by C.L. Finn

"To someday," Methos toasted, his glass clinking against Joe's in the quiet of the empty bar. Joe nodded, seemingly unconvinced by the ancient Immortal's assurance that his daughter would return eventually. They drank in silence for a few moments as Methos watched the thoughts flicker across his friend's face, doubt turning to wistful acceptance.

"She's pretty great, isn't she?" Joe smiled, turning to watch the door through which Amy had departed.

"Mmm hmm," Methos agreed absently, the tiny smirk nearly hidden on his placid face. "Beautiful, too. In fact, Joe...you wouldn't mind if I asked her out, would you?"

"What?!" Joe sputtered, nearly choking on his drink. "Oh, no, you don't..." He trailed off when he caught the widening grin on Methos' face. He knew when he was being baited. Two could play at that game.

"I thought your heart was otherwise engaged these days?" he asked nonchalantly, chuckling at the grimace that crossed Methos' face.

"You don't have to make it sound like the plot of a dime-store novel," Methos groused, then turned more serious, refilling his glass and taking a deep swig of the whiskey. "How is he?"

Joe shrugged and took another drink, the festive mood lost for the moment. "Who can tell. He says he's okay, that he's found some peace...but I don't think so. He's..." Joe trailed off, at a loss for a description of the new Duncan MacLeod. "Well, he's different. There's just not a lot of life in him.

"I assume you've kept up to date?" Joe asked after an uncomfortable silence. "Since I know you can still get into the database."

Methos nodded, but refused to look guilty. "I read your report. That's why you were so angry at me the other day, isn't it? Because I've been gone."

"I guess." Joe refilled his own glass and drank it down before continuing. "After Richie's death, everyone disappeared. Mac...then you. I expected you to come back when he did. I don't know, Methos. I understand why you didn't stick around...he was dangerous...but he's really needed you this past year."

"I didn't leave because I was afraid of Mac, Joe. I left because I would have only been a liability to him. There are far more ghosts in my own past than either I or he could have dealt with." Methos took another drink and leaned forward on the table, rubbing at his face. "I honestly didn't intend to come back," he admitted quietly.

Joe stared at Methos for a long moment, wondering at the sudden sadness and anxiety he could see deep in those hazel eyes. In the midst of all of the anger, fear, and activity of the last few days, Joe had never stopped to think about how difficult the last two years had been for Methos. He'd been too busy being angry on Duncan's behalf to consider this man's loneliness. Sometimes, his ancient friend was too good at his own press, and it was far too easy to believe that Methos didn't need anyone.

Despite these thoughts, Joe couldn't help but chuckle. "He's a hard habit to break, huh?"

"Something like that." Methos grinned and sat back in his chair, comfortable once again. "So, you think his 'welcome back' will be better or worse than yours was?"

"Only one way to find out," Joe said, checking his watch. "He's due back in about two hours."

Methos nodded thoughtfully and finished off his drink before moving to stand up, but Joe stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

"You might want to grab some beer on the way. Mac has taken up a new ascetic lifestyle. I guarantee the fridge isn't stocked."

"What do you mean, ascetic lifestyle?" Methos' eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"You'll see," Joe chuckled. "Good luck with him."

Duncan paid the cab driver, grabbed his single bag off the quay, and headed up the barge's ramp. He stopped short halfway up when the presence of an Immortal sang against his spine. He was alarmed until he realized that the presence was familiar; it resonated deeper than other Immortals because this one was a part of his own. It had been nearly two years since he'd felt this particular sensation, and it felt strangely like something had just clicked back into place.

Methos had come home.

Unable to contain his grin, Duncan hurried up the gangplank and into the barge. He was met with a sight that both thrilled and irritated him in equal measure. Thrilled, because he'd missed the old Immortal incredibly. Irritated, because it had been two years without a word, and now here he was, sitting on one of the top steps leading up to the bedroom area, leaning up against the wall, his legs stretched out along the step, shoes off, and a beer in one hand, all as if no time had passed, as if MacLeod hadn't just passed through one of the worst periods of his life.

"Methos," he said simply, dropping his bag at the top of the steps. He remained on his side of the barge, though, unsure of which emotion to go with.

"You know, MacLeod," Methos said, with that beloved enigmatic grin, "this is what comes of not having a good security system. Someone comes along and steals all your furniture."

"It wasn't stolen," Duncan answered, unable to resist a smile at the sarcasm. God, he'd missed that. "I was simplifying my life." He moved into the room, closer to where Methos sat.

"Well, personally, I prefer my simplicity in comfort." Methos took a long pull on his beer and leaned back farther against the barge wall.

"I'm sure you do," Duncan answered dryly, then turned more serious. "Methos, where have you been?"

Methos shrugged. "Here and there. Mostly there." Suddenly looking uncomfortable, he set his beer aside and stood, stuffing one of his hands into his jean pocket. "I was hoping I was still welcome on your couch. But as I see you have no couch..." he trailed off, looking around the sparse barge.

Duncan sighed, unable to resist the uncertainty in Methos' voice and posture. He moved forward, into Methos' personal space.

