Swords clashed; the two immortals fought, each with more than a millennium of experience. Emotions and adrenaline running high, neither seemed to notice the rain. But in Scotland, when wasn't it raining?

Methos easily parried Amanda's over-eager lunge. He followed with a spin, and dealt the final blow to Amanda, his arm swinging round in a long follow-through.

As the Quickening took over him, he cried – for Amanda. It hadn't been that long ago that he had considered her a friend, and here he was, taking her head. Feeling sore, physically and emotionally, Methos sat in the grass, the rain slowly soaking through his coat.

"You think you know someone, and then they betray you," Duncan commented, approaching Methos, the pain catching in his throat. He was barely able to speak through the hurt.

Methos struggled to his feet, his sword still clenched in his hand.

"Listen, Mac. I'm sorry," Methos met the dark gaze of the highlander. "I never wanted it to be this way."

"I know," Duncan croaked out. He cleared his throat, his eyes welled with tears. "But we both know: There can be only one."

Methos nodded knowingly and closed his eyes, bracing himself.

Mac pulled Methos into a hug, and let his tears fall onto the older man's coat, mixing with the rain. Methos dropped his sword, and wrapped both arms around MacLeod, holding him tightly, as if the loss of their friend might physically tear him apart, and holding on was what kept him together.

After what seemed like ages, the two pulled back a little, arms still around one another. Methos's hand moved up Mac's back and cupping the back of his head, pulled him into a kiss. Soft kisses soon turned into a passionate exchange, tongues exploring one another. Passion acting as a balm to their pain. Methos gently bit into Mac's bottom lip, and held it, as he looked into the dark eyes of Duncan MacLeod. He watched as the fire burned in the eyes of the Scot, and he stepped back, breaking loose from their embrace.

"Watch it, Old Man," Duncan cheekily warned.

"Or what?" Methos countered with a smirk on his face. Methos bent to pick up his sword and put it away in his coat.

"Or I'll have you right here in the field. And I'm not sure a fossil like you won't break a hip."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny."

Duncan wrapped his arm around Methos's shoulders, pulling him against him as they walked towards Methos's Land Rover. Methos grabbed Duncan's backside, earning an adorable yelp, before Methos put his hand on Mac's hip.

In the car ride back to the cottage, the two talked about what had gotten them to this point; where Amanda had lost the trust of her friends, and in turn, her head.

"Mac, after a thousand years, she knew what it took to survive, and sometimes, that means duplicity."

"You would know," Duncan chimed in.

Methos ignored the jab and continued. "You and I know she never liked to follow rules. Whatever helps Amanda is her number one choice. So of course, she didn't mind putting her adversaries onto the scent of the oldest immortal, rather than losing her own head."

"But I thought we were friends, the three of us," Duncan countered.

"Sure. We were. Right up until her neck was on the line. Then she showed her true colours."

Duncan grunted. He knew what happened. Hell, he'd been there the first two times when those two idiot immortals challenged Methos. It didn't mean he wouldn't miss the old Amanda.

"I can't say I blame her. She was a crap sword fighter, don't give me that look Mac. She used whatever should could to survive for a millennium. But when lunge comes to parry, she was never going to be The One, she never had the chops."

"Yeah, yeah," MacLeod conceded, with very little joy in it.

Methos decided to shut up. The three of them had been friends, but the pace of The Game had changed in the last few years. There were fewer and fewer new immortals being discovered. Plus, there was an anxious edge when the Presence of a new immortal was sensed. It was almost imperceptible, but after 5,000 years of the sensation, Methos could tell it had changed, like a slight change in pressure before a storm rolls in.

Still keeping his eyes on the road, Methos had enough peripheral vision to place his hand on top of Mac's as they drove toward the cottage. Duncan immediately relaxed, his shoulders slumped slightly and he unclenched his jaw. Duncan turned his hand under Methos's so he could hold hands with him.

Duncan couldn't pinpoint when his feelings for Methos had shifted from friends to partners, but he was glad they had.

