrapped the ropes to half-way along his forearm, Duncan realized, and there simply wasn't the leeway to maneuver. He had to content himself for the moment in unpicking the knots that held his ankles together. He kept a wary eye on The Two as he struggled but they were apparently immersed in their ceremony and didn't so much as flick a glance in Duncan's direction.

The Immortal who held the knife now held it high above Sister Mary Kathleen's pale breast. "Auh in tlamicti, za ic icac, omach ic moqetz."

Duncan felt the first stirrings of Methos' presence caressing his mind and had to bite his lip to keep from gasping in relief. Methos was here. Duncan redoubled his efforts to free his legs. The Two didn't react until the front door imploded.

***

Methos stopped short as he burst into the apartment. He stood, blade held at the ready, frozen for the briefest of moments by the scene that greeted him. The Two glared at him from beside a makeshift stone altar in front of a huge circular red-brown design. Methos barely registered the identity of their shivering sacrifice before his eyes swept past to find his lover.

Duncan lay on the far side of the room, face down on the floor and dressed only in his trousers, his other clothing nowhere in sight. He looked across at Methos with his neck arched and head raised. Their eyes met for a brief, timeless moment, rapid messages of love and relief passing between them in equal measure. Then he turned to The Two, an eyebrow raised sardonically.

Methos dropped the point of his blade to the floorboards and leaned on the pommel casually. "A party and I wasn't invited? I'm hurt guys, truly gutted." Their ritual invaded and interrupted, The Two seemed frozen in shock as they hovered over the altar. Methos shot them a cold sneer and hoisted his broadsword so that the flat of the blade lay on his shoulder, before strolling across to where Duncan lay, keeping The Two in view at all times. "Hey, Mac, miss me?"

"What do you think?" Duncan answered tightly.

As he reached Duncan's side Methos reached beneath his coat and whipped out the long bladed dagger he kept secreted there. Still fixing The Two with his gaze, Methos slid the razor-sharp blade through the ropes that bound his lover, the volume of drying blood covering Duncan's wrists and ankles only adding to the cold fury beneath Methos' relaxed facade. The Two were dog-meat. "Where's your sword?" Methos whispered as he freed Duncan.

"I don't know, they must have taken it when I was out. Bastards shot me," Duncan winced and rubbed at his chest and wrists as he stood beside Methos at last.

"Damn. Look you'll have to use this, I'm better with the short blade." Methos went to hand the broadsword to Duncan who waved him off.

"The hell you are. You don't just give away your main weapon... No, Methos, just give me the dagger. I've trained with one many times, I'll be fine."

Sudden irrational anger flared within Methos and he turned to look at his lover, taking his eye from The Two for just a second. "For fuck's sake, MacLeod! For once in your misbegotten life will you just do as I tell you!" He thrust the hilt of the broadsword into Duncan's hand just as he realized that The Two had finally left their frozen positions beside the altar. They had picked up their own weapons and were advancing rapidly on Duncan and him. Methos barely had time to toss the dagger from his left hand to his right before their opponents reached them.

The one armed man paired off with Duncan, leaving the other to face Methos. He snarled ferally in Methos' face as the battle was joined. "You have interrupted the Taking. The circle must be completed before the solstice comes. The Two will have what we require."

Methos fended off the small man's attack, pushing aside the rapier with short, rapid motions of the dagger. The little man was quick though, and it took Methos' whole attention to hold him at bay. He lifted his foot and drove a boot hard into the thin chest with a satisfying thud. "Somehow I don't think you'll be collecting any more trophies, not this solstice or any other." Methos advanced on his challenger, still only able to defend the incoming blows while the smaller man kept his distance. To be able to truly attack and end this little arsehole's miserable life, Methos was going to need to get in close, inside the other man's guard.

***

Duncan wielded the unfamiliarly heavy blade uncertainly at first. It was so different to the lines and the weight of his sleek katana and it had been so long since he'd trained with such a large sword that it took him a few minutes to accustom himself to it again. The first few blows from his opponent came in high and fast and Duncan's parries were fractionally too low, the weight of the broadsword dragging the blade lower than he intended. Then at last his body remembered what his mind had forgotten and all the years he spent practicing with the huge weight of a claymore came back to him.

But not before he'd taken a deep cut diagonally across the muscles of his chest. The point of the one-armed man's rapier sliced through his flesh as if it was butter and at first Duncan believed the little man had missed. Then the stinging well of blood brought home the reality and Duncan pressed his hand to the wound to slow the flow and lessen the blood loss before he healed. One-handed, he flung the blade upwards as the challenger slashed down wildly at him, anger clear in the one-handed man's eyes.

"You'll have to do better than that, little man," Duncan taunted, "I want your head, but I can take you apart a piece at a time if you'd prefer." He shot the man a predatory grin as he went on the attack.

With the hyper-awareness of the truly focused moment, Duncan never lost sight of Methos' position in the room as he parried the seemingly never-ending series of blows the one-armed man was throwing at him. A part of Duncan's mind recognized what the old man was doing. He'd subtly maneuvered the fight so that he and Duncan were in the center of the room, fighting almost back to back, keeping The Two as far apart as they could possibly be and allowing he and Methos to guard each other's backs.

Duncan's opponent swung a high overhead blow towards him, spinning with the momentum under Duncan's parry. The small man came back on the backhand and Duncan deflected it, dropping the tip of the Ivanhoe towards the floor and bracing the hilt two-handed. A savage upward twist of the broad heavy blade flicked the rapier quickly up and out of his opponent's hands. It clattered across the floor and the one-armed man dived after it.

***

Methos fended off the next blow with an upward strike of his arm. He took the blade hard in the muscle of his forearm and hissed his pain, but the sacrifice allowed him to get in much closer. Catching the smaller man's sword-arm in his left hand, distancing himself from the white-hot streak of pain that followed, Methos pushed up, locking their joined arms above their heads, and plunged the dagger deep into the challenger's gut, twisting and ripping viciously as he removed it. Methos had time for a shallow raking blow along the other Immortal's chest before the challenger tugged his arm free and staggered away, gasping and bleeding profusely.

