Copyright April 21-August 2, 2000 by Matthew Haldeman-Time

Rating: R for two men in love, vague sex, and some violence

Pairing: Duncan MacLeod/Methos

Disclaimer: "Highlander," with its related characters and themes, does not belong to me.  I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor.  Thank you to Tansy, who was kind enough to point out the multiple glaring errors.

Wherein Adam Pierson says, "It's my mouth, I'll do with it what I want"; eggs are insulted and assaulted unnecessarily; and the writer draws on a few fanonical Duncan stereotypes.

Notice: Assume pretty much everything from the series, except that Duncan never cut off his hair because he never killed Richie.  (Well, he did, but Richie got over it.)  And Methos is with the Watchers. Anything else that diverts from canon is more than likely conscious on my part and not just idiocy.  Also, this story has the lamest final sentence ever.  I'm so, so sorry...

        He realized what the headache and ringing were: symptoms.

        That was his only warning that the Game was ending.  And so Duncan set down his mug, grabbed his sword, and joined the final days of the Gathering.

        The light displays were gone.  There was just a powerful smack of presence as the other immortal's self invaded.

        He killed that first immortal, then showered and dressed.  He reheated his tea and wondered what he should do now.  He didn't feel a pull anywhere, had no innate desire to run off to a field somewhere for a battle, the final showdown.  Really, if it weren't for his own certainty and conclusion-jumping, he'd have no idea that the Gathering was ending.

        He considered calling Joe.  He couldn't call Amanda; he didn't know where she was.  He knew where Richie was but didn't have a number.  He didn't know where Methos was, either.

        Methos.

        Five thousand years.  Where would they go?  Whoever took Methos' head might very well kill them all, might easily win the Game.  Game - - this was no game.  Games were charades or Chutes and Ladders or - - what were they playing in this Game?  Tag?  Hide and seek?  Well, he was staying put.  They could just come and seek him on their own if they wished, those other immortals.  Duncan MacLeod might just sit out this one.

        Seeking they came.

        He killed two more before settling into the kitchen to make dinner.

        Three days later, he was still alive.  He'd killed four more immortals, only one of whom he'd really known.  He was beginning to wonder which fight would be his last.  Were they seeking him out because of his rumored power, or was everyone fighting this often?  How many were left?  How many would make their way to him?  What was happening to his friends?

        He hadn't heard from Joe.  He knew that the Watcher must be keeping a distance.  Maybe if the two of them made contact, Joe would try to interfere, and if they stayed apart that wouldn't happen.  Better not to tempt.  He hoped that Joe knew that he was still alive.  He wondered what the Watchers as a whole were doing.  Probably going insane.  He wondered how their betting pool was going.

        He was just beginning to fold his laundry when he felt another buzz.  This time, it didn't wait outside for him; it came closer.  It was strong.  It was...

        "Methos," he whispered, and proceeded to have two entirely different reactions at once.

        1.) Yes yes yes hallelujah hallelujah hallelujah.  Methos is alive Methos is alive Methos is here I can see him again just once more before I die.

        2.) Oh no, what if he's come to kill me?  It's the Gathering, one of us has to go.

        The lift arrived; Methos walked into the loft.  Duncan faced him, armed not with a sword but with a clean T-shirt clutched tightly in two hands, tense, waiting for Methos to attack.

        Methos smiled, dropping his bag, shrugging out of his coat.  "Doing a little housekeeping, Mac?" he asked, going to the fridge.

        Methos was here.  Methos was here, teasing him, getting a beer, throwing the bottlecap behind the refrigerator.  Methos was here.

        "Where've you been?"

        Methos turned, swallowing beer.  There was a gash in his shirt, no doubt made by a sword, and an accompanying bloodstain on the dark fabric.

        "You were fighting?" Duncan asked.  Hello, stupid question.

        "For your second question, yes.  For your first question, I spent a few weeks in Barcelona and the last hour killing some unpleasant young man down the street.  These children are terribly unprofessional; he thought that I was you."  Methos made a derisive noise and came closer.  "Seeing as how my clothes are all dirty or," he glanced down at himself, "in a state of disrepair," he looked up again to Duncan's dark eyes, "I think I'll borrow some of your conveniently clean clothing."  He set his bottle on the table and pulled his shirt over his head, then took the T-shirt from Duncan's suddenly limp grasp and redressed himself.  He snagged the bottle again and settled on the couch, just behind Duncan.  "So.  How've you been?" he asked brightly.

        "Methos," Duncan said, and turned to face the man.  "The Gathering."

        "Yes?" Methos asked.

        "It's happening.  Right now."

        Methos didn't bother to reply vocally, just looked at Duncan and drank his beer.

        "You shouldn't be here," Duncan said earnestly.  "You should be on holy ground."

        "Can't," Methos said.  "It started kicking immortals off a week before this phase started."

        "Then go somewhere safe.  Hide.  You must know places."

        "Of course I know places, MacLeod.  You're trying to get rid of me."  He looked at Duncan accusingly.

        "Yes, I'm trying to get rid of you!  You aren't safe here-"

        "As if I've been safe around you in the past?" Methos asked.

        "It's worse now, the Gathering's on, you shouldn't be anywhere near me or any other immortal.  Go underground-"  Duncan uncharacteristically fell silent when he realized that Methos characteristically wasn't listening.  Methos rose and walked for the phone.  Duncan just watched.  Methos drank and then dialed.

        Methos' voice was softer, gentler, even a shade higher; nothing arrogant or caustic about him.  He looked exactly the same, but he sounded like...Adam Pierson.  Duncan watched in fascination.  "Hello, may I please speak with Chance de Chaucer?  Thank you."  He waited.  "Hello, Chance, this is Adam Pierson.  I was wondering if you could tell me the score."  He listened; his eyes closed.  When he spoke, Adam's voice was a little sad.  "All right.  Thank you.  Oh," and his voice lightened, though his eyes remained closed, "I don't know about that.  He could always - - hey, now, no need to be insulting.  I'll talk to you later.  Thanks, Chance."  He hung up and paused, then turned to Duncan, eyes opening.  "Richie's fine.  Amanda died in Cairo."

        "Who?"

        "Walter Skinner."

        "I don't know him."

        "I do.  Did.  He's gone, too.  A lot of immortals are in Paris these days.  He took a flight out there right after he took Amanda.  When he got there, he killed a few more, and then he came across Richie."

        "She'd like that," Duncan said, trying hard to stay steady.

        Methos picked up a sock, found another, started to fold Duncan's laundry.  "I always did think she wouldn't have minded getting to know Richie a little better."