Since Richie's death, Mac had a hard time. Sure, he was still deadlier with a blade than anyone, but romantic, chivalrous MacLeod seemed to have gotten lost. Methos saw it, and missed that part of him. So, the calculating side of Methos went to work. And while Methos can sometimes be as subtle as a punch to the face, sometimes you don't even know he's behind anything until it's over and done. Mac knew Methos had brought him back, the old him. He isn't sure exactly how he did it, but he is thankful for it.

Three years earlier.

It was dusk as Methos entered the flat in Marrakech, stepping in from a day in the Medina.

"I am done with Morocco. I'm done with Northern Africa. I need trees and grass. I need rain."

Methos's outburst wasn't new, he'd been slowly building his complaints against their locale for the last few months. But that night he started packing.

"You're leaving," Mac pointed out, watching his friend and roommate start haphazardly loading a sea-bag on the bed.

"Well," Methos stopped packing but kept his eyes on the bed. "I thought we could go." Turning to look at Duncan, making eye contact and not breaking.

"Oh." MacLeod wasn't overly attached to Marrakech. There was some great antiquing, but even for a Scot, he was tired of haggling for prices. "Did you have someplace in mind? Or will this be our gap year – backpacking through Europe? Oh, wait, I've got a better idea – Rumspringa!"

Methos laughed at the last one. "I thought Scotland might be nice."

Duncan stopped laughing and just stood, shocked and confused.

"It has grass, and trees! And it definitely rains there." Methos pointed at these particular reasons for leaving Morocco for Scotland.

"I . . . I don't know," Duncan mumbled, as he sat down on Methos's bed.

"Here, look." Methos took out his phone and pulled up a real estate website, and showed MacLeod some pictures, there was a little bungalow, with stone walls, chimney, and a shingled roof with dormer windows. A low stone wall surrounded the garden and the house. The next few pictures showed the interior, two bedrooms, both with en suite bathrooms. A cozy living room with floor to ceiling bookshelves. A kitchen with modern appliances and a skylight to let the sun in, and the entrance to the garden. The next pictures showed the property behind the house and back garden – a large field with a barn that had stables. The final picture was a satellite photo, showing the property was bordered on the east side by a creek or river.

Duncan took the phone to scroll through at his pace. Methos smiled, watching him take in the images.

"This is nice, but the site says it's sold."

"Doesn't matter," Methos said, and he resumed packing. Once there were no more clothes, he started to insert books into the bag.

"I think it does. Where are we going to live? We can survive a winter in Marrakech without a roof, but we'll die more than once if we try to do the same in Scotland."

His words were barely above a whisper, Methos said, "I bought it."

Duncan stood and faced his friend. "Come again?"

Methos met Duncan's eyes and said "I bought it. I bought the house."

Duncan smiled, and pulled his friend into a hug. They let go of on another, and Methos continued packing. Duncan finished scrolling, and handed the phone back to Methos, for him to pocket.

"What creek is that? I didn't see where it was," Duncan inquired.

"It's a river actually. It's the River Finnan."

Duncan put his hands on Methos's cheeks and pulled him in for a kiss. Methos put his hands on Mac's biceps. He pushed gently on Mac, to separate them. Mac held Methos's face, Methos held Mac's arms.

"Over the last three years, I have gone from a solitary curmudgeon, to a codependent-curmudgeon. I know The Game is changing, but I want to be with you, until the end." Methos said as a way of explanation.

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. And, I definitely don't want to go forward without you," Duncan replied.

Methos slid his arms around Duncan's neck and pulled him in for another kiss.

Present Day.

The rain had stopped by the time the pair got to their cottage, but it was dusk at this point, so the sun was barely able to glow past the horizon. Methos slowly drove up the gravel driveway, the rain creating their customary mud puddles to drive through.

Methos pulled in front of the gate to the small garden wall and turned off the engine with the push button. Neither of the men made to leave the vehicle, though Methos did unbuckle himself.

