Pierson's Folly

Fandom: Highlander/ Maloney

Category/Rated: A slash

Year/Length: ~24,125 words

Pairing: Methos/Anson Greene

Disclaimer: Neither Methos nor Anson belong to us, but we believe that they ought to. We'd make them very happy.

Beta: Thanks to Terri for beta

The Old Man And The Thief

7am. It was 7am, and not even light yet. Anson thought that 7 am ought to e prohibited by law as he rolled sleepily off the Greyhound and staggered around the side of the bus to collect his meager belongings.

Damn, he was tired. He hadn't slept since Seattle, and that had been four hours ago. Now a new day was dawning, and he was too fucking tired to appreciate it. Still, he thought, at least he had managed to get out of the States. Here in Canada he could rest and not worry that the Feds were going to be chasing him down.

He collected his bag at last, and staggered into the terminal. The MacDonalds was open, and he had a dollar or two left, so he ordered what was laughingly called a big breakfast and found an empty table where he could eat it in peace. He had to get some money soon. He was all but flat broke, and God knew he was tired. Sipping his coffee, he tried to turn his tired mind towards the vexed question of where he was going to find cash.

He felt in his pocket for the gun. He'd taken it off that stupid cop at the hospital, and had been carrying it ever since. He'd used it once or twice, and there were only four bullets left, but that ought to be enough, he thought.

Rising to his feet, he discarded the cartons that had held his meal, shouldered his bag and stepped out into the thin drizzle of a typical Vancouver morning in November.

Heading down Main Street and through Chinatown, Anson saw the brightly colored lanterns and flowery signs that announced all manner of ethnic delicacies. Crossing Hastings, he felt nervous. There were others of his kind there, lurking in the store doorways, measuring him and trying him, finding him slim pickings, for now. A junkie retched into the gutter, and Anson sneered, crossing the road in disgust.

As he walked down Carrall Street and into Gastown, he began to brighten up. Here were some possibilities. He began to plan as he passed a courtyard full of elegant tourist stores. There was a cigar and tobacco store, and then a liquor store. This was what he needed. There would be money there. He checked his watch. It was 8:30, and he would need to wait a while, but that was fine. At least he had a plan.

Damned Scottish barbarian, Methos grumbled inwardly as he meandered his way up the street. Who the hell got up this early on a Saturday for god's sake?

Fucking Highland moron

He hunched his shoulders miserably. Of course, It would have to be raining... When did it ever *not* rain in this godforsaken place where Duncan MacLeod, bastardly–Scottish–Highlander–boyscout–moron– barbarian insisted on living?

Growling deep in his throat, Methos paused at the corner of Water and Abbott and waited for a car to get the hell out of his mother–fucking–way.

Dammit, he should have known better. Every time he let MacLeod talk him into sleeping on that bloody uncomfortable couch of his rather than walk home late at night, this happened. The sonofabitch would insist on rising – and shining, for fuck's sake – at an obscenely early hour. "

Up and at 'em, old man," he sneeringly repeated Duncan's habitual wake–up call, "time's a' wasting."

Well, this was it. No more. Never again. He'd sleep in the gutter before he heard that one again, by god!

Somewhat cheered by his decision, Methos raised his head and looked around the nearly deserted street. At least he didn't have to fight a crowd on the way home. Nope, no chance of that... The rest of Vancouver hadn't been foolish enough to sleep on Duncan MacLeod's couch last night. He saw a couple of employees arriving at various establishments along the street, but no one else.

Except for the fellow on the other side of the street there.

Well, maybe the poor sap had a friend that shared Mac's disgusting early–morning habits. Shrugging, Methos was just about to cross the street and make the turn for home, when he paused. There was something about that guy. Something very familiar.

Narrowing his eyes, Methos studied the features of the man across the street from him. Dammit, he knew that face. Who the hell?

Ah. The light dawned. It was Raines. Cory Raines.

Well, hell. He hadn't seen Cory in years. And years. Like, maybe a hundred years. Smiling at the thought of the trouble he and Cory had gotten into – and out of – together, Methos headed across the street to surprise his old friend.

And stopped in his tracks about halfway there. Frowned. Looked at the man again.

Definitely Cory's face.

Just as definitely, not Cory.

No buzz. Not even a twinge. At this range, Cory's quickening should be screeching through his nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

He shook his head in confusion. This was a definite mystery Methos hated mysteries.

Methos took his hands out of his coat pockets without even thinking about it. He'd learned early on that in a questionable situation, it was always best to have his hands free – one never knew, that precious second wasted pulling hands out of pockets, could be the difference between life and death in case of a challenge.

Shoulders still hunched against the insidious drizzle that defined Vancouver in his mind, Methos moved forward again. He stepped up on the sidewalk and meandered casually past not–Cory.

At the next street, he turned right and stopped as soon as he was out of the man's line of sight. Ducking down an alley, he worked his way back, passing behind the businesses that fronted on Water Street. Once he knew he was well past the building in front of which he'd seen the stranger, he ducked through a private parking area.

Ah, yes, this would do nicely. Peering around the corner of a restaurant, Methos was satisfied with the clear view he now had of the–guy–who–wasn't–Cory. Oddly, the man was still lurking near the liquor store. Interesting.

Methos settled in to wait.

Waiting was something with which Anson was familiar. He'd spent most of his life waiting. He hung back, a nondescript figure, apparently studying the art deco furniture in a particularly glitzy emporium, and awaited the arrival of the person who would open the liquor store. Some of the stuff in the window was so outlandish that he was tempted to laugh at the idea of owning it –as if he'd ever again be in a position to own a place where he could put a coffee table supported by a naked woman on her knees. There was a bed in the window though. It was huge, and appeared to be set in an enormous seashell, and Anson would have given anything just at that moment to be able to throw himself onto that bed and sleep. He wouldn't need to hear the sound of the waves.

For a little while he dozed, damp and miserable, hunkered down in the doorway as he waited for deliverance. A sudden noise impinged on his senses, bringing him back to reality, as the man from the liquor store pulled up the shutters ready to begin his day. Anson took the gun from his pocket, concealing it in the folds of his checked workshirt, and shook himself briefly before he stood.

Goddamn! Old age was creeping in. He felt his joints pop, and stretched as well as he was able before moving. Slowly, he emerged from the protection of the doorway into the cold, damp air and looked around. Nobody seemed anxious to be out in the gloomy morning, and he could see no reason not to proceed. He drew in a deep breath, and strengthened his resolve.

As the proprietor finished pulling the shutters up and turned to enter his store, Anson traversed the street and sauntered casually up to stand at his back. When the man moved to go in, Anson was right behind him, his gun stuck firmly into the man's kidneys.

"Just keep on walking, and nobody will get hurt," he gritted, crowding the man through the door. The man, a small, Chinese who looked as though he were too young to drink, let alone manage a liquor store, was plainly terrified.

"Don't please, don't," he said, as Anson shoved him through the door, and turned the latch to lock it again.

"Just shut up. I want money. Where is it?" Anson moved towards the counter as he was speaking, and gestured to the till. "Open it. Come on." There was a pause as the frightened little man hung in his grip. "Come on!" he shouted again, and shook his unfortunate victim a couple of times. The man reached to steady himself on the edge of the counter and then produced the key that would open the cash register.

As the drawer popped open, Anson released the man, and began to take the money that had been allocated as the day's float. There was around $150.00 in banknotes, and some loose change that he swiftly pocketed. Having collected the cash, Anson backed away, still pointing the gun, and when he arrived at the door attempted to push it open.

He'd locked it, and it didn't budge. Uttering a low–voiced curse, Anson turned around to grapple with the catch on the door, and that was the cue for his victim to reach under the counter and come up with his own gun. As Anson jerked the door open, the man took aim, and the only thing that saved him was the movement as he finally managed to wrest it open.

A bullet tore a furrow along his side as he emerged, and another ripped its way through the outside of his thigh, causing bright flowers of agony to blossom behind his eyelids as he ran from the store. Bleeding and in pain, Anson tore headlong around the side of the building and fell over a piece of masonry.

Eyes narrowed, Methos watched as the stranger moved up behind the man opening the liquor store. This didn't look good. Not at all.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk and moved closer, not really sure why he did so. Obviously, the man was not Raines. Admittedly, Cory was a fuck–up of seldom paralleled talent; but, even he knew better than to rob a liquor store first thing in the morning. Christ on a crutch... hadn't the fool ever heard of night deposits? No responsible business kept the previous day's cash lying about.

Just as he reached the corner of the building, he heard gunshots. Shit! The not–Cory person came bursting out of the door and ran into the alley.

Don't get involved

A moment's pause to consider why in the hell he was even considering following the man...

Not your business, old man.

Thud

Well, shit. With a fatalistic shrug, Methos walked around the corner of the building. The guy was on the ground, apparently having tripped, and he was bleeding.

As Methos moved forward, the man rolled to one side and saw him. Impossibly green eyes widened in dismay and an all too familiar hunted look came over his face.

"I take it the store owner is alive in there?" Methos asked quietly.

A nod was his answer.

With a sigh, Methos held out one hand. "Then you'd better come with me, before the forces of the law arrive."

The man looked suspiciously at his hand and then up at his face. Methos recognized the desire, mistrust, and fear in those sinfully pretty eyes. The kid had been hurt... many times, he thought.

And still he fought to survive, in the only way open to him.

Methos knew how very difficult it was to continue on when life had kicked one down over and over. Admired the fire he saw lurking beneath the pain and fear.

"Come on, kid. I'll help you." He held his breath as wary eyes measured him. "My place is nearby," he said urgently, as he heard sirens in the distance. "Take my hand. Let me get you away from here."

Anson's first reaction had been to scoot away from the tall, shrewd looking stranger. Groveling in the dirt seemed to be his thing lately, and even as his shoulders connected with the cinderblock wall he realized that he was behaving stupidly. The man had offered him shelter, and he was wet, cold, tired and sticky with blood from two painful wounds. Not only that, but he was, as the hawk–like newcomer had observed, about to be hunted by the cops. He was having a really shitty run of luck. How could things possibly get any worse?

Reluctantly, he pushed himself up to standing, ignoring the proffered hand and using the wall at his back to steady him. He stared, wild–eyed at the would–be Samaritan for a further moment before the sound of approaching vehicles made him nod sharply.

"Why would you want to help me?"

His voice, when it came, was a low, rough growl, and its tone was calculated to prick at the man who still stood facing him. When the other didn't answer immediately, Anson shook his head and laughed in disbelief.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. Okay, take me away from all this, bud, and make it snappy. I don't think there's a moment to lose." He took a step, and groaned as the pressure of standing caused the blood to flow with renewed vigor from the wound in his thigh. It hurt like a son of a bitch. As Methos led him back through the alley, away from the scene of his crime, he began to feel a little lightheaded.

"I... uh I don't like to bother you, but are we going somewhere close by?" He caught at the arm of his companion as he felt the world swaying around him. "I don't think," he could hear himself slurring the words, and made a supreme effort to articulate them so that he would be understood. "I don't"

His face was suddenly white, and he reeled, falling forward gracelessly.

"Shit!" Methos grabbed Anson before he could hit the ground.

Now what?

With a groan, Methos lifted the kid in a fireman's hold and set off. Thankfully, his place was quite close. Cutting down alleys to avoid curiosity over his burden, he arrived at the rear entrance to his building a few panting, sweating minutes later.

Damn, the kid is heavier than he looks... or you're getting soft in your old age

He struggled to balance the limp body as he reached into a pocket for his keys. Once inside, he rode the freight elevator to his floor and quickly got into his apartment.

Dumping the unconscious body on his sofa, Methos crossed to the bathroom and rummaged in the medicine cabinet for supplies. Ah... sterile wash, antibiotic cream, bandages and gauze. He paused, debating, then opened the closet and got a bottle of local anesthetic and a syringe.

No sense causing pain when unnecessary. He rather suspected that this one wouldn't question him too closely about why he had such things on hand.

Juggling the medical supplies, Methos went back into the living area and put everything on the coffee table, then sat back to wait for his guest to awaken.

There was a pain in his thigh, and his side was on fire. It stabbed and throbbed – a wasp, buzzing just below the threshold of his consciousness. When he opened his eyes, Anson found himself in a strange room. The man from the alley was sitting in a chair beside him, as expressionless as an old, stone idol, watching him.

"I guess it would be a clich to ask 'where am I'?" he whispered, with the ghost of a smile.

"You're right about that," said his rescuer, and stood, moving towards him with a purposeful gait that made Anson nervous. Anson felt his body's instinctive attempt to draw away from the menacing form, but he was just too tired, and ended up merely shrugging weakly, holding his hand out in a placatory way as he tried to assess the situation.

"Looks like I'm I'm bleeding on your furniture. Sorry." His attempt at jauntiness went somehow sadly wrong, and he felt the world shimmering around him once more. He gasped and lay back among the cushions, wondering what the hell was about to happen to him. "Shit! Hurts. Sorry."

"Mmmhmm," Methos agreed absentmindedly. He prepared a syringe with anesthetic and looked at the man on his couch. "Bullet wounds have a nasty habit of being rather painful."

The stranger gave a quiet gasp and Methos moved to stand beside him. "First, we need to get your shirt and trousers off so I can take a look."

A suspicious glare was the answer.

"Listen kid – what's your name? I'm Adam Pierson, by the way."

"Anson," the kid responded. "Anson Greene."

"Okay, Anson. I'd say 'nice to make your acquaintance,' but under the circumstances, I think we can skip the polite formalities." He frowned when there was no answer. Anson just closed his eyes and winced. "Look, Anson... I was a doctor in a former life. Let me take a look at your injuries."

Reluctantly, Anson opened his eyes and nodded. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt before falling back against the couch with a groan. "I think I'll need some help with this," he said softly.

With a sigh, Methos reached out to give a hand. He stripped the bloody t–shirt off of the 'mortal' and unsnapped his jeans. Carefully, he worked the heavy material over the child's hips and down his legs. A moment to remove the boots that impeded his progress, and the jeans were off.

Steadfastly ignoring the rather attractive body that had been well–disguised by loose clothing, Methos bent closer to view the two nasty looking wounds that marred the man's otherwise perfect skin.

