Sacred Trust

by slang101

The simultaneous quickenings of Kronos and Silas had some bad after-effects on both Duncan and Methos. But everything goes even more down for Duncan when he took Byron's head, not only everykind of relationship with Methos seems now impossible but the highlander is haunted and rendered sick by strange dreams/memory of... Methos?

14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

"You let him go." Urquhart stared at Methos across the food-laden coffee table, his cup of tea frozen halfway to his mouth.

Joe tossed back the rest of his beer and groped in the cooler for another. Prolonged conversation with Winston Urquhart inevitably made him yearn for a drink, and this encounter promised to be a doozie. He glanced apprehensively at the stiff figure sitting on his right.

"I let him go." Methos' voice was toneless, his face like chiseled ivory. Duncan, seated at Methos' left, laid his hand on Methos' arm.

"You got a problem with that?" Richie eyed Urquhart with no small measure of protective belligerence, playing with the hilt of his sword. Methos flashed him a quick, strained smile, and Richie leaned back in his chair, muttering.

"A problem?" Urquhart's teacup crashed against its saucer as he lurched to his feet; he leaned toward Methos, infuriated and threatening. "Are you out of your mind, Pierson?"

"Sit down," ordered Joe, sensing more than seeing every member of Clan MacLeod and the Order move forward from their assigned positions in the hold, hands on weapons. "And shut up, Urquhart. You're here to listen."

"I have listened! I've listened to you tell me that that poor cripple we found in St. Julien's-"

"Unless you want this 'poor cripple' to take off one of his legs and shove it up your ass, I suggest you watch your damn mouth," snarled Joe. He saw Methos' eyes narrow dangerously, saw Duncan's mouth set in a grim line, and snorted dismissively, leaning back again, defusing the tension. Methos needed to come to an understanding with this clown, and as much as Joe would enjoy seeing a can of Immortal whup-ass opened up on Lord Haw-Haw, it was probably more trouble than it was worth.

Urquhart had the grace to flush and clear his throat as he eased himself back into his seat. "Dawson. No offense intended. It's just that...good God, man. We're talking about Lucius Germanicus. The Immortal that's put the wind up every Watcher since 496 AD. And you're trying to tell me that he was...well, helpless."

"Events would indicate otherwise," returned Methos coldly.

"But he didn't... I mean to say, he couldn't-"

"Deal with it, Urquhart. The man your recovery team took from St Julien's is Lucius. And I want the body."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I won't have it stuffed and mounted in the Director's Gallery like some goddamned trophy!" Methos spat out the words.

Urquhart went a florid shade of magenta. "We're not barbarians, Pierson!"

"Events would indicate otherwise," muttered Jochen, deliberately audible.

"Jochen," said Joanna sharply over her shoulder. "Silence."

Methos continued as if neither had spoken. "I want the body. I want the rest of Sebastian's journal. And I want the Council's assurance that no measures will be taken against Joe."

Urquhart snorted. "And what exactly do you offer them in return?"

"Me," said Methos quietly. "Tell them they get me."

"Jesus H. Christ," exploded Joe. He should have seen this coming a mile off.

Methos laid a reassuring hand on Joe's arm. "Congratulations, Urquhart. You're the Watcher who found Methos. Take a bow. Update my file. You want the complete Methos chronicle? You've got it."

"Everything?" Urquhart's eyes lit up; in any other circumstances Joe would have laughed out loud. "No omissions?"

Methos smiled grimly. "If you're sure that's what you want."

Urquhart studied him for a moment, regaining his composure. "It's not enough," he said finally.

"Not enough?" Methos leaned forward angrily. "You've been trying to piece together Methos' history for centuries. I'm prepared to hand it to you, signed, sealed and delivered."

"And all you want in return is the journal of the Ancient at the Gate, and the Council to ignore the fact that Joe Dawson has violated his oath yet again," snapped Urquhart.

"I wouldn't bring up the Oath, if I were you. MacLeod and I didn't exactly pop out of thin air at St. Julien's this morning."

Urquhart huffed, but looked distinctly uncomfortable. "That's a far cry from concealing the whereabouts of Methos."

"I wonder if a tribunal would see it that way. What do you think, Joe?"

Joe gave Methos his dirtiest look, but he was unable to resist yanking Urquhart's chain. "I think they'd take his ass out back and blow his ugly head off," he said cheerfully.

"So do I." Methos opened a beer, sending the cap flying skillfully into Urquhart's lap.

Urquhart brushed the cap out of his lap impatiently. "Damn it, what was I supposed to do? Risk the entire city of Paris?" He barked out the words defensively, fidgeting in his chair.

Methos shrugged and took a prolonged swallow. "Not for me to say. I'm just a simple Immortal, going about my business of bloodshed and mayhem. The complexities of Watcher politics are far beyond my limited comprehension."

Urquhart glared at Methos, his face a mask of seething frustration, as a ripple of muffled laughter swept around the room. "You'll give us your chronicle?"

"Yes."

"You'll answer any questions we have? You'll explain this quickening on Holy Ground?"

"You're welcome to my theories on the subject."

"I don't like this, Methos." Duncan's voice was grim.

"I hate it," snapped Joe. "If Watcher security is compromised again, if another hunter ever gains access to those records-"

"One disaster at a time, guys." Methos leaned back in his seat, his exhaustion apparent to even a casual observer.

"Do not do this for me." Joe caught Methos' eye and held it. "I'll take my chances with the Council."

"The hell you will." Methos' voice was mild, but his eyes were steel.

"You don't have anything to say about it, Pierson," put in Urquhart in an annoyed tone. "The Council will handle this. If they think the offense warrants a tribunal-"

"You will tell the Council," said Methos in a voice that made Joe's small hairs rise, "that if any Watcher harms Joe Dawson, they will be longing for the good old days of Lucius Germanicus before the week is out."

"Just ... just calm down, Pierson," stammered Urquhart, clearly taken aback.

"And I will start with you."

"Methos," murmured Duncan, as Urquhart visibly recoiled. "He's not our enemy."

"Do you understand me?" continued Methos coldly.

"Adam," breathed Joe, recognizing the feral gleam in Methos' eyes. "Easy."

"I understand you," squeaked Urquhart.

"The body, the journal, and the promise."

"They won't give up the journal." Urquhart managed to steady his voice.

"Do they have someone else in Research who can read a dozen extinct languages?"

Urquhart uttered something like a gulp. "You'll provide us with a translation?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell them that. They'll also want a description of this Nathan of Mainz."

Methos laughed unpleasantly. "I don't think so."

Urquhart clutched the arms of his chair with a determined expression. "Are you insane, Pierson? This is the man who actually-"

"I know what he did." Methos' voice was harsh.

"He's a danger to every Watcher on the planet, including you."

"No. He isn't."