        Methos was folding his laundry.

        "I'm sure she gave a good fight," Methos said.  "Amanda was good.  She was strong.  Skinner, he didn't deserve her."

        Duncan stood there.  Methos folded laundry and talked about Skinner, about Amanda, about Richie.  It was surreal, and it was exactly what he needed.  He couldn't seek vengeance; it wasn't safe or practical or, really, possible, since Richie had done it for him.  He wasn't the type to sit down and sob for hours, either.  Methos was offering comfort, not by beginning a dramatic discussion to try to make Duncan talk about feelings, simply by talking and being there.  And by folding Duncan's clothes.

        Duncan wondered how many clothes Methos had folded over the years.  How many loads of laundry did a man accumulate in five thousand years?

        When the laundry was done, Methos got another bottle of beer and settled on the sofa, still talking.  Duncan sat beside him automatically, listening.  He actually was listening, learning, remembering.

        Then he felt a buzz.

        "You see who it is," Methos said.  "I'll put away the laundry."  He rose, setting down his can, picking up a handful of folded socks.

        This could be the last time he'd ever see Methos again.  He stood.  "Methos-"

        "All right, you handle the laundry and I'll see-"

        "No!"

        "We can't keep him waiting," Methos said.  "I'll be back in a moment."  Duncan grabbed his elbow and held on tight.  Methos sighed.  "MacLeod, really.  Your socks will be fine without me."  He gently dislodged Duncan's hand and went for his sword.  The door closed behind Methos.

        Duncan remained still for all of two heartbeats.  Then he ran outside, grabbing his sword without thinking, racing after Methos.  He got there in time to see Methos approaching the immortal on the street.

        "You're not MacLeod," the woman said.

        "He's busy.  Will I do?"

        "You'll do just fine."  They fought.  Duncan couldn't place her and didn't bother; he saved all of his energy and focus for Methos.

        Neither fighter bothered to waste time with fancy moves.  Both Methos and the woman fought directly and hard.  Methos gained the upper hand, but Duncan's fear didn't begin to abate until the woman's head hit the cement.  Methos stood still, absorbing the impact of her quickening.

        Duncan came forward, anxious.  But Methos was fine and moved to dispose of the corpse, then went back up to the loft.  Duncan followed Methos, who put down his sword and walked over to pick up Duncan's laundry.  "Looks like I have to do everything around here," Methos muttered.  "You," he said, moving to the bureau, "can make dinner."

        Duncan very carefully laid down his katana and closed his eyes.  He took a few deep breaths and walked to the kitchen.  Methos was fine.  Why was he reacting like this?

        Why?  He knew why.  It was the end of the world.  Immortals were being wiped from the face of the earth, killing each other, and people he'd known for centuries were gone.  Amanda was dead, Richie would be gone soon enough - - too soon, too young.  He was being hunted by people bent on his death.

        Duncan had known many people in his lifetime.  He'd known some great men.  He'd known some great immortals.  His kinsman Connor.  His friend Fitzcairn.  Darius, whom he'd regarded as the greatest of them all.  Until he met Methos.

        Methos.

        Methos was the greatest of them all.  The greatest person Duncan ever had met.  Anyone who didn't understand that was blind, unutterably blind.

        When had he started to make dinner?  Good thing his hands could work without his mind.  Apparently he was trying for apricot chicken, asparagus, and-

        -and Methos was here, leaning one lean hip against the counter, all soft lashes and shy smiles.  "Would you like some help with that?"

        Adam Pierson.  Exactly whom he needed.  He couldn't put up with arrogant and caustic Methos tonight, wouldn't be able to face Methos' superiority and frustrated irritation.  But Adam Pierson, quick-witted and fun and engaging, Adam Pierson was just what he needed.  How did Methos do that?  Was it conscious?  Was Methos lurking in there somewhere planning every gesture, gauging Duncan's responses?  Did Methos find this switch a relief, too, or was it an effort, a strain?

        "No, I'll take care of it."

        "All right."  Methos looked younger.  It was amazing, this transition of personas.  Duncan was always Duncan no matter what.  Even shattered by Tessa's death, in the grips of a dark quickening, fighting Ahriman, or just minutes ago standing outside waiting for the blow that would kill Methos-

        "Julianna," he said suddenly.  "Julianna Marguiles."

        "The woman I killed," Methos said.  "You did know her."

        "The turn of the century."  Oh, that was clear, wasn't it?  Adam's lips quirked.  "The end of the nineteenth century," Duncan clarified.  Adam's lips quirked again, amused further by this concession.  "London.  She accused me of raping her."

        All amusement was gone.  "You're no rapist."

        My, that was quick.  And...unexpected, to say the least.  He couldn't help but comment on it.  "You sound awfully sure of yourself."

        "I've been there, Mac.  You don't have it in you.  Did anyone believe her?"

        "No," Duncan said, mind spinning with a million questions.  "She had been raped, by an immortal, and when she ran into me she assumed...  We figured out who it was, and she castrated him, and that was an end of it."

        "That wouldn't have been Jake Barnes, would it?"

        Duncan smiled.  "You think that between the two of us, we know every immortal?"

        "Seems like it."

        They kept talking while Duncan finished cooking.  They didn't bother with small talk; that wasn't part of their relationship.  They did keep themselves from discussing their current situation with the Gathering, but that left them plenty of topics.  After all, they were intelligent men with wide experiences and interests.  Methos - - Adam - - set the table, and Duncan refrained from commenting on it.  Folding laundry, setting the table, offering to help cook - - someone was feeling awfully domestic today.

        After they ate, they cleaned and moved to the sofa.  Rather, Duncan sat on the sofa and Adam stretched stomachdown on the floor.

        "I know that the Watchers have a betting pool," Duncan said.

        "Joe bet on you," Adam said, "don't worry.  We can bet as many times as we want, so he bet on you and me.  You're a champion, I'm a survivor."

        "We?" Duncan asked.

        Adam held up his arm, wrist to Duncan.  "We."

        Right.  Watcher boy.  "So?  Did you bet on yourself?"

        "I placed three bets," Methos said.

        "Three.  Yourself."

        "Of course."

        "Me?"

        "It seemed safe."

        "And..."

        Adam rolled onto his back.  "Come on, MacLeod, you're smarter than this."

        "Kronos."

        "Right.  There's fifty bucks I'll never see again."

        A man lived for centuries, made an impact on the world that had become legend and myth, and that was how he was mourned?  "Is anyone else betting on you?"

        "Only myself and Joe.  Since I don't exist, the other Watchers don't want to waste their money."

