by C.L. Finn

The muscles in Duncan's cheek twitched under the lightest of touches. A single finger traced the curves of his face slowly like a feather-- along his chin, up over his cheekbones, across his thick brows, down his nose, and then across his full lips. Other long graceful fingers joined that finger, as they combed his hair back from his face. He shivered as the fingers brushed past his ear and down his neck to his chest. Then another hand appeared, as long strong arms were wrapped around Duncan's body, exploring his torso. He leaned back into the warm body pressed against his back, sighing when soft, wet lips found the base of his neck. Gentle teeth, lips, and tongue devoured Duncan's neck and shoulder.

One of the hands reached up to cup Duncan's cheek and turn his face up to claim his lips for a soft kiss. Duncan reached his hand up to find his lover's head, sighing under the pressure of the soft lips. He ran his fingers through the short, soft hair, as the kiss became something deeper, more intimate. Finally, he pulled away to catch his breath and opened his eyes for the first time to look up into the sweet hazel eyes of his lover and smiled.

"Good morning, Highlander," Methos said, smiling down at him.

Duncan sat up in bed with a start, jolted out of his dream. He looked around his loft quickly, disoriented from being wrenched awake, only to find the bed was empty next to him. He let out a deep breath that he hadn't even been aware of holding in, and ran his hands through his matted hair. The images and sensations of the dream flooded over him again, and he shivered. It had been so sensual, so tender.

But what the hell?! Duncan thought. He'd had plenty of erotic dreams in his life, but this was a whole new experience.

Rubbing his face, as if to wipe the memory away, Duncan got out of bed and headed for the kitchen to make his morning coffee. He'd just ignore it-- put it out of his mind. Surely it was just an aberration, he told himself. But he couldn't get the image out of his head.

Methos.

This was crazy, he'd never thought of the older Immortal in this way. Duncan just didn't have those tendencies-- did he? No, of course not, Duncan told himself. It probably meant something else-- he'd have to do some reading up on Jung later. Setting the coffee maker aside, Duncan decided the best course of action would be a good cold shower to start his morning off with. That would wake him up-- help him shake this strange feeling.

Stepping out of the shower, Duncan wrapped himself in a towel. He felt awake and refreshed, earlier concerns forgotten for the time being. He mentally ran through a list of things he needed to get done that day while he went through his morning ritual-- drying off, deodorant, brushing his teeth. He was thinking about the lecture he had planned for his afternoon class by the time he began running a comb through his wet hair. He was planning to take in some Medieval love poetry so that the students could get a good feel for the times. He had picked out a few of his old favorites-- poems that had even worked pretty well for him in the past. Duncan chuckled to himself at the thought.

"Couple of Medieval songwriters, come up with the idea of Chivalry one rainy day and you embrace it as a lifestyle," he suddenly heard Methos say in his head.

"This isn't about chivalry," he replied.

"You live and die by a code of honor that was trendy when you were a kid," Methos continued.

"You would rather I had no code of honor at all?"

"I would rather you survived," Methos said intently. "Put that first."

Duncan shook the memory off. Methos gave him a hard enough time about his code of honor when he was around-- Duncan sure didn't need to hear it when he wasn't. Determined to ignore that voice, he squirted a generous amount of shaving cream in his palm, spread it to both hands and then applied it to his face. He always wondered at why Immortality couldn't be convenient enough to stop whiskers from growing. But they kept coming, and with his dark complexion and heavy beard, he couldn't go a day without shaving or he ended up looking like that television cop from the eighties-- he could never remember the guy's name.

As Duncan went through the careful upward strokes of his razor, he managed to transfer some of the cream from his hand to his nose. Looking at himself in the mirror, he grimaced. Then suddenly the image of Methos with white paint on his nose rose unbidden in his mind.

"Look at me MacLeod," Methos had said, "I didn't survive 5000 years by worrying about anyone but myself."

"Really?" Duncan had asked, seeing straight through the older Immortal's usual protestations of self-interest. "Coulda fooled me." And then he'd had a sudden urge-- he'd reached out and swiped white paint on Methos' generous nose.

The memory of the way Methos had closed his eyes, and then looked up at Duncan, took hold of him. The look had been amusement, but there was something else in it. Remembering it now made something twitch in Duncan's gut-- something akin to butterflies.

"You've got to get a grip, MacLeod," Duncan said to himself in the mirror and wiped what was left of the shaving cream from his face. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and went to get dressed. Best to just forget about this and move on with his day.

"Mac!" Joe called, looking up from the invoices he was working on. He hadn't seen much of Duncan since he asked Joe to rejoin the Watchers, and he was pleased to see his friend drop by again. Duncan was dressed in a suit, and carrying his portfolio-- must have had classes today.

"Hey Joseph," Duncan said, sitting down at the bar. "How's it going?"

"Not too bad. Business is looking up," Joe said, indicating his books.

"That's good to hear. How about a Scotch?"

"You got it," Joe said, and turned to pour the drink. "So, what's up?" he asked, putting the drink down in front of Duncan. "You look like you just got bad news."

Duncan laughed sarcastically, and dropped his newspaper down on the counter. "There never seems to be good news on the front page."

Joe looked at the headline, and nodded, understanding what Duncan was upset about. Carl Robinson, Duncan's friend, had been witnessed beheading someone and was now running from the law.

"I saw that this morning," Joe said. "Any idea what happened?"

"No," Duncan said, downing his drink, "but it can't be good."

"Well, his Watcher doesn't know where he went, but I'll let you know if he turns up." Joe turned back around to arrange some bottles. It didn't need to be done, but he was afraid to see the look on Duncan's face now that he had effectively told him that he was back in the Watchers. Duncan encouraged him to do it, but that didn't mean he was going to be happy about it.

"So," Duncan said, after a few seconds of silence, "you're back in."