Methos came in hard and fast again, before his opponent could have time to heal. The smaller man's hands were slick with his own blood, still pouring from the gaping belly wound, when Methos struck a series of lightning fast cuts and thrusts. He tried to push Methos away but the slippery blood offered him no purchase and his hands slid off ineffectually. Despite his complete concentration on his own battle, Methos knew the second Duncan's opponent hit the floor. With a small, ironic smile Methos dived at his opponent, crashing them both to the floor, plunging the dagger deep into the challenger's heart, holding him as close as a lover as the life drained out of the small man's eyes.

***

Duncan's opponent scrambled over the floorboards, unbalanced by his amputated limb. He grabbed for the loose rapier but Duncan was too quick for him, leaping over him gracefully and planting his foot firmly on the blade of the other man's weapon. A cold smile quirked the corner of Duncan's mouth as he caught the smaller man under the tip of his chin with the point of the broadsword. The challenger slowly stood, controlled by the gentle pressure being exerted against his skin.

"Did you lose somethin' there, wee one?" Duncan goaded, his accent thickening. "You won't be needin' that where yer goin'…"

The unarmed man seemed not to realize how close he was to death. "But the circle must be joined. The Taking will proceed, it is fated. The offerings of three Immortals complete the circle and allow the power to be shared. It is the only way to please the gods. When the gods are pleased with us we shall be rewarded with the Prize, our father has promised us this."

"You can complain to him about it in person when you see him in hell," Duncan answered coldly. The Highlander pushed his challenger backwards; lifting his blade until it was level and pointed precisely at the center of the one-armed man's throat. Without another word or gesture, Duncan whipped the sword up and over his own head, returning on the backhand to slice his opponent's head from his shoulders.

In the seconds before the congealing mist took hold Duncan looked across to his lover. Methos stood watching Duncan, his expression wide-eyed and intense. The fallen body of his challenger lay at Methos' feet; the long-bladed dagger buried hilt-deep in his chest. Duncan smiled, warmly this time, into the eyes that met his, and tossed the heavy broadsword, hilt first, across the room.

***

Methos caught the sword cleanly; understanding the wordless look that was his last communication with Duncan before the Quickening took hold. Still silent, not wasting another word on the men whom had brought them so much misery in so short a time; Methos raised his sword and struck, cleaving the head from the lifeless man. There was a groaning exhalation of air as the small man's last breath rattled from his severed neck; then the mist began to weave poisonously around Methos' legs. He looked up to see Duncan's anguished face as the Quickening battered his body, then Methos too was trapped by its power.

***

Such a strange Quickening, but what else could he expect from so strange an opponent? Duncan's mind and body were shredded and battered by the essence of Jaime de la Hoya, receiving the name and the knowledge of his madness in the storm of lightning that poured from the broken body. He dropped to his knees, every fiber of his being on fire with the tainted essence.

Acid burned along Duncan's veins; heat so intense it was almost cold cramped his muscles; images, bloody and violent, assaulted his mind. Then he felt the presence of another through the fog of half-awareness, and Duncan realized that he could feel the other's Quickening energy entering him too. Even in death, Rafael de la Hoya would not separate from his 'twin' and Duncan could feel them twine around each other like a pair of deadly snakes as they forced their way into him. With stark clarity Duncan felt the fierce obsessiveness of The Two's love for one another. Suddenly his limbs seemed to have turned to rubber and Duncan collapsed to the floor, grateful for the blackness that rose up to claim his mind.

***

Methos braced himself for the coming storm. He could feel the energy building, the air crackling like the aura of a thunderstorm. How many times had he done this, been here at this moment, poised to take the unwanted essence of another into him? Times beyond counting, was the only answer he could give himself. A shower of blue sparks began to pour from the truncated body that lay before him; Methos felt the burn and jammed the tip of his sword into the floor to try to ground himself. Rafael de la Hoya's venomous energy pierced Methos' mind and body at the same time and the pain was almost beyond bearing.

Confusion, madness, self-loathing, bloodlust, love, hate, longing, disgust; Methos felt them all as Rafael's Quickening revealed the workings of his mind in a searing flash of insight. From Rafael's first memories of himself as a confused and abused small child, Methos felt/saw him grow to become a cold, hard, older boy, wreaking vengeance on the world by the torment of things smaller and weaker than himself. Methos felt the tension in Rafael's soul that could only be eased by fire and blood. As Rafael grew older, so his needs grew stronger and more complex.

Methos felt the other man's utter dependence on his brother, the complete lack of boundaries between them that made them feel like they were two halves of the same person. In a world where nothing was constant and no one could be relied upon, Rafael and Jaime had turned inwards to one another and forged a duality that could not be broken even in death. They had left Jaime and Rafael behind and become The Two. Methos could feel Jaime's presence teasing at the edges of the Quickening and steadied himself for the worst of the storm. The combined power of The Two's energy passing to him drove Methos to his knees.

***

Duncan woke to the gentle caress of a cool hand on his forehead. He was disoriented for a moment, and then he opened his eyes finding the nun kneeling beside him. She'd clearly freed herself from the altar while he and Methos were out of it, found her habit and dressed. Duncan sat up quickly and his head spun a little.

"Sister?" he asked. "Are you all right? Did they hurt you? How did you get free?" He laid his hand on her forearm and looked into her pale blue eyes, trying to see what she was feeling.

Mary Kathleen smiled tiredly. "I think all that lightning flyin' about the room must have burned through the ropes. I have to admit I wasn't really paying attention not with all that goin' on. Is it always like that? I've never seen one before."

Duncan took her hand gently. "Then you're very lucky. They're always pretty intense. But are you all right now?"

"I'm fine, Mr MacLeod. A little tired, but this too shall pass… It's not every day a girl is kidnapped and almost offered as a pagan sacrifice, after all." A shadow passed over her small round face and she sighed wearily, "Oh my..." She wobbled a little despite her show of bravado.

