Disclaimer: I do not own the Highlander universe or characters, much to my own chagrin.
A/N: Written in response to the prompt:
Highlander, Methos/Duncan, they are the last two of their kind
Lust and Bloodlust
The Gathering had happened a thousand years ago and Mac still dreamed of seeing Methos. He still saw the man's face out of the corner of his eye. He still heard his voice in crowds.
He felt like the flying Dutchman, traveling around the globe searching for Methos and finding him nowhere.
He didn't even know what he would do if he found him again somehow, somewhere. He wasn't sure if he would kiss him or kill him, but he knew that he would keep him forever.
When the Gathering had finally happened, when the call to fight was too strong to ignore, and immortals from around the world had been drawn to the one place and time, they had fought back to back.
The dry dirt beneath their feet had been churned to mud with the blood of the fallen, and Quickenings had created a steady haze of fog and static in the air. Half a thousand immortals had become a hundred immortals.
A hundred immortals had become a dozen.
And finally a dozen immortals had become two.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
MacLeod had hoped that back-to-back, he and Methos would never see each other, never challenge the other no matter how insane with bloodlust the Gathering made them. And, he had thought, that back-to-back neither would need to see when the other was finally cut down.
He had been right about the first part. But for the second…
What they hadn't considered what it would mean to fight as shield mates do. At least, Mac thought, he hadn't thought of it. Back to back they guarded each other. No other immortal on the field of battle had a shield mate to protect them. It made sense that they would win. They alone who had safety at their backs.
That they would be the last two immortals in a mud pit of blood and bodies, and the Gathering still calling to them. To fight. To kill.
He leaned back against Methos, and Methos leaned back against him.
Mac was so very tired and yet his nerved jangled with the desire to attack, to kill. To take this one last quickening and be complete.
He could practically taste Methos' quickening.
He hungered for it.
He couldn't help the laugh that racked his body.
"I could use a joke about now, Mac." Methos spoke without moving from where he was resting his back against Mac's.
"I was thinking about how I've wanted you since the first day I saw you. But not like this. I never wanted to want you like this."
Methos' laughter was silent but Mac could feel it. Most immortals reveled in black humor. How else could they stay sane?
They stood their in silence in the field.
Mac thought about his choices here. He would never forgive himself if he killed Methos. Not now, not like this. He would find his own death soon enough afterwards if he did it. But Methos: Methos said he hadn't felt guilt since the eleventh century. No matter how many protestations of love the old man had given to Mac, no matter how much Mac believed them, he knew that Methos would be able to survive killing him in a way that Mac wouldn't be able to survive killing Methos.
But he also knew that Methos wouldn't do it. Not of his own volition. So the question became, did Mac have the control to do to Methos was Connor had done to him so long ago? Could Mac, in the heat of this final Gathering, set himself up to die?
"I can hear you thinking, you know."
"Hmm?" Mac thought that maybe Methos was thinking the same thing. It might be the most ludicrous battle to the death ever, with both sides trying to die despite an overwhelming desire to kill.
"You think we can choose who lives and who dies. That one of us could pull that final blow and allow the other to win."
"No, I wasn't." The lie was automatic. He couldn't help it.
Methos laughed his quiet laugh again.
"Oh Mac, that was awful."
"Hmph."
And then Methos was serious again. "But we can't. I've tried before, when I left the horsemen. I tried dying in Challenges. I tried again and again, but part of being a good fighter is training your body to move faster than your mind. Any fight between us will be real."
It rang true. He wondered if Methos was trying to convince him to lay down his sword. Then he wondered why he hadn't thought of that before. Just lay it down and look Methos in the face one last time. The force of the Gathering wouldn't let him not behead him.
If this was the old man's manipulation, then it worked.
Mac had to peel his fingers off his sword one by one, but it finally fell to the ground. He rolled to one side so that they stood side to side and his back was to his own sword. He looked at Methos and Methos looked back.
He could see his death in those eyes. As much as he desired this fight and this kill, he could forsake it long enough to force Methos to win it.
"You boy scout. You utterly charmingly idiotic, suicidal boy scout. Do you want to know what else I learned from being Death?"
"What's that?" Mac locked his legs to prevent himself from flinging himself at his sword.
Methos smiled. "How to run from my own bloodlust."
And he took off running.