"Oh, and you can guarantee that, can you? His promise to be a good boy is enough for you, I suppose. Well, when the first dead Watcher turns up-"

"There won't be any more dead Watchers, Urquhart," said Joanna quietly. "Not courtesy of Nathan of Mainz, at any rate. It's over."

Jochen muttered something under his breath.

"I said silence." Joanna's voice was glacial; Jochen subsided with a resentful expression.

Urquhart leaned forward, clearly agitated. "I don't think you appreciate what this monster is capable of, Pierson, and you should. You're a Watcher, for God's sake. You've seen Gabriel's platters."

"Shut up, Urquhart," snapped Joe, horrified for the man beside him.

"I've seen a good deal more than that," said Methos in a voice that made Joe's stomach turn over. "I'm Stephanos."

Urquhart stared at him blankly. "Stephanos."

"If you want to find Nathan, you'll do it without me. The last time I set up one of my own, your predecessor chopped his head off."

"You're Stephanos."

"The body, the journal, and the promise, Urquhart. I want them delivered here by sunset. That's all I have to say." Methos rose, stalked up the steps and out the door.

"Joanna. You're a goddess."

Amanda started back to awareness, then looked on in something close to fearful awe as Richie pounced on yet another bag stuffed with hamburgers. She inched away from the frightful spectacle, making quite certain that all her appendages were well away from the grasping fingers and gaping maw.

Joanna shot Richie a wry glance, sitting beside him on their perch on the pilot house roof. "Not recently."

Richie looked up, startled, his mouth already full of hamburger. "Oh," he mumbled around his food. "I get it. This is one of those ancient Immortal jokes, right? Ha ha ha." He shoved more hamburger into his mouth, glaring. "His lordship going to be okay?"

Richie jerked his head in the direction of the bow, where Methos stood, staring up at the Petit Pont a few yards off the bow. Raphael sat a few feet away, ostensibly polishing his sword, his keen gaze never straying from Methos for more than a few seconds at a time.

"He has endured far worse and survived." Joanna smacked Richie's hand away and snatched a hamburger from the bag. "I believe he will be all right in time."

Amanda snorted as she dangled her legs over the edge of the roof and helped herself to a beer. "Of course he will. And he'll be in trouble again before I have time to buy new shoes. To say nothing of my f-"

"Full-length leather coat," finished Joanna through a mouthful of hamburger. "You'd look better in vinyl."

Amanda narrowed her eyes to slits. "How old did you say you were, sweetie? And why did you send the Irregulars away? We might need them. I wouldn't trust Urquhart as far as I could throw him."

Richie rolled his eyes. "Come on, Amanda. He isn't going to call out the troops."

"I don't think so either. But if he should, we will have plenty of warning." Joanna fished a beer from the cooler.

Amanda stared at her. "We will?"

"At any rate, it was a show of good faith. Raphael and I will stay here," continued Joanna as if Amanda hadn't spoken. "Everyone else will find accommodations nearby until this business with the Watchers is resolved."

"And then?" Richie leaned forward to grab another burger.

Joanna sighed. "Then...I don't know. I haven't had time to think that far ahead. I need to speak to Duncan and Methos." She turned to watch Duncan, who was talking to Urquhart as he climbed into his car.

"What is it with those two?" demanded Richie, lowering his voice and pausing in the act of shoveling another burger into his mouth.

"What is what with those two?" Amanda turned to scowl at him, daring him to actually come out and say it.

Richie flushed and gestured toward Methos with his hamburger. "That. You know. Come on, you must have noticed. I mean, making up is good. I'm all for making up. But...well, they've been..."

"Making out?" suggested Joanna airily.

Amanda choked, sending beer spraying over the remains of the late lamented full-length leather coat. "It's a phase," she snapped. "I give it a week. Maybe two."

"I think they make a beautiful couple, don't you, Richie?" Joanna sipped her beer serenely.

The remains of Richie's hamburger dropped uneaten from his fingers as he stared at Joanna, the very picture of aghast dismay.

"That's it." Amanda swung herself off the roof and to the deck. "I am out of here."

"Was it something I said?" called Joanna with sickening innocence.

"Prehistoric bitch," snapped Amanda, deliberately audible. She stormed toward the bow, her mood not in the least sweetened by Joanna's satisfied cackle. Methos was still standing there, obviously lost in thought, or whatever passed for thought in a being with dangly bits; she heard Urquhart's car start, and glancing over her shoulder, saw Duncan making his way up the gangplank.

A beautiful couple. Well, she'd just see about that. It occurred to her that the last few days had not been in the least bit fun. It also occurred to her that Mr. I-Am-Oh-So-Ancient-and-Wise had taken off for the church without her, despite explicit instructions to the contrary, and that Duncan had been taking a walk on the wild side without sharing; these offenses were not, repeat not, going to pass without retribution. "Methos."

Methos started and turned toward her. "Amanda?"

Amanda had long been of the opinion that conversation was pretty much a waste of time in ninety-nine percent of given situations. She seized Methos by the back of the neck, hauled him close, and kissed him deeply, curling her right leg around him, forcing him to bend over her as he struggled for balance. She felt the proverbial thrill of victory as Methos' arms went around her, as his mouth moved against hers-and as Duncan's footsteps approached the bow.

"Amanda."

Amanda lavished her attentions on Methos' lovely mouth for a few more well-calculated seconds, then released him, satisfied with the slightly stunned expression on the man's face. She turned to face the boy scout. "Duncan." Direct hit. Furious. He was absolutely furious. Amanda adjusted her clothing and smoothed her hair, enormously pleased.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Duncan was glowering.

"She thought she was kissing me," replied Methos mildly.

"Is something wrong?" Amanda widened her eyes to appropriately innocent proportions.

"I thought she was kissing me, too," added Methos helpfully. "What did you think she was doing, Mac?"

Duncan's eyes narrowed.

"Well, I'm off," announced Amanda cheerfully. "You boys have fun."

"Thank you, Amanda." Methos' voice was suddenly serious, and Amanda turned to him in surprise. Damn, he was serious. Methos lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gravely. "For everything."

Well, damn it to hell, what was she supposed to do now? "No problem," Amanda managed in as light a tone as possible, given the genuinely grateful look the decrepit pain in the ass was giving her. "Anytime." She turned away hastily, only to find the same look on Duncan's face. Oh, hell. They were going to be no fun at all like this. "I'll see you later." She brushed up against Duncan provocatively as she passed. "And if you ever feel up to handling both of us, MacLeod-"

"Amanda," muttered Duncan with a scandalized expression, flushing a brilliant magenta. Methos began chuckling softly.

"-you just let me know. Because you can always use the exercise." Satisfied with the glazed look in Duncan's eyes, Amanda strutted down the length of the deck, congratulating herself thoroughly. A groan from atop the pilot house made her look up in time to see Richie pinch his eyes shut and grope blindly in the cooler for a beer; Joanna looked on in obvious amusement.