"For God's sake, you're always welcome." He reached out and grabbed the older Immortal, pulling him into a bear-hug, which Methos returned after a second. "I've missed you."

"You too, Mac. You too."

Methos tightened his arms and buried his face in Duncan's warm neck. Surprised at the unusual show of emotion, Duncan just rubbed his friend's back and held him as long as he needed. Finally, Methos seemed to realize his vulnerability, and he pulled away, not looking at Duncan as he sat back down on the steps. Duncan understood the sudden need for distance, feeling a bit of it himself, so he moved across the room to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"Another beer?" he asked, finding it stocked with a twelve-pack of Methos' favorite brand.

"Sure," Methos answered, as he drained the last of the one he had. "So, Joe said you were in London for a concert in memory of Claudia Jardine?"

"Yeah," Duncan nodded and handed Methos a beer, drinking from his own and sitting down on the low wall next to the steps. "I helped set up a music scholarship in her name; the concert was a fundraiser. It went well."

"I'm sure she would have appreciated it."

"Yeah, well..." Duncan answered, then trailed off, not wanting to get into a discussion about his guilt over the young woman's death. "So how long have you been back?"

"Couple days. I got mixed up in a bit of adventure with Joe."

Duncan's eyebrows shot up, remembering the strange feeling he'd had the day before.

"You took a head yesterday. I felt it...but I wasn't sure what it was."

Methos nodded. "Another visitation from the past. Not like Kronos," he said hastily when Duncan grimaced. "Just a guy who couldn't let something go. I wouldn't have fought the moron if it wasn't for Joe."

"Joe?"

Methos chuckled. "Yeah, turns out our friend has a few skeletons of his own. You'll have to ask him about it, though. Not my story to tell."

"I will," Duncan promised, intrigued by the mystery. They lapsed into companionable silence for a few moments, Duncan wondering who would bring up the more important issues. Surprisingly, it was Methos.

"You want to tell me about it?" Methos asked softly. Duncan didn't need clarification; he knew what Methos was asking.

He shrugged and got up to look out a porthole at the river. "Not much to tell. I beat him."

"I know that much, Mac. I've hacked into the Watcher's network periodically."

The answer irritated Duncan on several levels, and he paced across the empty barge. "If you were so interested, where have you been for two years?" he asked sharply.

"S'pose I deserve that." Methos stood up, wiping his hands against his jeans as if nervous. "You got my letter?" he asked.

"Yes," Duncan answered, stopping to look at Methos. He remembered the letter he'd found when he came back from Malaysia all too well. Parts of it were lodged vividly in his memory.

Mac, I know I promised to be here when you were ready to face this demon, but I can not. After you left, I had a few visitations of my own, things from my past I'd hoped never to encounter again. This is not a battle I can follow you into. There's too much darkness inside me that can be used as a weapon against you. The best thing I can do to help you is put myself as far away from you as possible until this thing is over. All of the research I've done on this myth leads me to the conclusion that ultimately this is a demon you will have to face on your own. I have every faith that you will prevail. Godspeed Highlander.

The letter had hurt at the time, but in hindsight, knowing what Joe had gone through on his behalf, he understood Methos' decision. He was curious about who the demon had used against Methos before he left, but he wasn't ready to even ask the question, much less hear the answer.

"I understood. And the truth is, you were probably right. Ultimately, it was something I had to face alone . But if you've been keeping tabs, then you know it's been almost a year since it was over. I kept expecting you to show up."

"I'm sorry, Duncan," Methos said sincerely. "I was…running. What happened after Richie's death...it was too intense." Methos laughed humorlessly and turned away, as if unable to look at Duncan.

Duncan remembered that, as well. He'd been so lost and hurt after killing Richie. If not for Methos and his steadfast care over two endless days, he might not have survived, and he surely wouldn't have had the strength to go on and fight the battle. Methos had supported him, taken care of him, let him grieve, cajoled him back to the living, and ultimately loved him. In return, Duncan had finally given him the one thing he knew Methos needed from him: acceptance. Making love to him that night had been more intimate than anything he'd known or imagined before.

"Too honest, I suppose," Methos added softly in the silence.

Duncan stared at Methos' back, shocked at his willingness to reveal his fear. He was more used to Methos making light of something, avoiding it all together, or getting belligerent, if pushed. He'd never seen the ancient Immortal volunteer such information, and that scared him even more than the admission itself.

Though he had to admit, remembering that night terrified him, too.

When he'd first come back from Malaysia, he'd been looking forward to exploring that intimacy, only to find Methos gone and Ahriman still waiting for him. Now, he wasn't so sure what he wanted, or what Methos' role in his life was. He'd spent the past year mostly alone, and as happy as he was that Methos was back, he wasn't sure he was prepared for that kind of honesty. Taking a page from Methos' usual play-book, he did the only thing he could do: avoid the real issue.

"You were there when I really needed you. I appreciate that," Duncan said simply, and then changed the subject. "Have you eaten? There's nothing in the fridge, but I have a gift basket from the scholarship committee. Lots of cheese, crackers, caviar, that sort of stuff."