"Well, you were quite lucky, actually. Both bullets only managed to graze you," he said encouragingly. He picked up some gauze and the sterile wash. "I'll just clean away the blood and get you bandaged."

Anson gasped and flinched when Methos reached for the wound at his waistline.

"Ah," he paused and turned to grab the syringe he'd already prepared. "Local anesthetic," he explained. "It'll sting a bit going in but, in the long run, you'll think it's worth a moment's discomfort."

"A shot?" Anson's eyes widened in fear. "You're going to stick a needle in me?"

"Your choice, kid." Methos sat back on his heels, waiting. "Personally, I'd go for the shot, but then, I have a horror of unnecessary pain." He offered a grin. "In fact, I have a horror of any kind of pain."

Anson made a face that wanted to be a smile, and relaxed a little as the would–be doctor approached, bearing his hated needle.

"Okay, doc, do your worst." He twisted his mouth as Methos deftly wielded the syringe, and sighed with relief when the pain subsided a few minutes later. "Are you gonna stitch that up?"

Methos was working methodically, bathing the wound in his side prior to securing it with butterfly bandages. Anson craned his head to watch for a moment, and then, obviously a little more secure in the awareness that his ministering angel knew what he was doing, he leaned back once more, looking a little green around the gills.

As Methos taped the dressing to Anson's smooth flank, he couldn't help noticing the strength of the body beneath his hands. Anson was well made, with a deep chest and sturdy build that spoke of hard physical work. He bore scars too, some old and white, and one or two still fresh, as yet unfaded, that stood out, stark and red against the pale flesh.

Methos turned his attention to the other wound. It was an ugly, gaping furrow, still oozing blood. He applied the local anesthetic once again and trailed antiseptic wash across the bloodstained thigh.

"This one is going to have to be stitched, my friend." Methos murmured as he worked. Anson grunted. He seemed to be about to pass out again, and Methos looked sharply at him. "Are you okay?"

Anson nodded. "It's just that I'm so tired. Haven't had any sleep for a couple of days, and it's warm here. Sorry. I'll get out of your hair, shall I?" He pushed himself up onto his elbow, and winced as he swung his legs around and off the couch. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he said again. "I've bled all over your couch."

He stood, staggering slightly, and then sat, dropping his head into his hands, the very picture of dejection.

"What's the matter?" Methos paused in his clean up to pass a worried glance over his guest.

"I think that you're stuck with me for a little while. My clothes" He gestured feebly at the pile of torn and bloodstained rags that were scattered on the polished hardwood floor. "I think they're past their best, don't you?"

Grimacing at the ruined clothing, Methos nodded. "I think you're going to have to stick around for a bit, Anson. You've lost a lot of blood... add to that your fatigued state and I'm afraid you'll need to rest before you head out of here."

Anson frowned and tried to straighten. His abused body was having none of that, however, and he fell back with a moan of distress.

"Hey," Methos rested one hand on Anson's shoulder. "Take it easy, kid. You're safe here." He shrugged. "If I wanted to turn you over to the cops, I'd just have left you in that alley. Now, lay back on the couch and I'll go get a suture kit."

After helping Anson into a reclining position, Methos went back to the medicine chest and pulled out the necessary items. He detoured through the kitchen on his way back and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the icebox.

"Here," he stuffed a pillow behind Anson's shoulders and offered the drink. "This should help a bit. Sip that slowly while I see to your leg."

A suspicious glare was the answer. Methos sighed. Damn mortal was stubborn as a herd of fucking mules, for god's sake.

"Look, you want to get better don't you?"

A reluctant nod.

"Good, then drink the damned Gatorade – you need to replenish your body's fluids and electrolytes. I'll sew up this wound and then you can sleep for a bit." He met the sullen green eyes with an uncompromising look. "Just do as I say. You'll be back on the street in no time at all."

Anson looked away, then sighed and took a drink. "Oh shit, what is this?"

Methos smirked. "One of those sports drinks. I have a friend who swears by the things." He pulled out the suture silk and bent closer to the injured leg. "I know it's nasty, but it'll help. I promise."

As he sewed the gash on Anson's leg, Methos couldn't help but admire the man's body. It had been a long time – perhaps too long – since he'd taken a male lover. After five thousand years, there were few pleasures he hadn't tried at least a time or two, and male sex had always been one of his favorite indulgences. The long clean lines of the body laid out before him woke his hunger ... made him remember why he enjoyed men so much.

Damn. Knock it off, old man, the child is hurt and just needs help

He firmly set aside his body's reaction to the young man, and finished stitching the bullet wound. A fast bandaging job and he was done.

"Okay," he said briskly. "All set." He shook a couple of painkillers and an antibiotic out of the bottles he'd carried into the room, holding them out. "Swallow these and let's get you to bed."

Pushing back a fresh wave of nausea and dizziness, Anson took the pills that had been offered, but he didn't immediately get up to follow Methos. Instead, he remained, half sitting and half lying, looking at the man who had been so kind, as he attempted to fathom just what his angle might be.

"Hey, not that I'm ungrateful. It's just that nobody does something for nothing, and I'm just wondering what you want. I don't have any money. I guess you could sell my body for the spare parts, but some of those have seen better days too." Anson wrinkled his brow as he spoke, and there was a small furrow of bafflement across the top of his nose. He looked for all the world like a little boy who had been caught out doing something bad.

Methos grinned, somewhat maliciously.

"Don't worry about it. I'll think of something. Do you need help to get up?" Talk of selling his body had made Methos look at him more carefully. Those were the marks of a lash that criss–crossed the fine grain of Anson's skin, and some of the scars he bore were strategically placed. This man had been tortured by experts. Methos wondered if it had been consensual, or if he'd been made to submit to it. There was a small, amateur tattoo on Anson's arm, and Methos surmised that the man had been a Marine.

Again, the annoyingly mistrustful child struggled to his feet, spurning the hand that was extended to assist him, and staggered forward in the direction that Methos had indicated. He took a few steps, and then turned back, swaying a little.

"I guess it would be asking a little much of you" His voice died away, and he sounded almost embarrassed.

"Might as well try me," Methos smiled, wondering what could make this sullen kid unbend sufficiently to request a favor.

"Would it be okay for me to get a shower or something? I mean, I'm covered in blood and stuff, and I've been on the Greyhound for the past 5 days. I don't smell too good, even to myself." He gestured at the crusts of blood that had trickled down his side to dry, black against the fair skin. "Wouldn't want to mess up your nice, clean sheets, would we?"

Methos studied him, naked but for a pair of once–white briefs, now sadly grey. He was certainly a looker, but he would definitely improve with washing. Nodding, Methos turned to take the other man to his bathroom, hoping that he would be able to take care of himself, but knowing that he was being foolishly optimistic. He started the shower up, and sat down on the toilet seat to watch as Anson slid out of his unsavory underwear and stepped under the invitingly warm spray with a groan of satisfaction.

Anson picked up a bar of soap and half–heartedly ran it over his chest. It slipped out of his hand, and he bent over to retrieve it.

Not a good move.

He gasped and froze. Very carefully, he straightened up again and leaned against the shower wall, trying to catch his breath. Damn it all, anyway.

Methos sighed in resignation and stood. He pulled his sweater over his head and toed off his shoes. Briefly considered leaving his jeans on, but rejected the idea as foolish. Hell, the kid was half–asleep already. He'd probably never even notice Methos' incipient erection.

Down, boy.

His eager cock ignored the command.

Typical.

He shrugged, dropped his jeans and briefs on the floor and climbed into the shower.

"What?" Anson asked, startled to have company. "What are you doing?"

Methos picked up the soap and grabbed a washcloth from the towel bar. "Helping you, Anson. Just helping."

He lathered up the cloth and ran it over Anson's body, studiously not looking too closely at all that too, too naked flesh. Once he'd cleaned the man's chest, back and legs, he handed the cloth to Anson.

"Here, you can take care of the rest."

Anson stared blankly at the washcloth. What the hell was going on? Was this how the good doctor expected payment? A quick fuck in the shower? Well, he sighed, it could be worse, he supposed. At least the man – Adam – didn't seem like the violent type.

He turned his back, braced his arms against the wall and waited.

"What are you doing?" Methos was puzzled. He'd poured a dollop of shampoo into his hand and was preparing to wash that pretty hair when the guy suddenly ...

Oh shit.

"No, Anson," he finally said after a moment's horrified silence. "That's not why we're in here. Just... wash yourself, okay? I'll do your hair and then you're off to bed. Alone."

The bed was large, clean, and impossibly soft. To a man who had been riding the Greyhound for almost a week without stopping, it was a luxury little short of heaven. The anesthetic was still working to deaden the pain in his wounds, and as he slid in between crisp cotton sheets, he felt almost human.

He still wasn't sure what angle the doc might have. He'd spotted the arousal in the other man, even though he'd been turned down in the shower. Truth to tell, he wouldn't have minded putting out for the strangely intense man who was even now closing the drapes in the bedroom and fetching water to place beside the bed. He was very attractive. His strong, lean body was wiry and well muscled, and shone with health. His face was chiseled with spare perfection, with a generous mouth that, at rest, seemed to quirk upwards at the corners in some private amusement, and a nose that should have been too large, but which spoke of competence and breeding. Anson sighed. It would have felt good, very good, despite his exhaustion, to feel Adam filling him up. It would certainly have allayed his fear of the unknown.

He sighed. That was the crux of the matter. This Adam Pierson was an unknown. Anson didn't understand what he wanted, and because he didn't, he was afraid.

Fear was something he had lived with for all of his life, and he was going to live with this too, but as he looked at the man who was preparing to vacate his own room after seeing that he was comfortable, he felt a wave of lust sweep over him.

Maybe when he awoke, he'd see about that 'alone' crack. He was too tired now to do anything worth a damn, but the man ought to know better than to turn down the offer of Anson Greene's ass. He smiled to himself, unaware of Methos' surreptitious study of his face, and called out, "Goodnight, mom."

A snort of laughter from the semi–darkness, and a response of "Goodnight, John–boy" was all he heard before the waves of sleep crashed down on him.

Methos, as he closed the door, was reflecting on that sudden, sunburst smile that he had seen. Attractive as he was in his sullen anger, when he smiled, he was devastating. It was as if the sun had come out. Even had he felt the quickening near Anson, he would have known that he was not Raines as soon as he'd seen that smile. This man was damaged, true enough, but there was an innocence in him that Cory hadn't seen for hundreds of years – if indeed he had ever known it.

Once again, Methos crossed to peek at his charge. Silently, he slipped into the room and watched the man sleep. Relaxed in slumber, the kid looked so very young. And, gods, he was a beautiful sight.

What the hell are you doing, old man? Mooning over a patient like a love–struck fool? Remember Hippocrates, why don't you?

With a quiet sigh, Methos crept from the room. He left the door open just a bit and went back to his work. A great many of his papers had been badly damaged in a Parisian flood earlier in the year, and he was trying to salvage what he could. What he couldn't save, he was copying. By hand. What a tedious fucking job it was, too.

Deeply involved in deciphering an ancient recipe for willow bark tea, he almost missed the sounds of distress coming from his bedroom. A low keening noise broke his concentration and he raised his head frowning in momentary confusion. What the hell?

Oh, shit ... his patient.

He went to the door and paused, undecided as to just how to handle this. The kid was tossing restlessly, and a low moan issued from his throat. Very much afraid that an abrupt awakening would send the skittish and suspicious Anson off into a severe fight response, he approached slowly. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed and rested one hand on Anson's shoulder.

"Anson," he said quietly. "Wake up, friend. You're okay now, it's just a dream."

Pulling sharply away from Methos' hand, Anson groaned and curled into a protective ball under the covers.

"Anson," Methos said softly, "you're safe here. No one will hurt you. Wake up now." He once again let his hand rest on Anson's shoulder. Gave him a slight nudge. "Anson? Wake up, child."

"No!" Anson's eyes flew open and he sat up, scooting away from Methos. "Don't touch me ... just ... don't touch me."

"Easy, now." Methos spoke quietly, attempting to convey by the sheer unhurriedness of his actions that Anson was in no danger at all. "You had a bad dream. Just a bad dream is all."

The young man was staring at him wildly, the pretty eyes looking beyond him, seeing something that made him shudder. As Methos held his arm out to soothe and gentle him, he could feel the kid's terror like a palpable entity. "Come on, now. You're safe here. Come on."

The words began to sink in. Gradually the man in the bed lost the expression of wide–eyed terror, though he still didn't relax worth a damn. Methos checked his watch. 5 hours had passed. He smiled a little wryly.

"Guess you could use another couple of painkillers about now, couldn't you?" As the young man nodded slowly, Methos rose and went to find them, returning with water and a bottle of capsules, two of which he proffered to Anson.

His guest was still sitting bolt upright in the bed, in virtually the same position he'd been all along. He extended his hand to receive the pills, and had the grace to look a little shame–faced as he swallowed them down gratefully.

"Sorry," he mumbled, almost inaudibly. "Didn't mean to disturb you." He handed the glass back to Methos, and put his arms around himself, hugging his chest protectively. "I get I get bad dreams occasionally."

Methos sat down on the edge of the bed once again, and tried to radiate calm to the obviously rattled young man.

"Would it help to tell me about it?" he asked, half wondering why he was bothering. "Sometimes telling a dream can break its power."

Anson didn't respond, although he seemed to relax a little as the painkillers began to have an effect. Methos had dosed him heavily, and the kid slowly lost the rigidity he had been displaying, and relaxed.

"Come on, kid. You'll be much more comfortable lying down." Methos prompted him, his hands pressing down on Anson's shoulders to encourage him. Slowly, Anson slipped down to lie with his head on the pillow once more. He was looking flushed, and a little feverish – small patches of brilliant red standing out on his cheeks although the rest of his skin was pale. From the strained face, the huge eyes glowed the color of moss, fringed thickly with curling black lashes that gave him an air of innocence. Methos wanted to touch the face, to run his thumb across the carefully molded lips, and bury his fingers in the sleek, dark hair. A sudden vision of himself, leaning forward to press his lips to Anson's mouth, forcing it open as he plunged his tongue inside to taste, made his groin tingle.