"We'll get you back home soon," Duncan promised.

From across the room Methos groaned and sat up. Duncan struggled to his feet and went to him, sinking to his knees again as he reached his lover's side and pulling him into his arms. Methos wrapped his arms tightly around Duncan's back, burying his face in the curve of Duncan's neck. He let the hard warm reality of having Methos in his arms again wash over him gratefully, driving out the last of the pain and the fear, warming him from the inside out. It was over at last.

Over... Oh Christ...

Doubt and fear crashed in on Duncan again and he tightened his grip on his lover, his hands fisting in Methos' shirt. Duncan felt the reassuring press of a large hand on his back, circling firmly, soothing him. He dragged in a shuddering breath that was close to a sob.

"Hush, Duncan. It's all right. We're all right," Methos whispered close to Duncan's ear.

"Are we?" Duncan rasped, his voice suddenly thick with unshed tears.

"We're fine."

A small cough broke into the moment. "Uh, boys? I sure do hate to interrupt y'all but shouldn't we be high-tailin' it outta here by now? Someone's sure to have called the police by now."

Duncan shot a quick look up into the nun's face, she was smiling – almost laughing at them – and a wicked light danced around her eyes. Clearly at least one of them was completely recovered from the experience. He released Methos and rose to his feet, extending a hand to help Methos to his feet. Methos held onto the hand a second or two long than strictly necessary and Duncan felt a long thumb caress the back of his hand. Their eyes met for a tiny heated moment and anticipation lit a fire in Duncan's groin.

They all froze when they heard the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

"They're playing our song," Methos joked. "Time to exit, stage left."

"Fire escape?" Duncan suggested.

"My very thought."

Methos looked up at the wall as they walked past and asked, "Are those what I think they are?"

Duncan still had a hard time looking at them. "Souvenirs," he answered grimly.

"Don't you sometimes wish they had more than one head to hack off?" Methos asked wistfully.

Duncan had no answer to that one so he left it alone.

The three Immortals went to the rear of the apartment and found the window that led to the fire escape. Duncan went out first and Methos lifted Mary Kathleen out to him, she was like a bird in his arms, fragile bones pressing through the thin skin.

"You can put me down now, you big lump. I can walk y'know, bin doin' it for nigh on two hundred years now, give or take." She wriggled to free herself from Duncan's hold.

He released her and mock-scowled at Methos' smirk. "You'll get yours," Duncan promised his lover meaningfully.

"Promises, promises," Methos shot back, raking Duncan's body with his eyes. "Come on, we'd better get out while we can."

***

Methos started Duncan's Range Rover and they pulled away from Sacre Coeur. Sister Mary Kathleen was safely back in the protective arms of her order and regaling them with the highly fictionalized tales of her adventures around Paris with two handsome young men. Methos and Duncan hadn't had to try very hard to convince her that mentioning The Two to anyone, even the other sisters, was a very bad idea. So instead of a life-threatening ordeal, the nun had come up with an amusing tale of being squired around Paris by her 'young' friends.

"You realize of course I'll have to do a ton of penance for tellin' such whoppin' great lies?" she'd said as they drove up to the Basilica.

And Duncan, ever the boyscout, had actually volunteered them to help out should she ever need it. Methos had shaken his head and smirked at that one. If Mary Kathleen wanted to borrow Duncan she was going to have to get in line. He had plans for the Highlander that did not include seeing the outside of a hotel room for at least two days.

But now there was just he and Duncan again. In a short while they would be back in the hotel room and Methos could bury himself deep inside that hot, beautiful body until they both screamed. Just the thought of it was enough to make Methos squirm in his seat. Duncan was faring no better if the tightness of his jeans was any indication. At this rate they'd be lucky if they didn't tear each other apart in the parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-one

The edge of the electronic key rattled against the lock with the shake of Methos' hand as he opened the door. Adrenaline still coursed freely through his veins, making him edgy and hyper-aware. Even the scrape of his clothing against his skin was an exquisite torment to his banked arousal.  He held the door ajar for Duncan, motioning him inside. Methos followed close behind him; so close he could trace the scent of Duncan's body like a jetstream. It was all too much to resist; Duncan radiated sex from every pore. Methos reached out a hand to lightly rest on his lover's shoulder.

"Mac?"

Duncan turned and the parting of his lips and the need in his eyes were too much to resist. Methos rushed to take up the invitation in the eyes and the mouth with desperate abandon. He was enveloping Duncan in his arms, crushing him back into the wall even as he was still pushing the room door closed. Methos' mouth was met with equal fierceness as Duncan's hands slipped up under the edge of the soft, old Henley, and Methos shivered as the strong sure hands mapped the surfaces of his flanks and back, pulling him tight against the broad chest.

Blind passion guided their hands and mouths as the two men dragged the responses from one another. Duncan was a hard muscled length of heat pressed along every possible surface of Methos' body. His arousal was a hard ridge against Methos' hip as he thrust rhythmically, control becoming tenuous already. Frantic hands tore at clothes – coats, shirts sent dropping to the ground in a whispered counterpoint to the moans of pleasure emanating from them.

Finally, Methos had Duncan's chest bared and he kissed his way from lush lips to broad shoulder with appreciation rumbling in his own chest. Skin like satin under his lips. His hands glided up to tease the flat brown nipples, hidden amongst Duncan's chest hair, to pebbled tightness. Methos nipped hard at the firm little peaks, Duncan's needy moans wrapping around his cock like a hand, or a tongue. Need became imperative. Fuck waiting.

"Gods, Duncan, I need to be inside you," he whispered into the younger man's ear.

Duncan responded by shoving Methos so hard against the opposite wall of the small entrance hall that bright showers of stars floated before his eyes. For a terrifying second Methos wondered what the hell was going on.

Then all of Methos' doubts were blown away as Duncan sank to his knees in front of him and tore Methos' jeans open, tugging them down with greedy hands. A predatory light gleamed in the amber brown eyes as Duncan grasped a hand around Methos' cock, pushing the foreskin back gently. Methos' gaze was trapped by the look in his lover's eyes as he watched Duncan snake his tongue out to touch the tip to the pearly droplet gathering on the head of Methos' cock.