Methos turned around to stare at Duncan, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. He'd been ready and willing to bare his heart to the younger Immortal. Clearly, Duncan wasn't ready for that. Something wasn't quite right with the Highlander. Methos watched him as he buried his attention in preparing a plate of food. There was a sadness about him, a sense of separateness that he'd never had before. If Methos hadn't known better, he would swear there were new lines around Duncan's eyes; as it was, there was a dullness about them. Joe was right; the battle last year had taken something from the Highlander. He understood well that kind of battle fatigue.

Sitting down on one of the cushions against the short wall, Methos waited for him to bring over the food on a small tray. Duncan sat the tray down on the floor in front of him and slid down next to Methos silently. They ate in silence for a few minutes. To Methos they seemed more uncomfortable with each other than they'd ever been. It was unnerving. Finally, he set down his beer and looked straight at Duncan.

"Mac, what's wrong?"

"What?" Duncan asked, obviously pretending he didn't know what Methos meant. At Methos' raised eyebrow, Duncan sighed. "I don't know. Among other things, I was just thinking that I don't really know you."

"I thought we went through this..." Methos began, exasperated, but Duncan cut him off.

"No, I don't mean it that way. I mean..." he paused, clearly searching for a way to say what he meant. "Okay," he finally said, turning to Methos. "I've had a lot of people who were important in my life, and they all played a certain role, you know? Darius and Connor were my teachers. Richie, my student. Fitz was my best friend. Tessa and Amanda, my lovers. I just don't know what category you fall into."

Methos laughed. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't help it. Trust the Highlander to need a label for their relationship. The man truly was adorable when he was worrying something to death -- especially something so unimportant.

"I thought I fell into the 'annoying twit on the couch' category," he joked then looked around pointedly again. "Of course, without a couch..."

"Methos!" Duncan exclaimed in frustration. "Will you give the furniture thing a rest! I'm serious here."

"I know you are, Mac. But I have no way of answering that except to say I'm a little bit of each."

"Except student."

"Oh, no, even that. I've learned a lot from you, Highlander. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be back here now."

"Are you back for good?" Duncan asked suddenly.

With an explosive sigh, Methos said, "I don't know. The best I can give you is maybe."

"Fair enough," Duncan answered and stood up. "You want another beer?"

"Silly question." Methos grinned, handing him his empty bottle.

"It's a good thing you stocked this," Duncan said pulling two more out of the fridge.

"Yeah, well, Joe warned me." Methos took the fresh beer from him as Duncan sat back down and took a long swig, then reached for another cracker with salami. "He filled me in on your new lifestyle."

Duncan frowned and stared down at the salami that he was slicing. "Did he also tell you what he gave up for me?" he asked hoarsely.

"No…what do you mean?" Methos asked, alarmed at the pain on Duncan's face.

"Joe was helping me track down information on the prophecy...on Ahriman." He stopped and took a drink of his beer to clear his throat. "Horton -- well, his apparition -- offered Joe his legs back. Told him he could give them to him if he'd turn his back on me, even gave him a taste of having them back. He refused."

"Jesus," Methos breathed, watching Duncan blink against suddenly watery eyes. He shook his head in amazement at what that choice must have taken. "He's a better man than me. These mortals -- sometimes I think maybe we're the children, and they're the grown-ups."

Duncan looked up at Methos, a soft smile lighting up his face. "You may be right," he laughed then raised his bottle in salute. "To the grown-ups."

Methos grinned and clinked his bottle against Duncan's.

"So, what have you been up to since you saved the world from darkness?" he asked lightly, willing to put aside the subject of Duncan's ordeal for now. He would tell Methos more about it when he was ready.

"Not much," Duncan answered, his smile fading. "I tried to simplify my life, change the way I deal with things. But you know...the usual happened. There were people to rescue."

Methos was shocked at the bitterness in Duncan's answer. Had he finally come to the point where he'd given so much to everyone else, that he'd lost himself? This was not the Duncan MacLeod he met five years earlier. This man was a shadow of what he'd been.

"What is it, Mac?" he asked softly, reaching out to touch Duncan's short hair. "Where are you?"

Duncan snorted, but leaned into the touch. "Sleepwalking, I guess."

The answer nearly broke Methos' heart. He knew the feeling. He'd sleepwalked through many parts of his life. It was Duncan who had woken him up out of his last one, brought him back into the land of the living with his passion for life. Now the shoe was on the other foot. He wondered if he had it in him to help his young friend as Duncan had helped him.

He slowly slid his fingers through Duncan's hair to the back of his neck and pulled him down toward his lap as he slid down the wall slightly to get comfortable. Duncan went willingly, pillowing his head on Methos' belly and wrapping one arm around his thighs.

"I'm just so exhausted, Methos," he whispered harshly.

"Then rest, my friend," Methos whispered back, rubbing Duncan's scalp softly. "Just rest. I've got your back."

And Duncan did just that, slipping into a deep sleep within minutes, apparently comfortable and safe in Methos' presence. The older man watched over him the rest of the night, stroking his head and back softly as he listened to the sound of the Seine against the barge. When the barge grew colder, he took a light blanket that was nestled among the pillows, pulled it over Duncan, and waited for dawn to warm it up again. For once, he would be the protector, the Chieftain, the vigilant watchman. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had earned his rest.