Joe nodded and poured Duncan another glass of Scotch. "My paperwork hadn't even gone through yet. Of course, the tattoo's gone, but that's just as well. I think we're going to change that policy-- too visible for someone like Jacob to track us with."

Duncan flinched at Jacob's name, and Joe kicked himself mentally for saying it. They'd worked things out to a certain degree, but that didn't mean he had to remind Duncan about what had happened.

"Mac, look..." Joe said, deciding to take a step, "I never apologized to you for Jacob's death, and I think I owe you that."

"Joe," Duncan said, putting his hand up to stop him, "I appreciate it, but it's in the past. Let's just leave it there." There was a cold edge in his voice, but it was from the memories of the entire situation, not from any lingering anger at Joe. However, he knew that if they got into a discussion about it, that perspective could change. It was best to leave it alone and put it behind them.

"That's fine with me," Joe said, and took a deep breath. "So, how's it going with Richie?"

"Better. It's going to take him a while to really trust me again, but I can't blame him for that. He just got moved into a new place, and he went down to Portland for a couple of days to visit a friend."

"That's good. He came by a few days ago... told me about the new job and apartment. I'm glad to see he's getting things back together."

Duncan nodded and took another drink of his Scotch. He turned and looked around the bar. It looked the same as ever, but after everything that had happened in the past year there was something intangibly different. Everything in Duncan's life had been transformed since his Dark Quickening-- places and memories took on new qualities, and all of his relationships had been changed in some way or other. Part of it was the fact that he was so grateful for having survived and for having come out of it himself again. But most of it was a deep regret over the things he had done and the people he'd hurt. He had so many amends to make, that sometimes it seemed overwhelming.

"You haven't heard from Methos have you?" Joe asked, breaking into Duncan's thoughts.

"No," Duncan said, finishing his drink off. "You?"

"Nah. I'm sure you'll hear from him long before I do," Joe said, pouring himself a drink.

"Why?"

"He wasn't too thrilled with me when he left," Joe said regretfully.

"Yeah, well... I said some pretty awful things to him myself." Duncan stared down into his glass-- this wasn't the subject he wanted to get into right now. He was still confused over the dream he had that morning.

"Yeah, but he..." Joe stopped himself, and shook his head.

"What Joe?"

"I just think he has some kind of attachment to you."

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked, hoping this would give him some insight.

"In some strange way, Mac, he has put you under his protection. He truly believes that you should be the one-- win the Prize."

"That's ridiculous," Duncan scoffed. He hated talk about the Gathering. He didn't want to think about ever losing his head, but he really didn't want to think about what that meant. For him to win the Prize, it meant that his friends had to die. Duncan was committed to making sure that didn't happen.

"Maybe so," Joe relented, realizing he had hit a nerve. He figured it was best to let it drop.

"Well," Duncan said finally, setting his glass down. "I have to get going." He stood up and grabbed his portfolio, then shook Joe's hand.

"Hey, I have a new band playing. You should come by this weekend and check 'em out."

"I just might do that, Joe. I'll see ya around," Duncan waved and headed out the door.

Joe turned back to his books, and sighed. At least they were talking again-- things were looking up. But he was curious to know why Duncan had reacted so strangely about Methos. He figured he'd find out one day-- he usually did. That was, after all, his job.

Duncan opened a beer and flopped down on his couch. He had seen Carl off, and was exhausted after the events of the last few days. He liked Carl, but trouble always seemed to follow him. At least everything had worked out all right this time. Carl lost his career, but by the time they'd said good-bye, he seemed to be looking forward to starting over. And Duncan now had a friend in the FBI-- that could come in handy one day. For now Duncan just wanted to relax. The work out and long, hot shower had helped, and now some good jazz on the stereo and a good book were exactly what he had in mind.

Sighing in contentment, Duncan stretched out on the couch and picked up his book. He hadn't read Dickens in years, but for some reason Tale of Two Cities had appealed to him, so he'd dug his copy out of storage. It didn't take long for him to lose himself in Dickens' elaborate descriptions, transporting him back to part of his own past.

His enjoyment of the book was interrupted when Duncan felt the distinctive presence of an Immortal press against his perceptions. He set the book down and reached for his sword. Richie was out of town, so this called for caution. Soon he heard a light knock on his outside door, and he went to answer it, tucking his sword back in the resting position.

"Methos!" he said, finding the oldest living Immortal leaning against the wall outside his door, smiling at him. Duncan felt the butterflies suddenly rise up in his belly again and fought the urge to pull his friend into an embrace. Despite his happiness at seeing Methos, it probably wouldn't be a proper greeting.

"Hello, MacLeod," Methos said in a sing-song voice. He deposited his bag in Duncan's arms and walked past him into the loft. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes," Duncan said, before he could stop himself, "actually, I did." He tossed the bag down on a chair, put his sword away and followed Methos into the kitchen, where he was helping himself to a beer.

Methos opened a beer, tossing the cap on top of the fridge, and turned around to regard Duncan with a strange look. "Geez, MacLeod," Methos said, with amusement in his voice, "is it legal to answer the door like that?"

"What?" Duncan looked down at his bare chest and work-out shorts. He had just pulled the shorts on when he got out of the shower, and not bothered with anything else. He felt himself suddenly blushing under the scrutiny Methos was giving his body.

Methos chuckled at Duncan's obvious unease. He set the beer bottle down on the counter behind him and walked over to stand toe-to-toe with the Highlander. He reached his hand out toward Duncan's chest, but didn't quite touch it.

"Exactly how much did you miss me?" he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper.

Duncan just looked up at him, shocked by his tone and disconcerted by his closeness. He didn't know what to do-- but he knew suddenly that he wanted Methos. His body screamed out at him, and he reached up to grab Methos' hand, pulling it to him. Methos chuckled again and leaned in to claim Duncan's mouth.