"Will this do for a start?" Duncan murmured, then he took Methos into his mouth an easy swallow.

Methos let the helpless moan of pleasure that escaped his mouth answer for him. Duncan was merciless as he alternated long sweeping licks of his tongue with sucking Methos' whole length deep into his mouth as his hands steadied the narrow hips that twitched with the urge to thrust even deeper. There was liquid fire flaming at Methos' cock; there was nothing else that could explain this incredible heat enveloping him.

"Oh yes…"

***

Duncan could feel the leap and swell of the muscles beneath his hands as Methos fought to thrust his cock deep into Duncan's throat. He pressed Methos back against the wall, forcing the older man to remain still through his shuddering arousal. Duncan wasn't sure where this sudden consuming need had sprung from, he only knew that he craved Methos' body, needed to possess it and be possessed by it.

A long sweeping lick of Duncan's tongue down the shaft led him to nuzzle at Methos' balls, feeling them contract under his touch. With his hand stroking an erratic rhythm along the throbbing cock, Duncan gently sucked one ball into his mouth, his tongue flickering at the lightly furred sac. It moved in his mouth, tightening as he sucked softly on it. Methos groaned and spread his thighs wider to allow the access. Duncan let the sac slip free and slid the shaft between his lips again.

Strong fingers clutched at his hair, tangling in the short strands, pulling him closer to the curl-covered groin. Duncan swallowed, letting his throat open to take Methos deeper, rewarded by the sound of a rasping groan from the man above him. God, but Methos tasted good.

***

Methos was entranced by the sight of Duncan on his knees with the swollen, reddened cock slipping smoothly in and out of his beautiful mouth. Duncan's eyes were closed as he concentrated; Methos couldn't tear his away. Hypnotized, gasping raggedly, Methos fought off the orgasm that wound him tighter with every sucking caress of Duncan's lips.

Methos tangled his fingers into the silken dark waves of Duncan's hair, pleasuring and distracting himself at the same time. Even the back and forth movement of the younger man's head under his hands sent dizzying thrills of sensation to join the multitudes already zinging through his system at that moment. He could see the blissful expression on Duncan's face; the dark eyes still closed in concentration, the lashes a sooty line against the tan cheeks hollowed with suction. He needed to see the expression in those beautiful eyes, needed to know that this was more than just the side effect of the brutal Quickenings.

"Mac?" he breathed between gasps of pleasure. "Look at me? Duncan? Please?"

Liquid brown eyes flicked open and met his with such terrifying honesty that Methos almost wished he'd never opened this particular Pandora's box. He could see everything in that dark gaze, every nuance of lust and desire and yes, if he was honest, love. It was the last, which threatened to bring him undone. He was drowning in the depth of that emotion, and for a second he couldn't breathe.

This was a terrible mistake. It was too much. There was a wealth and depth of feeling in those beautiful eyes that was so intimidating, so overwhelming, that Methos had the sudden urge to flee this man and retreat back into his safe, even-keeled life where the whirlwind highs and the deadly lows were but memories. If Duncan ever knew even a fraction of the power he held over him then Methos would be lost.

Methos wished fiercely that he'd never asked Duncan to look at him, then he could have gone on pretending that this madness between them was a short-lived meteorite of a thing that would flare brightly for a little while and burn out just as quickly. He could have gone on pretending that it was purely physical, an appreciation of strength and grace and beauty taken to its corporeal conclusion. An abstraction, an aberration on both their parts. After all, Duncan never had relationships with men, and Methos never had relationships with Immortals, not since...well not any more. Never. They just didn't.

So it could only be temporary, this madness that had enveloped them one strange night. Even if Methos kept coming back to Duncan's side, saving him again and again, he could rationalize that it was altruism, the need to keep Duncan alive for the good of the game, which kept him hovering over the Highlander. 'Even if you've never done an altruistic thing on the whole of your life, old man?' a voice in his head sniggered meanly. Methos tried to ignore the voice, even as he recognized the truth.

Sometime when he wasn't looking Duncan had become essential to him, and Methos felt his heart swell as he accepted the fact. He wasn't falling, he'd already fallen, no changing that now. He could run away or he could face that which terrified him. Hold his head high and kiss the steel of the blade that had his name on it or duck his head and walk away. He managed to return to look Duncan sent him, then seconds later, his mind exploded with the force of his orgasm.

***

Duncan released Methos' hips and let his lover fuck his throat, reveling in the taste and smell and feel of the man inside him. He felt the moment draw near with the thrusts growing frenzied. The bittersweet fluid leaking into his mouth was flooding now, any minute and Methos would be tumbling over the edge into climax. Duncan fixed his eyes on his lover's face, watching, waiting for the moment when the bliss would spread over Methos' beautiful features and he could drink him dry.

There. There it was, the subtle parting of lips, the eyes squeezing shut as if the pleasure was too close to pain to bear, the little breathy moans hitching in the long throat, the tensing of flat stomach muscles. And there... Oh yes... The hot, musky fluid shooting down his throat, seemingly pints of it. His lover's essence burned a path through his soul. Duncan swallowed until the last shuddering droplets had all disappeared and Methos sagged against the wall.

***

It barely took the edge off. Methos was still half-hard as he bent to haul Duncan up to his feet, pulling him close to capture his mouth, kissing him deeply. He could taste himself on Duncan's tongue, as his own tangled fiercely with it.

Duncan's cock rubbed, hard and needy, against Methos' hip, inflaming his arousal even further. Duncan's lips left Methos' mouth and nibbled down over his jaw. Sharp teeth latched onto his neck, nipping and sucking, licking at the tender flesh. It was too much.

Methos grabbed Duncan's shoulders and propelled him towards the bed, not letting go for a second. They fell onto it heavily, the air gusting out of Duncan's chest as Methos landed on top of him.