Duncan woke up mid-morning the next day, surprised that he'd slept far past dawn. He wasn't as surprised that he was curled up on the hard floor, a light blanket thrown over him, clutching one of his throw pillows, having had the best night's sleep he'd had in a very long time. And he was alone, but that didn't surprise him either.

With a groan, Duncan sat up and rubbed at his face. Methos had apparently cleaned up the food and beer bottles before he left. He couldn't help but laugh at his own disappointment at finding him gone. Trust Methos to appear suddenly after two years and disappear again just as quickly.

But maybe Methos hadn't gone far. Maybe he was going to stick around for a while. That would explain his obsession with Duncan's lack of a couch. On the other hand, Duncan realized with a frown, it also meant that Methos intended to sleep on the couch, not in his bed. Duncan couldn't help but mourn the loss of that part of their relationship, but he was willing to take whatever Methos was willing to give. And just knowing that Methos was back in Paris was enough to make Duncan feel better than he had in a very long time.

After a quick shower and a small breakfast, Duncan called a local moving company. He had a few things to get out of storage. Not everything; he couldn't go back to his life pre-Ahriman. But looking around the barge, he had to agree with Methos -- the place could stand a few more pieces of furniture. Then maybe, if he were lucky, he could find a place for Methos, too.

By dinner time, Duncan had finished his redecorating project and was considering dropping by Joe's to see if he'd find Methos camped on a barstool. But the sudden warning presence of another Immortal, and appearance of Amanda bearing gifts and a seductive smile delayed his plans.

"Joe!" Methos called when he walked into Le Blues Bar just after the small Thursday night dinner crowd had thinned out.

"Hey, Adam," Joe greeted him in front of the other bartender and few patrons. "Beer?" At Methos' nod, he pulled a draught and passed it over as he scrutinized his friend. "So, how was your night?"

Methos grinned at Joe's attempt at subtlety. It had never been the Watcher's strong suit, but curiosity was his drug.

"That, my friend, is a good question." Methos took a long pull on his beer before deciding to satisfy the Watcher's curiosity. "Most of the evening was awkward. You were right though, he's different. Battle fatigue would be my guess."

"But you spent the night?"

Methos chuckled . He wasn't sure at what point Joe had moved from being shocked at the fact his two friends were lovers to being a matchmaker. "Yes, Joe," he answered with a patronizing grin. "But it wasn't like that. I've no idea where we stand. He's cagier than usual."

"As opposed to you."

Leave it to the Watcher to not let him get away with putting everything off on Duncan. "I don't know," Methos sighed in frustration and sudden annoyance at the questions. He finished off his beer and turned to look around the bar. "I don't have any expectations at this point. I can't."

"Sounds like a good philosophy to me. So why are you here instead of there?" Joe asked.

"He has company." At Joe's questioning look, Methos went on. "I was on my way over and saw Amanda heading up the gangplank."

"So…what? You're just going to defer the field?"

Methos choked and raised an eyebrow at the question. "All right, Dawson, no more historical romance novels for you."

Joe made a grunt of annoyance, but continued to wait patiently for an answer. Realizing he wasn't going to win a staring contest with the stubborn Watcher, Methos rolled his eyes and relented.

"I've got no claims on the man, Joe. In fact, you could say that Amanda has a prior claim. Besides, she's exactly what he needs right now. Much less complicated." With that, Methos decided the discussion was going to be over whether Joe liked it not. He emptied his beer and pushed the glass over for a refill. "Now, what's on the menu tonight? I'm famished."

While Joe went back in the kitchen to dig up dinner for both of them, Methos settled himself in at a comfortable table. He had plans for a long night of beer, food, and good conversation with Joe. Just like Duncan's evening with Amanda, Joe's company was much less complicated than Duncan's.

But it wasn't only that. Methos had been right when he called Joe his best friend. Over the years, he'd forgotten how nice it was to be known by people, to not have to put on a persona and hide his true identity. Sure, Joe would never really know the real Methos, the inner Methos, but accepted what he knew about Methos' past and that was enough.

As he dug into his hot reuban and fries, and chatted with Joe about his plans for a new band he'd taken an interest in helping get started, Methos thought about how nice it was to be back. To be home again. It wasn't Paris that gave him that feeling, he knew. Of all the cities in the world, Paris was not among his favorites. It was Duncan and it was Joe that gave him that sense of place, that sense of belonging. He did something that he made it a habit not to do, he counted himself lucky, and thanked whatever deities would hear for that luck.

It wasn't long, into about his fourth beer, that Joe began his favorite pasttime. Lately, he'd taken to trying to find ways to pry historical knowledge out of Methos. The most effective method the Watcher seemed to think he'd found was baiting Methos with some inaccurate fact-- dropping it into some conversation casually.

"You know, Methos, it's like Alexander and his elephants…"

"Alexander and his elephants?!" Methos was onto him, but in his current good mood, he figured he owned Joe a few bones thrown his way. "Joe, let me tell you about Alexander and his so called elephants."