Fire shot through every nerve in Duncan's body, and he yielded to a deeper kiss, sucking Methos' tongue into his mouth and wrapping his arms around his lithe body. Methos ran his hands up the hard muscles of Duncan's bare back and into his long hair, pulling his head back to control the kiss. Duncan, in turn, pulled him closer, feeling the evidence of their arousal rub against each other. That sensation made Duncan shudder in pleasure, and Methos pulled away smiling. He stepped back enough to begin working his way down Duncan's chest with kisses and gentle bites. Duncan put his hands against the counter behind him to steady himself on his shaky legs. He held his breath as Methos reached the band of his shorts and knelt down in front of him.

Methos stopped and looked up at Duncan, his hazel eyes suddenly dark and intense, not holding their usual humor.

"Do you want it, Highlander?" Methos asked him, running his hand over the front of Duncan's shorts.

Duncan nodded, unable to speak. He swallowed hard, looking down at the 5000 year old Immortal kneeling before him and tried to keep himself from whimpering at the thought of Methos' mouth on him.

"I didn't hear you, Duncan," Methos teased, still holding his gaze.

"Yes," Duncan managed to rasp, "please."

Duncan lurched up from where he had fallen asleep on the couch, his book falling to the floor with a bang. He sat up and swung his legs onto the floor so quickly that he knocked his bottle of beer off of the table onto his rug.

"Damn," he yelled and ran to the kitchen to get a towel. He knelt down on the floor and tried to sop up as much of the beer as he could, while trying very hard to ignore the raging erection he'd woken up with-- and especially the dream that had caused it. The whole thing confused the hell out of him, but it had been so real, so vivid, and so.... good.

"What the hell is going on?" Duncan asked himself, sitting back on his heels. "This is ridiculous."

He finished soaking up the beer and picked up the wet towel, throwing it in the sink. Then he went to the liquor cabinet-- beer just wasn't going to do it for him. He poured himself a glass of Scotch, and found himself pacing around the loft as his mind raced.

There had to be some explanation for these dreams-- aside from the obvious. He cared about Methos, yes, but not in that way. Perhaps, it was simply that Duncan missed the older Immortal's company. And maybe he was just sexually frustrated right now. Somehow his subconscious was mixing the two problems together, and it was coming out this way in his dreams. He hadn't seen Amanda since he left her in Russia, and the only other woman he'd been with since then was Cassandra. That encounter was strange enough in itself. It had been a childhood fantasy playing itself out, but now it almost didn't seem real.

"That's your problem," Duncan told himself, "you need to get laid."

He thought about trying to track down Amanda. She'd sent him a post card recently saying she'd already gotten tired of the circus. He knew she always liked to go to Monte Carlo this time of year-- maybe he could find her there. Digging through his desk, Duncan found his address book and looked up the number of Amanda's favorite hotel in Monte Carlo. He'd start there.

"Oui," the hotel clerk said, when he finally got through. "Amanda Darieux is staying here, but she is in the casino. May I take a message?"

"Tell her," Duncan started, but then stopped himself. What was he doing? "Actually, no message. I'll get in touch with her later. Merci."

Duncan hung up the phone and sighed. This wasn't fair to Amanda-- or to himself. He cared about Amanda far too much to reach out to her just because he was horny. Not that she wouldn't oblige him, but he didn't want to use her that way. Besides, he knew her too well. If she was in Monte Carlo gambling, then she'd probably show up on his doorstep soon anyway. She always did when she'd lost money.

It wasn't that he minded that either. He was fairly happy with their relationship as it was. When she was around, she made him happy, kept him laughing. That was worth the trouble of bailing her out once in a while. And he'd seen a new side of her recently-- she had shown him a depth of character that he didn't know she had. Amanda had a carefully constructed persona, that she used as a shield against most of the world. It meant the world to him that after all these years, she had finally begun to show him glimpses beneath that shell. Seeing how she cared about Kenny had been one of his first clues, but then she'd surprised him by giving up the horse to Kit, and then helping Methos steal the Methuselah Stone.

Methos. That brought him back to the problem at hand. But before he could go back down that path in his mind, the phone rang.

"Hello," he answered.

"Mac," Richie's voice came over the line. "I'm glad you're home."

"What's up?"

"Man, I blew a tire about twenty miles outside of town. I'm at a gas station, but they don't have any tires. Feel like taking a drive?" Richie asked, a bit tentative. It was obvious that the boy was still not comfortable asking Duncan for anything. They had begun to mend the relationship, but it was slow going.

"Sure, Rich," Duncan said, and picked up a pencil. "Where are you at?"

Duncan flipped through the stations on his radio as he drove down the dark highway. He couldn't find anything he was happy with, so he left it on a rock station knowing that would make Richie happy when he got in. After playing a new song that Duncan was unfamiliar with, an old Springsteen song came on and he found himself singing along as he drove. Methos liked Springsteen. Stop it, he told himself. There was no reason that every thought had to lead back to Methos. Duncan hated it when he got like this-- obsessed with thinking something through.

It was driving him crazy trying to figure out why he was having these dreams and thoughts about Methos. He kept trying to put it out of his mind, but his subconscious didn't seem to want to let him. He'd had the dreams every few nights for the past few weeks and they seemed to be getting more intense. In all of them though, Methos was the aggressor. He was the one doing those things to Duncan-- maybe that was it. Maybe he had picked up on an attraction on Methos' part and his subconscious was playing that out. On the other hand, it wasn't like he wasn't enjoying what Methos did in the dreams. He couldn't just pretend it was one-sided.

So why was he feeling this way about Methos all of a sudden? It was true that he cared about the older Immortal-- he considered him a close friend. The man had only given him reasons to trust him since the day they met. He'd offered his head up to Duncan so he could defeat Kalas. That was no small thing. This 5000 year old man, who he had just met simply offered him his head. Duncan still couldn't understand that action, but he'd been in awe of it.