"Aw, hell," groaned Richie, turning his back to the bow and flipping the top off his beer. "Now look at 'em."

Amanda turned to see Duncan and Methos wrapped around each other, mouths pressed together tightly enough to be hermetically sealed.

"He told us he wasn't throbbing, you know," mumbled Richie into his beer. "He said it in no uncertain terms, 'I am not throbbing.' I mean, you can't get much clearer than that, right? 'I am not throbbing' should mean 'I am not throbbing.' And goddamn if he isn't over there throbbing all over the goddamn place."

"Throbbing is bigger than all of us, Rich," said Joanna gravely.

Amanda snorted as she watched the two idiots on the bow, making out like a couple of mortal teenagers. Well, okay. Maybe it would last longer than a couple weeks. Maybe a month. Maybe. In any case, she for one would be very happy when things got back to normal around here. "I'm going for a little spin in my new Rolls," she announced, turning toward the gangplank. "And to buy myself a new coat."

"Could I have the old one?" asked Joanna in a polite tone that set off Amanda's warning bells; she paused at the top of the gangplank.

"What for?" she asked in a deadly tone.

"I have a scarecrow in my turnip field back home that would look just darling in that coat."

Amanda grit her teeth and stalked down the gangplank. "The only scarecrow from your neighborhood is in Paris, wearing out her welcome. Give me a call when you need a ride to the airport, won't you, sweetie?"

"Certainly," Joanna called after. "And when you're in need of a pall bearer, I'm at your service."

"Likewise," snapped Amanda as she stalked down the gangplank to the sound of Joanna's laughter.

"How long was I asleep?" Joe pinched his eyes shut and clutched the sofa cushion beneath him.

"Just a couple hours. Almost done. You've got some nasty inflammation here." Methos' voice was quiet.

Joe grit his teeth as Methos gently applied the ointment to his legs. "Should have gotten those damn things off hours ago."

"Days ago." Methos voice grew even quieter.

"Could have belted Nathan over the head with 'em, I guess."

Methos snorted. "What, and miss the chance to play 'High Noon' with Urquhart?"

"Look who's talking. What did you think he was going to do, haul off and shoot me in front of you?" Joe sighed in relief as Methos lowered his legs to the sofa.

"I'm not taking any chances. The last time a regional coordinator started throwing the word 'tribunal' around, you wound up with a gun to the back of your head."

Joe grunted in surprise as Methos began massaging his left leg. "He wasn't too happy with you either, pal. Oh, damn, that feels good."

"Winston Urquhart is never happy with anybody." Joe could hear the relief in Methos' voice. "It's against his religion."

"No kidding." Joe relaxed as the taut muscles began to give way under Methos surprisingly skillful hands.

"Do you think they'll agree?" asked Methos finally.

Joe sighed. "Yeah. They'll do it. How could they resist having Methos under their thumb?"

Methos shot him a wry glance and said nothing.

Joe hesitated, then took another shot. "Don't do it, Adam. Please. All it would take is one accident, one weak link at Headquarters, one lucky hunter, and your cover would be blown forever. Methos would have a name, and a face, and every goddamned bastard playing the Game would be on your trail. It's not worth it."

"Trust me, Joe," said Methos quietly. "You're worth it."

"God," muttered Joe, blinking hard. "You are such a pain in my ass."

"Yeah, well. Everybody needs a hobby."

"If I buy you a stamp album, will you knock this shit off?"

"We need leverage to ensure your survival, and I'm all we've got at the moment."

"Why are you so damn sure they'd come for me? They've got bigger fish to fry right now."

Methos shot him an inquisitive look. "Such as?"

"Such as finding some poor schmuck to take the fall for Shapiro going off the deep end, for starters."

Methos grimaced dismissively. "That won't take long. You let me hide right under their noses, Joe. They're not going to let that blow to their pride pass unless they have something to gain by it."

"That's what MacLeod said," growled Joe, realizing they were right and hating it. "You've been hanging out with that guy too long, pal."

Methos uttered a funny little laugh and avoided Joe's gaze. "Yeah. I'm past hope, Joe. The exposure has been well into the toxic range for years, and the contamination is irreversible."

Joe snorted. "You're telling me." He paused for a moment. "Think Urquhart will find Nathan?"

"Not without a description."

"Which you won't give him."

"Not a chance in hell." Methos' voice lowered in grim determination.

Joe thought about that for a minute. "Why?" he asked finally, opening his eyes.

Methos met his gaze gravely. "Why did I let him go?"

"Yeah." Joe saw Methos hesitate. "Look, if I'm out of line, just tell me to shut up."

"Out of line?" Methos' eyes widened. "The man nearly killed you." Methos stared at him for a moment, his hands carefully kneading the spasms from Joe's leg. "You're not angry."

Joe shrugged. Of all the reactions that had cascaded through him since Methos had told the son of a bitch to get lost, anger had yet to make an appearance. "It was your call."

"And if I'm wrong? If he comes looking for you?"

Joe snorted. "With you around? His head would be in the Director's Gallery by sundown."

"Yes," said Methos tautly. "It would."

Joe swallowed and forged ahead. "For what it's worth, I think you're right. He'll keep his oath."

Methos regarded Joe with steady wonder for a few seconds.

"What?" demanded Joe, unnerved by the scrutiny.

"Nothing. I'll tell you why if you like. But I'm not sure it will make any sense to you."

"Knowing you, probably not. But I'm listening."

Methos seemed lost for a moment, then started speaking in a low, tense voice, his hands continuing to move soothingly across Joe's fiercely aching muscles. "When you're a slave, your survival depends completely upon your ability to please your master. It becomes the most important aspect of your life. It consumes you. Before you're even aware that it's happening, you find yourself seeing the world as he does, treating the world as he does. You become what enslaved you."

Joe felt a chill travel up his spine. "You were a slave."

"I spent a good quarter of my life as a slave."

"Jesus."

"I've had kind masters and cruel ones. Sane and mad. But the last man who bought me was different. He was Immortal. He was mad, cruel and brilliant. And vengeance was what he lived for."

"Kronos," said Joe softly.

Methos nodded, his face noticeably paler. "He bought me in some mud hole trading town in Syria. He liked my fair skin."

Joe's eyes pinched shut again. Christ. Oh, Christ.

"I learned pretty quickly that Kronos' slaves didn't last very long, especially not his bed slaves. I probably wouldn't have survived if I hadn't been Immortal. That fascinated him, too-how much punishment I could take during sex. But even that started to bore him, and I realized that the only way to ensure my survival was to please him in other ways. I started letting it be known that I'd been a warrior, that I could read, that I'd studied military strategy, battle tactics. He was amused, at first. But eventually, he began to take what I said seriously. He tried my tactics and they worked. Eventually he allowed me to ride with him and Silas and Caspian."