        Then there was that.  Methos could die, and who would know?  Who would realize all that was lost?  Only Joe.

        Another buzz.  Duncan jumped to his feet.  Adam rolled to stand, gracefully, and sighed softly.  "You cooked, I'll take this one."

        "You got it last time."

        "The asparagus wasn't bad."  Adam, still Adam, strolled across the loft and lifted his sword.  "Stay in here this time.  You're too distracting."

        "You didn't miss a beat."  Duncan followed Adam, even onto the street.  "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

        "MacLeod, shut up," Adam said.  "Hi, I'm Adam.  Wanna fight?"

        The man looked from one to the other.  "One at a time."

        "Okay," Adam said, "forget the age before beauty crap.  Me first."

        Duncan was too stunned by that comment to say anything, and he watched as Adam and the man clashed swords.  It struck him as humorous, suddenly, or it would have if he'd been in the mood for humor: he was age and Adam was beauty.  How incredibly ironic.  Only Methos-Adam would say something like that.  Although...

        Adam won.  Duncan wondered how long this would last, how long the two of them would be able to survive.  The Gathering was intense.  They went inside again, and Adam collapsed on the sofa.  "I'm going to need to borrow some clothes tomorrow," he told Duncan.  "My stuff's dirty.  While you're at it, go brush my teeth for me, I'm too tired to move.  And give me the phone.  And another beer."

        "You brush your teeth and then drink beer?  That ruins the hygiene and must taste foul."

        "It's my mouth, I'll do with it what I want.  Phone."  Duncan handed him the phone.  He dialed.  "Hello, is Carly Roberts there?  Thanks.  Hey, Carly, it's Adam Pierson.  Right.  Thanks."  He chuckled, happy and amused.  "Thanks.  I'm really just calling to check on the betting pool.  Okay.  How's the Parisian situation?  You're kidding.  So the kid's hanging on after all.  Yeah.  Right.  Okay, I'll talk to you later.  Count on it.  Bye."  He handed the phone to Duncan.  "Young Richie Ryan's doing better than expected.  He had a good teacher, I suppose."  Adam rose, found his bag, and went to the bathroom.

        Duncan wondered about other immortals.  Methos' other friends.  What it must be like to talk casually about the deaths of immortals, to chat lightly with people about it, to make a game of it.  He wondered what it had been like when Kronos and Silas and Caspian died, how the other Watchers reacted, how Methos had to deal with their reactions.  And if-when Richie died, how would the Watchers mention it to Methos, and how would Methos react?

        Adam emerged from the bathroom and found himself a blanket and pillow for the sofa.  He stripped, before an immobile Duncan's dark eyes, down to his boxers and settled onto the sofa.  "The next immortal who comes can just wait until half past noon," Adam said, closing his eyes.  "I'm not moving."  With that, he nestled down and fell asleep.

        Duncan was the one who slept late.  When he awoke, he heard Adam's voice.  He opened his eyes, sitting up, seeing Methos standing in the kitchen, one hand holding a pan and one hand holding a spatula, telephone between ear and shoulder.  "Right.  How's Dawson?  No, I haven't gotten hold of him yet.  Hunh.  I'm not surprised, everyone knows how close he and MacLeod are.  Really?  How sweet of him.  I didn't think he cared.  You just tell him I'm fine and dandy.  How are things at your end?  Really?  No, he wouldn't be cheating - - he learned from MacLeod, and we all know how MacLeod is about rules and honor.  Right."  He chuckled, a warm happy sound.  "Yeah, really, subtle he's not.  Amazing he's lived four hundred years.  Hello, I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and I live right out in the open, any takers?"  Suddenly Adam looked up, saw Duncan staring at him, and said, "Listen, I have to go.  I'll call you later.  Tell Dawson I said hi."  He hung up quickly.  "MacLeod.  Breakfast?"

        "That was informative," Duncan said.  "I'm glad Richie's all right.  Joe will be glad to hear you're okay.  Thank you for openly mocking me."

        "Any time."

        Duncan rose, showered, dressed, and came to the table.  He had slept late and, due to the Gathering and the ludicrousness of trying to jog with his sword, was cutting out his usual morning routine.  Amazing, that Methos had been up before him.  Not Methos, Adam.  Not that Adam was a typically early riser, either.

        "Thanks for breakfast."

        "I like to do my part."

        "Since when?"

        "MacLeod, you wound me.  I've always made a worthy attempt to contribute to the common good."  Adam checked the clock.  "It's a slow morning.  Aren't we getting any visitors today?"

        "When they do come, I don't want you out there fighting."

        "You don't," Adam said.

        "No, I don't.  They're coming here for me, not for you.  It's my fight."

        "It's the Gathering, MacLeod.  It's everyone's fight."  Their gazes locked.  "Fine.  You can fight them all from now on.  Fight whomever you want.  You'll win anyway, we both know it.  I just wanted-"  He stopped talking abruptly, closing his mouth, stabbing viciously at the pan's egg remains with his spatula.  "I hate scrambled eggs.  I have hated scrambled eggs for years."  Years - - how long was that to Methos?  Most people meant two, five, maybe ten.  "Fuck it."

        "Adam-"

        Adam shoved away from the counter and left the loft, grabbing his coat and sword on the way out the door.  He was wearing Duncan's clothes.

        Duncan finished his breakfast and cleaned the kitchen.  He went to the sofa and opened Adam's bag, pulling out the clothes.  That left books, toilet accessories, a Discman and some CD's, a spiral-bound notebook, and an assortment of pens.  Then Duncan left the loft for the first time since the Gathering had begun.  He went to wash Adam's clothes.

        When Duncan came back, Methos was there.  Correction: Adam was there.  Playing chess.  A CD was on Duncan's stereo, clearly something from Adam's collection.  "Hi.  You had a visitor.  I killed him for you.  You can't go making speeches about how it's all your battle and then leave me to fend for myself."

        "Anyone I know?"

        "John Steinbeck."

        "Never heard of him."  He'd wondered whether Adam would care that he'd gone through Adam's bag.  Apparently not.

        "I trust that you only sorted through my dirty boxers and didn't go rummaging through my notebooks?" Adam asked.

        Well, never mind.  "If you want me to read whatever it is, you'll show me."

        "Trust me, I won't."

        Trust.  Hmm.  Okay.  He would.  Thanks.  "Have you eaten?"

        "Not since last night."

        "Who's winning?"

        Adam looked down at the chess board.  "I am."

        Duncan decided not to comment on the possible significance and various interpretations of that statement, and went to the refrigerator.  He'd never played chess with Adam.  He'd played with Darius.  Adam - - Methos - - had been a great strategist, he gathered, back with the Horsemen.