And he calls me a boy-scout!  Methos spent an awful lot of time trying to convince Duncan that he didn't care about anyone but himself-- but he had proven that image wrong time and time again-- at least where Duncan was concerned.

Methos had been the only person who could reach Duncan during the Dark Quickening. He left Alexa's side to help Duncan, and no matter how much Duncan threatened him, he stayed with him until it was over. Duncan had been so lost in his own darkness, and what was left of himself was so completely horrified by the things he had done. But somehow, Methos was able to pierce that darkness-- to get him to listen long enough to reach out to him.

"You can fight this. I can help you if you let me."

"Yeah, why would you want to do that?"

"Because of who you are. You are too important to lose!"

With all the evil that Duncan had done during that time, he had been incapable of trying to kill Methos. Somehow, Methos had been like a candle in all that darkness, and thank goodness, Duncan had grabbed hold of it as a lifeline. He had found him in Darius' church and refused to give up on him.

"Look at me. See me as I am, not as I was... or as you want me to be. I will kill you."

"You might."

"I don't want to."

"That is your salvation."

"There is no salvation for me."

"Why? Because you're alone? Because it's just you against all that evil? You're not alone-- not out here, and not in there." Methos had pointed to Duncan's heart.

Duncan never understood that-- the kind of faith that Methos had in him after all he had done. He was touched by it, and he owed Methos a great debt for helping him. Was that what this was all about? A sense of gratitude? No, he knew that wasn't true-- that sold their friendship short. But none of this really explained why Duncan was suddenly having these strange dreams.

Trying to shake the memories off, Duncan pulled into the gas station parking lot. He saw Richie leaning up against his bike under the awning, drinking a Coke, and smiled at the sight of his young friend. The years that Richie had lived with him and been his student had made Duncan come to love the young man like a son. He'd missed Richie, much like one would miss a limb, when he was in Europe-- and he missed him now. Despite the fact that they made peace over what Duncan had done, there was still a distance between them. He hoped that would change with time, but he knew that nothing would ever take away that particular scar completely.

"Hey Mac," Richie said, opening the door as he stopped next to him. "Thanks for coming."

"No problem. Is the bike going to be okay here overnight?"

"It's an all night place. The guy swears he'll keep an eye on it till I can get back out here tomorrow morning," Richie threw his helmet and jacket into the back seat. He also laid his sword on the back seat. Duncan was relieved by that action-- it meant Richie had begun to feel safer around him. Perhaps, things were better than he thought.

"I don't have any class tomorrow morning, so I can bring you back out," Duncan offered. He pulled the car out of the parking lot and headed back to town.

"Thanks," Richie said, and leaned his head back on the seat.

"Did you ride all the way up from Portland tonight?" Duncan asked, seeing how tired Richie looked. He must have been on the road for hours.

"Yeah. I wanted to get home," Richie sighed.

"So how's Angie doing?"

"She's okay. She likes Portland, and the new job. And she's engaged."

"You're kidding?" Duncan said, surprised. He had been under the impression that Richie went down to visit his old friend because there was something romantic going on.

"Nope. Getting married over New Years."

"I'm sorry, Rich," Duncan said.

Richie looked up at him, surprised. "For what?"

"I just always had a feeling you cared more about Angie than you let on. I sorta figured you two might end up together one day."

Richie laughed. "I do care about her. I wouldn't say that I've never been attracted to her, but I'd never want to ruin our friendship. And we'd never work as a couple-- too many disagreements. Her boyfriend's a good guy, though."

"Well, that's good. I hope she'll be happy," Duncan said.

Richie sat and watched the road for a while, then looked over at Duncan. His brow was furrowed in thought. Richie knew the look-- something was bothering him.

"What's up, Mac?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked, looking over at him.

"You have that look... the one you get when you're worried about something. I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears."

"What?" Duncan looked up, confused by the metaphor.

"You know," Richie said, rolling his eyes, "from the gears in your head going too fast."

"Oh," Duncan said, and chuckled at the image. That's pretty much what his head felt like, actually. "Nothing. You know me... I like to brood," Duncan smiled at Richie. He had teased Duncan about that tendency more that once in the past-- might as well use it.

"Yeah, right," Richie said, studying Duncan's face. But he let it go. He was no longer in a position to push Duncan, since he would never allow Duncan to do it to him anymore.

"So," Duncan said, after a long period of silence as they drove into town, "want to stop at Joe's and have a beer?"

"Nah. I'm exhausted and just want to fall into dreamland for a few hours," Richie said, running his hand over his eyes.

"Sounds like a good idea," Duncan said, pulling up in front of Richie's apartment. He wished he could look forward to the same thing-- but dreaming was not what he wanted to do right now.

The early autumn sun was warm on Duncan's face, draining the tension from his body. Coming out to the island to do some fishing was a good idea, and had become an autumn ritual. He carefully threaded the worm onto his hook and then cast his line out into the river. Knowing he'd have to wait, he sat down on a rock and leaned back against a tree that sat on the shore. Yeah, this was the life. A couple of guys just doing some fishing-- nothing better than that.

"Hey," Duncan called, hearing footsteps coming down the embankment, "don't forget to bring me a beer."

"Oh ye of little faith," Methos said, producing a beer bottle in front of Duncan's face. "You didn't really think I'd forget beer, did you?"

"Must have been temporary insanity," Duncan laughed and took a long drink from his beer.

Methos laughed with him and sat down on the bank next to him. He looked out at the water for a few minutes in silence, and then looked back at Duncan. The Highlander had his eyes closed and his face turned up to enjoy the warm sun-- utterly relaxed. It was all very peaceful, and somehow too quiet.

"MacLeod," Methos said, breaking the silence. "Explain to me again why you enjoy fishing."