Giving in to one of his visions, he reached forward to lay a hand on Anson's sweat–damp forehead. The kid was hot. There was often a fever associated with gunshot wounds, but by his own account he had been living rough for a while now. There was no telling whether or not he was nursing a virus of some kind.

There you go, old man. You've managed to find yourself a sick puppy.

"Okay, friend. Now you're comfortable, wanna tell me about the nightmare?"

Anson closed his eyes and turned away.

"Believe me, child, it really does help. I've had my fair share of nightmares, too." He studied the younger man's closed–off expression. "I *am* a doctor, you know ... trust me on this."

After several minutes of silence, Anson opened his eyes and searched Methos' face. "I ... I've never talked about it."

After much internal debate, he spoke suddenly. "It's Annabel ... they're torturing her. Abusing her. And I'm restrained, forced to watch them do all of the things they did to me when I was her age."

He started to shake at the memory, shifting closer to Adam. "I feel so helpless ... keep screaming for them to leave her alone – take me instead. They just laugh at me."

Methos put a comforting hand on Anson's shoulder. "Who's Annabel?"

"My daughter. Haven't seen her in four years. And ... the longer they keep me away from her, the worse the nightmares get. If only I could see her ... see that she's okay."

Methos nodded in sympathy. "Do you have any reason to think that she's ... being abused?"

"No, not really. But, that doesn't stop the dreams. And, they seem to get worse with time."

"You said," Methos asked hesitantly, "that 'they' were doing to her what they'd done to you? Who are 'they'?"

"I ... my parents died when I was a boy. Grew up in a series of foster homes. Some of them were ... they hurt me, Adam. I can't stand the thought of Annabel going through what I went through."

"She's in foster care, then?"

"No ... no, she's with her mother. But what if ... " he paused, breathing heavily. "I can't stand not seeing her, Adam. She's such a sweet kid. I'm afraid that she'll end up like me, you know?"

Eyes suspiciously bright, Anson looked up at Methos. "I don't know what to do. I'm so fucked up ... and, I'm scared," he murmured. His last words were so quiet that they were virtually inaudible. " And so very lonely."

"Hush, Anson," Methos soothed. "You're safe here. And, maybe we can work out a way for you to see her."

"Really? Why would you do that for me?"

Beginning to understand how and why Anson was so defensive and suspicious, Methos shrugged noncommittally. "I've been abused, too. And ... I've had children. I ... I can well understand your need to see her."

"But ... there's a court order. I'll get thrown in jail if I go near her."

"Oh ... there are ways and ways," Methos said cryptically. "Let me think about it, and then we'll talk. Now, do you think you can sleep a little longer?"

Anson's eyes widened in fear. "No. No more dreams. I can't take any more."

"Well, how about if I sit here with you? I'll wake you if it looks like another nightmare is starting."

Anson licked his lips and looked away shyly. "Could you ... I mean, would you ... um, hold me? I think that would make me feel safe."

Surprised, Methos paused for a beat.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Anson said quickly.

"I don't mind, Anson. Shove over a bit."

Wondering how he was going to control his reaction to this beautiful man in his bed, Methos shucked his sweater and jeans and climbed into the bed. Anson curled up against him, head nestled in his shoulder and sighed in contentment.

Oh gods, give me strength

Methos wrapped Anson in his arms and held him while he fell back to sleep.

Anson was substantially built; his sturdy body lay against Methos, hot and trusting. The young man himself seemed to have given up his suspicions and now lay as close to him as was possible, sleeping deeply. Methos held him in his arms –– unable to withdraw without waking his patient –– and watched him sleep.

It wasn't a hardship to look at Anson. He found himself wanting to lick along the line made by his charge's thick lashes as they lay against the creamy skin of his cheek. He catalogued the tip–tilted nose and the lush lips with their complement of strong, white teeth lying behind. The boy had high cheekbones, and the pure face of an innocent. Methos knew that he was not, could not be as child–like and innocent as he appeared, but still, the illusion was heart stopping.

After a while, he began to believe that this was torture. Anson lay peacefully, head cradled in the well of Methos' shoulder. Although he had drifted off to sleep lying in a defensive posture, once asleep he had relaxed considerably, and he now slumbered with his body half covering Methos, his arm flung over his chest, his knee raised to cover him. When Methos attempted to extricate himself, he felt his patient clutch at him spasmodically, and his heart sank. There was to be no escape unless he wanted to wake his charge in order to wriggle out of the grip in which he was held.

He didn't want to do that. His body had given in to this seductive warmth, and his groin ached with the need to feel Anson against him. He knew that he was behaving foolishly, and that he was setting himself up for a whole heap of trouble, but still, there was something about the boy that spoke to him. Sighing inwardly, he set himself grimly to the task of relaxing, hoping that he would lose the troublesome erection that was making him feel so darned uncomfortable before Anson woke up and began getting totally the wrong idea about his interest.

His response in the shower had been like a slap in the face to him. This kid had never been given anything for nothing, and it showed. He wouldn't use him the way he was expecting to be used. He'd been there himself, and wouldn't contribute to the degradation of another – not in that way, anyway.

Still, the fact remained that he wanted this kid who was sleeping so trustingly against him. His face was achingly beautiful; his voice was velvet that whispered over his skin, raising the fine hairs as it promised intimacy.

He concentrated on making his own body relax, and was beginning to succeed against all the odds when Anson suddenly tensed against him, and cried out, gripped again by whatever night hags rode his sleep.

"No! Oh, no, please" The still sleeping man had tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and sweat had begun to bead his face. Methos tightened his arms and found that Anson was trying suddenly to burrow into him, little frantic movements signaling a world of distress that seemed to be growing worse with every moment.

"Come on, Anson." Methos found himself clutched with a strength that was staggering. The kid's body was tight against him, and all the good work he'd done towards achieving a relaxed state went out the window as their groins came together. He felt as though he would burst his shorts as the shocking heat of Anson's body suffused him. "Come on. Snap out of it. It isn't real."

Dazed eyes were suddenly fixed on his, glassy and confused. He didn't know why, and he had no idea how he could help. He merely allowed himself to react, and leaned forward to apply his lips to Anson's trembling mouth.

It was intended in a way to be comforting rather than sexual, but the shock that ran through his body was anything but comforting, at least to Methos. Anson parted his lips as Methos' mouth joined them, and the kiss suddenly became a shock, heat, and silk, and desire rushing to his groin in a heart stopping flood that carried away reason and left only the need to keep on kissing. Dimly, Methos heard small, needy noises coming from Anson. The man was clinging to him with surprising strength and frightening need. He broke the kiss and pulled back a bit.

"Anson," he panted, "take it easy, friend. You're injured ... I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Anson shook his head and pulled Methos closer, taking his mouth in a desperate kiss. He moaned and wrapped legs and arms around Methos, as if he were the only safe place in the world. His hips ground against Methos' groin as he pulled the older man atop him.

"Whoa," Methos said softly. "I'm not going anywhere. We have plenty of time for this when you're better. You're gonna hurt yourself at this rate."

"No," Anson moaned. "Need you ... need you now!"

"Anson ... " Methos soothed. "Take it easy, friend." He gently tried to extricate himself from the man's hold. He recognized all too well Anson's need to escape the horror of his dream and, while he didn't want to hurt the kid by rejecting him, he also didn't want to hurt him by allowing this to evolve into the fast and furious fuck the man was asking for.

"Please," Anson begged in a broken voice, "don't leave me ... I need you."

Methos sighed. Withdrawal at this point would only hurt the man more. "Okay, kid. Calm down. I'm not leaving. Not rejecting you either. But, I refuse to cause you any more pain. We'll do this my way, you understand?"

Dazed green eyes stared at him in confusion. "Your way? What..."

Methos cupped Anson's cheek. "Carefully.... gently.... softly."

Anson frowned and Methos wondered if the man had ever been made love to. Obviously he'd been fucked – but Methos suspected that no care had ever been shown for his pleasure.

"I don't ... I mean..." Anson stammered.

"Shhh," Methos hushed him. "Let me show you."

He slid to one side and Anson clutched at him frantically.

"Easy, babe. You've got a nasty wound on your side. Let me move over a bit so that I'm not hurting you."

Reluctantly, Anson loosened his hold and Methos settled against his uninjured side. Leaning closer, he laid a line of soft nibbling kisses down Anson's face.

Aware that the man beside him was trembling, and not wholly with need, Methos put his palm against Anson's cheek, gently drawing him around to meet his eyes.

"You're a beautiful looking man, you know that?" he said softly, brushing his lips over the roughness of Anson's unshaven chin, and placing a row of tiny kisses closer and closer to his lips. His fingers moved from the other's cheek to stroke the length of his neck, down over the virtually hairless chest to find a nipple and pluck at it. Anson had closed his eyes again, but as he felt Methos caress him he drew in a sharp breath and Methos found himself gazing into a pair of thickly fringed green eyes that seemed to be pleading with him.

Dipping down, he laid his mouth against Anson's again, tasting his fear, washing it away as he explored the depths of his mouth. One hand slid behind Anson's neck to hold him as the other traced the lines of his body, sweeping down from nipple to navel in teasing strokes, discovering the fine down of the treasure trail that arrowed down to merge with the crisply curled fur at his groin.

Methos' fingers mapped out the smooth, fine grained skin and the hard muscle that lay beneath it. They trailed over the man's thigh, carefully avoiding the area of injury, and slowly traveled along his genitalia, cupping his balls as they drew in to lie close against his body, tickling the loose skin for the joy of feeling it creep into furred, corduroy ridges. His mouth worried at Anson's, and he could tell from the acceleration of Anson's breath that his caresses were beginning to produce the desired effect.

Drawing away, just for a moment, he smiled down at the young man.

"You like that? Hmmm? You'll love this." He buried his face in Anson's neck, sucking at the skin, his hand working its way slowly up to trace the length of his penis. Anson threw back his head and groaned, and Methos' own cock throbbed, a dart of lust passing through his body at the thought of how the two of them would shortly be.

Muttering a quiet curse, he pulled away again, and Anson clutched at him convulsively, eyes wide again as he went from relaxed to terrified.

"It's okay, kid. All I'm going to do is get these shorts off before they seriously constrict something vital. They're not designed to withstand someone like you." He indicated his plight as he rose from the bed. His cock was pressed flat against his belly by his boxers, and the tip was showing rosy above the elastic of the waistline. Anson's eyes dipped to take in the view, and he grinned.

At the sight of that grin, Methos felt his insides perform some truly exotic aerobatics. Everything seemed to flip and melt down. Damn, the kid was gorgeous when he smiled. He slipped out of the uncomfortable boxers, giving a sigh of relief as it allowed his cock to spring free.

Gently turning back the sheet that covered Anson, he laid him bare, drinking in the sight of him lying in his bed, naked and erect.

"You're gorgeous." Anson's voice stroked over him, husky and sensual, and he shivered. "Come on back. I really, really need you."

Methos lay down again, one arm behind Anson's neck, the other free to roam over the silky expanse of skin. With light, almost teasing strokes, he ran one finger down the center of Anson's chest, following the line of fine hair down to his weeping erection. Nibbling at Anson's reddened lips, Methos' fingers carefully mapped the shape of Anson's hard cock.

All for me.

Smiling inwardly, his lips moved across Anson's cheek down to his neck. There he paused for several delicious moments, licking at the salty skin. When Anson moaned and tilted his head back in a silent plea for more, Methos opened his mouth and started chewing and sucking at that sensitive spot just at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

With a gasp, Anson clutched at him, pulling his head closer. "Oh god," he moaned. "That's so good."

Continuing his downward trek, Methos attached his mouth to one hardened nipple, teasing with his tongue, and then biting down lightly.

"Mmmm," Anson moaned. "Please don't ... don't..."

"Don't what?" Methos asked teasingly. "You want me to stop?"

"Fuck," Anson hissed. "If you stop now I'll die."

"Ah, well we can't have that, now can we?" Switching his attentions to the other nipple, Methos gave it the same loving care.

Anson arched into his touch and tossed his head in an agony of pleasure. "Adam.... please touch me. Please."

"I am touching you, babe."

"No ... I need more ... Please Adam... you feel so good. You make me forget. Make me feel whole."

Head tossing, sweat beading on his face, Anson was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Methos paused to kiss those soft lips once more, and then clasped his hand around Anson's erection, reveling in the delighted gasp that resulted.

"Damn, you're gorgeous like this, Anson." He smiled at the younger man and then, without warning he scooted down on the bed to take Anson's hardness into his mouth.

Anson screamed and thrust up into that welcoming warmth.

Methos was heat, and silk, and soft, delicious suction. Anson felt the world narrow down until it was a pinpoint of pure fire sizzling between his thighs as Methos continued to draw his cock in and out of his mouth, tormenting him. He parted his thighs to let Methos' knowing hands creep between, and the air filled with his soft moans and cries as he clenched his hands into the sheet.

The taste of Anson was salty–sweet and perfect on Methos' tongue. For a moment he contemplating continuing to suck at the quivering cock until it burst, but listening to Anson's cries, he found himself wanting more, wanting to make this experience something better than a hurried fuck.

He drew back, pulled away, smiling at Anson's pleas, and when the young man put his hands to Methos' head to try and force his head back down, he seized the fine wrists, and pressed them back down against the pillow, smiling down at the flushed face.

"Oh, no, kid. It's not going to be that easy. You said that you wanted me, and that's fine. I want you too. You're beautiful, you must know that, but I want to make you feel good. I want to make you feel better than you've ever felt in your life, and that's going to take a little work, so I'm not gonna let you blow it all on a quick fuck. When you come, you're going to see the face of God, and his features are going to be mine." He dropped a kiss onto the end of the absurdly tilted nose, and slowly drew his hands back, tracing the bunched muscles of Anson's shoulders. "So, beautiful one, be patient, and accept my gift to you. I'll try and make it worthwhile."

Methos set to work then, with lips, tongue and teeth, nipping and worrying, lapping and sucking at the smooth skin and soft mouth of the young mortal he'd somehow rescued. He was normally taciturn, but he'd noticed that Anson's pulse rate surged when he was telling him what lay in store for him, and so he began to describe to him in great detail the things he was doing to the body beneath his hands, trying to ignore his own mounting desire as he made love to the man he had captive.