Taking hold of Duncan's hand again, Methos gently rubbed his thumb along the back of Mac's hand. Duncan closed his eyes at the soothing motion and rested his head back against the seat. Methos watched him, a small smile crept to his face. Despite how hard this day would be on them in the future, Methos knew they would get through all of this, together.

"Days like this are going to keep coming, aren't they?" Duncan asked, turning his head against the headrest, looking at Methos.

"Maybe not this hard. But, yeah, The Game is coming to a close. We are in the time of The Gathering."

Duncan nodded his head minutely in confirmation. He lifted their joined hands to his lips and he kissed the back of Methos's hand.

"Come on, let's get inside," Duncan said, opening his car door.

"Yeah," Methos replied, exiting the driver's side.

They made their way through the gate and towards their home. It was early fall, so the trees still had most of their leaves, but without the sun up, it was starting to get cold out. Duncan unlocked the door and held the door open for Methos to enter. They both took off their boots and hung up their coats.

"I'll put together some dinner?" Duncan asked.

"Yeah, thanks." Methos said, taking Duncan and his sword to their sitting room.

Methos cleaned and sharpened their swords while Duncan worked on their dinner. Methos was putting their swords in the hallway as Duncan brought their plates to their small table in the kitchen.

"Smells great," Methos complimented the food before giving Duncan a kiss as way of a 'thank you.'

"Thank you," Duncan replied, lifting his head towards the swords. While it was Duncan's turn to cook anyway, he was thankful that he didn't have to be around when Amanda's blood was cleaned from Methos's sword.

Methos gave a small smile and nod to acknowledge the thanks, not wanting to draw out conversation about the loss of the one-time friend.

After a few bites of his lamb chop and vegetables, Duncan asked, "Do we need to move?"

Methos finished chewing what was in his mouth before he replied, "No, I don't think so. It's not like she took out an advertisement. She told the two who had come for her. Though I'm still surprised she came herself."

"Yeah, though it makes a little sense that of the two of us, she'd try for your head. No offense," Duncan added on quickly.

"None taken," Methos pretended to be hurt for a moment before he smiled and sipped his beer. "You finished?" Methos nodded towards Duncan's mostly eaten meal.

"Mmhm."

Methos stood, collecting their dinner plates. Before stepping to the sink, he placed a kiss on Mac's forehead. Duncan gave a gentle squeeze to Methos's bicep before he stepped away.

Methos worked on the dishes while Duncan went to the pantry.

"Should I open a bottle?" Duncan held a bottle of red wine in his hand. Methos looked away from the sink to see what was indicated.

"Yeah. I'm almost done with these."

Duncan uncorked the bottle, grabbed two glasses and made his way to their sitting room. The large, welcoming leather sofa sat in front of the wall-to-wall bookshelf. Duncan let the bottle breathe before Methos entered, having left the dishes to dry in the rack.

Methos had taken off his socks because some water had made its way through one of his boots and he hated having wet socks. He sat next to his partner and curled his feet underneath himself, leaning towards Duncan.

Duncan poured them each a glass, and handed one to Methos while holding onto the other. He held it aloft.

"Auld lange syne," Duncan toasted.

"Auld lange syne," Methos echoed, tapping his glass against Mac's before they sipped the wine.

Methos sipped his wine, watching Duncan, who sat with the glass in his hands, but hadn't sipped since the toast. Methos put his empty glass on the table and laid his head against the arm of the chair, putting his feet under Duncan's hands, which were holding the glass.

"Rub my feet." He directed.

"Please?" Duncan encouraged.

"Please. Thank you."

Duncan rolled his eyes as he put the glass on the table next to Methos's empty one. He realized he must have zoned out if Methos finished his glass before him. Methos was a beer guy, and Duncan typically went through wine far more efficiently than Methos.

"I still don't know how you can have someone rub your feet without being tickled," Duncan commented.

"It's about surprise, Mac. It's why you can't tickle yourself. Being tickled is about surprise. If you know someone is touching your feet, you shouldn't be tickled by it."

"Hu?" Duncan replied, and tried to tickle Methos feet.