"It's relaxing. I would have thought you'd enjoy this. It's an ancient male ritual," Duncan said, keeping his eyes closed.

"Funny," Methos chuckled, "I can think of quite a few more interesting ancient male rituals. All quite good for relaxing as well."

Duncan looked up at Methos and raised his eyebrows at the implication. What exactly did he mean? Methos held his gaze for several seconds, his hazel eyes bright and intent in the sunlight. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked back out at the water.

"All right MacLeod," Methos said, "moment of truth time."

"What?" Duncan said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

Methos turned back to look Duncan straight in the eyes. "Do you want to fuck me?" he asked, as if he were asking if Duncan wanted another beer.

The phone rang, jerking Duncan out of his deep sleep. He cursed in several languages and squinted his eyes at the bright sun streaming into his loft. He checked his watch, realizing he'd slept in a lot later than he'd intended. Grumbling, he crawled out of bed and tripped over the electric train still strung across the floor of his apartment. After taking Johnny K's Quickening, Duncan had come home and fallen into bed. He'd have to clean the mess up later.

"Yeah," he snapped into the phone.

"Mac?" Dawson asked, "you all right?"

"Fine, Joe. I just stubbed my toe. What's up?"

Joe chuckled on the other end of the line. "Well, at least it won't do any permanent damage."

"You're sympathy is touching," Duncan said sarcastically. "Oh, and by the way, Johnny K has been put on ice." Duncan knew Joe was calling to find out what had happened, but wasn't going to ask straight out. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of orange juice while he talked.

"Glad to hear it," Joe said.

"Betsy gone?" Duncan asked.

"Yep," Joe answered, not quite able to hide the pain in his answer.

"Why don't you come over, Joe? I'll make breakfast."

"Sounds like an offer that shouldn't be refused," Joe said. "I'll be over in an hour."

"All right. See ya," Duncan said and hung up the phone. He could use the company, but he was unsure if he had any food in the fridge. He opened the door and peered in at the possibilities. Luckily, he had some eggs-- he could make omelets. He grabbed some cheese and an onion, then grabbed three eggs in one hand. As he turned to close the fridge door, he dropped an egg, which shattered in a slimy mess at his feet.

"Perfect!" he growled, and set the other things down on the counter.

He grabbed a rag and squatted down to clean up the mess. Wiping up the last pieces of shell that were spread across the floor, he spied something silver peeking out behind the fridge. Reaching back and pulling the item out, he laughed. A damn bottle cap! Methos-- he had a bad habit of tossing them on top of the fridge. Duncan was always throwing them out when he left-- here and on the barge. His aim must have been off once.

Duncan turned the bottle cap over in his hand, the images from his dreams washing over him in a flash. He sat down against the wall in defeat. He had been hoping this would just go away-- that the dreams were some kind of aberration. He looked around the loft, and could see Methos in his mind's eye-- excitedly talking about Alexa, chastising Duncan for his chivalrous attitude, playing chess, or just lounging on the couch with a beer. He thought about all the time Methos had spent on the barge after his apartment was sold. Duncan had gotten used to him being around.

Tired of dwelling on this, and trying to figure out what it meant, Duncan got up and put the food back in his fridge. He'd just take Joe out for breakfast. That decided, he threw the bottle cap away and went to get dressed.

Once Duncan was dressed, he still had plenty of time before Joe was supposed to show up, so he pulled a book out of the pile of books he had on his desk. They were books he picked up at the school library to supplement some of his class lectures, but he had also grabbed one that had nothing to do with Medieval weaponry. Pouring himself another glass of orange juice, Duncan sat down at the kitchen counter and started flipping through "Psychological Reflections" by Carl Jung.

He was determined to figure out what was going on in his dreams. The last time he'd been this obsessed with strange dreams, he'd nearly lost his head to Garrick. He knew this was a different situation, but in a way, it worried him just as much.

Duncan flipped through the book until he found a chapter dealing with dreams and what they say about the dreamer. He just skimmed a few pages, not seeing anything that really seemed enlightening until his mind clicked on one particular passage. He re-read it aloud, letting the concept gel in his mind.

"Within each one of us there is another whom we do not know. He speaks to us in dreams and tells us how differently he sees us from how we see ourselves. When we find ourselves in an insolubly difficult situation, this stranger in us can sometimes show us a light which is more suited than anything else to change our attitude fundamentally, namely just that attitude which has led us into the difficult situation."

Duncan's brow knitted in concentration as he considered the implications. Was there a stranger within him, trying to tell him something that he wasn't aware of? If that was true, what was it telling him? The obvious answer was that he wanted Methos. But that couldn't be, could it? It just didn't make any sense-- Duncan just couldn't quite wrap his mind around the idea.

"Merde!" Duncan said, and closed the book with a snap. "It's too early in the morning to figure this out." He put the book aside and he started putting the train set back in its box, and cleaning up the mess from his Johnny K escapade. He had most of it put away when he heard the elevator engage, and knew it must be Joe.

"Joe, there's something I don't understand," Duncan said, cutting his eggs into pieces and mixing them with the home-fries on his plate. At Joe's questioning nod, he went on. "You were devastated last night when you had convinced yourself that Betsy was leaving because of your disability, but you're not upset about the fact that she's married and has kids?"

Joe smiled sadly, and thought about the question for a few seconds, trying to find a way to explain.

"It's not that I'm not upset about her being married, or that she lied to me, or that she's gone," Joe explained, taking a drink of his coffee. "I am. I really care about Betsy, and would love the opportunity to have a relationship with her. But that wasn't really the point."

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked, not understanding.

"See, she was this part of my life that I had chosen to deny myself. Maybe, I was right-- maybe at that age, she couldn't have handled the fact that I had no legs-- or maybe I was just being stupid," Joe chuckled at Duncan's raised eyebrow and wry smile. "Either way, I made that choice, and it affected both our lives. I denied both of us the chance to find out. So we both spent the next 30 years wondering."