        Adam rose from the floor and joined Duncan in the kitchen area.  While Duncan made sandwiches, Adam peeled oranges with long-fingered hands.

        Swift burn of another immortal's presence.

        Adam didn't even flinch or hesitate, simply continued to peel an orange.  Duncan looked at him for a long moment, to memorize the man as best he could, then went to fight.

        When the fight ended and Duncan had absorbed the immortal's quickening, he turned and saw Adam standing on the sidewalk, watching.

        They ate lunch before Duncan challenged Adam to a game of chess.  The CD ended and Adam put on another without asking for Duncan's opinion.  Drinking beer, distracted by Iggy Pop, Adam still managed to beat Duncan with almost humiliating ease.  Almost humiliating.  Pretty close to humiliating.  Adam didn't even bother to crow about it, only set up the board for another game.

        Another immortal.  Duncan won again.  Again, when it was over, he saw Adam standing there, watching.

        Adam made another phone call after that battle.  He took the phone into the bathroom and closed the door.  For privacy, Duncan assumed, and not to pee while conversing.  Adam emerged two hours later, while Duncan certainly was not going crazy with curiosity, and set the phone on the table.

        "You're killing my phone bill," Duncan said.

        "It was local," Adam said, sitting beside him on the sofa, elbows on knees, face in hands.

        "What's wrong?" Duncan asked.

        "I," Adam said, "am a very lonely person.  I'm isolated by necessity.  It's hard to make friends with mortals or immortals.  Real friends."

        "We're friends," Duncan said, shifting closer, concerned.  He had never heard Adam talk like this, or on this topic.

        "I," Adam said into his hands, "need a hug."

        He'd never heard Adam say anything like that, make such a gross concession.  It scared him, but he didn't dare refuse.  Duncan wrapped his arms around Adam, propping his chin on Adam's shoulder.  Adam remained tense.  Duncan waited.  Finally Adam relaxed, all at once leaning into Duncan.  Duncan's forehead met Adam's temple.  Their eyes were closed.  They leaned back together, resting against the sofa's back support.  Time passed.

        "Richie's coming," Adam said.  "To the States.  I assume to see you, to make sure you're all right."

        "Now?" Duncan asked.

        "He's over the Atlantic now."

        Duncan's arms tightened.

        One of Adam's hands rested on Duncan's forearm.

        "How many students have you lost?" Duncan asked.

        "Too many."

        "There's so much that you could teach."

        "To whom?"

        "To me."

        "No, MacLeod," Adam said softly, "there's nothing that I can teach you."

        "I could learn-"

        "I've learned from you," Adam said.  "You have nothing to learn from me."

        Duncan fell asleep.  Only a jolt of immortal buzz roused him.  He sat up suddenly, almost cracking skulls with Adam, who was also snapping awake.  They went for their swords.  The immortal kept coming, didn't wait downstairs.  Someone was coming up the lift.

        "Richie?" Duncan asked.

        "No," Adam said, putting a hand on Duncan's arm.  "Wait."

        "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, are you in there?" a male voice called, mocking.  Not Richie.  How did Adam know?

        "Mac," Adam said quickly, but he moved forward as the lift arrived.  There was a wide grin, a loud noise, and he stumbled back with the force of a blow.  He'd been shot.

        He was so furious that he'd been shot, what happened next almost didn't register.  Right past his ear, right over his shoulder, flying so fast it was an end-over-end blur, a dagger planted itself deep in the gunman's chest.  Before Duncan fell over and died, he managed to looked behind himself to see Adam - - no, Methos, this was full-force Methos, grim and smirking and arrogant and bitter and caustic and irritated and frustrated and proud, and so fucking gorgeous, looking with smug satisfaction at the body of the gunman.

        When Duncan's eyes opened, he was lying on the sofa.  His gaze focused as he saw Methos standing over him wiping blood from the dagger.

        "Good morning, sunshine," Methos said.  "He had very good aim, or very good luck; he shot you right in the heart with a hollow-point bullet.  Those do a lot of damage and it takes a while to recover.  You were out with plenty of time for him to cut off your head."

        "Lucky for me you were here."

        "Having me around isn't always considered good luck," Methos said.

        "Where is he?" Duncan asked, sitting up now.

        "I killed him," Methos said.  "Once for fun, the second time for good.  I know that you said that any immortal visitors are strictly your responsibility, but this one wasn't playing your game, he was playing my game."

        "The game where there are no rules and everyone cheats."

        "That's the one."

        "Where'd you get that?"

        "Originally or just now?"

        "I didn't know you had it.  You pulled it out so fast..."

        "I had to kill him before he could kill me."

        "He would've shot you next."  Methos shot.  Methos dead.  No more Methos.  No more Duncan, either, but for some strange reason that was easier to cope with; not that he wanted to die, but he'd accepted that, considering his lifestyle, one day he might not wake up again.  He didn't want to think about Methos that way.

        "Yes.  He was aiming to do just that when I decided to stop him."

        "You have an entire personal arsenal, don't you?"

        "Sword, knives, guns, a garrotte or two - - you'll never know what comes in handy, MacLeod.  I have pockets; I strap them to various parts of my body.  I don't want to die, and I'm doing my level best to see that I don't."

        "I'm glad to hear that."

        "You should've seen your eyes.  I don't know if you were more surprised at being shot or at the knife."

        "Methos, thank you."

        "If you really want to thank me, you'll make me something to eat."

        "You're hungry?"

        "Fine.  I'll make myself something to eat.  You go wash off the gore."

        "Methos?"

        "I'm sorry, MacLeod."  Their eyes met.  Duncan saw grief in Methos' eyes.  Those stupid eyes, what were they, hazel?  Some sort of olive dark green?  He never could tell.

        "Methos, tell me."

        "Richie."

        "No."

        "If I'd realized beforehand, if I'd been thinking, I would've let you kill him, but I didn't know."

        "Richie."  Duncan stood, gripped Methos' hand, sought those inscrutable eyes for a clue to the fate of Richie's soul.  Richie was inside of Methos now.  So was Amanda.  Was that how they'd all end up, was that where they'd all go, into the timeless man before him?  Swallowed up by - -

         He jerked away, hating Methos, hating himself, hating the Game and immortality and the fucking fucking fucking Gathering.  He threw himself into the bathroom and slammed the door.

        He sobbed into his shower, tried to keep going but ended up leaning against the cold tile until the water started to freeze his skin.  Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and wiped away the water and his tears.  He heard nothing from beyond the bathroom.