Methos didn't even stir.

"If my sore feet are boring you, I'd just as soon have them back."

Duncan rolled his eyes, and pushed Methos's feet off his lap. Methos shifted his weight so he didn't roll off the sofa with them. But it had him on his hip, looking over the front of the sofa.

Duncan took the opportunity to quickly jump in and lay behind him.

"I guess I bored you," Methos quipped.

"Mmmmm," Duncan hummed, as he wiggled in closer to Methos, spooning him, and wrapping an arm around Methos's chest.

Methos chuckled, his chest rising and falling against the more broad-shouldered Scot.

Duncan propped himself up on an arm, and used the one around Methos to roll him onto his back, so that Duncan was now above Methos, face-to-face.

"I love the feeling of you laughing against me like that."

Methos smiled but had a curious expression, like he didn't quite fully understand.

"It means that I can make you happy. And that your guards are down enough to show it."

Methos smiled, replying, "Honestly, you should have known my guards were down when I dared to take off my socks around you - let alone leaving my sword in another room. Seriously, any other immortal – I wouldn't risk my life, or even a get-away."

Methos's smile said he was joking, but his eyes showed he was serious. And Duncan knew it. They held the other's life in their hands. Sleeping beside one another, at any time, but especially this late in The Game, it was absolute love and trust that they shared together.

Three years earlier.

"Home sweet home!" Methos bellowed into the cottage. Boxes were piled up in rooms and the crunch of the gravel could be heard from the moving truck leaving their remote little road.

"It's a shame it's dark, I would have loved to take a walk around the property," he added.

Duncan looked out from a room down the hall, giving Methos a sour look.

"What?"

"Four hours," Duncan said intently. "Four hours we spent at customs because of you." Duncan walked towards Methos, like a lion after his prey.

"I hardly see how it's my fault."

"Oh, you can hardly see? Because of you, we spent four hours explaining why we had swords in our luggage."

"I didn't want to lie to the woman, she's a government official."

Duncan walked towards Methos so he stood directly in front of him.

"You could have told her that I'm an antique dealer. Because it's true, and doesn't invite FOUR HOURS of interrogation from customs agents!"

Methos smirked. "Mac, we're immortal, we have plenty of time on our hands. We can afford to have some fun, now and again."

Duncan angrily squinted at Methos, before he grabbed Methos's head in his hands and pulled him in for a firm kiss. Duncan pulled back but held onto his partner's head.

"You drive me crazy, you know that, right?"

"It wasn't that far a drive, to be perfectly honest," Methos replied cheekily.

Duncan took his hand's from Methos's cheeks and pushed him on both of his shoulders, causing him to take one step back for balance.

"You're lucky I love you," Methos commented on MacLeod's actions.

Duncan stood, looking at Methos.

"What?" Methos said, as Mac stood there, not moving.

"Replay what you just said," Mac instructed.

"I said, you're lucky I love you," Methos said, matter-of-factly, before his eyes grew wide, processing his words. "Well, damn. I wanted to say it in a much more romantic way than that, but the cat's out of the bag."

Methos bridged the gap between the pair of them, wrapping his arms around Duncan's shoulders. He looked into the dark eyes of his friend-turned-love, and ran his fingers through the short hair at the base of Mac's neck.

"Have I told you how much I like the short hair?" Methos asked. His gentle ministrations causing Duncan to almost purr with approval.

Duncan wrapped his arms around Methos's waist, and was slowly rubbing his hands up and down Methos's muscular back; taking full advantage of his untucked shirt, getting some under-the-shirt action.

"I've got good news and bad news, Methos," Duncan sweetly informed him.

"Oh, what's that?" Methos decided it was a good time to gently kiss his way up Duncan's neck to his ear.

Lost in the sensation, Duncan forgot to respond, until Methos prompted him again.

"What's the bad news, Mac?" Methos paused to speak, and moved to the other side of his neck to work his way toward the other ear.

"Oh, uh . . . the bed isn't assembled yet."