And the evening went like that, Methos allowing Joe to believe he was becoming more loose-tounged with every beer he served him. He was correcting a few fallacies in the Watcher Chronicles when the pleasant evening came to abrupt halt with the arrival of Duncan and his news that Amanda had been kidnapped.

Over the next few hours, he would see the world as he knew it nearly come crashing down around him.

At the end of it, Methos stood in an old train yard and watched Duncan take Liam O'Roarke's Quickening, feeling an echo of it deep in his own bones.

"Never," Duncan muttered to Amanda when the Quickening was over. "Never again." With that, he climbed to his feet and turned to stumble out of the train yard, leaving his three closest friends in stunned silence.

Methos stared at his back, a dizzying variety of emotions at war within him. Another visitation from Duncan's past -- not a big surprise in and of itself. What surprised him -- and yeah, terrified him -- was Duncan's reaction to the threat against Joe and Amanda.

He'd simply given up. Something Methos never thought he'd ever see the Highlander do. But he had-- he'd just offered up his head to save his friends-- and that really pissed Methos off.

Snapping out of his stupor, Methos dug into his pocket and handed Amanda his car keys. She just blinked down at them in her hand, then looked up at Methos in confusion. "My car's outside. Get Joe home, make sure he's okay."

"What? Why don't…"

"Just do it, Amanda," Methos commanded, cutting off her questions, then he turned and left before she could object. He tossed the henchman's coat off as he found his own coat where he'd left it, then jogged out of the train yard, following the presence of Duncan MacLeod.

He found him leaning against his Range Rover, parked a block away. Duncan looked up when he approached, watching Methos warily. Methos held his gaze for a long moment as something passed between them, a plea and an understanding. Now was not the time to talk. Methos silently held out his hand, and Duncan handed over his own car keys.

Both men climbed into the car, Methos slamming his door. Duncan flinched at the sound, but said nothing, choosing to stare out the window instead of reacting. As Methos drove back to the barge, the sight of Duncan kneeling before O'Rourke, ready to give up his head, played over and over in his brain. The adrenaline of the rescue began to wane, leaving in its place a different set of endorphins: fear and seething anger. He gripped the steering wheel hard to keep his hands from shaking.

He could feel Duncan watching him, feel the post-Quickening energy pulsing off of him, but he couldn't look at him. He couldn't turn and see the expression he imagined: part arousal, part concern for Methos' obvious distress, and part whatever that look had been before he walked out of the train yard. It had been something akin to pain and resignation and exhaustion, with a strange light of knowledge, of acceptance of something Methos couldn't even begin to guess.

He couldn't turn and see that look, because he was afraid if he did he just might have to kill Duncan on the spot. -- or burst into tears, and that was clearly unacceptable. So he drove, and he tried his best to ignore the man sitting next to him. When he parked on the quay near the barge, Duncan got out first, heading silently up the gangplank, never looking back to be sure that Methos was coming.

Methos followed Duncan into the barge, closing the door behind him with a decisive snap. At the sound, Duncan turned around at the base of the steps and stared at Methos with that look he'd been dreading. Only this one had a layer of pleading on top of it. Methos slipped his coat off and dropped it behind him as he stepped carefully down the steps to stand in front of him.

Duncan's brow furrowed when he stopped moving forward. He'd clearly been expecting Methos' to make the first move. But he couldn't, not this time. His control was hanging by a delicate thread as it was.

"Methos," Duncan finally pleaded in a whisper and closed the space between them, his big hands coming up to grasp Methos' head before devouring his mouth.

And that was all it took to snap that fine thread.

Methos growled and pushed Duncan back away from his body, but refused to release his lips. His hands made quick work of Duncan's clothes, stripping him with no thought to grace or seduction, only expediency.

"God, Methos," Duncan groaned when Methos pulled away just long enough to pull Duncan's sweater over his head, then his own. But Methos was in no mood for talking. He repossessed Duncan's mouth and walked him back till he came up against the wall of the barge. Moving down to explore Duncan's neck, biting and sucking as he went, he undid his own belt and jeans, then pushed his body up against Duncan's, hardness to hardness.

Duncan's head snapped back, banging hollowly against the metal wall. "Methos, wait," he gasped.

"No," Methos answered simply and pulled Duncan against him, away from the wall, then just as quickly spun him around to face it. "Now, Duncan," he growled, kicking Duncan's legs apart and scraping his fingers down Duncan's back before grabbing handfuls of his ass.

"Methos," Duncan groaned again, this time more in passion than protest.

The tiny part of Methos' brain that wasn't angry, or aroused, or scared out of his mind, took a split second to be amused at the fact that Duncan's vocabulary had been reduced to only his name, but even that thought didn't intrude long. All he knew was the desperate need to connect with warm, living flesh, to sink inside this man and obliterate the image of him on his knees waiting calmly for his own death, and to punish him for doing it.

Pushing his jeans down far enough to free himself, Methos took time out only to spit into his palm and spread it on himself. He didn't have time for any kinder preparation. Spreading Duncan's cheeks with his hands, he nudged the entrance and leaned forward to whisper in Duncan's ear.