It began to fascinate him that he could induce little gasps and whimpers simply by announcing to Anson that he was going to touch him just so, or bite right there. When he delved down between Anson's wide spread thighs and slid down to bathe Anson's anus with his tongue, the kid actually began to babble.

"Please, Adam. Please fuck me, please I'll give you anything, do anything" Methos was happy. He would make this kid understand that sex wasn't just about taking. With a little chuckle, he stabbed inward with his tongue, breaching the tight circle of muscle and beginning to loosen it. By the time he put his cock inside him, Anson would be speaking in tongues.

Anson was writhing and moaning in a most satisfactory manner. His begging increased in volume and intensity, and Methos reluctantly withdrew, afraid that the man would come just from being tongue– fucked. That would not do ... not at all. He was determined to make this the most intense sexual experience of Anson's life.

Grinning, he lifted his head and slid up to lay along Anson, their bodies plastered together from shoulder to knee. Raising himself on one elbow, he studied the younger man. His eyelids were at half–mast, heavy with passion, mouth opened to gasp for air. A sheen of perspiration gave him a glow that highlighted every muscle in his body. His hair was dampened with sweat and adorably mussed. Truly a sight to behold.

"Adam," Anson whimpered. "Please do something ... anything ... I need you so much."

Methos smiled and bent down to kiss those luscious lips. "Don't worry, friend," he murmured. "I'll give you what you want ... in due time."

"Now, Adam," Anson begged. "Please, now."

"Mmmm," Methos soothed him, running one hand down Anson's smooth flank. "Easy does it, babe. My way ... remember?"

"I don't... I can't ... " Anson's voice was trembling with need. "Never felt this way ... never needed like this ... Please, Adam, I'm begging you ... fuck me now."

"Okay, Anson, just let me –" Methos rolled to one side, reaching for the bedside table.

Anson clutched at him frantically. "No!" He begged. "Don't leave ... you promised ... "

"Hey," Methos paused to press his lips against Anson's forehead. "I'm just getting lube. Not going anywhere."

He stretched out one long arm and opened the drawer, scrabbling around for the new tube of slick he'd purchased just the other day. Quickly, he moved back against Anson, pulling him close. The man was actually trembling – apparently afraid Methos had changed his mind.

"Anson," he whispered in one ear, "I want you ... I want you very much indeed. Stop being afraid. I'm not going to leave you."

He opened the lube and squeezed a generous dollop onto his fingertips. "Lift your leg over my hip, Anson. I'm going to get you ready for me. Going to fuck you with my fingers until you're crying."

"Oh fuck," Anson hissed. Draping his leg over Adam, as requested, he panted in anticipation. "Hurry, Adam ... I'm so ready. So ready."

Methos' hand moved down between Anson's legs, one finger rubbing against the puckered opening. Opening his mouth against Anson's neck, he licked and suckled the salty skin as he slowly worked his finger past the tight sphincter.

"Oh, god," Anson whined, as his hips moved down trying to impale himself further on that wondrous digit. "Yesss .... Oh yeah, that's good."

Damn, the man was like a furnace inside. Methos caught his breath and closed his eyes. Slowly, old man ... slowly. He carefully added another finger, reaching ... searching for that spot ... ah, there we go –

"Shit!" Anson's body tightened and arched off of the bed. "Do that again ... oh god, please ... do it again."

Doing it again was not a problem. Doing it slowly and methodically brought a stream of desperate pleas and half uttered curses from the mouth of the young man who writhed in his arms. Minutes passed, molasses slow as he systematically tormented Anson, relishing the sound of the increasingly inarticulate cries he was issuing.

Anson lay against him, pressed back onto him, the firm roundness of his buttocks pressed into Methos' groin. It was getting to the stage where he was becoming so excited himself that he was going to have to give in to Anson's begging or come too soon.

Anson was sweet and sexy, his voice a raw appeal to Methos' senses. He'd long since given up words in favor of moaning, and he was spread sluttishly across Methos, his cock steadily oozing fluid while Methos finger–fucked him. The wriggle of his ass had begun to drive Methos insane, and he knew that he had to call a halt to his teasing before it was too late.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, knowing that the loss of them would distress Anson, and placed his lips next to the kid's ear, whispering hoarsely, "Hold on there, babe. I want to put something better than that inside you."

Anson had arched, chasing the fingers, but at Methos' words, he relaxed, snuggling back against him again. Grabbing hold of his own cock, Methos parted his needy lover's cheeks and began to slide himself in past the loosened muscle he had been stretching. Anson's lashes drifted down as he felt Methos enter him, and he turned his head to capture Methos' mouth with his, his tongue sneaking out to stroke and to titillate.

Methos felt the shock of the slick hot velvet closing around him as he slid home. Anson's tissues clasped him, sucking at his cock with the intensity of a furnace, threatening to bring him to climax far too quickly. Anson thrust backwards, and Methos gripped him so tightly that he thought he would break him in half in an effort to hold him still until the feelings had receded again.

Time passed, sparking against his sensitized skin as though pleasure were electric. After a while he felt the crisis fade, and knew that he would be able to move inside Anson without losing it straight away. Nipping at the young man's neck, he breathed, "Let's go, babe." And began to fuck him.

Slowly, Methos pulled halfway out and paused before sinking back into that delightful heat. Grinding his pelvis against Anson's ass, he moved in a circular motion. Impatiently, Anson pushed back against him, so Methos tightened his hold on slim hips determined to draw the pleasure out as long as possible.

"Hold still, kiddo," he said huskily, "let me do the work."

A distressed moan was his answer.

Methos grinned and pulled out again, stopping when only the head of his cock rested within Anson's body.

Anson whimpered. Methos held him tightly in place, teasing them both with short thrusts, only allowing an inch or two of his cock to penetrate the furnace of Anson's asshole. When he judged that the man might just hurt himself further with his thrashing, Methos pushed forward strongly, burying his aching cock to the balls in Anson's body.

"God!" Anson sobbed. "Yes .... yesss. More. Please ... more. Fuck me, Adam. I need you to fuck me."

Methos shifted his hips a bit, searching for Anson's prostate. Was gratified when Anson screamed in pleasure as he hit his target. He thrust steadily now, enjoying the sounds of extreme pleasure that resulted every time his cock stroked that oh–so–sensitive nubbin.

He reached over Anson's hip, grasping the man's erection in one hand.

"Are you ready, babe?" he asked, voice thick with a passion that he couldn't recall having felt for – hah, – hundreds of years. This unexpected encounter almost made up for the irritation that Duncan MacLeod seemed to delight in causing. It was unalloyed pleasure to have the beautiful young man in his arms, bliss to know how badly he was needed, and ecstasy to meet that need, driving in and out of Anson as he drew closer and closer to his own orgasm.

He could feel the tendrils of tickling pleasure twine like thread around his balls, flushing along his upper thighs and stabbing through from the base of his spine as his hips kept their rhythm. He began to slide his hand over Anson's cock, squeezing and stroking as he drove into him.

Anson was rigid now, neck arched and head flung back as he spasmed, and Methos redoubled his efforts as he felt the man tip over into his climax. He gave a long, low cry, and thick white gobs of sperm began to spatter the two of them, coating the fingers that were working his cock and flying up to glisten like pearls against the pale skin of Anson's chest.

"You " gasped Methos. "You're so beautiful. Gods, but you're beautiful." He gave a last, spasmodic lunge as the pleasure, white hot and piercing, swirled over him, tingling his skin and loosening flesh from bone as he melted to pour himself into Anson.

For a moment they were locked together, neither capable of moving. Then slowly the world began to turn again, and the two men relaxed to lie limp and sated as the pleasant aftershocks coursed through them.

Eventually, Methos stirred. He needed to get them cleaned up ... didn't he? He pondered the question for a moment, then sighed and rolled away from Anson.

"No," Anson clutched at him. "Don't go ... stay with me."

Methos ran his thumb across Anson's lower lip. "I'm just going to get a washcloth, Anson. I'll be right back."

"No," Anson begged, "hold me, Adam. Just hold me for a minute."

Unable to resist the needy, almost frantic plea, Methos settled back against the pillows and pulled Anson close. "Okay, babe. I'm here ... not going anywhere."

With a heartfelt sigh, Anson snuggled close. He couldn't ever recall feeling this safe .. this secure. He closed his eyes and burrowed his head into Adam's shoulder.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Lying, cradling the young man who was at the same time not only strong and sturdy, but also somehow one of the most vulnerable person people he had ever encountered, Methos reflected on what had happened.

It had been mind blowing, and unexpected. He couldn't recall offhand when a casual lover had made him feel this good, this protective. He liked it. He pulled Anson closer, chuckling at the little 'huff' of air that ensued, and laying kisses, first on the young man's hairline, and then down over the small snub of a nose to graze the full, soft lips.

Anson was smiling now, mouth wide and eyes glowing with an expression that almost seemed to speak of worship. His smile was like the sun rising. It lit up his face and made it glow. Methos felt the perfect trust inherent in that smile as though it were a punch to his gut.

Damn! He did not need a stray. He didn't need a lover, and he sure as hell didn't need a down–at–heel, small–time fugitive from the law.

This being the case, how come he was feeling so contented to lie here with this bundle of human flotsam in his arms?

"I must be losing my mind," he said to himself.

"Hmmm?" Anson's husky voice was drowsy, sleep–clouded, and it was plain that he would be out like a light within the next few moments.

"It's okay, baby. Sleep now. I'll be here if you need me."

"Need you" The voice hung on the edge of sleep, and Methos suddenly realized that it was too damned late. He'd been caught in spite of himself. He cared about this young man with the fear of being alone, and his huge, brilliant eyes. Sighing, he closed his own eyes and drifted off to sleep, uneasily wondering what sort of trials he'd be forced to undergo because of his newfound vulnerability.

He knew that it wouldn't be long before he found out.

Trust

Methos reclined casually on the couch assiduously ignoring Anson. The guy was going to wear a path in the carpet at this rate. He'd been pacing for what seemed like hours.

Years, maybe.

As the kid recovered from his gunshot wounds, he'd gotten progressively more agitated. Nothing seemed to quiet him. Except sex. But, unless they were in bed – or on the kitchen table – or on the couch – or even on the floor – actively fucking, Anson was pacing, fidgeting, sighing ... and he always had that look. The look of a dog expecting a swift kick.

Finally, unable to ignore the tense actions of the other man, Methos stirred and rose to his feet. "I'm gonna have a beer," he said quietly. "You want anything?"

Anson paused in mid–prowl, and looked at the Adam. Lounging on the couch in a determinedly relaxed attitude, his very relaxation had been driving Anson crazy. Now he had actually moved, Anson felt better somehow.

"A beer? Sure. Beer is good." Anson frowned. "How can you do that? Just sit there for hour after hour? Don't you ever think that you should be doing something?" He followed Methos into the kitchen, crowding him into the refrigerator as he stooped to retrieve two bottles of Kokanee.

"Come on, kid, back off a little. I'm starting to think that I'm growing a second head." Methos strode over to the kitchen table, gesturing for Anson to join him, and placing the bottle down beside a chair.

"What's eating you? You're buzzing around like a hive full of yellow jackets. Why don't you sit down and relax? Talk to me, Anson."

The restless young man made a little huff of impatience as he moved over to sit where Methos had indicated. Flinging himself carelessly into the chair, which creaked alarmingly, he picked up the bottle of beer and twisted off the cap before raising it to his lips and chugging.

A moment or two passed in silence. Anson continued to apply himself to the bottle, slouched in the chair, long legs stretched out before him. He was wearing only a pair of fleece shorts. They fastened loosely around his waist, held by a drawstring, and were skimpy enough to reveal that his wounds were well on the way to healing.

"What the hell beer is this, Adam?" His long throat bobbed as he swallowed the last drops, and then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Turning the bottle to examine the unfamiliar label, he shrugged. "It went down all right anyway." He rose and tossed the empty bottle in the trash then opened the fridge, grabbing another. "You ready yet?" He asked Adam.

"No, not yet," Methos responded, watching the younger man's agitated movements. "Anson, come here and tell me what's bothering you."

" I don't know why I'm so tense. Guess I'm wondering when I'm gonna be moving on, and where."

"Well," Methos drawled, "as I recall, we were going to see about your daughter."

Anson turned to stare at him in stunned disbelief. "You meant that? Why would you do that for me?"

Methos shrugged. "I told you; I've had children. I know how hard it is to lose one." He grinned at Anson, raising an eyebrow. "And didn't I just hear you say I should be doing something?"

Confused, Anson took refuge in a long draught of beer. What did this Adam want of him? Nothing came for nothing. He'd learned that long ago.

Methos sighed, recognizing the wary mistrust in Anson's eyes. "Look, kid, I can understand all too well how reluctant you are to trust me. I'm not asking for anything here but more time with you and I'm offering to help you see your daughter because I want to," he met Anson's gaze. "It is what it is, my friend. No more, no less."

The young man's face lit up as he heard Methos' words. There was something in the man's expression that was oddly reassuring, as though he wore the truth on his face. Anson had seen a fleeting glimpse of remembered pain as Methos had spoken of losing a child, and he could sense emotions from him that lay at variance with the calm, solid faade that he'd seen over the past few days.

"I think..." He searched for words, somehow aware that whatever he said right now would be a turning point, and that what was said would echo on past the here and now to color his future. "I do trust you, Adam. God knows why. I haven't trusted anyone for years, but I want to trust you." He studied the empty bottle in his hands, idly turning it end over end, and then beginning to shred the label off it.

Methos watched him for a few minutes, and then sighing, rose to his feet and moved to fetch another couple of bottles from the fridge. Handing one off to Anson, he grinned.

"Be careful. That's not your 'weak as gnat's piss' American beer. It has some life in it. Take it steady." He rooted around in one of the kitchen cabinets, coming up with a packet of potato chips. After tearing open the bag, he laid it on the table between the two of them. For a short while they munched and drank in companionable silence. When Anson finally spoke, it was unexpected, and Methos didn't at first take in what he'd said.

"Tell me about the child that you lost, Adam." The lushly fringed green eyes were fixed on him in a disconcertingly intense fashion, and Methos suddenly felt uncertain, as though the answer he gave might somehow affect the relationship that was building between the two of them.