"As a slave."

"At first. It took me a while to prove myself; he didn't free me for another decade. But by then I didn't want to be free of him. I liked what I was doing, and he knew it. I liked to kill. I lived for the thrill of the plan, the attack, the slaughter, the taking of slaves-it pleased Kronos. I forgot who I'd been. I forgot there was any other way to see the world. I forgot everything except pleasing Kronos. I became what had enslaved me." Methos was barely audible.

Joe kept his eyes shut, and his mouth. He didn't trust his voice. God, it was a good thing for Kronos that MacLeod had whacked him. He wouldn't have gotten off half as easy if Joe had gotten his hands on him first.

"I couldn't kill him, Joe," muttered Methos finally, moving to Joe's other leg.

"Kronos?" whispered Joe, opening his eyes. "Or Nathan?"

Methos turned to him, his face drawn in anguish. "Neither. What difference is there between any of us?"

"Kronos chose to do what he did."

"So did I. I chose, Joe. Don't for one minute think I didn't. I was every bit the monster MacLeod thought I was. Part of me still is."

"There is no part of you that's a monster, Adam." Joe couldn't keep the ferocity out of his voice for the life of him. "And whether or not you had any other options is open to debate."

Methos gave him an odd, crooked little smile. "Care to debate Nathan's options?"

Joe sighed. "No. I understand what you're saying. I do."

"I know," murmured Methos. He was silent for a moment. "Joe."

"Yes?"

"You do realize we've been speaking Latin, don't you?"

Joe stared at him blankly. "Excuse me?"

"Latin," repeated Methos gently, meeting his gaze. "We're speaking Latin."

Joe blinked, trying to focus on Methos' words; they faded into meaningless sound the instant he brought his conscious thought to bear, but he recognized Latin when he heard it. "Holy shit," he muttered. "What the hell?"

"Don't worry about it, Joe." Methos spoke in English, smiling.

"Easy for you to say," growled Joe, thoroughly unnerved. "You're not the one speaking in tongues."

"It's early days yet," returned Methos wryly. "I think you ought to plan on spending a few days here."

Joe cleared his throat. "Appreciate the invitation, but I think I'd better give you guys some privacy."

Methos shot him a puzzled look, then averted his gaze again. "Oh."

A short, awkward silence fell, and Joe waited, knowing what was coming.

"I'm in love with him, Joe," said Methos quietly, studying his hands.

"Yeah, I know," returned Joe gently, amused to see the astonishment in Methos' face as he raised his eyes to Joe's. "Should've known sooner. You two have only been dancing around each other like a couple of junior high kids with crushes since the first time you laid eyes on each other."

Methos snorted, regarding Joe with an apprehensive expression. "You okay with this?"

Joe found himself smiling. "You asking for my blessing?"

Methos glared. "What if I was?"

"I'd give it to you. But your taste sucks, pal." Joe let his smile broaden to a grin.

"Tell me about it," said Methos drily, but his relief was palpable.

"Think you'd snap out of it if I hit you over the head?"

"Unlikely. Thanks for the offer, though."

"No problem. Anything I can do to help."

Methos smiled. "Stay," he said gently. "That would help."

Joe let his eyes close. God, all he wanted to do was say yes. He wanted to lie on this couch for the next month and sleep, privacy be damned. "Let's see how Mac feels about it. Hell, everybody else has cleared out."

"Joanna and Raph are still up on deck. So is Richie."

Joe chuckled, not really surprised. "Guard duty."

"Joanna sent the rest of the Order into town, but she wants to keep an eye on us until this business with the Watchers is resolved."

"Like father, like daughter."

Methos chuckled ruefully. "You aren't the first to notice." He carefully released Joe's leg and covered him with a blanket. "Any better?"

"Yeah," murmured Joe gratefully. "Thanks, Doc."

Methos shot him a surprised grin.

"How's the patient?"

Joe started at the sound of Duncan's voice; he hadn't even heard him enter the hold. God, he must be even more tired than he realized. "I'll live," he said wryly, opening his eyes. "Everything quiet up there?"

Duncan snorted and fell into a chair. "Not exactly."

"Trouble?" asked Methos sharply.

"That depends on your definition of trouble. Your daughter and my son are sitting on top of the pilot house, drinking your case of beer and making crank phone calls to Watcher headquarters." Duncan propped his feet up on the coffee table with a resigned expression.

Joe cackled appreciatively. "Tell 'em to come down here, I want to hear this."

"Bloody hell," muttered Methos, rising. "That's all we need."

"What? Let 'em have their fun," protested Joe.

"They can have all the fun they want, but I'll be damned if they're drinking all my beer while they do it," snapped Methos, striding toward the door.

Joe watched as Duncan caught Methos by the hand. "Kids will be kids," he said softly, raising Methos' hand to his lips. Methos flushed slightly, touched Duncan's cheek, and turned toward the door, muttering under his breath. Duncan turned back toward Joe, still smiling, then looked uncomfortable and shifted his gaze as Joe stared back at him with narrowing eyes. Oh, yeah. It was woodshed time.

Joe waited until Methos was through the door before he spoke. "You and me are going to have a little talk, pal."

Duncan met his eyes again, startled. "About?"

"I've spent half my life studying you, and that includes your love life."

Duncan reddened. "Hold on a minute, Joe."

"And if there had been any hint of you swinging that way, I would have found it."

"Just because-"

"So help me God, if you are screwing around here, if you are messing with his head-"

"What?"

"-I will personally kick your sorry ass all the way back to Glenfinnan. Watch me."

"I love him, Joe."

Joe studied Duncan's flushed, indignant face carefully for a moment. "We all love him."

"I am in love with him," continued Duncan with a sort of dogged specificity, as if determined to make himself perfectly clear for all time. "And just because you don't know every detail of my private life-"

"Okay, okay."

"The hell it is!"

"Look, MacLeod, you don't exactly have a track record to be proud of when it comes to Adam," snapped Joe. "If you think I'm going to stand by and watch you rip him up again, you've got another think coming."

Duncan's flush deepened; he dropped his eyes. "Right," he muttered. "So you've got a problem with this."

"I've got no problem with it at all," retorted Joe. "Just treat him right, MacLeod. You treat him right and we're good."

Duncan looked up again; Joe was relieved to see him smiling, albeit ruefully. "That's what I want to do, Joe. That's all I want to do."

"Then we're good." Joe settled back against his pillows, satisfied.

"First time I've had to declare my intentions in a few centuries." Duncan's smile deepened with mischief.

Joe swore under his breath. "You're a world-class pain in the ass, MacLeod," he growled, closing his eyes as he failed, miserably, to keep a smile off his face. "Shut up and let me get some sleep." Duncan chuckled, and it occurred to Joe that the man sounded almost as tired as Joe felt. "You should crash, too," he managed to mumble.