"You better relax, MacLeod. I'm not slowing down." With a quick kiss on Duncan's shoulder blade, he pushed forward and smiled when Duncan moaned and pushed back, taking all of him easily, eagerly. When he was as deep inside Duncan as he could get, he stopped, taking deep breaths to control himself. Wrapping one arm around Duncan's midsection to keep him still and keep him standing, he braced the other arm against the barge wall, his hand quickly covered with Duncan's own, entwining their fingers. Duncan tried to push back against him, to get him to move, to do something.

"Stop," Methos ordered, holding him in place. "You stupid son of a bitch," he growled, his forehead resting against the back of Duncan's head. The smell of his hair and his sweat filled Methos' lungs, but failed to calm him. "Don't EVER do that again, do you hear me? Ever. Fuck," he gasped, unable to stop the shaking in his limbs, unaware of the tears streaking down his face.

Duncan had stilled during his outburst, but now he reached up and around with his free hand to bury his fingers in Methos' hair, holding the shaking Immortal to him, his face now buried in Duncan's neck. He nodded feebly and nuzzled back against Methos.

"Never again, Methos. I swear it," he said more clearly and with more coherence than either of them had been capable of since entering the barge.

It was enough. Something broke loose inside of him, releasing the anger and desperate fear that had gripped him for the past two hours. It was all Methos had needed to hear. He took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of them both again, and then added taste, lapping at the sweat which had broken out over Duncan's body. Then he moved, one long, slow retreat and plunge that had Duncan groaning deep in his chest again. But that wasn't enough, so he moved faster and harder, taking Duncan quickly, forcefully, and as deeply as he could get. He could almost feel it inside himself, as if he were the one being penetrated, being possessed. And it was good. But it didn't last long for either of them.

Methos felt the tension building quickly, and he reached down and wrapped his hand around Duncan's penis, pulling hard twice as he drove deep into him once more and fell over the edge.

Duncan followed him willingly into the abyss. In a split second, the balance shifted, and Duncan was suddenly holding Methos up, clutching the arm that wrapped around him to keep the other man from sliding to the floor. He winced slightly from pain as he separated their connection and then turned, leaning back against the wall and wrapping his arms around Methos, who simply groaned and buried his face against Duncan's shoulder. Unable to hold them both up on shaky legs, Duncan slid down the wall to the floor, taking his lover with him to nestle between his legs. He wrapped his arms around Methos and tightened his legs to hold the older man in a full embrace, placing soft kisses on his damp hairline as he held him close.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Methos asked softly after several minutes of no sound except their heavy breathing and the brush of the Seine against the barge.

"No," he answered, nuzzling against Methos' hair. "Are you okay?"

"Aside from being mortified at that little display, you mean?"

"Yeah," Duncan laughed. "Aside from that."

"I'm fine," Methos said, pulling away to sit up and run his hands over his face and through his short hair. "Sorry about that," he muttered.

"Don't be," Duncan said simply and disentangled himself from Methos to stand up. He ruffled Methos' hair as he headed for the galley to find a towel to clean up with. When he was done with it, he tossed it to Methos, then turned to the fridge. He knew Methos well enough to know when the older Immortal needed time to pull himself together. "Get in bed. I'll find us some sustenance."

"I'm not hungry. But beer would be very welcome."

Duncan dug out the last two beers left from the previous night, marveling at the fact it had only been about twenty-four hours since he came home to find Methos lounging around and bitching about the lack of furniture. He wondered if the old man had even noticed the new presence of a couch, end table, and desk. Probably not. It just wasn't important anymore.

He popped the tops off the beers and walked up behind Methos, who was now fully undressed, but was staring out one of the bedroom portholes at the water. Reaching over Methos' shoulder to hand him his beer, Duncan moved up close behind him, but resisted touching him. He was unsure what mood the mercurial man had moved on to since his earlier anger and fear.

Methos smiled at the appearance of the beer in front of him and took it from Duncan's hand. Taking a long drink, he leaned back into Duncan's bulk and sighed.

"Beautiful," he quipped, raising the bottle in a toast. "Thanks."

"Well, you better make it last. These are the only two left." Duncan took a drink of his own beer and wrapped an arm around Methos' waist, indulging in the feel of him. God, he'd missed this man. It occurred to him briefly that the past two years might not have been so bleak if Methos had stayed around. But he quickly brushed the thought aside, knowing somehow that what he'd been through, both the past two years and this night, were necessary.

Methos shivered against him, but this time it was obviously from the cold air of the barge, not from overwhelming emotion. Placing a kiss on his shoulder, Duncan stepped back and took Methos' hand. "Come on," he said, moving over to climb into the bed.

Methos went willingly, climbing in behind him and lounging back against the wall to take Duncan's weight as he pillowed his head on Methos' chest. They lay in silence for another long while, simply soaking up the calm, enjoying the familiar intimate presence. When Methos had finished his beer, he took Duncan's still-full bottle from him and set it on the bedside table.

"Tell me," Methos said simply, but firmly, running his hands through Duncan's short, soft hair. And Duncan understood exactly what he was asking, and he knew it was time.

So he talked.