"I...er... I don't quite know where to start," he improvised. "It was a while ago now. I'm quite a bit older than you, you know."

He'd known Anson would eventually ask. Had thought long and hard about exactly how to tell the tale. After all, it wasn't everyone who'd lost a stepdaughter to a vengeful ex–brother. Oh no, not a blood brother ... much worse, a brother *of* blood.

"When I was much younger ... several lifetimes ago," he began slowly, testing each word carefully, "I rode with a kind of gang, I guess you'd say. The times were ... different – very, very savage." He looked up at Anson's face and swallowed. "*I* was savage ... a barbarian."

Wincing from the memory of his years with Kronos, with the Horsemen, Methos shifted and stood. "I need another beer." Grabbing two more bottles from the fridge, he turned back, not quite meeting Anson's eyes. "Let's go in the other room. You might as well be comfortable; this is a long story."

"You don't have to –" Anson started to say, uncomfortable with the change in Adam's demeanor.

Methos raised a hand, staying the words. "Yes, I do. I need to tell it and you should hear it."

Rising to his feet, Anson stepped closer to Methos. With great daring, considering Adam's currently stone–like visage, he raised one hand to the other man's shoulder. "Really," he said intently, "you don't ... I mean, this is obviously hard for you and I –"

"Anson..." Methos met his eyes, trying to express his unfathomable need to tell his story. "I haven't ever told anyone about that time in my life; I want to tell you." He sighed and wrapped one hand around the nape of Anson's neck. "It was a long time ago, yes; but, the possibility always exists that it could come back to haunt me. If you and I are going to ... spend time together, you *need* to know something about me – about what kind of man I was." Resting his forehead against Anson's, he spoke softly, "about what kind of man I am."

"Okay, Adam."

That was all he said aloud. But his eyes ... Methos could almost convince himself that Anson would understood all that he was, all that he had been, and would accept him.

That scared him. He was not in the habit of confiding to anyone. No. One. Ever. But, there, in forest–green eyes, he saw possibilities. And, trust.

He owed this truth to both of them.

"Come on." He led Anson into the living room and over to the couch. "Sit down."

Frowning at the abrupt tone, Anson opened his mouth to say ... Oh, the expression in Adam's eyes was ... it tugged at a heart he sometimes doubted the existence of. He swallowed and sat down.

"Tell me," he said quietly.

Restlessly, Methos paced to the window. Drawing the curtain aside, he looked out at the street. But what he saw –

"The Four Horsemen we called ourselves." He shook his head, his mouth set in a hard line. "There was Kronos – oh, how that man loved to kill – Silas – he was a bit of a simpleton, but, I liked him ... I trusted him as much as I trusted anyone – and Caspian." His mouth turned down at the corners. "Caspian was a madman. Last I heard he was in a hospital for the criminally insane. Hopefully, he'll stay there forever."

Dropping the curtain, he turned to face Anson. "And, there was me ... my name was Methos, back then. I was the planner, the brains, if you will, of the gang. We rode together for many years. More than you'd ever think. And ... gradually I became aware that ours was not the only way. That there might be a life beyond all of the violence, the killing, the ... the depravity that was our life's blood."

"Then, something ... someone happened. A woman I took during a raid. She was different in some way. Or, perhaps she just happened along at the right time – at a time when I was finally ready to rebel against my brothers. I don't know," he shrugged and walked over to the couch. Slumping down into the cushions, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Anyway, Kronos noticed that I ... that I wasn't–" Rubbing at his forehead with one hand, Methos struggled for the right words. "He noticed that I didn't share her with him, as we had always done in the past."

Grimacing with distaste at the memories, Methos shifted uncomfortably.

"Hey," Anson spoke softly, moving a little closer, reaching out a comforting hand. "It's okay ... I'm not gonna run out of here screaming because you were a bad boy, Adam. Come on," he said, closing his hand around Adam's arm. "Tell me the rest."

With a self–deprecating shrug, Methos leaned a little closer to Anson. Sighed when Anson wrapped an arm around his tense shoulders.

"I helped her to escape, one night. Challenged his hold over me. It was never the same again. Kronos needed complete control, you see ... and I found that I could no longer give that to him. Eventually, I ran. I ran as far and as fast as I could. When finally I stopped, when finally I thought I'd escaped him; I settled in a small village. It was a good time in my life. A time of healing. I was ... happy. After some years had passed, I married."

With a heavy sigh, he leaned sideways, curling on his side with his head in Anson's lap. He stared at the opposite wall, and forced himself to continue the story.

"She was a widow. Her husband was a close friend. When he died, I offered to care for her and their daughter." He closed his eyes, picturing his first and always best–loved child. There had been so many over the years, through the centuries – but, none had touched his heart as that very first.

"Her name was Anya. She was the most beautiful thing ... the best thing I had ever had a hand in throughout my entire life. I loved her beyond imagining."

It had been too many years. Far too many centuries had passed since he'd allowed the memory of Anya to surface. The pain was incredible. As was the joy her memory brought to him.

"She was only a month old when I married her mother. And, for six years she was everything to me." Rolling to his back, he raised pain–filled eyes to meet Anson's concerned stare. Impatiently, he brushed an errant tear from his cheek.

"I was out hunting one day ... She'd begged to go with me," he whispered. "I said no. I'll take you next time." Shaking his head, he smiled bitterly. "Next time."

He closed his eyes, swallowed through the thickness at the back of his tongue. "Kronos found me ... found them. When I came home –" His voice broke and he turned to bury his face in Anson's stomach. "He took her, my Anya – I never saw her again. Never knew what had happened to her. But, I imagined ... I knew him well enough to know that my daughter suffered every moment of her life because of what I'd done. What I'd been."

There was a long pause. Anson sat, chilled by the very thought of the child about whom Methos had just told him. He didn't know what to say, and as he pictured the events, he felt his sinuses fill. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort not to tear up, and tentatively stroked Adam's dark hair as he lay, vulnerable and melancholy with his head pillowed on his knee.

"Jesus, Adam. Where are they? We could try and find her for you. This Kronos guy can't have killed her without you knowing, can he? We'll just go and find him and make him tell us." He was gradually working himself up, fist clenched as he pondered on the missing child. When he saw Adam flinch he uncurled his fist with a shamed–face.

"We need to get her back for you, Adam. What is she now? About eleven? Twelve?" Anson picked up his beer and took another drink, finding that the bottle was all but drained. Gently he stroked the man who still lay across him, a sad smile on his face.

"It's no good, Anson. It's way too late for that." There was a quiet despair in his voice as he spoke. "It's not too late for you though. We'll go and find your little girl. We'll make sure that she's okay and that will be a good thing, yes?" Methos sat up suddenly, slipping his fingers up over Anson's bare chest and around his neck. "Don't worry about it, kid, it's buried in the past. I'm over it."

Anson shivered. He was just not used to the kind of emotional sharing that seemed to be unfolding here, and he wasn't sure how he should act. He liked Adam, liked him a lot more than he actually wanted to but he wasn't good at this stuff. Without thinking, he upended his bottle, and dribbled the last few droplets into the neck of Methos' baggy sweater, snorting with amusement as the icy cold drops spattered his chest.

Methos' howl of discomfort triggered a wrestling match that was over far sooner than one might have thought. Anson was still a little stiff and sore though his wounds were healing nicely, and it was obvious that he really didn't want to win. As Methos bore him back onto the couch, Anson threw his head back in laughter, baring his throat for a gentle bite.

"Fuck! Anyone would think that I was a confessor. I'm not, you know." Suddenly serious, Anson pulled Methos to him and applied himself to kissing him until he was breathless. "I'm not a good person. You don't know what you've hooked up with here. Be careful that you aren't sorry later."

Methos laughed, a harsh, crack of a laugh that made Anson's eyes open wide. There was something in Methos' voice that worried Anson. Discarding the thought for the moment, the young man squirmed beneath the body that covered him, feeling the rough wool of the fisherman's knit sweater against his skin. He lay back, giving Methos a sultry look from beneath his lashes as he licked his lips.

Methos didn't fight it. He laughed again, an easier chuckle this time, and swooped down to apply his lips to Anson's, soft and pink and so willing. Anson opened to his kiss with a gentle sigh. There was always a way to feel better, and Anson was doing his best to help this man of whom he was becoming rather more than fond.

He reached beneath the loosely knit sweater to find the firm, wiry body of the man himself, and began to touch the places that he had discovered produced the most response from him. Slowly, his mouth traveled over Methos' face, and the hands slid the sweater up until he could draw it off, revealing the smooth skin of his lover. Skin on skin, Anson rolled until the two of them fell from the couch onto the richly colored rug that stood at its side. Now lying above his laughing victim, he proceeded to kiss him, kisses that grew harder and deeper as their passions grew. Anson could feel Methos' groin hard beneath him, his body trapped by Anson's weight advantage.

"I'll get you." Methos writhed against the increasingly aroused young man, and Anson chuckled, reaching for the old man's beer.

"Oh, yeah? Think so?" Drawing back a little, Anson tipped a little of the brown liquid over Methos' chest, stooping to lap as it ran down to pool in the concavity of his stomach. Methos swore.

"What did you say? Oh, no... That was a very bad word." The cold beer splashed from the bottle once more onto Methos' shrinking flesh and his tormentor proceeded to lick him clean amid schoolboy giggles. Unfastening the button of his jeans, Anson peeled back the blue fabric to expose the dark, curling fuzz and the sturdy, rose–colored penis that lay concealed beneath them. As Methos lay, eyes gleaming with humor, watching Anson at play, the kid took a deep draft of the still cold beer, and then, instead of swallowing, stooped down to envelop the stiff length of Methos's cock.

"Fucking hell!" The cold shocked him even as he felt the surge of pleasure. This was too much. He gave himself over to the ministrations of that tender mouth, relishing Anson's skill as the cold gave way to warmth, and then to heat as the young man sucked him.

He was bucking, beginning to lose control when Anson released him and stood up.

"Hey! Come back here, you!" Anson laughed down at him and swiftly shucked the shorts that were his only garment.

"Oh, just try and stop me!" He knelt to kiss Methos again, and then straddled him, sliding back to position himself over Methos's craving cock. With a grin that was cocky and infuriating, the young man sank back, sheathing Methos' length inside him. Methos almost screamed.

Anson set a rapid pace, seemingly determined to make this into a race for completion, and soon Methos was groaning as he felt himself losing it. Another minute and he tensed as the whole of his abdomen turned liquid and began to force itself out through his dick. Finally, he screamed. Anson had applied the chilly bottle to his balls as he came, and it seemed as though the top of his head had blown off.

"Still want me to come back?" Damn the kid. He was laughing at him.

Methos grinned and wrapped one hand around Anson's neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Just try to get away, bucko." He twisted, reversing their positions, and looked down at Anson, "I have great plans for you, Anson–love."

With a lithe move, Methos rose to his feet and pulled Anson up alongside him. "Come into the bedroom with me, little boy," he said with an evil smirk.

Anson hesitated, suddenly a little unsure. The look on Adam's face ...

"Hey," Methos cupped Anson's face in his hands. "You do know I wouldn't hurt you, yes?"

"I – " Anson studied Adam's face and relaxed when he saw the sincerely worried expression. "Yeah, I guess I do." He smiled and blushed. "I just ... I'm not used to ... trust is not something I offer to just anyone, so this is kind of new to me." He looked down shyly, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

"I can well understand that, Anson. Trust doesn't come easily for me, either." With a smile, he gently tugged Anson after him into the bedroom. "But right now, babe, I want to play. I'll make you feel things you've never even imagined."

Anson's heart tripped at the words, delivered in a silky tone he'd not heard from Adam before. Licking his lips, he looked at Adam and swallowed heavily. His cock was hard as a rock and he suddenly *wanted* to give control over to the older man.

Holding his arms out to the side, he lowered his head. "How do you want me?" He asked softly.

Moving closer, Methos pulled Anson into his arms and softly stroked his back. "I want you screaming with pleasure, sweating with passion, out of control, begging me to take you."

"Oh." A thrill of anticipation shivered up Anson's spine. "And, how are you planning to do this?"

"That," Methos whispered in one ear, "is something you find out very, very soon, love. How about stretching out on the bed? I'll just gather a few things I'll be needing while you get comfortable."

Anson went over to the bed and climbed in. Reclining against the pillows, he watched with nervous eyes as Adam opened a drawer and pulled out several silken scarves. Adam dropped the scarves on the bed and opened the bedside table drawer. Lube, a condom and a feather joined the scarves.

A feather? Anson's heart started pounding. What did Adam have in mind, anyway?

Sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Anson, Methos ran a gentle hand down along the line of his jaw. "It's just a game, Anson. I promise, you're going to love this." He met those brilliant green eyes and smiled. "Trust me?"

Blowing out a breath, Anson nodded. "Yes," he said, surprised at his easy admission. "I do trust you."

"Good." Leaning down, Methos opened his mouth against Anson's, falling into a passionate kiss. Damn, the kid kissed like he wanted to climb right inside of Methos and bury himself there forever.

With a reluctant sigh, Methos pulled away and reached for the scarves. "Playtime," he said. Carefully, he tied one scarf around Anson's wrist and pulled his arm up to tie the other end of the scarf to the bedpost.

Anson stiffened and almost protested. //He's gonna tie me up//

"Easy, kid," Methos soothed. "I'll tie you loosely. You can slip out of the restraints anytime. I don't want to scare you ... I just ... " He paused, thinking that maybe they weren't ready for such games yet. Sitting back, he looked at Anson seriously. "We don't have to do this, Anson. If you'd rather –"

Anson shook his head. "No ... no, I want to play. I really do." He looked at the scarf tied around his wrist and raised his arm up towards the post. "Go ahead, Adam. I'll be fine."

Moving around the bed, Methos tied both legs and Anson's other arm. After each limb was restrained, he stopped to soothe and caress and tease the younger man. He spent several lovely moments nibbling the length of Anson's cock with soft touches of his lips. When Anson started arching his hips up, in a silent plea for more, Methos sat up and reached for the last scarf.

"What are you gonna do with that one?" Anson asked apprehensively.