        God, if Methos had gone...  No, Methos wouldn't leave.  Methos gone, and Richie and Amanda gone with: the idea was unbearable.  Duncan whipped the towel around his waist and shoved the door open impatiently, suddenly sure of Methos' disappearance and terrified of it.

        Methos was asleep on the sofa, sword by him on the floor.

        MacLeod sagged against the doorframe in relief.  Thank god.  He went to his bedroom, pulled on sweatpants, and fell into his own bed.  Richie...  His friend and student and son...

        Next morning:

        "MacLeod, one would imagine that after four hundred years you'd have learned to comb out your hair."

        "I wasn't exactly in my best frame of mind last night."

        "I can't stand to watch this painful butchery any longer.  Give me the comb."

        "What?"

        "I have combed my hair and plenty of other people's.  And you have forfeited the right to groom yourself."  Adam wrested the comb from Duncan's grip.  "Now sit down and hold still."

        "You've combed other people's hair?"

        "Uncountable children.  A wife or two.  Kronos."

        "Children?"

        "Some of my wives had offspring, and for some unfortunate reason young people in general are exceedingly fond of my company.  Ask what you really want to ask, MacLeod."

        "Kronos?"

        "Kronos and I groomed each other regularly.  We were overly clean, considering the time and place."  Duncan had explained once before that he could not access any of Kronos' memories.  He wasn't sure why that was, and he was actually happy about it.

        Adam was being thorough and very gentle.  He barely felt it when the comb snagged on his tangles, and the process was quite painless.  "You should do this professionally."

        "I've had so many professions that I probably have been a barber and just forgot," Adam said.

        "How much do you remember?"

        "Sometimes I remember all of it, every last bit.  Sometimes I remember highlights, or vague impressions of a place or period.  Sometimes I forget my current address, much less where I lived in 1850, CE or BCE."

        "CE or BCE?"

        "Common Era or Before the Common Era.  They're the trendy new ways to name AD or BC.  Ridiculous, if you ask me, but I try to keep up with the terminology of the times.  That's one thing that I do remember.  I've always been good with languages, and I'm still fluent in a good number of them, including the ones that no one else on the planet speaks anymore."

        "You could translate ancient texts.  All of the archaeological-"

        "If I wanted to help archaeologists, I could do a lot more than translate texts."

        "I know that, I'm just talking."

        "Yes, you do love the sound of your own voice."

        "Pot, meet kettle and call it black."

        "MacLeod, I don't care how long you live, you will never make a living as a professional comedian."

        "Adam?"

        "What now?" Adam asked mildly from behind him.

        "Could I talk to Methos?"

        "Wait, let me ask Sybil first.  All right, go ahead."

        "Why are you always impossible?"

        "I or he?"

        Duncan stood and turned quickly, then stared into those eyes.  Inscrutable was a good term to use here.  Damned inscrutable was even better.  The man facing him simply looked back at him.  Who was in there?  Was Methos five thousand years of donned personalities and other immortals' quickenings?  Was the original Methos still in there at all?  Or had five thousand years done nothing to change - - no, that was impossible; but something about Methos was timeless, eternal, and permanent.  Methos always would be.

        "I do hope that someday your face freezes in that bewildered lost look, MacLeod.  Big wide eyes, parted lips, you look as though you've just seen your puppy get shot."

        "Do you have any respect for anything?" Duncan demanded.

        "Has anything earned my respect?" Methos countered.  "You never did like people who answered your questions with a question, did you, MacLeod?  You like concrete straight answers, one plus one is two always and forever.  But nothing's concrete, MacLeod, and nothing's forever."

        "You are."

        "We're facing the Gathering.  Soon I'll be nothing but a headless body like all the rest."

        "No."

        "I'd ask you to make it painless, but neither of us thinks that I deserve that, do we?"

        "Me?"

        "Who else?"

        "Methos, I cannot kill you."  He was shocked and appalled.  To imagine that he could kill Methos, that he ever would commit such - - And to imagine that Methos assumed that he would, that Methos somehow was planning on it, counting on it.

        "Someone has to, and it's going to be you.  Do you think that I'd let just anyone assimilate my quickening?  I've gone to great lengths to keep my head on my shoulders, MacLeod, and I'm not going to let any immortal off the street disconnect it."

        "That's why you're here.  You came here for me to kill you?"

        "Yes."

        "Eating and playing chess and waiting for your death at my hands?"  He let anger into his tone.  He felt betrayed.

        "Yes.  Well, there have been benefits.  You did clean my laundry.  Although I helped you with yours as well, and the quality of beer has gone downhill since I was here last."

        "Methos, I will not kill you."

        "If someone else does, you'll lose the Game.  Whoever gets me wins."

        "You're the Prize?"

        "You know what I mean, MacLeod."

        "I won't kill you.  I'd rather lose.  I'd rather die."

        "And have some other immortal win?  If world domination is at stake here - - although, really, do we want you running the world?"

        "Why can't you win?"

        "I'm not cut out for it.  You're the Champion."

        "Not if it means killing you."

        "If you give me the same 'you're too important to lose' crap that I gave you, I'm going to leave this tangled mess in your hair.  Now turn around and hold still."

        Duncan found himself facing away from Methos again, those long skillful fingers in his hair once more.  "Methos?"

        "MacLeod."

        "I want Adam back."

        "He's busy.  You're stuck with me."

        "I don't like you.  Ow!"

        "Oh, my sincerest apologies, MacLeod, did that hurt you?" Methos asked, sweet as honey.

        "Bloody..."

        "Same to you, darling, with bells on it."  Methos kept combing.

        Was that Methos or Amanda?  "Are you finished yet?"

        "If I were finished, I would have stopped.  I'm not doing this for my health, you know."  Methos combed through his hair once more, pulled it back, and tied it in a neat ponytail.  "All finished.  Now grab your sword and let's go."

        "Go where?" he asked warily, turning to face Methos.

        "Downstairs.  We're going to spar."

        "I'm not raising a sword against you."

        "Afraid to lose?"

        "Afraid you'll trick me into killing you."

        "Why would I do that?" Methos asked innocently.  "Come on, MacLeod.  You haven't killed anyone for almost twenty-four hours; you must be terribly rusty."

        "I'll chance it," Duncan said.  "Why don't I make some lunch?"  He went over to the kitchen and got out the bread.  He wanted Adam back.  Methos was too arrogant, too worldly, too wise, and too quick to use all of that against him.  Adam was just as intelligent and well-educated as Methos, but a hair less acerbic, a touch less arrogant.  Disappointing Adam made him feel bad, but disappointing Methos made him feel like a worthless piece of shit who might as well give up and die already before making the world any worse than he already had.  And Methos didn't even try to make him feel like that; Methos wanted him to succeed, tried to help him, encouraged him in that Methosian way.