Duncan nodded, understanding a bit better. "So now that she's gone, do you think it was worth the risk? I mean, in the long run, do you think it was better that she tracked you down, or would it have been better for her to just leave things as they were."

"Well now," Joe said with a wide grin, "that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, ain't it?" Joe took another drink of coffee and considered Duncan's intent face. "I can't really speak for her, Mac. But at least she can live with new regrets instead of old ones."

"Doesn't sound like much of a trade-off," Duncan muttered and went back to his eggs.

"Mac," Joe said, setting his cup down and fixing Duncan with his best bar-tender gaze, "what's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?" Duncan said innocently.

"Well, for starters-- you've never asked me this many questions about my personal life since I've known you."

"I was trying to be a friend," Duncan said sarcastically.

"Mac," Joe said, ignoring Duncan's flippant comment, "there's obviously something on your mind. I can't figure out what it has to do with Betsy, but I'm here if you want to talk about it."

"I appreciate the offer, but there's nothing wrong," Duncan wiped his mouth with his napkin and raised his hand to the waitress for the check. "I guess I'm just in an introspective mood."

Duncan was not about to have a conversation with Joe about his dreams. For one thing, he'd never feel comfortable telling Joe that he thought he might have feelings for Methos. And for another thing, he had this horrifying vision of his dreams showing up in his Chronicle. He knew that wasn't fair to Joe and their friendship, but still he shuddered at the thought.

"Whatever you say, Mac," Joe said, and finished the last gulp of his coffee. Introspective was not the word Joe would have used-- moody was more like it. But he knew full well, Duncan was not one to be pushed into talking, so it wasn't worth trying.

Duncan slid the lift door up and walked into his loft sorting through his mail. He tossed his bills and junk mail down on the desk and looked through the few personal pieces of mail. A letter from Grace, a larger envelope from his solicitor in Paris-- probably something about the barge, and a postcard. The postcard had a picture of the depiction of God giving Adam life in the Sistine Chapel on it, and was postmarked Florence, Italy.

Greetings MacLeod, Hope you're keeping yourself out of trouble-- though it's not bloody likely. I'm busy seeking truth in beauty. See ya when I find it. Keep the beer on ice. M.

Duncan laughed at Methos' particular brand of humor. Seeking truth in beauty? Duncan wondered. What the hell did that mean? Typical Methos-- he loved to be cryptic. At least Duncan knew he was still alive. When Methos dropped out of sight the day after Jacob's death, Duncan was afraid that the ancient Immortal would disappear completely. In 5000 years, he had become very good at remaking himself and starting over. The postcard made it pretty clear that he didn't intend to do that. Joe had been right-- he contacted Duncan. That knowledge improved Duncan's mood immeasurably.

For a moment, Duncan considered going to Florence and finding Methos. With all these crazy dreams he'd been having, the thought of facing Methos terrified Duncan. But somehow, he thought, facing Methos might be what he needed. Duncan was the type of person who liked to face things head on-- when something was bothering him, he dealt with it. If he went to Methos, maybe he could figure out what this was all about. Maybe it would be worth the risk. But do I really want to know? he asked himself.

That was the real question.

Duncan wiped the sweat and grime off his face as he walked down the small cobble-stone street in search of a small Inn. He had flown into Rome and then driven up to Florence. The postcard Methos sent had been mailed from a small inn here, and he had no idea if the ancient Immortal was still there, but it was a starting place. He turned a corner and found the old building hiding in the tiny street, far from the tourist areas of Florence.

Duncan stood in the street and looked up at the building, trying to work up his nerve to go in. Finally, he took a deep breath and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. The front desk was unmanned, so Duncan went on up the steps to the second floor and down the hall to the room, where he could now feel the presence of another Immortal. It had to be Methos. He knocked lightly on the door, feeling the butterflies rise in his belly again.

"Come in," Methos' deep voice called from behind the door.

Duncan pushed the door open to see Methos sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed surrounded by papers and his journal. He was wearing a t-shirt and worn-out jeans, no shoes, and had his headphones hanging around his neck-- utterly Methos. He smiled up at Duncan calmly, as if he wasn't surprised in the least to see him walk through his door.

"Boun giorno, MacLeod," Methos said.

"Methos," Duncan scolded, surprised by Methos' indifference, "I could have walked in here and taken your head. You shouldn't be so careless."

Methos chuckled at Duncan's tone. "Don't get excited, I knew it was you."

"What? How?" Duncan sputtered.

"Which brings up an interesting question," Methos said, ignoring Duncan's question. "What are you doing here?"

Duncan gazed at Methos, trying to figure out how to answer that question. He sighed and sat down on the window seat. He looked out at the small immaculately groomed garden and patio below the room. It had been so long since he'd been in Italy, he'd forgotten how beautiful it was.

"I have no idea," he finally answered. Truth was the best route. "I wanted..." Duncan paused, looking for the words. "I just..."

Methos stood up and came to sit down next to Duncan on the window seat, seeing him struggling with what he wanted to say.

"Just say it," he said, gently. "I can handle it. I'm tougher than I look." He cocked his head and grinned as Duncan looked up at him.

"I missed you," Duncan said, and finally felt a weight lift off of him.

Methos raised an eyebrow at him, and then let a grin form on his face. Duncan felt uncomfortable under the bright gaze, and he turned to look back into the courtyard. The next step belonged to Methos.

And Methos took it. He reached out and placed his hand over Duncan's on the window-sill, forming a connection between them that felt incredibly intimate. Duncan felt himself warm from the inside out.

"What do you want, Duncan?" Methos asked.

Duncan didn't even have to think about it-- finally he knew. "You," he said simply and turned to look Methos in the eyes. He had to know how Methos would react. "I want you."