"I'd like to blindfold you, love." Anson's eyes widened. "Just think," Methos said huskily, "how very erotic it will be ... not knowing where I'll touch you next ... only able to concentrate on the caresses I'm giving you."

Seeing the promise in Adam's eyes, Anson wanted to have this experience. But ...

"You'll ... " he said somewhat nervously, "take it off it I can't handle it?"

"Of course I will, Anson. This is a game. Remember? Pleasure is the objective, not pain or fear." Smiling gently, Methos leaned down and kissed Anson's eyes closed. He wrapped the scarf over Anson's eyes and tied it loosely behind his head. "There, you can get out of that one easily, too."

Sitting up, he viewed the treasure laid out on his bed. "Damn, kid, you look ... You're a beautiful sight, Anson."

Pleased at the praise, although a little embarrassed at being so exposed and helpless, Anson licked his lips and shifted, trying to release his tension.

"A little scary, huh?" Methos asked quietly. One hand stroked Anson's smooth chest. "I'm going to take such good care of you, babe. Such good care."

"Oh god," Anson whispered. "This is ... this is ... I don't know how to describe it."

"I know," Methos soothed. "It's frightening to give over control to another. But, the rewards are endless. Wait and see."

Rising from the bed, Methos went over to the stereo and started up a CD. He turned the volume up and returned to Anson. "That'll cover the sounds you'll soon be making."

"Why don't you just gag me too?"

"Because," Methos stretched out along Anson's side, "that would defeat the purpose."

"What ... what purpose would that be?"

"To make you scream ... " He picked up the feather and ran it lightly down one side of Anson's face, teasing his lips with light touches. "To make you beg ... to make you need me as much as I need you." Suddenly, he attached his mouth to Anson's neck, sucking and biting.

"Oooh," Anson moaned.

Propping his head in one hand, Methos trailed the feather down Anson's neck to his chest. He flicked each nipple, gratified when Anson arched into the touch. Unable to resist a taste, he sucked one nipple into his mouth, nibbling lightly as the feather moved down. Avoiding Anson's weeping erection, he twitched the feather along the insides of his trembling thighs.

As Anson's breathing grew heavier, Methos grinned and tickled the younger mans sac, drawing the feather back and forth, up and down, until Anson was whimpering.

"God, please touch me," he begged breathlessly.

"But I am touching you, love. Can't you feel it?" Ever so lightly, the feather moved across Anson's cock.

"Not enough ... too much ... Oh shit." Twisting under the unbearably light stimulation, Anson groaned helplessly.

Sucking the lobe of Anson's ear into his mouth, Methos gave him a little nip, then soothed it with his tongue. Reluctantly, he pulled away. It would be so easy to give in to Anson's need ... So easy.

But no ... he'd promised to make the kid scream for him and, dammit, that's what he would do.

Whimpering at the loss of contact with Methos' warm body, Anson shook his head restlessly on the pillow. And, then the feather was back. This time trailing along the muscles of his arm lightly, making him shiver and moan. But, over the pounding of the music, he could hear the tenor of Methos' breathing, harsh and ragged and knew that he was not the only one in need.

"Please," he begged, "please, I need more."

The feather touched Anson's chin, tilting his head up. "Yesss," Anson breathed into Methos' devouring mouth. He opened wide, sucking on the invading tongue, arching up for more.

"No," he moaned when Methos withdrew. "Please, Adam."

Flicking the soft feather over and around Anson's hardened nipples. "Please what, Anson?"

"Your hands ... please touch me ... I need to feel your hands."

With a chuckle, Methos ran the feather down Anson's chest, across one hip, over the front of a thigh and down the inside of it to his knee.

"FUCK!" Anson screamed. "Touch me, Adam. Please! PLEEEASE!"

"That's what I've been waiting to hear." Dropping the feather, Methos wet one finger and lightly touched Anson's tightly drawn balls. "Tell me, Anson ... tell me what you want."

"God, Adam," Anson panted. "I want you ... your hands ... your mouth ... your cock. I want YOU."

Kneeling up on the bed, Methos straddled Anson's thighs and started stroking his chest. "Like this?" he teased as he lowered his head and sucked at one nipple.

"I want ... I want ... Fuck me, Adam. Please, please do it. I need to feel you inside of me."

Methos looked down at his lover and caught his breath in awed fascination. Thrashing in unbearable pleasure, sweat beading on his face and chest, reddened lips parted in an attempt to fill his lungs with air, Anson was just about the sexiest thing he'd ever beheld.

He turned and released the ties on Anson's legs and then fumbled for the lube. "All right, babe. Easy does it ... "

With shaking hands, he smeared lube on his aching erection, unwilling to take the time to use the condom. Settling Anson's legs over his shoulders, he pressed against that rosebud opening that called to him in need.

Anson grunted and pushed himself onto Methos' cock.

"Oh fuck," Methos groaned as he slid easily into the hot channel. "You feel so good, love. So hot ... so tight around me ..."

"Stop ... god, Adam, stop talking and fuck me already."

So, Methos did just that. Closing his eyes, he closed one hand around Anson's cock, pumping him in sync with his thrusts into that delicious ass.

"Oh yesss," Anson groaned. "That's it ... harder, Adam. Make me feel it."

His movements becoming erratic, Methos increased the pressure on Anson's cock and gasped for air.

"You're mine, Anson," he said hoarsely. "Mine."

"Yes ... yours ... Oh shit!" Anson's body stiffened and he screamed as his orgasm rushed through his nerve endings.

With a sob, Methos followed him over the precipice, losing himself forever in the pleasure of pumping his seed into Anson's body.

He slumped forward, draping himself over Anson. Sluggishly, he reached up and released Anson's hands, then pulled the blindfold down.

"Hey," he stared into teary eyes with concern. "You okay, love? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Wrapping his arms around Methos, Anson sighed shakily. "'M fine, Adam," he said unsteadily. "I just ... never felt anything like that before."

Slipping to one side, Methos pulled the younger man to him and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you, babe," he whispered. "It means so much that you trust me enough to do this."

There was a pause, during which the pair of them dozed, and then Anson, as restless as ever, suddenly rolled over to loom over Methos, who was lying on his back, contentedly basking in the aftermath of their exercise, as close to purring as he could possibly be. Raising his eyelids a tiny bit, he surveyed his lover.

"Adam, you said that you were glad I trusted you..." The voice was framing a question. That much was evident. Methos frowned slightly. What the hell was coming now? He raised his lids the rest of the way, feeling a tiny flip somewhere inside as Anson's brilliant gaze burned into his.

"Babe, you have no idea how good it is to have you around. Yeah, I'm glad." Methos steeled himself. This conversation wasn't over yet, he could tell.

"Well, do you think that you could trust me? I mean, I need to go out, get some clothes. I've got a little money." Anson spoke in a rush, the words tumbling over one another as they raced from his lips. "There's an Army Navy store I passed. I can get me some jeans there and a T–shirt or two. Your stuff is just too darned tight on me to be comfortable. I don't need much, but I need to be able to fasten my pants!"

All this was true, reflected Methos. The kid couldn't stay in his apartment naked forever, no matter how cute he looked. He sighed. It looked as though he was going to test the bonds of affection any minute now. The old adage about setting something free if you loved it seemed particularly apposite at the moment. He wondered if Anson would come home, or if he'd take this opportunity to run again. It occurred to him just how little they'd shared about themselves in the past few days.

He thought again of the intimacy that they'd just experienced, and wondered if it had all been one sided. Time would tell, he supposed, and he certainly couldn't change that. Damn. If there was one thing he understood, it was the relentlessness of time.

"I suppose that a few clothes would be a good thing, child. It might help me to keep my hands to myself a little more when you're around. Your skin is altogether too tempting." He grinned, and slapped Anson's rounded rump as he rolled off the bed.

Crossing over to the dresser, he extracted his wallet and peeled off a couple of hundred dollars, returning to the bed to hold them out to Anson.

"Here. This ought to help get you kitted out. Get some good quality stuff for yourself, that way you'll be warm and comfortable." Anson regarded the money a little suspiciously. "What's this?" There was distrust in his voice as he eyed Methos. "Charity?"

Methos sighed. Sometimes relationships were a bitch. He caught himself on that thought. Was this going to be a relationship? He wasn't sure when he'd decided that he wanted one, but hell...

"Think of it as a loan if you like." Anson accepted the cash, and stood, gathering sweats and one of Methos's baggiest sweaters as he made himself ready.

"Thanks." The word was terse, and Methos looked at Anson with a little hurt in his eyes. Anson turned to him and caught his neck, pulling him in to kiss his mouth very soundly. "Hey, I mean it, thanks, Adam. Thanks for everything." With that, he was gone.

Why did the apartment seem so very empty all of a sudden? Dammit, he'd spent untold years living alone; he should be glad to have the place to himself. Still, the unsettling silence grated on his nerves. He crossed to the stereo and put in a T Rex CD. That should cover the uncomfortable quietude.

Determinedly, Methos set about working on his flood–damaged papers. He had plenty to do, after all. More than enough to keep himself busy while Anson was gone.

Gone.

He sighed and stared into space, recalling the unsettling look in Anson's eyes as he'd left. That 'Thanks for everything' had had such a ring of finality about it. He couldn't help but think that the kid was gone for good.

Was that such a terrible thing? After all, he'd spent so many years alone ... he enjoyed his solitude. The advent of Anson's arrival in his life had taken him by surprise. He'd never expected to have ... feelings?

Shit. Had he, against all of his instincts for self–preservation, gone and fallen for the child? Something in the loneliness and isolation and mistrust Anson evinced had wormed its way past his carefully constructed defenses. Anson's unwilling need to be cared for had gotten to him.

You're getting soft in your old age.

Shaking his head in disgust at the maudlin thoughts, Methos went into the kitchen and grabbed yet another beer from the fridge. Back in the living room, he slumped on the couch, letting his mind examine this Anson thing.

They had enjoyed great sex together, yes. He enjoyed Anson's playfulness, yes. Being needed had touched him, yes. And, damn, the kid was gorgeous.

Could a relationship come of it? Did he want a relationship?

Yes and yes.

He drained his beer and contemplated going for another. Decided that it was a good idea. Once again, he went to his desk and started working on his papers.

He could do nothing but wait now.

And hope.

Out on the street once more, Anson felt elated. He had money in his pocket for a change, and he was going to get himself a good time. He felt great. True, his side was still tender where the bullet had grazed him, and his thigh was a little stiff, but it was healing well, and the forced inactivity had become infuriating to him.

He hustled down towards Gastown, chilly in the clothes that he wore and anxious to replace them with something a little more serviceable. The drizzle that had annoyed and dispirited him so much on the day of his arrival had stopped, but there was a cold tang to the air that bit through the sweater and nipped at his flesh.

He wrapped his arms around himself and hurried down to the Army Navy store that he'd seen on his unfortunate arrival into town. Entering the store with some relief, he found himself a pair of Levis, some T–shirts and underwear, and then went searching for a jacket.

When he finally stepped out of the store it was into gathering dusk. He was now warmly clad, and had a new and bulging backpack with him, testimony to his utilitarian tastes. He'd lingered over the more expensive things that had been for sale, but had bought only basic items, with the exception of the sweater that he was now wearing. It was of soft cashmere of a mossy green, that made him look utterly delectable and had been irresistible

As he strode down the street towards Methos' apartment, the bright lights that advertised a nightclub caught his eye. He heard the faint pounding of music, and turning, he moved to go in without even thinking.

The Purple Onion, always packed with people, was alive with the sound of jazz, and the smoky air was filled with the sound of people having fun. Anson checked his coat and pack, strode to the bar and ordered a scotch, a double, knocking it back as he turned to survey the crowd.

He extracted a cigarette from the new pack he'd bought, and lit up, sighing with the pleasure of drawing smoke down into his lungs after days of enforced abstinence. This was bliss. Another shot of scotch went down fast, the bite of the alcohol stinging as it glowed warmth down inside him. He felt a flush of heat as he felt the booze kick in. Damn, he could do with a night out. Adam Pierson was forgotten as Anson ordered another drink and hit the dance floor.

"Hell!" Disgusted with his morose thoughts, Methos gave up on meditation. Unfolding his long legs, he rose gracefully to his feet and crossed to the bedroom.

Once there, he looked at the bed and decided that sleep was not an option at the moment. He damn well knew that he'd toss and turn, thinking of his missing lover. Wondering ... remembering ...

Damn. This was pathetic. He'd helped the kid, gotten some great sex out of the deal. What the fuck was wrong with him? It wasn't as if he was really surprised that Anson had taken the money and run.

Was it?

He'd had enough sexual encounters in his life to handle the fact that Anson had decided that he didn't want to hang around. Methos was not some starry–eyed kid, thinking he'd fallen in love after a week of sex.

Riiight.

With an impatient huff of air, Methos changed into workout clothes. In the living room, he shoved furniture out of his way, leaving a reasonable amount of space for his intentions. Went through a series of stretching exercises, then crossed to the closet and pulled out his sword. Taking a position in the center of the room, he took a couple of steadying breaths, ruthlessly shoving all thoughts of Anson aside.

Well, he thought sarcastically, at last all of the time he'd spent watching MacLeod work out had paid off.

Closing his eyes in concentration, he started a kata. Found that by the fourth time through, he no longer had to picture Duncan's moves in his mind. By the sixth repetition, the moves flowed easily.

It was not until the early hours of the morning that Anson started to think that maybe he should have phoned, or let Adam know somehow that he was not going to come straight back to the apartment.

He'd danced with a host of pretty girls. He'd sung, drunk, and partied, and turned down propositions that he'd have taken up on like a shot even two weeks before. He was a good–looking man, and knew it. People had flocked around him and he'd loved it. Gradually, as the night went by, he got more than a little tipsy, glowing in the sheer joy of the atmosphere. It was only when a tall, dark man had whispered into his ear that he wanted Anson to go home with him that he began to wonder just what the hell he was doing there, and he started to feel the subtle agonies of guilt.

Suddenly picturing Adam as he had last seen him, naked and sated in his bed after what had to be the best sex Anson could remember in his life, he felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

What the hell was he doing? Here he was, in a strange country, alone and penniless, and the kindest, hottest, sweetest guy was at home, presumably having second thoughts about ever having allowed Anson into his life.