        As he set down the plates, Methos leaned against the kitchen island.  He looked over and saw the lush soft lashes.  Adam.  Thank god.

        "MacLeod...would you like to talk about Richie?"

        "No."  He looked away quickly.  He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it.  Richie was gone, for good, forever.  His last student, his only son, one of his dearest friends.  He'd made his own small clan these past years, and Richie had been a large part of that.

        "You know that he loved you."

        "What do you know about love?"  Where had that come from?  Duncan astonished himself.  He looked at Adam, afraid of what his harsh words and harsher tone had done.

        Adam looked back at him calmly.  "Not much, I'm afraid.  Wives, children, friends, lovers, I've had them all.  I've accepted love, turned it aside, sought it out, fought for it, and destroyed it both carelessly and deliberately.  I've loved, been loved, and been in love.  I've had simple springtime romances, and I've had Kronos.  Some loves are pure and platonic, others are passionate and over fairly quickly, some are healing and uplifting, and some are destructive.  People love their gods, their mothers, their pets, and their new cars."

        "Do you love anyone?"

        "Recently?  There was Alexa.  She's dead now, of course.  Everyone dies sooner or later."

        "You won't."

        "We're Gathering, MacLeod, and you know it.  The end is coming."

        "Not for you.  You are death."

        "You think that I'm going to kill you, then?"

        He looked into Adam's eyes.  To die.  To have his quickening released, to have it enter this man, to have his quickening, life, experience, soul be a part of Adam.  To be a part of Methos forever.  "Yes."

        "You want me to kill you?"

        "Yes.  No!"

        "You said yes, MacLeod."  Adam held up a dagger, where the hell had that come from?, and lifted Duncan's chin with the tip of it.  "You want me to kill you."  It was no longer a question.

        "No!  I don't want to die.  Adam-"

        "But the Gathering's here, MacLeod.  It's too late for you.  Sooner or later, everyone dies."

        "Not me."

        "You're the exception to the rule, are you?  Just because you're immortal?  Just because you've survived death in the past?  Ah, but no one lives forever.  We all have to die sometime.  Correction: you all have to die sometime.  I live forever.  You said so yourself.  And if I live, you have to die.  That's the way the Game works, remember?"

        "No."

        "Fight back, MacLeod.  Fight me.  If you want to win, you have to fight."

        "If I win, you lose.  If I win, you die."

        "It's you or I, MacLeod, you or I.  You have to choose."

        Duncan did the one thing he'd never, ever thought that he could do.  He slowly went down on his knees.  Brown eyes turned up to look at Adam, not to plead for mercy or to narrow in anger, only to look, to watch.  He felt no loss but no triumph, either.  He knew that right now, in this moment, Adam would not kill him.  But later, this scene might be reenacted with a sword, and he would die.  Currently, even knowing that Adam wouldn't kill him in the next two minutes, he was vulnerable, and he knew that his life was in Adam's hands.  Adam could kill him.  Right now.

        "That's it, then," Adam said.  "You want me to kill you.  You want me to take your head.  Why, MacLeod?  You want to die?  You don't want to live?  Or is it that you don't want to win?  Are you afraid of the Prize, MacLeod?  Afraid to know what's at the end of the rainbow?  Afraid of what it might do to you?  Afraid of the pressure?"

        "No."

        "Then what's causing your death wish?  Is it Richie?  He's gone.  He's in me now.  You want to be with him again?  Be with Amanda again?  It's easier that way, isn't it?  Just escape, opt for the easy way out.  No more Horton, Ahriman, Kronos, dark quickenings, hard decisions, killing off your friends one...by one...by one."  With each "one," the dagger's edge pressed that much harder into Duncan's skin.  Adam moved just slightly and the blade sliced a nick just beneath Duncan's chin.  "How many of your friends have you killed, MacLeod?  And which press most heavily on your conscience?  Is it Sean Burns?  Richie?  Or the ones you killed when you had no excuse, when there was no dark quickening or Ahriman to blame-"

        "Stop it!"

        "I'm the one holding your life in my hands, MacLeod.  I'll say whatever I like and you'll listen."

        "Adam."  He closed his eyes.  "Methos.  I'm sorry."

        "Sorry for what, Duncan?  Sorry for what?  For Byron?  Caspian?  Kronos?"

        "I'm sorry for raping you."

        Methos didn't miss a beat.  "Funny.  I don't remember you acting too apologetic about it.  Do you think that that is what this is about, MacLeod?"

        "I'm sorry.  I never-"

        "Never what, MacLeod?  Never meant to hurt me?  Never raped anyone before?  I know that you've never raped anyone before, or after, because you're incapable of it.  It was just the dark quickening, the influence of evil, you weren't yourself."

        "Methos-"

        "Open your eyes and I'll cut them out, you bastard.  Yes, you raped me.  Yes, it was due to the influence of the dark quickening.  No, you weren't yourself.  I took it as a good sign that you killed Sean Burns, you came within a second of killing Richie, but you never killed me, even though you had opportunities to do so.  No, me, you just raped me.  I didn't even think that you knew that men could be raped.  You were just full of surprises that day."

        Duncan felt the tip of the blade slide up a notch to rest against his chin.

        "You never said a word about it, afterward.  Never mentioned it.  Acted like nothing had happened, like you'd been through a tough time and I'd helped you out of it and everything was just dandy again.  Of course you were full of guilt over everything else that you'd done, and you went into typical brooding guilt over all of the people you'd hurt, but you didn't seem to remember that you'd raped me, that you'd done anything to me at all.  And of course I had helped you.  I saved you.  I came to help you, got raped for my pains, and then came back to help you again, back for more.  I saved you.  And let's put it into perspective.  Yes, rape is one of the worst terrors that people visit upon other people.  It's power, violence, domination.  It's brutal and it's traumatic.  Some people think that it's worse than death, did you know that?  I've been raped before.  You aren't the first, MacLeod.  And I've been the rapist, so I know how it felt from your end.  To know that you could do that to me - - but no, you weren't yourself, were you?"

        Unless Duncan was imagining things, the blade had cut through his chin to the bone.