"Yeah. I will." Duncan's voice was gentle. "Sleep, Joseph."

Joe sighed and drifted off, unable to fight his exhaustion any longer.

"I don't care how good your Kalas impression is, and I care even less whose turn it is to do Cleopatra."

Half asleep and eyes closed, Duncan smiled at the barely concealed laughter in Methos' irritable tone. The man's acerbic veneer was completely transparent to him now; he wondered how he had ever been fooled by it.

"No," growled Methos in increasing exasperation; Duncan could hear him approaching the hold door. "I will not do Attila the Hun or anyone else. Leave the Watchers alone. Raph, take the phone away from Joanna, she's had too much beer." He paused on the threshold, evidently listening to the ensuing complaints.

"Don't whine! If you can't take care of your pets properly, then you don't deserve to have them."

Duncan chuckled and opened his eyes, only to see Methos stumble over the threshold of the deck door and brace himself against the wall, cursing under his breath. "Methos?" Duncan sprang out of his chair, surprised at the weakness in his legs, and steadied him with a hand on his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Shhh." Methos shot Duncan a reassuring glance as he leaned against him. "Don't wake Joe."

Duncan glanced at Joe, still sound asleep on the sofa. "He's fine. Methos-"

"I'm just tired." Methos' knees buckled and he laughed weakly. "Very tired."

Duncan swung the man determinedly into his arms and carried him to the bed, ignoring Methos' indignant expression.

"MacLeod," Methos hissed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Taking you to bed," whispered Duncan teasingly in his ear, enjoying the sensation of Methos' weight in his arms in spite of himself. "So that I can have my wicked way with you."

Methos' ashen face softened into affectionate amusement; he managed a weak smile. "Spare my honor, vile seducer," he murmured. The smile didn't conceal the dark circles under his eyes, or the convulsive trembling in his muscles. He felt to Duncan like a horse that had been run to complete exhaustion, run past what anyone could reasonably expect any creature to endure.

"Never. Your fate is sealed." Duncan set his friend gently on the bed, noting in increasing concern that Methos could barely sit up. He was still wearing the bloodstained sweatshirt Duncan had given him that morning. "Take that shirt off." He strode in to the bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water, then hurried back, only to find Methos exactly where he had found him, staring into space with such profound grief in his face that Duncan had to fight to keep his composure. "Lift your arms," he whispered around a tightening throat. He knelt in front of his friend.

Methos blinked, his expression returning to simple exhaustion, and obeyed him wordlessly. Duncan slipped the sweatshirt over his head, noting in dismay how very far the light in Methos' eyes had to travel before it met his gaze. The man was in some kind of shock, and no bloody wonder. Duncan gently wiped the blood from Methos' shoulder and chest with shaking hands. Damn. How had Methos kept going? Negotiating with Urquhart, then dealing with Amanda's nonsense and Joe's injuries. Duncan cursed himself for ten kinds of a fool. He should have handled all of that himself. He should have put this extraordinarily brave, impossibly stubborn man to bed hours ago. Duncan started out of his thoughts as two long, strong hands curled around his face.

"I'll be fine," said Methos unsteadily. "It's just starting to catch up with me."

Duncan dropped the washcloth to the rug, took Methos' hands in his own and kissed them impulsively. "I know. You need to rest now."

Methos nodded as Duncan drew back the covers on the bed. "So do you."

Duncan sighed and helped Methos crawl under the covers, then let Methos draw him in beside him. The temptation was too much to resist-a comfortable bed and a beautiful bedmate-and he acquiesced despite his better judgment. Raphael could keep an eye on things for a little while, no matter what mischief the children got up to. He curled himself around Methos gently and closed his eyes; silence reigned for a few seconds.

"Mac." It was no more than a whisper.

Duncan kissed Methos' temple tenderly. "Kinsman."

Methos drew a ragged breath. "I miss him."

Duncan took the trembling man beside him into his arms, aching. "I know."

"God, I miss him." The voice shattered and broke into hoarse, shuddering sobs, muffled between Duncan's neck and his pillow. "He was here, Duncan, right here, waiting for me, for centuries. And I never came. God, I never came. He died waiting for me."

Duncan opened his eyes, breathing hard against the pressure in his chest, but his vision was blurred. "And I came too late to save him."

Methos groaned and wrapped his arms around Duncan, his sobs giving way to painful, convulsive breaths. "Duncan, no. Don't."

"I miss him, too," rasped Duncan, feeling the hot sting of tears as they hit his cheek. He closed his eyes again, too weary to wipe them away.

"I know," breathed Methos unevenly. "I know you do."

"O consolator dolentis animæ, eleyson· ."

"What?" Methos' voice was soft, but he had stiffened slightly.

"I love you," repeated Duncan, wondering dimly why Methos sounded so startled.

"Ah," whispered Methos tenderly, after a heartbeat's hesitation. He relaxed against Duncan. "I love you, too, kinsman."

Methos descended the gangplank and came to a halt on the shore, watching silently as the van came to a halt beside Urquhart's sedan. The dim illumination of the streetlights turned the evening river mist to a silver curtain, softening the edges of men and machines, but the edge didn't fail to cut Methos. He knew what was inside the van.

He sensed rather than saw Raphael, Joanna and Richie taking up positions behind him, and restrained a sigh, thankful that Duncan and Joe were still asleep. These three were all the protection he could handle at the moment. Urquhart crossed the distance between them, carrying an archival box across the cobblestones as if it contained the crown jewels.

"The Council have agreed to your terms." Urquhart offered him the box.

"No tribunal." Methos kept his hands in the coat Joanna had brought him from his apartment, grateful for the opportunity to hide their shaking.

"They are prepared to ignore Dawson's involvement in this business." Urquhart hesitated. "Pierson. Dawson got lucky this time. If he continues to fraternize-"

"He will. And the Council are going to have to learn to live with it, Urquhart. You might want to remind them that if it hadn't been for Joe Dawson's 'fraternization,' the Watchers would either have been destroyed quickly by Kalas, or slowly by Lucius. That's twice in three years that Joe's friendship with Immortals has saved their hides. Maybe it's time they give that fact due consideration."

Urquhart surprised him with a small smile. "You really are a unbridled idealist, aren't you?"

Methos barked a laugh, genuinely taken aback. "A what?"

"I was at Dawson's tribunal when you spoke, you know. Let friendship thrive. Good Lord, Pierson."

Methos lifted his chin and took a good, long look down his nose at the man standing before him. "You have a problem with friendship, Urquhart?"

"Don't be an ass. You were tilting at windmills, and you knew it. You wanted to reform the Watchers-probably the most hidebound organization on the planet-and I think you still do."