"Gotta go." Anson shook off the man who was hanging around his neck, and stood up, clumsily. The man was reluctant to let him go, and Anson staggered, falling into the lap of a laughing woman who was seated beside him.

"C'mon, man. Time f'me to hit the road." His companion was clinging to him and he squeezed the irritating man's wrists as he pushed the restraining arms away. "Gotta go play Adam 'n Eve..."

Taking a deep breath, he began a careful walk to the coat check and fumbled for his ticket. Once his coat had been produced, he struggled it on and began to try and insert his arms into the straps of the backpack. It was not as easy as he thought it would be. After fruitlessly chasing the second strap around in a circle, he was almost ready to give up. He was beginning to feel somewhat less wonderful than he had earlier, as the cold night air started to make him a little nauseous.

His admirer had followed him out, and zeroed in on where he was leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lip as he contemplated the offending backpack.

"Need a little help with that?"

Anson frowned. He wanted to go back home to Adam, and this jerk was going to cause trouble, he knew it with a sixth sense that had been finely honed by his life on the edge, but pragmatics dictated that he should allow him to help get the backpack on, and he smiled his thanks, permitting the other to hold the strap while he shrugged it on.

"Thanks, guy." He was ready to go, and favored his admirer with a hazy smile as he lurched off in the direction of Methos' pad without a second thought.

Several hundred yards later and the annoyance was still with him. He turned to the man, intent on telling him he was wasting his time, and found himself pulled into an embrace, a slobbering kiss pressed to his lips. He swore.

A brief tussle followed. Anson found himself fighting for his virtue in a rather shocking fashion as the other tried to press him against the wall, groping him as he struggled. Finally, Anson aimed a punch at his assailant, knocking him off balance, and turned, beginning to walk again.

The man was still with him, plucking at his coat and arguing with him when he finally reached Methos' apartment and, holding his breath for fear that his lover might be angry enough to deny him entry, leaned on the doorbell.

When Methos opened the door at last, it was to reveal a furious, inebriated Anson, busily engaged in aiming wide, flailing punches at a man who was fairly obviously under the influence of alcohol himself.

Surveying the scene with a frown, he wondered what the hell was happening. He was in the act of closing the door again when Anson turned to him, appealing desperately.

"Bastard won' go 'way. Wants to fuck me. Tol' him I'm yours but he won' listen." With a sigh, Methos reached out, grabbed a handful of Anson's new coat, and hauled him into the entrance, closing the door on the staggering assailant even as he lurched after his object of desire.

The thwarted lothario hit the door with a thud that rattled it, but both men ignored it as Methos turned to study Anson, who was sitting on the floor where he'd come to rest when Methos had yanked him inside. He sat, making no attempt to get up, and looked at Methos with a sloppy grin on his face.

"'S'you I want. Decided that," he slurred, and began to try and shed the backpack.

Methos watched impassively as Anson struggled with the backpack. Finally, he sighed and pulled the damned thing off. "Come on," he said quietly, hauling Anson to his feet. Practically carrying the drunken man to the sofa, he dropped his burden and stepped back, surveying him with guarded eyes.

"C'mere," Anson coaxed, holding out one hand. Noticing that he still wore his coat, he looked confused. "We goin' out?"

Methos shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere, Anson. I live here. Remember? You, on the other hand, may do as you please."

"Wanna fuck." Anson grinned at him sloppily and tried to rise to his feet. With a surprised look on his face, the kid fell back onto the sofa and giggled. "'M drunk," he announced happily.

"So I see," Methos replied without expression.

A slight frown folded the skin between Anson's brows as Methos' tone registered in his brain. "Uh oh," he said in a sad voice. "You mad at me?"

Shaking his head, Methos started to turn away. "We'll talk in the morning, kid. You go to sleep," he said with finality.

He went into the bedroom and grabbed a pillow and blanket off of the bed, returning to toss them in Anson's direction. The child watched with an injured expression as Methos pulled his coat off and dropped it on the floor.

"Sleep," he said firmly. "I'll be in the other room if you need anything." Refusing to meet the sad green eyes, Methos stepped away and went back to the bedroom.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Methos groaned and rested his head in his hands wearily. He did not need this kind of shit. Finally, he flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling blindly.

What the hell to do? Should he kick the kid out, come morning? It's been fun, lover ... see you 'round.

Imagining the look on Anson's face if he said that, Methos sighed.

What the fuck am I going to do now?

Anson lay on the couch in much the same position as he had been ever since Methos had removed his coat. Sleep came easily, but it wasn't a restful sleep. He was disgracefully drunk, and the alcohol hopelessly disturbed his sleep patterns in his system.

Methos invaded his dreams, stern as he pointed to the door, telling him to get out and back to the gutter. In vain did the dream–Anson plead and promise; he was put out into the night, freezing, sobbing and alone.

He awoke abruptly, freezing in truth, to find that his blanket was on the floor, and that he was uncovered. His head ached like a bitch. It was as if the contents had been dehydrated and were rattling within his skull. Groaning, he pulled the blanket around him like a cloak and stumbled into the kitchen in search of liquid to reinflate his brain.

Several glasses of water later, he leaned against the counter, his head still grindingly painful, and pondered his behavior of the evening before. Adam had been so mad at him. He hadn't said anything, but Anson had seen the set of his jaw, and the bunching of muscles in neck and shoulder. No, no words had been necessary; Adam's body language expressing his disgust quite clearly.

"Fuck!" The expletive was heartfelt, but didn't make him feel any better at all. He turned and pounded the worktop. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

How could he have been so damned stupid? How come he sabotaged himself so regularly? Damn his stupidity. Adam was kind, gentle, and it didn't hurt that he was drop–dead gorgeous either, and he had made love to him – not merely fucked him, but made love to him. He'd made Anson feel wanted, worth something after all, so why had Anson run away?

He couldn't fathom it out. He'd always been a self–sabotaging jackass, but this was beyond a joke.

What the hell could he do to redeem himself? At that point, he thought of the warmth of Adam, and the comfort of lying in his arms, and made up his mind. He slowly stripped off his new clothes, wrapped himself in his blanket, and stole into Adam's room. He would make the man forgive him, he would!

A heavy fog surrounded him. He could feel the presences surrounding, all of them ... all of the lovers and loved ones he'd ever allowed past his defenses. Desperately, he squinted, trying to pierce the blinding fog.

"Poppa," a small voice spoke from his right, "why weren't you there? He hurt me, Pa ... he hurt me so much."

Falling to his knees, Methos reached out to his daughter. "Baby," he whispered, "I'm so sorry. I tried ... I'd have done anything to–"

"Ah, brother," said the well–remembered voice of Kronos. "Don't you understand? You were never a stupid man, Methos. Until you left me, that is." The scarred face of his most hated and best–loved enemy appeared in front of him, smiling grimly down at his kneeling figure. "I am going to take them all, brother ... take and take until you admit to yourself that I am all you need ... all you'll ever need."

Kronos stood, and Methos watched in horror as faces from his past surrounded his brother. Several wives, shield brothers from various wars, Darius, Byron, Anya and her mother, Alexa ... MacLeod.

"Oh, brother," Kronos whispered, "They're all mine, now ... It shall continue, Methos – I will take every person, mortal or immortal, until you're alone ... until you understand."

"Understand what?" Methos finally managed to whisper in dread.

"You, my brother, are mine. You shall always be mine. And," Kronos smiled a kindly, knowing smile, "until you accept that, all you treasure will be taken from you ... even your new pet."

Kronos stepped back and held out one hand. "Come here to me, Anson."

"Gods, no," Methos moaned in horror. "Not him, too. Kronos, please ... I'll send him away. He's but a momentary diversion ... an innocent."

"Do not bother with your lies, brother ... I know you better than any other living being. You care for this one and he – and you – must learn."

Kronos laughed, and turned away. "Let me know, brother. Whenever you're ready to once again take your proper place at my side, I'll be waiting with open arms." He gave Methos a patently false look of concern. "Too bad it'll be too late for this one!"

The dream figure drew his sword and took Anson's head with such a lack of expression that Methos drew back in horror. He watched helplessly, as Kronos turned away, herding before him those Methos had loved and lost.

"Remember, brother ... I am your future as well as your past. I own you," Kronos called as he disappeared into the fog. "Always remember ... you cannot escape me. Come home to me ... you know you belong with me ... Search your heart, brother ... know the truth, the inevitability."

"Never," Methos screamed. "I'll never be yours again. I've changed ... I've changed."

Kronos' ghostly voice laughed.

Crawling over to Anson's mangled corpse, Methos cradled the headless body close and howled his pain. "Gods, Anson ... I never thought ... never imagined he might ... Please forgive me. Please," he pleaded brokenly. "Love you, kid. Love you. I'm so sorry ... so sorry."

Anson could hear harsh breathing and muffled murmuring as he entered the room, and as he drew close, he could make out the shape of Adam's body, tossing beneath the covers as he moaned.

"Love you, kid..." The words pierced the fog of his hangover as, just for a moment, he wondered what the hell to do. Then he climbed in beside the sleeping man and squirmed until he was holding him securely against his chest. This, he thought, is a turnabout. He's helped me through so many nightmares.

"Adam," he said, his voice a mere velvet ghost against the backdrop of the distressed sounds that Methos was making. "Come on, Adam. It's a dream, man. You need to wake up. Wake up for me."

He pressed a kiss against the sweat–shiny forehead and another against the still mumbling mouth, and at last it seemed as though Methos was beginning to emerge from whatever terror had him in its clasp. Anson felt the change in muscle tone as Methos came awake with a start. He continued to hold Methos tightly against him, stroking his shoulders and soothing with words that made no sense, but were merely calming platitudes.

Inside, his feelings raged. There was gratitude for the man he was holding, and joy that he was able to contribute in some small way to his well being. Allayed with that was a sense of dismay that the man who had helped him, been there for him and seemed so strong was vulnerable after all.

You have feet of clay, he thought, and in some ways the concept felt good. He had felt so inadequate beside the man until this moment. He'd felt like the child he'd been called. Somehow this redressed the balance between the two of them. That thought made him feel weak with the heady joy of equality. He would make all of this better, because he owed Adam, and because he wanted to.

Aloud, he said, "You okay now? It was a dream. Just a dream." He ran his lips over the still clammy skin of the immortal, feeling the rasp of whiskery nightgrowth against lip and tongue with sensual delight. "Anything I can do to help?"

Methos had finally become aware of his surroundings, but the memory of the dream was still fresh in his mind, and the thing that scared him most was the fact that he feared that somehow he and Kronos were linked together.

He was afraid that the voice in his head hadn't merely been an abused subconscious playing on his fears, but a hideous and real invasion of his dreams by a man – remember, only a man – who had lived too long, and who knew him far too well.

"I – I don't think so," said Methos, weakly. "Guess it's your turn to hold the basin, speaking metaphorically."

Pulling Methos even closer, Anson chuckled. "Turnabout, y'know?"

"Yeah," Methos mumbled, settling himself more firmly into Anson's comforting hold. "I don't do this often, love. It was just ... a combination of talking about Anya and my reaction to your disappearance tonight." He shifted again and raised his head to look into Anson's eyes. "Silly, I know ... but, I don't want to lose you, kid. I ... I'm growing to care for you."

Anson shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't ... I can't make any promises here, Adam," he finally said in a low voice. "It scares me – caring for you ... needing you. I suppose that's why I ran." He laughed at himself. "Didn't get far, did I?"

"'M not asking for promises, kid. Only that you give this ... give us a chance."

"So, you're not angry with me any more?"

"I wasn't angry, Anson. At least, not with you ... with myself, maybe. I didn't expect to care for you and it frightens me ... I've not let anyone mean so much to me for a very long time." With a sigh, Methos tucked his head into the crook of Anson's neck. "My feelings for you could very well put you in danger, you know ... Kronos is still out there – if he found out about you ... "

Shivering at the thought of what his 'brother' might do to Anson, Methos pulled away from Anson's arms. "Maybe you had the right idea; run as far as you can as fast as you can."

There was a pause. Anson was thinking only sluggishly, but his belly felt cold at the idea of leaving Adam's side. He tightened his arms.

"Who's this Kronos guy? He sounds like something out of X–Men. Why can't you just tell the cops? I mean, I've never been in a position to have the cops on my side, but you're one of the good guys, and this jerk is stalking you from the sound of it." He ran his fingers over the smooth, hard muscle of Methos' shoulders.

Methos licked a little pathway along the elegant throat of the man who was holding him.

"Trust me, Anson, you don't want to know who Kronos is. He's cruel, sadistic and controlling. He's pursued me through more years than I can count, and if he finds us, he could well end up killing you for the sheer pleasure of seeing me weep for you." Methos spoke slowly, the words appearing dragged from him. Anson cradled his cheek in the palm of his hand, lowering to kiss him softly on his eyes, his nose, and his cheeks.

"Adam, you keep on dropping these hints that you aren't who you appear to be. I respect that you have secrets, hell, I've done things myself that I never, ever want to have discovered, but I want to stay with you. I don't want you to send me away. I... " He paused, unsure what it was that he'd been going to say.

'Love you?' Is that what this is? How can I love him? He's a guy, and...

He fastened his lips to Methos', trying to lose the sense of unease his own vulnerability was instilling in him. Rolling to cover Methos, he sank himself into a kiss, probing with his tongue to swirl around within the other's mouth as he pressed his groin against him.

Don't leave me. Don't make me go. I need you. More than that, I love you. Anson closed his eyes against the realization that he did. He did love this man.

Methos tightened his arms around Anson for a beat, and then pulled back. Rising to support his upper body on one elbow, he looked down at Anson. One hand reached out to caress the younger man's face gently.

"It's time," Methos finally said sadly.

Heart pounding with sudden dread, Anson swallowed and met Adam's eyes. Such sadness, terrible fear and crippling regret were evident in mossy green eyes; Anson felt a deep and overwhelming terror that tightened this throat and made his breath grow short.

Adam was going to kick him out ... just as he'd dreamed would happen.

Fuck.

Turning his face away from Adam and heaving a sigh, Anson pushed the blankets back and started to rise. "Time for what?" He asked bitterly. "Time for me to leave?"