        "You're my friend, MacLeod.  You've saved me and I've saved you.  I've known when I could count on you and when I couldn't.  You're the Champion.  You're going to win the Game and win the Prize.  You're going to kill me, take my head, and take my quickening.  And I, I've been killing during the Gathering to make myself more powerful, so that you won't be disappointed when you kill me.  Trying to make you happy.  Trying to make myself worthy of the great Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."  Snort.  "As though you'd ever deem me worthy.  And you know as well as I do that I'll never kill you.  I'll never take your head.  I could beat you, yes.  I could win the Game if I so chose, yes.  But I will not take your head.  So your noble sacrifice is an empty gesture, MacLeod.  You know I won't kill you."  The dagger left.

        "Why not?" Duncan asked through the pain.

        "I may pretend to be practical, I may pretend to be cynical, I may pretend that I think of my own survival first, but there are times when I act completely on blind emotion.  This would be one of those times."

        "I hurt you."

        "More than you know, Duncan.  But I forgave you."

        "Obviously," Duncan muttered sarcastically.

        "Child, if I'd wanted revenge I would have taken it then.  What happened just now, what's still happening, is that I'm pissed off because you're an idiot."  Duncan opened his eyes to glare at Methos, opened his mouth to quibble.  "Ah-ah."  The barrel of a gun pressed to Duncan's forehead.  He closed his mouth but kept glaring.  "Tell me why you want to die."

        "I don't.  But I'm going to die.  I won't kill you, and if someone has to kill me I want it to be you."

        "So you can be with Richie.  Amanda."

        "So I can be with you."

        Duncan heard Methos cock the gun, saw Methos' finger tightening on the trigger.  "Try again."

        "I want to be with you."

        "Because I'm so pretty?" Methos asked, angry, suspicious, mocking.

        "You're beautiful," Duncan said, serious.  He closed his eyes when the barrel of the gun pressed harder into his forehead.  "You are," he said, and his voice was softer than he'd intended.  "You have more beauty and power and knowledge than anyone.  You are Adam, you are Death, you-"

        "I'm just a guy with a big nose and a thirst for beer, MacLeod.  Let's not turn me into Jesus Christ."

        "Methos, I don't want to die, but I've known on some level that I will die.  I never expected to live to see the Gathering.  And now that it's here, I know that I won't win.  I can't kill you.  Whoever does kill you will win, even against me.  So you have to win.  For you to win, I have to die.  I want you to be the one to kill me.  I don't want anyone else to have my quickening.  And I will fight everyone else hard, to live, so that you have to be the one to kill me."

        "I won't kill you.  You won't kill me.  No one else can kill us.  What now?"

        "You could get the gun out of my face."

        "It bothers you?"

        One hand shot up fast and knocked aside Methos' arm with the gun; his other hand reached out and shoved Methos at the belt buckle.  Methos went down but swung the gun around, lying back on the floor but aiming the gun at Duncan, who was about to lunge in to attack.  There was a stand-off as they eyed each other warily.  Then Methos smiled and displayed the open chamber.  "I emptied it before I pulled it on you.  Didn't want you to shoot me 'accidentally.'"

        "You are a bastard."

        "By nature and by birth."  Methos stood, helping up Duncan.  "Are we still friends?" he asked with a smile.

        Duncan smiled, too.  "At least until our next argument."

        "Another five minutes, then."

        "That long?"

        Methos chuckled and loaded his gun again.

        "Methos, I'm sorry."

        "Don't start with me, MacLeod."

        "I should have apologized long ago.  I just didn't know what to say, didn't know how to bring it up, and you were acting like nothing had happened!"

        "I'd forgiven you.  You were punishing yourself enough over Sean and Richie as it was."

        "We should have talked about it."

        "And said what?"

        "I...  I can't believe that I'm going to say this...  I should have known that you were a rapist.  With the Horsemen, you...  I should have guessed, but I never..."

        "Yes, you should have."

        "But how could I assume that about you?"

        "Poor innocent Duncan."

        "You've been...  Other times?"

        "Yes.  Not often, mind you, but more than once.  You were the first in a long time.  I've been through a lot, and each experience be it good or bad hits me hard, as though every day were a new lifetime.  But I have been raped, and I know how to deal with it.  It doesn't get any easier, but I can try to handle it a little better each time."

        "I'm sorry."

        "Duly noted."

        "You forgave me?"

        "Yes.  You weren't yourself, you know."

        "Methos, I raped you.  A fate worse than death."

        "So killing me should be a snap."

        "I hate you."

        "That makes it even easier!  Oh come on, MacLeod.  I didn't last five thousand years by brooding over every single injustice ever visited upon me.  One can only be a brooding guilt idiot for so long before-"

        "Idiot!"

        "Hey, don't call me names."

        "Methos-"

        Methos closed his eyes, shook himself all over as though to relax, and sighed, opening his eyes.  "I'm sorry.  Methos isn't in today?  Could I take a message?"

        Duncan smiled in spite of himself.  "Methos-"

        "I'm sorry.  I'm Adam Pierson, mild-mannered grad student.  You might want to change shirts and clean the floor, you know.  There's blood everywhere."  Adam went to the sofa and slouched down on it comfortably.  "It's just going to dry and stain if you don't get moving."

        "You're impossible."

        "No, that's Methos.  I'm Adam.  Don't you pay attention at all?"

        "You look the same."

        "Look closer."

        "You sound the same."

        "His voice is deeper, and my accent's sharper."

        "Adam-"

        "Now you're getting it.  Are you going to clean that or not?"

        The immortals started showing up thick and fast after that day.  Sometimes a second one came while Duncan already was engaged, which meant that Adam fought, too.  The constant influx of quickenings was sending Duncan's system on overdrive.  He barely slept, he was hungry all of the time, and he had a constant itch in his boxers.

        Of course, that last part could have been due to Adam's constant presence.  He was used to seeing Adam on and off, and when Adam was in town they generally spent a lot of time together, but he'd never lived with Adam in close quarters like this, day after day, without going anywhere or seeing anyone, without a third party ever coming to alter the dynamic.  Right now he wasn't counting the Gathering-influenced immortals parading through their time together. To his regret, they were becoming a nameless, faceless group, just something to be dealt with, a constant danger but nothing that he could stop. He was worried about himself, afraid that he could kill without taking the time to mourn each loss.  But there were too many of them, and they barely paused to exchange names anymore.  With each passing day they became more grim.

        He and Adam weren't becoming grim.  They were, in fact, oddly giddy.  Most likely it was due to the stress of their situation.  It wasn't as though Duncan actually felt happy.  But the Game was ending, which meant the end of their existence as they knew it.  Something was coming, something big.  It was an apocalypse, he felt, and it was only fitting that Death was at his side, the last of the Horsemen.  The Game was ending, and they were winning.  But they couldn't win, not both of them.  Which meant, then, that they were in a place of limbo, with a sense of dread and anticipation, waiting for the end, knowing only that when it came it would be, perhaps, more devastating than Death himself ever had been.