Whispering into the ear he had just been exploring with his mouth, Methos asked, "So what's the good news then?"

"I'm ready to take the final step."

Methos stopped his oral attentions of Mac's ear, but didn't move otherwise. Softly, he asked, "You're sure? You don't have to rush because I bought you a house."

Mac leaned back so that he could see Methos's face, without breaking their embrace.

"I love you too, Methos. That's why . . . I'm ready." Mac smiled in reassurance.

Methos smiled in return, and gently stroked Duncan's cheek with his thumb. Duncan closed his eyes momentarily. Methos then ran his thumb over Duncan's soft lips, earning a soft moan from Duncan, and causing him to open his eyes. Methos's soft smile had changed, and now he grinned like the Cheshire cat.

"No bed, remember?" Duncan reminded him.

"Yes, but the sofa is right over there, and it looks just as comfortable as ever." Methos said, as he started walking towards it; with Duncan still in his arms, Duncan had to walk backwards, like some awkward dance. The pair found the sofa.

It was comfortable.

Present day.

Methos went to their bedroom, to get ready for bed. Duncan was in the front hall, putting his boots on for his nightly trip out to the barn, to check on their horses.

Methos took a shower, the warmth of the water soothing his muscles from his combat earlier that day. He stood under the spray long after the soap was washed away, hoping some of his heartbreak would be washed away, too. He hadn't always seen eye to eye with Amanda, but she was a friend, and more importantly, she was Mac's friend – and he killed her. It was a fair fight and he was the better warrior. But it still hurt.

Methos pulled on a clean set of boxers and started brushing his teeth. He walked around the bathroom as he brushed. Looking out over the back garden, he saw a lightening strike. And another.

Methos threw his toothbrush at the sink, not caring if found its target. As Methos ran through the hallway, towards the kitchen and back door, he grabbed his sword from the hallway, where it stood next to Duncan's katana.

Methos ran through the garden, hurdling over the garden wall. He flew through the wet grass of the field, arms pumping and sword in hand. Hope against hope, Methos prayed to whatever gods might exist, that Duncan found a way to make it through. When he arrived at the barn, a wet tree was smoldering from a lightning strike, the horses whinnying at the chaos they had stormed. There were two bodies on the ground, neither of them moving; in the near-dark, he couldn't see who was who at this distance. Methos went over to the body closest to him, which, by the light of the smoldering tree, he saw had a pitchfork in the torso, and no head. Methos was shaking – fear, adrenaline, outside nearly-naked in Scotland. What had Mac been wearing? Was this him?

Methos stepped over the corpse to the other body. He could see that they were breathing and starting to struggle to get to their feet. Methos held his sword at the ready, while the man lifted himself up, and turned to face him.

It was Duncan.

Methos dropped his sword and flew at his partner, knocking them both to the ground. They kissed until the needed to break apart for air.

The horses had calmed and the tree had burnt itself out. Lying in the near-dark, Mac finally processed that Methos was mostly-naked.

"Come on, let's get you inside," Mac climbed to his feet, less-than-gracefully.

Methos got to his feet, bringing his sword along. While he never cared to have trophies, Duncan brought their guest's sword – he didn't want it lying in the field, endangering the horses.

Duncan got to the house first, the kitchen door wide open.

"You didn't shut the door," Duncan chided Methos.

Methos grabbed Mac's arm, turning his so they faced on another.

"I thought I lost you," Methos's eyes held unshed tears, and a genuine fear that Duncan had never seen before.

Duncan dropped the guest's sword, and pulled Methos into his arms, holding him against his chest. Methos dropped his sword and held onto Mac. A single sob escaped him, as he clung to his lover.

Finally, Methos stood up straight, looking into Mac's eyes. Duncan looked at Methos, whose face was calm and dry, the only indication there had been any tears was the red rimmed eyes that betrayed Methos's composure.

"You've got a lot longer to put up with me, old man," Duncan said.

Methos smirked, "Agreed," and he kissed Duncan, his kiss sealing the promise.