"No!" Methos grabbed Anson's arm and pulled him back against the pillows. "Not that ... never that, I hope."

Searching Adam's face for a clue, a hint of what had his lover in such a state, Anson frowned in confusion. "Then what? What's the matter, Adam?"

"Methos."

"What? You said that used to be your name," Anson said slowly, confusedly.

Smiling grimly, Methos nodded. "So I did ... and so it was. Adam Pierson is an ... alias, if you will. I created him and shall use the identity for several years yet. Then, when Pierson is no longer useful, I'll kill him and create a new persona."

Anson chewed on his lower lip as he studied Adam's ... Methos' words. Suddenly, he understood. As scared as he had been of being kicked out, so was Methos of watching Anson leave.

Reaching out with one hand, he lightly touched Methos' shoulder. "Hey, whatever you call yourself ... you're still the man I ... " Pausing, Anson moved closer to his lover's side, "the man I love."

Methos groaned and pulled Anson into his arms. "Don't ... don't say that until after – I have to tell you some things. Things that will be difficult for you to believe. Just, please, give me a chance."

Recognizing the fear in Methos' voice, Anson snuggled closer, offering comfort. "Tell me," he said simply.

"Actually," Methos said slowly, "I need to show you something first."

Rolling to the side, he reached under the bed for something. Setting the item on the bedside just out of Anson's view, he leaned over to turn on the lamp.

"Now," Methos held up the mysterious item from under the bed, "I need you to stay calm, Anson."

Whoa. Anson tensed at the wickedly sharp knife Methos now held in one hand.

//Calm, he says// With an audible gulp, he nodded, waiting to see what would happen next.

Swiftly and altogether too casually for Anson's taste, Methos ran the edge of the blade across his own chest. A thin line of crimson grew in its wake and Anson gasped at the sight.

"Jesus, Methos," he said hoarsely. "Why?"

"Easy, babe," Methos whispered. "Just watch."

With one corner of the sheet, Methos wiped the blood away, nodding down at his chest. "Look at it, Anson. See what happens."

Reluctantly lowering his eyes to Methos' chest, Anson wondered what the hell he was supposed to see ...

Holy shit! His eyes widened in stunned disbelief as what looked for all the world like small electrical charges flickered over the cut. Within seconds, the injury was gone, the chest as smooth as it had been only moments before.

"What the fuck?" With careful fingers, Anson reached out to touch Methos. He looked up to meet the other man's eyes as he traced the nonexistent cut. "How did you ... I mean, what was that?"

Methos shrugged. "That was my body healing itself. I can recover from almost any injury. Not always so quickly, mind you, but I do heal."

"But ... How? Why?"

"How? Well, now ... that's a complicated question. And, why ... no one knows that, Anson. There are others like me ... quite a few of us, actually. But, none of us knows what we are or why we are." Methos blew out a breath and made a sound that might have been called a laugh. "I'm the oldest of our kind, Anson. I expect that if anyone would know, I would be the one."

Oldest Anson closed his eyes, pressing closer to Methos' warmth. Our kind.

"You've made several vague comments about your age, Methos." Anson raised one hand to touch the other man's face. "Just how old are you?"

"Very."

Impatient, Anson rose to glare at Methos. "Don't fuck with me, man. How old?"

Drawing a deep breath, Methos looked at the younger man sadly. "I am five thousand years old, kid. Give or take a century."

Mouth agape, Anson stared at Methos, searching for any sign of humor, of deception ... of madness.

All he found was a sadly expectant expression. Methos thought he'd laugh. Or leave.

"Five thousand years, huh?" He finally said wonderingly. "Then, you can't, uh, die?"

"Oh no ... I can die." Methos snorted. "I die like a champ. But then, I come back, you see. Over and over."

"And Kronos," Anson asked, "he's like you?"

"He's almost as old as I am. We ... we parted three thousand years ago."

"So ... you've been hiding from him all that time?" Anson couldn't imagine, couldn't comprehend the sheer awfulness of it – of what it meant to have such an enemy for so very long.

"Not exactly hiding, Anson. It's just that I discovered there's more to life than pain and blood, but he never has. I don't want to spend my days causing pain. Hell, I've even tried to help people from time to time, but whenever he finds me, he hurts the ones around me... The ones I love." Methos' arms tightened around Anson, an involuntary movement as his recent nightmare arose again within his mind to float before him. Anson stirred restlessly within the circle of his embrace, and Methos released him with a sigh. "I'm sorry, love. It's safer for you to leave. I'll understand."

Anson sat up with a snort.

"Are you kidding me? You think I'd just... just dump you?" He turned to pin Methos down, his hands on the supine man's shoulders. "You deserve for me to beat you for even suggesting it." He lowered his head to kiss Methos roughly, forcing his mouth open to plunder it with a tongue that delved and flickered. For a moment there was silence, and then Anson raised his head once more.

"If he kills you, kid, you'll stay dead. I'll be left to watch you die, and then live on with the guilt." Methos' hand was stroking the feathery hair on the nape of Anson's neck, almost as though he were unaware of his need to touch. "I've lost so many..."

"Hey, I hear you." Anson's voice was husky, sugar in gasoline, rasping against Methos' ears. "We've all got to die some day. Even this Kronos guy will kick the bucket some day." Intense green eyes held fast to apologetic hazel. "You want to spend your life in misery because some asshole is blackmailing you? That's what it is, you know? It's blackmail. I wouldn't want to live forever if I couldn't have any fun. Live a little, Adam...ah... Methos."

Methos laughed a little unsteadily. Anson was adorable, but he wasn't really understanding... or maybe he was. Maybe he was right, and he should learn from this young and life–damaged mortal.

"You know, kid, you're right in so many ways that it's impossible for me to count them." Methos pulled Anson's head down, and this time he led the kiss, hands clutching desperately for the firm flesh of his lover's buttocks as he wrapped himself around him, arms and legs and hot sweet mouth all working to hold him. Again they were silent save for muted gasps as pleasure washed them. Finally, Anson drew away for a second, and laid a finger against Methos' lips.

"A... Methos?" The immortal sucked Anson's finger into his mouth, and merely signaled that he was listening with a flick and dip of lush lashes. "Do me a favor?" The widened eyes gave him the cue to continue. "Stop calling me kid, willya? It drives me nuts!"

When Methos started to laugh, it was in gusty bursts, as the strain of the previous little while began to release itself. Anson lay propped up on one elbow watching him with a grin on his face that was partly joyful, and partly predatory.

"Anson, I'll try. I can't promise, but I'll try." Methos' hand moved down to clasp and stroke Anson's half–hard penis. Anson thrust gently into the warm hand, but his face was abstracted.

"There must be a way to kill him so that he stays dead. Tell me about it, Methos." His was a sultry whisper that tickled the fine hairs on Methos' nape. This child he was caressing was as innocently deadly as any cobra. More so, because he was beautiful, and looked like an innocent until you looked beyond the purity of the lines of his face, and into the eyes that had seen too much, too soon and been unable to avoid the consequences.

"If he were beheaded, that would mean his end forever. It's not as easy as it sounds, k... Anson. Come on. Forget it. We have today, and that's all we can handle." His stroking fingers gave a little twist to the stiffness he held in his hand, and he licked his lips, hoping against hope that Anson would drop the subject. Seemingly he had, at least for the time being. With a groan he rolled onto his back and spread his thighs, offering access to his most private parts to Methos.

Supporting his weight on one elbow, Methos looked down at Anson. "You're so beautiful, love," he said softly as he stroked the smooth chest. "Sometimes it hurts just to look at you."

Shifting uncomfortably under the intense gaze, Anson reached up and pulled Methos down to rest atop him. "Then don't look ... touch me."

Methos tightened his hold on Anson and rolled them over, reversing their position. Meeting the surprised green eyes, he grinned. "I want you, Anson."

Tracing the line of Methos' lips with one finger, Anson smiled and settled his weight more firmly against his lover. "Well, here I am ... how do you want me?"

Raising his knees so that Anson lay between his legs, Methos reached down and grabbed his firm ass with both hands. "I want you to fuck me," he said, pulling Anson's hips down to grind their erections together.

Swallowing heavily at the thought, Anson looked into Methos' eyes searchingly. "You ... you do?" He finally asked in a wondering tone. "Are you sure? I mean we haven't..."

Wrapping his legs around Anson's hips, Methos sighed with pleasure. "Yes, love, I'm sure. I want," he arched up against Anson, "to feel you inside of me."

"Oh god," Anson groaned.

Kisses followed, deep, slow and wonderful. The two men writhed together, mouths locked and hands clutching to expose flesh. Anson seemed somehow transported, his face set in a greedy mask of desire as he kissed and caressed the immortal, seeming to need reassurance that he'd meant what he'd said.

Finally, gasping and beside himself, Methos jerked his head away from Anson's demanding mouth to whisper hoarsely, "Do it. Do me, please."

Anson gave a strange little whimper, and began to slither down to kiss Methos' genitals, reaching with shaky hands for the bottle of slick that lay beside the bed. Methos handed the tube to hand to Anson, who took it in nervous fingers and immediately managed to let it slip from his grasp, causing a frantic search and some muffled giggling that seemed to settle him a little.

Stroking on the cool gel, Anson's fingers still trembled, and Methos, who had a slight idea what the problem might be, ran gentle hands through the young man's hair.

"What's the matter, Anson–love? Where's your mind at?" Methos spoke kindly, but his voice was tense. Damn, he wanted this.

"It's just that I've never... " Anson gazed helplessly up at Methos, willing him to assist.

"It won't hurt me. Don't be shy, love. You know how it feels." Methos began to direct Anson's hands, pressing them down, forcing them against his puckered opening, and finally inside, murmuring encouragements. Anson's eyes were fixed on Methos' face, his expression first avid as he tentatively moved his hand, and then greedy, predatory as Methos threw back his head with a groan to arch his pelvis up into the touch.

Methos was hot within, and Anson's cock was almost harder than he could bear. As he slicked himself up, Methos kept up a low commentary, telling Anson just what he was doing to him with his touches. Finally, Anson swallowed, positioned himself, and began trying to and insert his cock into the sweet space that he'd been loosening.

Slowly, he sank into the oiled velvet that was Methos, beads of sweat standing on his forehead as he concentrated hard on keeping himself together long enough to give Methos what he needed. It was easier than he'd thought that it would be to slide home into his slick heat. Methos had relaxed himself so thoroughly that there was no effort. Soon, Anson was buried up to his balls within his lover, and there he paused, praying for control.

Tiny movements brought the growing tension down his spine and through his thighs until he had to bite his lip to stop himself from screaming. Tendrils of pleasure wove themselves around his tightly encased cock and crawled along his belly. He pulled out, only to be sucked back in again until he could go no further. Words fell from his lips – "Love... I love... Oh, God! I love you!" and then he was plunging in and unable to stop, while Methos writhed, not cool now, wanting more as this youngling pierced him, claimed him and made him his own.

When Methos came, spurting white between the two of them, he shouted, strange words in a language that had been forgotten eons ago. Anson didn't even notice. He was wrapped in bliss and so close to his own nirvana that all he could do was whimper, and then he was lost, the tide flowing through him like a storm.

Breathing heavily, Methos held Anson close. "Gods, love, that was just ... perfect."

"Yeah?" Anson asked hesitantly. "I did okay?"

Carding his fingers through Anson's soft hair, Methos huffed a laugh, "More than okay ... It was ... I was ... " he paused, gathering his thoughts. "I don't do that often, Anson. But, I needed you tonight. I needed to give myself to you ... I love you, you know."

Anson drew in a deep breath, tightening his arms around the older man. "You mean that, Methos? I mean, you don't have to say –"

"Yes," Methos gently stroked Anson's face, "I do mean it; I love you. I don't say that often or easily but you're special to me."

Anson rolled to one side, draping himself over Methos' lean body. "Methos ... I owe you an apology for last night. I just ..."

"Hush," Methos soothed, "I understand ... you were scared. And, I suspect that flight is your first best defense. Running is something I've perfected over the years, to avoid caring, to avoid involvement. You've not," he said slowly, testing his words, "had much experience of love, I think."

"Annabel is the only person I've ever truly loved ... until you. I've disappointed so many people in my life. I think I was afraid that, once you got to know me better, you'd decided I wasn't ... You could have anyone, Methos. You're a beautiful man. I can't help but think that you'll find someone better than me ... that you'll leave me."

Methos snorted. "I'm a five thousand year old man, Anson. Believe me, when I let someone get past my defenses the way you have, I hold on to them with all that I have. Mortal life is so fragile, love. I ... I want to spend as much time with you as I can."

Rubbing his head against Methos shoulder, Anson sighed. "I like that. But," he raised his head to meet Methos' eyes, "I can't promise not to freak and run again. I tend to be a little, ah, self–destructive."

Smiling gently, Methos pulled Anson to him for a kiss. "Just try to talk to me about it first next time, would you? I was so ... I thought you were gone for good last night, love. That scared me."

Anson looked down at Methos apologetically. "I'll try. It's just that I've never been ... no one's ever cared for me the way you do. It scared me shitless." His eyes lowered and a faint blush rose in his cheeks. "You really love me?"

"Yes, I do. And, if you need to go away for a bit, if I overwhelm you, just tell me. As long as you come back to me, I'll be okay with that. I don't want you to feel trapped or owned. I just want you to feel loved."

"I'm not sure I know how to do that, Methos. I ... I've been alone for so long and hurt so many times ..."

"Just give me a chance, Anson–love. You won't be alone and I promise not to hurt you."

A strange warmth spread through Anson when he heard Methos' words. Was this safety? Could he believe that this time it would be different? He huddled closer to Methos' side and grinned to himself. Maybe he'd stumbled into an actual relationship – maybe this man could be taken at his word.

A huge yawn caught him by surprise and Methos chuckled. "Let's sleep now, babe. Tomorrow we have plans to make."

"We do?" Anson asked foggily. "What plans?"

Settling himself more comfortably on the bed and arranging Anson's length against his own, Methos pressed a kiss to the top of Anson's head. "We're going to find your Annabel, Anson. Make sure she's safe."

With a happy sigh, Anson closed his eyes and relaxed against his lover's body. "Tomorrow," he mumbled as sleep took him.

End

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