He started out hesitantly, but grew more comfortable as he spoke, sometimes allowing tears to fall, sometime shivering with anger. Over the next two hours, he poured it all out until he grew hoarse from speaking. He told Methos everything about the battle between him and the millennial demon, including details and knowledge gained that weren't in Joe Dawson's chronicles, that he hadn't shared with anyone before now. And he spoke of the past year, of trying to put his life back together in the wake of the battle, but finding no joy or passion in living. And then he told Methos about his experience in the train yard-- his vision, hallucination, whatever it had been.

"You killed me?" Methos asked, sounding more amused than surprised. "I must have been having an off day."

"You might have beaten me if I didn't know about that extra blade you carry around."

"Damn. I'm gonna have to work on some new tricks," Methos said and quickly slapped his hand over Duncan's mouth when he opened it to speak. "Not a single word about old dogs, MacLeod, or I swear to God..." He trailed off ominously, and both men laughed.

When Duncan sighed and shifted against him, Methos spoke again. "Mac, it sounds to me like you've watched 'It's a Wonderful Life' one too many times. But," he said quickly when Duncan began to speak, "the lesson is no less authentic. Your death would not have improved anyone's life, or even protected them. I can't tell you what the world would be like if you'd never existed, but I can tell you, with a great deal of authority, what the world would be like today if you'd died last night. You would have left one hell of a black hole in your wake.

"You are important to so many people. Do you really think Joe and Amanda would have appreciated your sacrifice if they had to mourn you? Would you appreciate it if Amanda did the same?"

"Of course not, but Methos..."

"Mac, I know you feel responsible for their safety. And you wouldn't be who you are if you didn't. And I could have said this better last night, but sometimes sacrifice is not the only answer. Giving up your head like that would not have done them any kind of favor. You know what it's like to carry the death of Sean Burns and Richie Ryan. Can you force the same on them?"

"I guess I never thought of it that way," Duncan said carefully after a few seconds of silence. "But Methos, you can't expect me to just sit still and wait while someone I love is killed."

"No, I don't. And the day you do, you will no longer be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. But I'm asking you, next time slow down and listen to me. We can find other ways to solve a problem than you running off half-cocked and guilt ridden and me riding to a sloppy rescue."

Duncan snorted in laughter at the description, but he knew there was a kernel of truth to it. And Methos had said "we", which was probably the closest thing to saying that he was sticking around as Duncan was likely to get.

"Aye, and what a fine rescue it was," Duncan said in his best Scottish burr, turning around to claim Methos' mouth in a kiss. Pulling away, he looked at Methos more seriously. "Thank you."

Methos shrugged, looking decidedly uncomfortable at the sudden shift of focus from Duncan to himself. As always, it was well and good for Methos to discuss Duncan's psyche, but when the tables turned, the old man clammed up, or made a joke.

"Enjoy it while you can, MacLeod," he quipped right on schedule. "I don't do hero."

"Pity." Duncan grinned and moved to pin Methos to the bed, deciding they'd had enough serious talk for the time being. It was time to truly enjoy still having his head. He wanted to take pleasure in this man, to wallow in sex and sensuality, to thank him for the fact he was still alive. He didn't want the angry, desperate sex of earlier, though that had been a revelation in itself; he wanted life affirming, loving sex.

And that's exactly what he got. He touched and explored and worshiped Methos' body, sharing through his hands and mouth and cock what Methos couldn't hear or trust in words. Both men fell asleep sated and exhausted about the time the sun was bringing life and golden light to the river and city around them.

It was mid-day when the phone rang, jolting Duncan out of a sound sleep. Methos growled and turned over, burying himself deeper under the covers. He went on to mutter several colorful curses -- some of which Duncan couldn't translate -- when Duncan had to reach across him to grab the phone.

"Hello?" Duncan mumbled into the phone.

"MacLeod?" Amanda's bright voice on the other end brought him further awake. "Are you okay? I'm so glad you're home. Methos was so pushy last night, and I've been tied up with Joe. I've been so worried about you since last night. I mean, aside from the fact that I have a few words for you about what you did. Really, Duncan..."

"Amanda, Amanda!" Duncan tried to break the flow of words. "I'm fine. I was just sleeping."

"Oh, sorry, darling. You just scared me last night, and," she lowered her voice, "it really shook Joe up, and he didn't want to be alone."

Duncan looked over at the lump next to him in the bed and smiled fondly. He would have to do something special for his Watcher friend. He knew well that Joe preferred to be alone if he was upset. This had clearly been a scheme to keep Amanda occupied.

"I'm glad you were there to help him," he answered, playing along. She would have to be told about his relationship with Methos though, and soon. That is, he thought, if there is anything to tell.

"Well, he's doing better now, so I thought I'd come over and let you make brunch."

"I appreciate the offer Amanda, but I really am exhausted. Why don't you come for dinner? Bring Joe with you, and we'll make a party of it."

"A party, huh?" he heard her voice perk up. "As long as you're sure you're okay."

"I am," Duncan answered with a smile. "Better than I've been in quite awhile."

"Alright, then...I'll see you tonight."

Duncan said goodbye and hung up the phone, purposely leaning on Methos again.

"Amanda's a real pain in the ass," the older Immortal grumbled from somewhere within his pillow.