"You in a hurry for something?" Duncan asked with a teasing grin, though his eyes were huge with need and a thin film of sweat glossed his skin.

"You," Methos stated bluntly as he kicked away his jeans and shoes. "I'm in a hurry to have you."

Duncan wriggled beneath Methos to remove his own jeans; Methos' grasping hands more a hindrance than a help. "You are insatiable. You just had me," he murmured.

"What can I say? I can't get enough of you," Methos whispered as he bent his head to taste the sweat-salty skin of Duncan's neck, sucking tiny mouthfuls between his lips and marking them with his teeth while his hands roamed incessantly over the muscled smoothness of Duncan's body.

"You're not the only one." Duncan's hands slipped up to rest on Methos' ass, pulling him close, their cocks now in close opposition. "Hurry, Methos," Duncan pleaded in a broken whisper.

As Methos' mouth plundered the sweet, dark heat of his lover's mouth he felt Duncan begin to shift restlessly below him, incoherent little begging noises spilling from his lips. Noises that sent tiny sizzles of electricity straight from Methos' ear to his cock. Noises that told Methos exactly how much Duncan wanted, desired, needed him.

Now. If not sooner.

With an impatient hiss Duncan flipped them over, rolling on top of his lover. He smiled ferally, that hot predatory look that melted something inside his lover. "Enough fucking around already," he growled as he leaned over to grab the lube from the nightstand.

Oh yes...

***

Duncan smoothed the cool gel over Methos' rigid cock, smiling minutely at the fevered groans his light touch elicited. Methos thrust up into his hand, shit the old man was easy, and Duncan loved him like this, pure response – no plan or calculation – just honest lust and need. Methos on the verge of losing control was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he could ever remember seeing.

He sat up, straddling Methos' hips. Duncan's eyes never left his lover's as he raised himself up and placed the velvet-tipped cock at his entrance. With excruciatingly slow deliberation, Duncan impaled himself on the shaft, warm waves of need shimmering past the pain as the cock moved deeper and deeper into him. He was filled with Methos and the sensation was precious to him. If he could, he would have crawled inside Methos and wrapped himself in the boundless mysteries of his lover, surrounding himself in all that quiet strength and easy grace, letting it smooth away all his rough edges.

Duncan rose and fell above Methos, quickly finding a steady rhythm. With every stroke, Methos' cock moved over Duncan's prostate and he moaned aloud, his head dropping back as he lost himself in the soaring pleasure. So incredible. Sensation was a living, breathing, clawing thing racing through his veins. Methos' hands settled on Duncan's hips, guiding the speed of their coupling. Duncan sank down until there was nowhere left to go, taking Methos so deep they felt like one.

Methos' hands clutched, hard enough to bruise, and Duncan felt his lover fly apart beneath him. Methos shot his essence deep inside Duncan, searing him, and it sent Duncan over the edge into a shattering climax. He pulled Methos up into his arms, wrapping himself around his lover so that Methos' head lay against Duncan's chest, with Duncan's legs folded around him. Duncan was pressing small, needy kisses along Methos' hairline, stroking his hands over the broad back.

***

Methos was still hazy with orgasm as Duncan pulled him into a desperately enfolding embrace. His cock was still buried deep inside the incredible tightness of Duncan's body, almost melting under the heat. He pressed his lips to the sweat-soaked hair of Duncan's chest and kissed across the slabs of muscle. Duncan was raining kisses down on the top of his head and the sensation was so ineffably sweet, his heart stilled in his chest. Gods, he really could love this man; if he was let he could love him forever.

Duncan's hands wrapped around Methos' face and tilted it up. Their eyes connected and shortly after their lips, soft and slow and ever so slightly salacious. Methos purred deep in his throat and melted against his lover's chest, molding himself to every plane and curve. He felt himself stirring inside Duncan's body, his erection trying to renew itself under the force of this new stimulation. Duncan's shaft, trapped between their bodies, twitched and filled too. Still their tongues tangled, eel-slippery in the depths of Methos' mouth.

Seated on top of Methos' strong thighs, Duncan began to rock, just slightly at first, an infinitesimal movement that sent rivulets of desire sparkling along Methos' nerve endings. The undulation of his hips was just enough, and Methos began to move in time with him. Soon they were lost in it, so far inside the moment, the sensation, the very oneness of their bodies; it was if they had melded into one consciousness.

Duncan's head tilted back, arching the strong curve of his neck. A single silver drop of sweat rolled down the golden column and Methos caught it with his tongue, laving the tender, hot skin delicately, letting the saltiness explode on his tongue. Still their rhythm went on, quiet and focused, increasing the intensity with every movement of their bodies.

The tension was building but it wasn't like before, Methos could feel it beginning in the soles of his feet, growing like a thunderstorm on the horizon. Still they rocked against each other, steady ceaseless rocking as timeless as the ocean. Methos felt the trembling begin in the long muscles of Duncan's legs and knew the end was drawing near.

Duncan broke the silence with a shattered moan. "Methos...I can't," he gasped as he finally rocked more strongly against Methos. "I need...oh...fuck!"

Methos soothed him with gentling strokes of his hand, down the length of his back. "It's okay... Shhh... Let it go...I've got you," he murmured against the wide chest.

Methos watched, fascinated almost beyond his own arousal, as Duncan threw himself into the moment. The tension on the handsome face was almost pain, as his body grew taut, hovering close to the edge but not falling over. A helpless, bone-deep shudder shook Duncan's body as he moaned again. Then the tightness that surrounded Methos' cock clenched like a fist and dragged him squarely back to the knife-edge of his own arousal. Together they exploded, shattering into atoms until the boundaries between them smudged and blurred so they could not tell where one ended and the other began.

And when they came back to themselves each had small parts of the other embedded in his soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-Two

Contrary to cliche the day of the funeral was neither appropriately rainy, nor ironically bright, more an inconvenient, inconsistent mix of the two that left black umbrellas opening and closing throughout the service like a garden of somber flowers. Duncan and Methos stood side by side amongst the crowd of mourners around the open grave, letting the intermittent rain drizzle icily down their backs, with their shoulders just close enough to brush against one another in a silent affirmation of support.