Methos gave Urquhart his most enigmatic smile, increasingly uncomfortable. Was that what he was trying to do? Good God, he hoped not; that would indicate levels of MacLeod contamination beyond anything he had yet imagined, levels that would inevitably lead to the horrors of moral certainty and rampaging do-goodism. "I don't do causes."

Urquhart glanced at the van. "Don't you?"

"That," said Methos coldly, "is personal." He held out his hands for the box, and Urquhart relinquished it, examining Methos' face with sharp grey eyes.

"I see."

"I'll bring you my chronicle tomorrow. Be at St. Julien's at noon."

Urquhart nodded. "May I ask what you intend to do with Lucius?"

"I intend to see that he has a Christian burial."

Urquhart's eyes widened. "A Christian burial?"

"He was Christian," replied Methos evenly. "It's what he would have wanted."

"My God, Pierson. That's obscene. Lucius was-"

"Lucius was many things. And if what you think of as 'Christian' was hacked out of him by a madman after he'd been abandoned by the Watchers he trusted, all the more reason for you to honor those beliefs now." Methos turned away, mastering his anger with difficulty.

"Pierson," said Urquhart, quiet now. "MacLeod is right, you know. I'm not your enemy."

Methos stood still, his eyes locked with Joanna's for several seconds; he saw her nod minutely. "We'll see," he said finally.

Urquhart sighed. "Tomorrow at noon, then. Oh, and Pierson. Tell whoever has been terrorizing my staff with bad impersonations of historical figures to give it a rest. We have enough to deal with."

Richie and Joanna exchanged glances and pointedly avoided Methos' stern gaze as Urquhart strode back to his car, calling to the driver of the van to join him in the sedan.

Joanna cleared her throat. "I will take Lucius to St. Julien's," she murmured as Urquhart's car pulled away. "The priest there is a friend. He will see that all is as it should be."

"I should do that." Methos wondered vaguely if he had the strength to climb the gangplank, let alone see to Lucius' final arrangements.

"No. This is my last duty to him." Joanna looked up at him, a plea for understanding written so clearly in her face that Methos found himself nodding without any further thought.

"Richie?"

"Thank you," murmured Joanna, kissing his cheek. Methos kissed her forehead gently.

"Gotcha. We'll take care of it." Richie moved to Joanna's side and gave Methos a sober look. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I will be," Methos amended wryly at the skeptical look Richie gave him. "Thanks."

"No problem." Richie slapped Methos' shoulder.

"No," said Methos quietly. "I mean, thank you."

"Oh." Richie shrugged and grinned. "Forget it. We all get decrepit and helpless eventually."

"Go away," snapped Methos, turning toward the barge and managing, just barely, to keep the smile off his face.

"I mean, I couldn't just stand there and let your sorry, shriveled-up old geezer ass get whacked, right? What kind of rep would that get me?"

Methos glanced over his shoulder at Raphael as he climbed the gangplank. "Raph, I want his head made into a chamber pot. Make the appropriate arrangements."

Raphael gave him a long-suffering look and relieved Methos of the box. "Go back to bed, my lord."

"That would be cold, man," continued Richie, raising his voice as Joanna dragged him toward the van, "Letting a bad guy hack the head off some pathetic, senile old bastard who keeps dropping his sword. And I am a warm, caring, heroic kind of guy, you know?"

"Take a good look at him, Raph," growled Methos. "And know there is a hell. Follow the paths of righteousness lest you, too, be damned for all time."

Raphael's mouth twitched. "I will bear this lesson in mind, my lord."

"What the hell is going on out here?"

Methos gasped slightly, startled as Duncan loomed suddenly out of the mist, the katana glinting in the dim light. "Mac. Don't do that."

"Sorry." Duncan peered ahead as the van's engine started. "Where are those two going?"

"They're seeing to Lucius' burial."

Duncan met Methos' gaze. "They agreed, then."

Methos nodded, suddenly wondering if he would be able to take another step.

Raphael slid past Duncan. "I will take this inside."

"Don't wake Joe," murmured Duncan, his eyes locked on Methos' face; Raphael nodded and disappeared into the fog. Duncan slipped his sword into his coat and held out his arms as Methos released a little gust of air from his tight chest and half-walked, half-staggered into them, reveling in the warmth of Duncan's body.

"Come inside where it's warm," whispered Duncan in his ear, responding to Methos' thought so perfectly that his breath caught in his throat.

"In a minute." Methos nuzzled Duncan gently and slipped past him to walk aft, not surprised in the least when Duncan followed him. He came to a halt at the tip of the bow and stared through the lit mist at the ghostly reality of the Petit Pont, which spanned the river only a few yards ahead of them in the murk of the falling evening. The bridge before them in no way resembled the one that had stood here fifteen centuries ago. That one had been taken by the Seine, God only knew when. And yet Methos could see that long-gone bridge as easily as he could see this one, if he closed his eyes; the bridge, and the two figures standing upon it. He could almost hear the howling of the army that had stood on what was now the Left Bank. He drew breath and somehow managed to speak. "Can you see the bridge, Duncan?"

Duncan came up behind him, closely, tightly, and wrapped his arms around Methos' waist. "Yes, I see it," he murmured in Methos' ear.

"No," persisted Methos unsteadily. "Can you see the bridge?"

"Yes, Methos." Duncan's voice was soft, grave; Methos knew instantly that he understood what he was being asked. "I can see the bridge." Duncan kissed Methos' cheek tenderly.

Methos closed his eyes; he had thought as much. Glimpses of intuition and memory were beginning to seep even now into his conscious mind, but he could not quite comprehend them; every time he attempted to catch hold of one, it seemed to dart out of reach. The images were less elusive. In fact, they were inescapable; ancient places long gone, both familiar and strange, and the faces of people obviously dead for millennia lunged at his mind's eye every time he drew breath. But he did not know their names. "He never stopped hoping," he whispered, knowing it was true.

"He loved you," whispered Duncan in return. "He still loves you."

"And you. But I couldn't bring myself to believe it was him."

"Of course not. It's never happened before or since, that anyone knows of."

"No. That wasn't it. That wasn't why I couldn't accept it." Methos sensed Duncan waiting; he leaned back against him, allowing himself the comfort and strength of the touch. "I hated Darius of Rome," he whispered fiercely. "I hated him with everything in me. I just couldn't...forgive."

Duncan sighed softly. "Methos. Do you really imagine I've forgiven the man who killed my father?"

Methos went very still, shocked. "My father," he faltered. "My father?" Methos wasn't conscious of the muscles in his legs failing until the moment he sagged against Duncan. Swearing softly, Duncan caught him, then eased them both downward to sit on the deck. He pulled Methos back against him, between his legs, and rested Methos' back against his chest, then curled around him protectively as Methos released a broken breath and let his head fall back onto Duncan's shoulder. "Father."

Child.

Duncan kissed his temple and tightened his arms around Methos' waist. "Yes."