Methos brought Duncan's hand up to his mouth for a soft kiss in the center of his palm, which created a burst of sensation along his arm and into the rest of his body. "You have me, Highlander. You always have."

Duncan felt laughter build up inside him, partially from the sensation of the kiss, and partially from his intense sense of relief. He couldn't contain it, and Methos joined him-- their laughter penetrating the silence of the room and the stillness of the garden beneath them. But it didn't last long, because now that he had taken the first step, Duncan knew what he wanted. He reached out and placed his palm across Methos' cheek and pulled him to him, claiming his lips. The kiss was amazingly comfortable. The naturalness of it surprised Duncan-- not the usual awkward kind of first kiss. It was somehow like coming home.

Duncan wallowed in the taste and feel of Methos' lips-- hot, and wet, and he wanted to drown in it. He opened his mouth to Methos' tongue and pulled him closer, hungry for more. When Methos pulled away from him, Duncan almost whimpered in protest. Methos smiled at his impatience and reached up to pull the tie out of Duncan's hair, letting it fall across his shoulders while he ran his hands through it.

"I have waited so long for this," Methos said, his hand trembling against Duncan's neck. Duncan leaned forward for another kiss, but Methos pulled away and stood up. Duncan looked up at him, confused, but Methos walked over and gathered his papers, clearing the bed. Then he locked the door and walked back to stand in front of Duncan.

"Come on," he said, and held his hand out to Duncan.

Duncan took his hand and stood up, following him to stand by the bed. He forced his nerves down, and reached out to run his hand gently down Methos' neck and over his chest to his waist-band. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the t-shirt out of Methos' jeans and up over his head, then pulled him back to him for a kiss. As they kissed, Duncan ran his hands over Methos' back, exploring the warm, soft flesh-- enjoying the feel of him.

Methos pulled away slightly and reached out to unbutton Duncan's shirt, at a maddeningly slow pace. His fingers sent shock-waves through Duncan's body as he worked his way down his torso. Duncan realized, with a start, exactly how aroused he was. His erection pressed against his pants, demanding release, but Methos was moving far too slowly. On the other hand, he wasn't sure what he should do-- this was new territory.

Finally, Methos slid the shirt off Duncan's shoulders, dropping it on the floor behind him. He caused Duncan to shiver as he ran his hands up the sides of Duncan's torso and around to explore his chest. Methos leaned forward to kiss his neck, his collar bone, his shoulder, and then his chest. When Methos ran his tongue across Duncan's nipple and then bit lightly, he gasped from the surge of sensation. He couldn't stand the torture anymore. He grabbed Methos' hand and pulled his body up against him, the warm flesh of their bare chests melding together, as they fell into another deep, intimate kiss.

This time the kiss was more frantic, more passionate. Duncan wrapped his arms around Methos and allowed his hand to stray down his back to cup Methos' ass, pulling him even closer. Methos ground his hips into Duncan, rubbing his own apparent erection against Duncan's. He reached between them to unfasten Duncan's pants as Duncan devoured his ears and neck with his mouth, then slid the pants off of Duncan's hips, letting them drop onto the floor. He pulled away from Duncan and gave him a devilish grin, then with one quick movement, he turned him and pushed, causing Duncan to fall back onto the bed.

Duncan laughed and kicked his pants the rest of the way off, sliding farther up onto the center of the bed. Methos pulled Duncan's shoes and socks off, then reached up to pull Duncan's briefs off, freeing his straining cock. Methos stood over him for a few seconds, simply caressing Duncan's body with his eyes.

"God, you're beautiful," Methos breathed. He put one hand on his hip, and raised an eyebrow at Duncan. "It's bloody criminal."

"Shut up," Duncan said, uncomfortable under the scrutiny, "and come here." He reached out and grabbed Methos by his belt-loops, pulling him down on top of him.

"I intend to," Methos said, suggestively, before he kissed him again and allowed his weight to drape over Duncan's body.

Duncan sighed, running his hands up into Methos' short hair and down the back of his long, strong neck. God, he has a sexy neck! Methos left Duncan's mouth, and began to trail kisses down his neck and over his chest. Duncan writhed in pleasure under the ministrations of Methos' mouth and hands as he worked his way down Duncan's body. Once again, he was moving far too slowly, and Duncan's hips unconsciously lifted as Methos' mouth reached the hollow where Duncan's hip met his thigh. He could feel Methos smile against him and chuckle-- the chuckle causing tiny vibrations that only increased the exquisite pressure that was building inside him. His whole body was tensed, like the strings of a violin, in anticipation.

His entire body shuddered as Duncan felt hot breath against his penis, and his eyes flew open. He looked down to see Methos looking up at him, his mouth poised above Duncan's erection. He was watching Duncan and waiting-- but for what? Duncan couldn't stand it anymore. He needed it-- more than anything.

"Please," he whispered in desperation.

One side of Methos' mouth quirked up in a smug smile, but his eyes glistened with tenderness. Duncan watched as he leaned in and swirled his tongue over the tip of Duncan's erection. The sensation from that simple action surged through Duncan's body and nearly sent him plunging over the edge. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists to hold onto his control.

Methos waited a few seconds, knowing Duncan was fighting for control, then he slowly moved again. He wrapped his hand around the base of Duncan's penis and took the tip into his mouth. The hot wetness that surrounded Duncan was excruciating and he didn't think it could feel any better-- until Methos released his hand and moved down, taking the whole penis into his mouth. Duncan moaned and writhed in pleasure. It was so good-- so hot. Methos' hand moved down and grasped Duncan's testicles, massaging them gently, as his mouth created a gentle, yet persistent rhythm-- pulling him to the edge. Duncan felt the pressure build in his body, and he fought it, trying to pull away from Methos. But the older Immortal wouldn't let him-- he continued his insistent torture until Duncan passed the turning point.