The crowd stood silently around them in the watery sunshine. The service was packed with Watchers; agents, supervisors and several of the hierarchy, all come to pay their respects to a rare man, almost a legend in their ranks. Methos had felt their eyes on him as he and Duncan had arrived, felt their suspicious stares and heard snippets of remarks not intended for his ears. Or perhaps they had been.

He'd almost not come, Methos had known this was how it would be and if he hadn't owed Joe so much it wouldn't have been an issue, he simply would have stayed away. But he did owe Joe, more than he'd ever been able to thank him for. It was too hard, being the sort of men they were, to come right out and say, 'Thanks, Joe. You kept my secret even though generations of Watchers have salivated at the thought of uncovering it. You kept it even when it would have made you a hero among your peers and you treated me like I was worth knowing even when you knew the truth about me. You're a good man and a better friend than I deserve, Joseph.'

But he hadn't said any of it, not until now. Instead, Methos had thanked Joe with the only gifts he had worth giving, his friendship and the stories of his past. Truthfully, he disliked delving into the endless sucking mire that was the past five thousand years, but he could see what the stories did for Joe. So he ignored the pain and dredged up story after story, funny, poignant or painful, just to see the look on his friend's face. Joe had loved history, so Methos had given it to him, in the first person no less, and if sometimes Joe had suspected that Methos was embroidering the truth for the sake of entertainment, then that only made the exchange all the sweeter.

It was strange to think of Joe being in Paris forever, Methos mused. Joe had never truly liked the city; it wasn't home, not in the way that Seacouver was. Joe was an American first and foremost, with that streak of patriotism buried deep inside that meant wherever he went in the world America was still home. But the Watchers had long ago decreed that a Watcher that died on the job be buried in the city of his, or her, death. So Paris was it, no matter what Joe would have wanted. 'Another thing to thank the Watchers for,' Methos thought sourly. 'I'll put it on the list.'

Still it was beautiful here, in the way of old cemeteries, and at least in Paris, Duncan could come and visit his old friend. Mac was sentimental about things like that, it wasn't something Methos usually subscribed to himself but there were worse ways to be, he supposed. Once you were in the 'Clan MacLeod' you were there forever, dead or alive; the Scot's loyalty recognized no bounds. The thought came to Methos in a flash that now he was one of the 'clan' too. Now there was a strange idea, Methos of the Clan MacLeod. He found himself suppressing a highly disrespectful snigger at what Joe would have said about that.

Methos would have liked to know what Joe would have made of the whole situation between him and MacLeod. Joe'd known, of course, of Methos' seemingly hopeless yearning for Duncan, almost since the day they met. As he'd said, "You'd have to be blind not to see it, buddy, and I'm a lot of things but I ain't blind." But neither of them had ever really believed that Duncan would reciprocate. Still, it was nice to be wrong sometimes, and Methos guessed Joe wouldn't have minded being wrong this once either.

It was as much as he could hope for; the casual brushing of their shoulders as they stood, closer than strictly necessary but far enough apart for propriety, Methos thought absently, distracting himself from the sorrow around him with idle analysis. As open and demonstrative as he knew Mac to be, he could never expect that same level of public display with a male lover. Nor would he want to… Well, maybe just a little, Methos thought with an internal shrug to acknowledge his own weakness. A small...something to show the world who Duncan MacLeod belonged to these days.

Whoa. 'Belonged to?' When did he get so possessive? Methos asked himself, surprised.

Perhaps it had been sometime in the night, although which night Methos couldn't be sure. They'd passed the days (and nights) since this latest double Quickening feverishly fucking each other's brains into oblivion. 'Mine!' Methos had growled as he surged into Duncan again, just to see that look of inimitable ecstasy crossing that beautiful face. Methos shivered helplessly as he remembered Duncan's fervent, 'Yes!' in answer to the claim.

Duncan must have misread the shiver, Methos guessed, because the next thing he'd known, a strong arm was snaking around his waist and resting there, holding him close against Duncan's side. It was warmer there and not in the least from the heat of the big body pressed against his so unexpectedly.

Methos could feel the ripple of reaction spreading through the Watchers in the crowd as they absorbed that little piece of information. Not that he cared. After all this, Methos was done with the organization, maybe for good. The shadow of Joe would darken any association he had with the Watchers in the future, he was sure. He turned his attention back to the service as a musician friend of Joe's produced a guitar and began the opening chords of 'Stand by Me'. Methos sneaked a covert look at his lover's face and saw the telltale moisture shining in his eyes. He slipped his arm up to match Duncan's.

Methos squeezed his arm a little tighter around his lover, just for a second, and blithely ignored the questioning look that followed.

***

"Thank you for letting us be here, Amy," Methos said as he brushed a kiss across the woman's tear-stained cheek when the service had ended. "It was a beautiful service. He would have loved the music you chose – all his old favorites."

Amy Thomas took his hand in one that felt cool and clammy, as if she'd come close to being overwhelmed by the loss of one so recently gained. "Thank you Adam, I know it was hard for you to come today, with all the brass here and everything. But I appreciate it. You too, Mr MacLeod."

"It's Duncan, please. There was never really any choice; we had to come. Joe was a very good friend to me – to both of us. I only hope he knew how much we appreciated him."

"He knew," Amy answered. "Joe always talked about you two. He was proud to know you – both of you. I think it was the high point of his life."

Methos felt Duncan's body react, though he said nothing.

***

'The high point of his life,' Joe's daughter had said, not knowing that her words could wound so deeply.

Duncan curled into himself mentally, as the ebb and flow of the wake went on all around him. Methos was at the bar, collecting more drinks for them both while Duncan stood alone in the corner of the room, feeling the wary stares of the Watchers flicking over him. If he hadn't drawn Joe into his life, let him break his oath again and again on Duncan's behalf then maybe they wouldn't be standing here today suffering the platitudes of these voyeurs who pretended to be Joe's friends.