Methos closed his eyes; he did nothing but breathe and accept Duncan's caresses for what seemed like a long time. With his eyes shut, the kaleidoscope of memory could shift before his mind's eye without the impediment of the present. The lure of those shifting images was more powerful than it had ever been.

"You didn't sleep very long, did you?" Duncan's voice brought him back with a jolt.

"No, not really." Methos' eyes snapped open as the realization that Duncan had been asleep for nearly ten hours swept over him. Ten hours, after yet another quickening. God, what had he been thinking? "Damn. Duncan. How bad were the dreams? Are you all right?" Methos turned his head enough to look up at Duncan, but his friend's expression revealed nothing. That more hideous events from his past would inevitably be inflicted on Duncan was enough of a burden for both of them; if this bizarre quickening made the nightmares even more vivid, then God only knew what the long-term consequences could be.

"I'm fine," Duncan said quickly, meeting his eyes with a flash of reassuring smile.

"Damn it, Duncan, tell me."

"Methos, they weren't nightmares. They were beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Methos stared up at him, entranced at the wonder in the man's face.

"Yes. Places I've never seen before, and places I've only seen in ruins. I saw the priests in procession in Karnak, Methos. It was so real I could have reached out and touched their robes. And I still see it. I see it right now." Duncan's eyes were far away now.

"I know," whispered Methos. He knew the sensation all too well: every waking moment a struggle to remain afloat on an unfathomable sea of memory; resisting weariness, the battering of wind and wave, and the inexorable enticement of the depths- to descend and never again rise to life in the here and now. He shook himself and looked up at Duncan, only to find his friend staring blankly into the fog.

"Duncan," snapped Methos in alarm; Duncan blinked and looked at him. "Don't."

"Don't?" Duncan sounded dazed.

Methos sat up and turned around, kneeling between Duncan's legs, leaning in close. "Don't let it swallow you. Stay here. Stay with me." He took Duncan's face in his hands and stared into his eyes, frightened at how very long it took Duncan to come back from wherever he had wandered.

Duncan took a deep breath. "I'm with you. How do you do this, Methos? How do you keep going?"

Methos leaned forward and kissed Duncan very gently. "We can do this," he whispered. "Both of us. Together."

Duncan broke the tension with a weak chuckle and took Methos' hands in his own. "I know. There's just ... so much of it. I've never felt like this after a quickening before. I can almost hear him talking to me. Can you hear him?"

Methos smiled, his eyes filling. "Yes. I hear him."

"He wanted us to share his quickening."

"Yes."

"He wanted to be with us."

"Yes, Duncan."

"You know what that means."

"It means a thousand things. Which one troubles you?"

Duncan sighed and closed his eyes. "You were right. He saw it all. Not just Lucius. He saw his own death. Twice."

Methos was silent for a moment as the grief in Sebastian's face rose before his inner eye. "Probably."

"And he never told anyone. He let it happen. Twice."

"Yes."

"Because he knew-"

"God only knows what he knew. But I'm certain of this much. He always had a damn good reason for everything he did, and a passion to be wherever he was needed. I don't completely understand him, Duncan, but I trust him."

"You think the nightmares are gone for good," said Duncan in the flat tone of sudden insight.

"I think Sebastian's gift will be a gift in more ways than one," said Methos quietly.

Duncan nodded silently, then pulled Methos back into his former position. Methos smiled and let his head fall back to rest on Duncan's shoulder.

"Warm enough?" Duncan caressed him gently.

"Warm enough," murmured Methos contentedly.

"I'm beginning to realize that I don't like waking up without you."

"Ah," said Methos softly, unable to resist a smile. "I imagine something could be done about that."

"Good." Duncan drew one arm around his waist, and the other tantalizingly up the inside of Methos' right thigh. Methos chuckled softly. "Don't start anything you can't finish, MacLeod."

"Who says I can't finish it?" breathed Duncan teasingly in his ear.

"Well, I've no objection," murmured Methos playfully. "Been a while since my considerable talents were on public display."

Duncan glanced about, looking puzzled. "We're alone, Methos. Alone in the dark on a foggy night."

Methos chuckled again. "Sure of that, are you?"

Duncan paused, then snorted in comprehension. "Raphael!"

No response was forthcoming; Methos couldn't help but laugh at Duncan's frustrated expression. "Raphael."

The reply was instant. "My lord?"

"Either go below, or join us."

"Methos," hissed Duncan in exasperation.

"Which would you prefer, my lord?"

Methos grinned broadly as Raphael's serene tone elicited anything but serenity from Duncan; the man was almost grinding his teeth. "I think it would be best if you went below, Raph."

"Good night, my lord."

"Good night, Raph. Thank you."

Methos heard the man's footsteps retreating along the deck in the direction of the hold door, and glanced up at Duncan in amusement. "He really does like you, you know. He wouldn't have left if he didn't."

"I'm honored," growled Duncan. "I suppose he'll be sleeping at the foot of our bed from now on?"

Methos managed to restrain a laugh-and the euphoria that the phrase "our bed" released in him-with a supreme application of will. "I'm certain he'd be happy to oblige. Shall I ask him?"

Duncan laughed around soft kisses to Methos' neck. "I don't think so."

"Whyever not?" asked Methos, with innocence enough to choke a horse.

"Because you are exquisite," murmured Duncan in passionate Gaelic, "and I want you all to myself."

Methos turned his head to look up at him, suddenly breathless. God, what was it about the man that stripped away every defense he'd ever had or thought of having? "You can have me all to yourself, Duncan MacLeod," he whispered in the same language. "You can have me any way you want me." He laid his hand on top of Duncan's, guiding it up his thigh.

Duncan groaned and pressed his mouth to Methos' neck as he fondled him through the sweatpants he was wearing. "I want you in every way physically possible."

Methos' breath caught sharply as he thrust his hips encouragingly into Duncan's eager hand. "Don't limit yourself, MacLeod."

"Shhh," breathed Duncan tenderly, untying the drawstring on Methos' pants and slipping his hand inside. "You're going to get us arrested for public lewdness, man. Quiet."

Methos gasped and shuddered in his arms as Duncan's hand curled around his organ. "Quiet? I...can do quiet. Does quiet turn you on?"

Duncan muffled his laughter against Methos' ear as he stroked him gently. "Methos. Everything you do turns me on."

"Ah. A man of eclectic tastes. Good. God. Yes. Just...yes." Methos' head fell further back onto Duncan's shoulder, eyes closed; he lifted his chin, exposing his throat in invitation, panting softly.

"Yes," murmured Duncan, bending his head to nip and lick gently at the tender skin just below Methos' Adam's apple. Methos uttered something close to a whimper at the loving touches and felt himself go suddenly and amazingly hard in Duncan's hand; Duncan's erection pressed into the small of his back. "Come for me," whispered Duncan thickly in Methos' ear. "I love you. I want to see you come." Duncan quickened his strokes and lowered his mouth to Methos' throat again.