Duncan chuckled at the familiar early morning disposition of his lover. "Yeah, I seem to attract the type."

"I intend to ignore that poorly veiled attempt at an insult." Duncan reached over and traced a finger around Methos' ear, but his hand was batted away with a growl. "I'm not getting up yet either."

"Fine," Duncan laughed and leaned over to kiss the same ear. "Go back to sleep, I have some things to do."

Joe and Amanda showed up at the barge just after sunset, bearing desert and wine, just as Duncan finished making seafood pasta. After a quick shopping trip, he'd spent the late afternoon cooking while Methos lounged around on the couch and watched while pretending to ignore him in favor of the latest John Clancy novel.

The mood was immediately festive, perhaps because it was the first time the four of them had been together in a very long time, or perhaps because of the near miss of the night before. Whatever the reason, there seemed to be an unspoken pact not to bring up O'Rourke, or the events he'd set in motion.

Dinner and two bottles of wine were accompanied by laughter, reminiscence, and a healthy dose of bickering between Amanda and Methos. It wasn't until the wine was gone and they all began to drift away from the table that the mood turned more somber, more expectant. Duncan had brought his friends together for a reason, and it was clear that they knew it.

It was Methos who brought out the champagne Duncan had put aside to chill earlier, and as he opened it, Duncan did something he'd been meaning to do for a while. He thanked Methos for teaching him about change and acceptance. As usual, it was difficult to tell how the old man took the gesture, but Duncan felt better for having said it.

When the champagne was opened and poured, Duncan held up his own glass and looked around at his friends. Amanda, who had been the one constant in most of his last four-hundred years, and who had taught him about beauty and passion and fun. Joe, who'd known him before they'd ever met and taught him lessons in loyalty. And Methos. His newest, and at times, most difficult, friend -- and much more. He was comforted in the knowledge that sometimes the most difficult things could be the most rewarding.

"I was reminded last night of an old adage from a movie. 'No man is a failure who has friends.'" Duncan looked down at his glass, unable to look these three people in the eye as he said what he needed to say. "Whether it's true, or not, I feel like I've made a lot of mistakes in the past few years, and those are my failures to bear. But the fact that the three of you are still here leads me to believe that I've done something right. I..." Duncan paused and looked up. "I wouldn't be here if not for each of you."

The toast was well received, prompting Joe to reciprocate. It didn't take long for the group to split off, Duncan taking the time to talk to Amanda and Joe separately, to say the other words he needed to say. While he was talking to Amanda, Methos slipped outside, but he didn't take his coat and his presence never faded. When Duncan had a chance, he went in search of him.

"Hey," Duncan said, finding Methos on the deck, leaning against the roof and watching the lights of Notre Dame. The night was warmer than it had been, as spring was beginning to set in, but Methos had his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked into his sleeves, conserving heat.

"Hey. Party breaking up?"

"Amanda is regaling Joe with tales of a Turkish harem."

Methos just raised his eyebrow and grinned at Duncan.

"What are you doing out here?" Duncan asked, settling back against the barge next to Methos.

A moment of silence as Methos considered his answer. "Meditating on your question."

"What question was that?"

"Your need for a definition."

"What?" Duncan asked, still not understanding the conversation. He thought back over the past few days for a reference until he found it. "Oh, you mean for our relationship? Don't worry about it. I'll survive without one."

"Good thing, as I don't have one."

"Drives you nuts, doesn't it?" Duncan grinned at the tone of annoyance in Methos' voice and the tension gathering in his body. "Not having all the answers."

"I should be able to walk away, MacLeod. This goes against every survival instinct I have."

"Yeah, well being with you isn't exactly a walk in the park, either." Duncan refused to get morose. Not tonight, not when he'd begun to find some balance within himself again. Methos huffed a short laugh and fell silent again, but his body slid into a more relaxed slump. The sound of water, traffic along the river, and Joe's laughter inside the barge was more companionable, and less expectant, than the quiet had been before.

"You know your Bible, MacLeod?" Methos asked suddenly, watching the shifting lights reflected on the river.

"Uh...sure."

"And it came to pass," Methos quoted in a soft voice that floated out over the Seine, "that the soul of Jonathon was knit with the soul of David."

It took Duncan only a moment to recognize the quote, and his memory supplied the rest. And Jonathon loved him as his own soul. He didn't finish the line aloud. Watching Methos' profile carefully, he knew that would be pushing the skittish older Immortal. Methos had, in his own way, said all that needed to be said. And it was the best definition he could imagine. He smiled and reached up to touch the back of Methos' neck softly.

"I think I can live with that." After a few more moments of comfortable silence, he spoke. "Methos, I have to leave for a while."

"I know."

"I have some ghosts I need to put to rest."

"I know."

"I won't be gone for long. Will you be here when I get back?"

Methos sighed dramatically, but Duncan was sure he saw his lips twitch in a controlled smile. "Where the hell else would I be, MacLeod?"

And that was really all that needed to be said. Some invisible line had been crossed in the last forty-eight hours. Whether it was acceptance, or simply resignation, Duncan wasn't sure. But at the moment, he didn't really care. Methos would be here, and that was enough.

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