Duncan could decide who he was angrier with, himself or the Watchers. Himself, he concluded at last, the Watchers were what they were and they could never change. Duncan could have chosen to walk away from Dawson many times, but he was weak, so needy for friendship, so certain he knew what was right and so he kept coming back. He damned himself bitterly. It was entirely his fault. Duncan knew he'd done this, as surely as he'd taken Richie's head. It was his fault that Joe Dawson was dead. One more for the roll call of the dead at Duncan MacLeod's hand…

He looked across to where Methos stood chatting at the bar, drinks in hand, bailed up by an intoxicated Watcher. Duncan could see the satirical little smile flirting with the corners of Methos' mouth and knew that whatever the Watcher was saying was typical drunken nonsense. Methos was so alive, so wonderfully full of life even in the midst of all this sadness. There was an energy about him these days that nothing seemed to quell.

A vision of Methos as he had been at the hands of The Two superimposed itself on his mind: stretched out, broken and bloodied, moments from true death. Duncan's stomach lurched and he thought for a moment he would throw up. He looked again to his lover, reassuring himself with reality. Methos was laughing now, the sound ringing out over the top of the music and chatter all around him. 'You've been a fool,' Duncan thought to himself sadly, 'a blind, selfish fool.'

There was nothing he could do to change the past, he realized sadly. The only thing he could change was the future.

***

"Thank you, Detective," Duncan said coldly as he hung up the phone and sat down on the bed.

Though the funeral and wake had been over for many hours, he and Methos had only just returned to the hotel. They'd spent a long time walking, talking about Joe – Methos mainly – Duncan had mostly listened. He'd watched Methos, storing up every tale, every anecdote, every laugh, as if they were precious jewels. And if Methos noticed his quietness, or the aching sadness within him, he made no mention of it, and Duncan was grateful.

"What did he want?" Methos asked as he emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a precarious towel.

"It was Reynard. 'Due to the discovery of new evidence'," Duncan quoted with bitter mockery, "'the case has been closed and the barge is no longer required as evidence'. I can have it back whenever I want."

"What do you want to do? Don't try to clean it yourself, please? Get someone in – no I'm serious, Duncan – you don't need to do that to yourself. It's too much." Methos' face was deadly earnest as he drew near to Duncan and caressed Duncan's cheek gently.

Duncan felt his heart squeezed with sweet, painful tightness as the elegant fingers caressed his face and he saw the unguarded care and concern in the wide hazel eyes. "No, I won't live in it again. I have an idea what I'll do with it, though. Leave it with me." At Methos' questioning look he shook his head and drew Methos into his arms, gathering him close. "I'll tell you later." Then partly to distract Methos from delving any deeper and partly because the view of his lover in a towel was always so damned enticing, Duncan twitched away the towel, caught a hand behind Methos' head and tilted his face to the perfect angle for a deep, soulful kiss. "After."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-Three

Duncan threw the flaming torch in a graceful arc out over the water. It hung in the sky for what seemed an eternity, feathering flame like the tail of a comet, then with an unpretentious thud it hit the wood of the barge's decking, those surfaces once so painstakingly tended, and set it alight almost instantly. The fire spread as it caught, red-gold flames leaping high against the velvet-blue night. Soon the damp countryside air was thick and heavy with acrid smoke. The wind changed and Methos and Duncan moved several paces to the right to escape the narrow pall of smoke that stung their eyes and made them cough dryly. The whoosh and roar of the fire engulfing the tinder-dry wood echoed off the small, scattered buildings that stood behind them and upriver a little. Methos watched the play of the flame reflected in his love's eyes.

Methos had wondered what Duncan was playing at when he'd dragged him out to this remote stretch of river bend just after sunset. Then he'd seen the barge moored a short distance from the muddy bank and at least partial clarity had descended. He'd picked a good place for this...whatever this was supposed to be. It was quiet, virtually deserted and generally perfectly suited to incinerating a large piece of property.

"So is this why we're here? You're just going to burn it to the waterline? And then what?" Methos asked.

"And then it will be over. There's a lot of memories tied up in that boat," Duncan answered. "Tess, Richie... Joe. You and me, Amanda, Fitzcairn. Good memories and bad..." Duncan trailed off and Methos was sure he could see the beginnings of a major brood lurking about his lover's beautiful mouth. "I just wanted to say goodbye. To all of them."

Methos felt his mouth quirk a little at one corner as he said gently, "You're such a Celt, MacLeod. You can't do anything by halves, can you? Always with the fire and the grand grieving gesture."

Duncan shrugged. "It's all endings, isn't it?"

"What is?" Methos asked, wary of the answer.

"Life. Immortality. All we ever do seem to do is say goodbye to everything – everyone. How have you stood it all this time?" he asked, staring intently into the flames and Methos could hear the raw pain in Duncan's voice.

"It's beginnings too," Methos reminded him, trying not to let the innate melodrama of Duncan's act darken the mood too much. Methos took Duncan's hand and led him to sit on a fallen log that lay a little distance away. He kept custody of the hand as they sat, chafing it softly between his own. "You want to tell me what's going on with you?"

Duncan sighed faintly and squinted towards where the boat burned. "Not especially. Do you mind very much if I don't? I just wanted to do...something to put the past behind me, something to mark the end of this part of my life."

"And the beginning of the next," Methos prompted.

Duncan turned, looked at him a little sharply, and Methos felt his lover was about to say something a great deal different to the almost glib, "Aye, and the next," that he actually said.

He touched his free hand to the side of Duncan's face, turning it towards his own and looking searchingly into the troubled eyes. He let the timbre of his voice drop a fraction, smiled warmly and added into the silence, "The beginnings make it all worthwhile, you know. You can't live in the past. If you don't look where you're going, you'll trip over. Keep your eyes, and everything else, looking forwards. And that's all the wisdom this fortune cookie contains, so..." Methos leaned closer, matching the tilt of his head to Duncan's.