Methos groaned deeply, teeth clenched to muffle the sound. He was dimly aware, through choppy waves of agonizing pleasure, that Duncan was still murmuring soft words around and between each kiss, each bite, each stroke-words of passion and communion, faith and comfort, devotion and protection. Words of forever.

Methos came hard, screaming behind clenched teeth and burying his face in Duncan's hair, his hips bucking wildly as Duncan held him fast against his body, chanting his name. Methos lay panting in Duncan's arms for what seemed like a long time, stunned, Duncan's warm, wet mouth still worshipping Methos' throat, still murmuring, until Methos turned toward him, forcing Duncan to lift his head, and seized that mouth tenderly in his own, pushing the man under his hands to the deck. Duncan gasped slightly as Methos unsnapped the jeans he was wearing.

"Now we'll see how quiet you can be," whispered Methos as he released Duncan's mouth and slid down between his legs.

Duncan propped himself up on his elbows, breathing hard and watching Methos' every move. "Maybe I can't be quiet," he rasped as Methos freed his erection and stroked it demandingly, lowering his head till his lips were almost touching the tip. "Maybe you're too much lover for me to be quiet."

Methos chuckled breathlessly. "Maybe?" He touched Duncan's shaft with a feather-light touch of his tongue, and Duncan collapsed onto his back, panting.

"Yes," he whispered to the night sky. "Methos-"

Methos slipped lips and tongue around the tip, then, without warning, engulfed all of Duncan's organ in one fell swoop.

"Mother of God," gasped Duncan wildly, striking the deck with his hands and trying to sit up again.

Methos pressed one hand against his stomach, forcing him down, devoting thorough, loving attention to every pore and surface of Duncan's engorged shaft. Groaning, Duncan buried his hands in Methos' hair, holding him still, thrusting his hips upward to send himself surging inside as Methos closed his eyes and clung to Duncan's wrists, relaxing the muscles of his mouth and throat to accommodate the frenzied intruder. God, it had been so long, and he wanted this so much-this, and a thousand other things, from this man alone. He urged Duncan deeper, encouraging every thrust with caresses of lips and tongue, until the frenzy became so deep and fierce that it could no longer be sustained. Duncan came, shuddering and crying out softly into the night as Methos, in a frenzy of his own, swallowed his seed.

Methos fondled Duncan's spent organ with his tongue until his shuddering passed, then slowly slipped his lips down its length and released him. The hands that had held him in place so firmly were now stroking his hair with profound gentleness; Methos paused for a moment, reveling in the touch, then went up on his quivering hands and knees to look down at Duncan.

Duncan stared back up at him, looking more than a little dazed. "Are you all right?" he whispered finally.

Methos nodded and bent down to kiss him, smiling. Duncan met him halfway, sitting up and taking him in his arms. He returned the kiss so sweetly, gently, that Methos broke away in surprise, his eyes filling, and buried his face against Duncan's neck, breathing hard.

Duncan cradled him closely. "I was right not to share you," he whispered in Gaelic, both tender and playful. "No one would be able to resist you, and I'd lose you to some damn fool who'd not cherish you one tenth as well as I."

Methos chuckled deep in his throat, his tears spilling over. "Duncan MacLeod. You could share me with every consenting adult in Europe if you wished to, and not one of them would have a chance in hell of taking me away from you." He let his eyes close, wrapping his arms around Duncan's waist tightly.

"That's good to hear," sighed Duncan, and Methos smiled at the mischief in his voice. "But Raphael still gets a room of his own."

"I do not know how you cheated, Joseph Dawson," snapped Raphael. "This does not, however, alter the fact that you have."

Methos hastily finished dressing and kicked his telltale sweatpants into a corner of the bathroom, emerging in time to see Joe lean back in his wheelchair, eyebrows raised. "Nobody likes a sore loser, Raph."

"I did not lose." Raphael scowled as he rose from his seat. "I was defrauded of my victory."

"Yeah, that's what they all say."

Raphael glared, but Methos could see the suppressed laughter in the man's eyes. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I will cleanse myself of the stench of battle and treachery."

"Please do," called Duncan from the kitchen.

Raphael scowled and disappeared into the bathroom, muttering under his breath, and slammed the door behind him.

"Gee, you think he meant me?" Joe favored Methos with a rather evil grin.

"No doubt about it," Methos assured him in his driest tone.

Joe cackled softly, obviously pleased with himself. "Want to try your luck?"

"What are you hustling now?" Methos chuckled as he approached, but his amusement was cut off at the knees as he recognized the objects in Joe's hands, and he sank slowly into the chair Raphael had just vacated, swallowing hard.

"Adam?" Joe's voice was sharp with alarm, but Methos' gaze was locked on the pieces of quartz scattered over the worn wooden board. "What?"

"Where did you find that?" Duncan's voice at his elbow jarred Methos from his aching daze; he realized belatedly that Duncan was sitting crossed-legged on the floor beside his chair, offering him a bottle of beer. Methos took it mechanically.

"On the floor over there-I almost ran over it." Joe leaned across the board and with one finger on the bottom of the bottle, guided Methos' beer to his mouth. "Thought it was checkers until I opened the box."

Methos took a sip of beer and raised his eyes to meet Joe's. "Since when do you play shatranj, Joe?" His voice shook a little.

"Since when do we have conversations in medieval Latin?" countered Joe wryly. "You want a street map of Troy? I was hitting the taverns there a few hours ago."

"Oh," murmured Methos.

"Oh." Joe searched Methos' face with a wondering expression. "You okay?"

Methos nodded wordlessly.

"I haven't looked at this in years," murmured Duncan, gently picking up a Prime Minister and holding it at Methos' eye level. The quartz shimmered brilliantly in the light. "It was a gift." He turned to smile at Methos. "From Darius."

Methos nodded again, blinking hard, and took the lovely thing from his hand. "Yes. A gift." He managed to smile back, but Duncan's eyes were wide in sudden comprehension.

"This belonged to Sebastian." Duncan's tone was hushed.

"Yes. I gave it to him before we left Rome." Methos twirled the piece of carved stone in his hand. "He pretended to learn the game from me, but I suspect he was a master long before we met. The original hustler." Methos tried to laugh, but his voice cracked. "If only these pretty things could talk."

"What would they say?" Joe gazed at him steadily across the shatranj board.

Methos shrugged, his vision blurring. " 'I once knew a man who cheated at shatranj to save a man's soul, and died to prove that death had no dominion.'"

Duncan rested his head against Methos' thigh and closed his eyes.

Joe nodded thoughtfully, then began setting up the board again as if he'd done it all his life. "Come on, then," he said softly. "I'll teach you to cheat."

End