Like a watch that had been wound too tight, to the point where the springs shatter, Duncan's world shattered. Something deep inside him sparked and an intense fire engulfed his being, then centered on the point of stimulation in a white hot explosion. He made a sound that wasn't quite a scream, but not quite a groan either-- more of a growl from deep within his chest. Beneath the intensity of sensation, he was aware of Methos drinking him in as he came for what seemed like forever. Finally, the intensity faded enough for Duncan to wrap his mind around coherent thought.

Methos had already moved up to lie next to him, and was gazing down at him with a grin of satisfaction on his face.

"So," Methos said, with laughter in his voice, "you do lose control on occasion. That's good to know."

Duncan rolled his eyes and reached out to pull Methos down for a deep, slow, intimate kiss. The taste of himself on Methos' tongue was incredibly erotic, making him shiver. Methos pulled away to kiss Duncan's forehead tenderly, caressing his cheek with his hand. Duncan wrapped his arms around Methos as he laid his head in the curve beneath Duncan's chin. Duncan kissed the top of Methos' head and sighed in contentment.

Duncan rolled over in bed, reaching out for the warm presence of his lover. His arm found only cool smooth sheets. Surprised, he sat up and looked around, taking a second for his conscious mind to realize that he was in his own bed-- not in Italy, but in his loft in Seacouver. Duncan took a deep shuddering breath, running his hands through his hair. Another dream. But this one hadn't shocked him-- for some reason it wasn't as disturbing. Duncan felt a sense of peace. He still had no idea what all this meant, but he couldn't deny it anymore. It was important.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, Duncan got up and pulled his robe on. He went to the kitchen and started his coffee brewing. He grabbed a bagel from the fridge and leaned up against the counter to wait for his coffee. It was time to face some uncomfortable facts. He was having erotic dreams about Methos and he couldn't just write it off as some weird psychological reaction to missing him. There was obviously some kind of underlying attraction. But how could that be? Duncan had never really been attracted to men before-- that wasn't where his interests lay. He loved women-- always had, and still did.

If he were honest with himself, Duncan knew that sexuality was more complicated than that. He'd lived too long to not know that there were exceptions to every rule. Duncan had moved beyond the notion that love was based on purely physical attraction. But then, these dreams were pretty damn physical. Duncan rubbed his temples-- this was just too complicated.

Okay, he thought, say I am attracted to Methos--what does that mean? What were the implications of that? And, more importantly, how did Methos feel? Or did he really want to know? Methos had lived 5000 years, and had lived in several cultures that had no taboo against men loving men. He had surely taken part in those activities. But did any of that matter, if Duncan wasn't ready to face this? Could he open himself to the possibility? He wasn't sure that he could. He was fairly set in his ways after 400 years. Besides, relationships with other Immortals were far too complicated, and to throw this into the mix-- he could imagine it being disastrous.

The coffee maker beeped and Duncan poured himself a full cup. He felt a deep headache coming on, and wished he could just put the whole thing out of his mind. Methos was off searching for truth, and so the whole point was moot anyway. He just didn't need this right now-- not when he was putting his life back together.

Duncan pulled a grapefruit out of the fridge and rinsed it in the sink. He noticed, with some annoyance, that the faucet was leaking. He'd have to fix it soon. He cut the pink fruit in half and grabbed a spoon, then sat down to eat. Before he could dig his spoon into the fruit, he felt the tingles of sensation that signified another Immortal. Soon afterward, he heard the elevator engage. His first thought was Methos, but he shook that off. It was probably Richie. He went back to his fruit and waited for the elevator to reach the top.

"Duncan?" a soft, lyrical voice called, as the elevator door slid up.

Looking up from his bowl, Duncan saw Amanda's legs first-- long, beautiful and in sheer black stockings. The rest of her followed, looking as beautiful as ever-- back to brunette. Thrilled to see his visitor, Duncan got up and scooped her up into a big hug.

"Amanda!" he said, "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I might have come by sooner if I knew I'd get this reception," Amanda laughed and pulled out of his arms. "Did you miss me?"

"Always," Duncan said, and kissed her. Then he grabbed her suitcase out of the elevator, and closed it back down.

"So," she said, running her hands over Duncan's chest, which was bared by his robe. "How much did you miss me?"

"You have no idea," Duncan said, hoping this would be exactly what he needed. Though, in truth, he knew that was simply wishful thinking. "Come here," he said, pulling her towards the bed, "and I'll show you."

"Ooh," Amanda said, kicking her shoes off on the way, "I should drop by early in the morning more often."

Later, Duncan watched Amanda sleep, stretched out on her stomach, looking incredibly sated as only Amanda could. He watched her body rise and fall with her breaths and ran his hand absently in patterns on her back. He was often amazed at how much he'd come to care for Amanda over the years he'd known her. She'd caused him more trouble than any other single person he'd ever known, yet what he really remembered when he thought of her was the joy she always managed to bring into his life.

He realized with a sudden sense of clarity that knowing and loving Amanda for the past several centuries had added immensely to the richness of his life. This thought led him back to his thoughts of Methos-- the man had already given so much to Duncan. He'd offered his friendship and his advice-- so why couldn't there be more? How could he deny the opportunity to add another layer to his life?

It had become clear to him over the past few weeks that he wasn't going to be able to ignore the feelings he'd developed for Methos. He owed it to himself to face them when the ancient Immortal showed up again-- if he showed up again. But something deep in Duncan's gut told him that Methos would turn up in his life again soon, and when he did, Duncan promised himself, he'd deal with these feelings-- he'd take a chance. If the reality was anything close to the dreams, he knew he'd never regret it.

Of course, none of it really mattered until Methos decided to turn up. For now, he had a beatiful woman in his life, and in his bed, who would most likely keep him quite busy until she got bored and left again. He sighed and snuggled down next to Amanda in bed, vowing to enjoy every mintute he had with her this time.

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