There was a sharp echoing crack as the fore bulkhead collapsed and the flames leapt even higher into the moonless night. Both men turned quickly at the noise, and the moment was lost. They were mesmerized by the orgy of destruction that followed.

The fire was consuming the small vessel now, every part of it fully alight. Portholes exploded, the glass shattering in a waterfall of high, tinkling sound, rising above the brutal roar of the flames. Methos could feel the heat now, and he almost recoiled from it, the searing blast of Duncan's past being consumed by fire, but he stayed close by his lover, even when Duncan's hand clutched his so tight he felt the bones rub together painfully.

The aft section collapsed. Never again would either of them have to enter the salon and see the specter of Joe's ruined body laid out in the center of Duncan's bed. A thin, fine seam of anger still ran through Methos at the memory of The Two. Part of him, a larger part than he would have been comfortable with Duncan knowing about, wished that they'd taken longer to kill the little bastards, drawn it out, made them suffer to the same degree that Dawson had suffered. But they were dead and looking back now served no useful purpose.

The barge was burning close to the waterline now, Methos watched in silence as the soaring flames devoured its remains. He tore his eyes from the leaping pyre and turned to look at the man he loved. Duncan's face was set; his normally expressive eyes stony and unreadable. Methos bled for him.

"You can get through this you know," Methos began, catching and turning Duncan's face with the tip of a finger. "The same way you've got past every other shitty thing that's happened to you in your life so far. You're strong, you know that. Is something different this time?" There was a tense silence and he could see Duncan trying to force the words out, but still none came. "Tell me about it," he urged gently, lifting his hand to stroke down the side of the taut face. "Please?"

"I can't. I..." MacLeod opened his mouth to finish his answer, then his attention, and Methos', was dragged roughly from each other back to the boat by the sibilant, reptilian hiss of the last of the barge sinking beneath the oily black surface of the river.

***

Duncan rose up on one elbow to look at his sleeping lover; the night had been so unexpectedly beautiful after such a difficult day. The long drive back from the countryside where he'd torched the barge had been silent and strained, full of abandoned sentences and half-voiced thoughts. But as soon as they'd stepped inside the hotel room the inevitable lust had flared between them, irresistible and fiery, yet heartbreakingly sweet. The only words they had needed then were short ones, like more and harder, yes!' and again. The memory of it stirred his flesh even now.

They should both have been tired but Duncan had his own reasons that were keeping him awake. He pushed them aside once more to really see the man who lay sprawled so peacefully beside him. Christ, but Methos was beautiful. It almost hurt Duncan's eyes to look at him. But he did look; he looked until he had memorized every inch of creamy skin, every nuance of face and feature.

'I love you, Methos,' he thought, wishing he'd said the words out loud, even just once, 'so much more than I can ever tell you. Far more than you'll ever know. More even, than I ever expected to, even when loving you seemed like the most unattainable dream, the ultimate foolishness. The reality of being with you has made all that pale. All the years and all the loves of my life seem like just a preparation for loving you. Even if I had the words to express the length and depth and breadth of what I feel for you, I think if I said them aloud it would only tarnish them. Whatever the words I use they will only ever mean this one thing: I will love you always. You are the defining experience of my life, Methos, and I would do anything – anything at all – to keep you safe.'

***

Methos woke contented and sated in the too-bright morning sunshine, his body faintly buzzing with the aftermath of last night's loving. He smiled and stretched, feeling like nothing so much as a big, lazy cat, purring with satisfaction. They had been fierce with one another last night, possessive and greedy, desperate and voracious; dancing out on the sharp edge where pleasure meets pain. Methos breathed deeply and exhaled in a contented sigh. He felt amazing and merely the smell of sex in the air of the room was enough to make his cock stir in eager anticipation.

But something wasn't right. As he woke properly an awareness settled upon him like a thick, cold fog appearing from the dusty horizons of his consciousness. He was alone. His senses searched the widest aspects of his range. It was true. Duncan's presence was strangely, unaccountably absent from the vicinity. Methos grew cold. He sat up in the middle of the bed and pulled the covers tight around his shoulders but the chill was freezing him from the inside out and would not be defeated.

"Duncan?" he called once and shivered.

Futile, he damned himself. Futile to call, because he was not here. He. Was. Not. Here. And Methos knew, though he could never have explained the knowing, that Duncan was gone, not for a newspaper or croissants or even for a run, but really gone. For good. What did that mean anyway? Methos asked himself in a flurry of self-distraction. For good? Where was the good? What could be the possible good in waking up alone after finally deciding that he was done with running and that Duncan MacLeod was the only one he wanted, for as long as they had? Good? There was no good in that at all.

How could he have misread Duncan so badly? He'd truly thought that they were finally reading from the same page, that they both wanted the same things. How could he have been so fatally, totally wrong? But apparently he was. He'd just assumed that once he'd decided to stay, decided to take the risk and see this thing out that the hard part was over. Stupid, deluded, old fool. He had never imagined for a second that Duncan might be the one to choose to walk away.

Hard after so many years to be so wrong.

Was this how they'd felt? All those hundreds of lovers he'd left in the dead of night; left only with the comfort of a note, or even less; who woke alone with empty arms and the ghost of his scent on a cold pillow? Karma was a bitch of a thing.

And there was a note, Methos realized. A folded square of paper sitting, innocent as an adder, on the nightstand, weighted down with Methos' own dagger. He cursed himself for a coward as he regarded the note but could not move to pick it up. He sat frozen in the center of the bed they'd rumpled so joyously only a few hours before, and tried to summon the will to read Duncan's goodbye.

His muscles were cramped and his skin chilled by the time he finally did.

**The End**

Translations:

Aztec

"Auh in ye iuhqui, niman ye ic conteca in teehcac." – "And when this was done, thereupon they laid her down on the offering stone."

"Conaquetztiteca." – "They stretched her out upon her back."

"Auh in tlamicti, za ic icac, omach ic moqetz." – "And the slayer stood ready; he rose upright for it."

The entire Aztec human sacrifice ceremony can be found at here.

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