        In the meantime, they played chess and took heads and talked.  They talked about Joe, Richie, Amanda, Darius, Fitzcairn.  Cassandra.  Tessa.  Hemingway.  Football.  Roman Catholicism.  Cars.  Freddie Mercury.  Tantric sex.

        Duncan could talk with Adam about anything, anything at all.  Adam talked back at him, gave him straight answers or not, listened to him or not, but there was something about the way Adam talked with him, something about the way that Adam responded, that made him challenged and inspired, that made him think hard and fast, that made him fight to defend himself, that made him think in entirely new directions.  Adam respected him, even the parts of him that made Adam disgusted.  Even though he didn't have to impress Adam, even though there was no good reason to want to do so, he found himself wanting to do it anyway, found himself wanting Adam to admire him, like him, want to be with him, want to talk to him.

        They could spend time together, they could converse.  Adam was infinitely interesting.  Duncan was glad that they could spend hours talking, even if it were about nothing of earth-shattering importance, especially if it were about nothing of earth-shattering importance.  Just two guy sitting around talking, the way guys did.

        Adam stopped calling the Watchers.  They could judge how the Gathering was progressing for themselves, and there was no one out there that they needed to know about, except Joe, and Joe wasn't in this Game.  Joe should be safe.

        Then Duncan awoke one morning when he heard Adam's voice.  Methos' voice.  "MacLeod.  Get up.  Let's go."

        He was awake quickly, sitting up, looking to Methos.  He opened his mouth to ask what was happening, but he didn't need to ask; he felt it for himself.  There was something in him saying go go go, and his blood was pumping, and his adrenaline was high.  Time to get out, time to go, time to finish the Game.  He didn't bother to shower or even brush his teeth, just peed and dressed, dressed for the fight, grabbed his sword and left with Methos.

        They drove east, and although he had no idea where he was going, his blood knew.  Methos didn't comment on their destination or their route, just sat through the hours in silence.  All of Methos' life, 5000 years, Duncan's life lived 12.5 times over only more, so much more, impossible to comprehend.  And here it was, coming to an end.  Coming to a beginning?

        He didn't know where they were anymore, didn't know how much time had passed.  It was as though they'd traveled through a warp of some sort.  But when they came close, he felt it.

        And there it was, before them.  A field of short green grass.  Cars parked around it, some from other states, rentals.  A dog locked up in one, barking.  Here and there, puffs of quickening vapor.  And, scattered across the field, immortals.  Swords clashing, people grunting with exertion, a sharp cry of angered pain.  Fight to the death, fight for survival.  Mostly men, mostly between twenty-five and forty years old - - on the surface, of course.  To have lasted this long in the great battle, they couldn't be too young in immortal years.  It looked like a battle, except that it was not one side against another, it was everyone against everyone else.

        To his side, Methos opened the car door, rose, found the broadsword.  Methos looked grim, determined.

        He's going to win.

        I want him to win.

        It wasn't a shocking revelation, really.  Duncan had come to believe, with great arrogance, that one of them would win.  And he wanted Methos to win, even if it meant his own death.  It did mean his own death.  He was willing to die if it meant that Methos would live forever.

        Methos started off onto the field.  Duncan knew that it was time to get to work.

        Some of the immortals went down more easily than others.  Some were tired from the long fight.  Some were dead set on winning.  Some looked familiar.  He didn't keep an eye out for Methos, couldn't, had to concentrate on keeping his own head.  Still, he didn't doubt that Methos was out there taking heads just as he was.

        Hours passed.

        Duncan realized that there were only eight of them left now.

        Four died.

        He fought one of the survivors, Methos the other.  He and Methos won.

        It had come.  Far too quickly.  He faced Methos, the two of them moving towards each other on the field.  The Gathering was at and end.  The Game was almost over now.  Duncan and Methos, the Champion and Death, in their final struggle.

        Duncan dropped his katana.

        Methos gripped his sword.

        He wouldn't fall to his knees, not yet.  There was too much to say, first, so much that he needed to say.  He looked into Methos' eyes-

        -and Methos fell.  Collapsed.  Facedown on the field.

        Duncan was there in an instant, rolling Methos over, staring in shock, reaching for a pulse.  No pulse.  No pulse, no breathing, no heartbeat, no breath.  Methos was dead.

        He grabbed Methos' shoulders to shake Methos awake, to force a response.  He was screaming, and it was horrifyingly frustrating to hear how powerless he sounded.  He screamed again in outrage, knew that he was crying, laid his forehead on his crossed arms over Methos' chest and sobbed, wanting to deny it.  How could it happen?  What had happened?  Immortals didn't just keel over and die.  If they did, they woke up again.

        But Methos wasn't rousing.  Duncan waited, and waited, but there was no response, no pulse, no shimmer of breath from those lifeless lips.

        He left the other corpses as they were.  He lifted his best friend and carried Methos to his Thunderbird.  Then he returned to retrieve their swords.  Someone had killed the dog.  He drove, drove home, drove back to the loft.  He arrived exhausted and sore and dirty.

        Duncan laid Methos' body on his bed and sat on the floor by it.

        Hours later, he heard footsteps.  Someone was coming.  Joe.

        Joe knocked.  "Mac?"  Knocked again.  Waited.  Tried the door, entered.  "Mac?"  Noticed him, apparently, judging from the new tone in, "Mac."  Relieved, worried, relieved, concerned, rejoicing.  Then, coming closer, "My god, is that Methos?  Mac, what happened?"

        "He's dead.  Duncan couldn't spare a glance for the friend now standing beside him.

        "What happened?"

        "How much do you know?"

        "Everyone headed for the same spot, a field outside of Kantues.  They said you were the only one left.  Some people said that you had someone with you, that there must be a grand showdown of the final two immortals."

        "No showdown, Joe.  Methos and I were the only ones left, everyone else was dead, and I was waiting for him to kill me, but he...died."

        "He can't be dead."

        "He's dead."

        "He can't be!"

        "I don't know what happened, Joe.  He collapsed.  He was going to kill me, and he collapsed, and now I'm here.  Is this my Prize?  Four hundred years of loving and fighting and travelling and living my life and watching everyone change and die and this is what I get?  I never loved anything, anyone, as much as I loved him.  I've had friends and I've had lovers and I even had Richie and I never loved anyone nearly as much as I love Methos.  Four hundred years."

        "Five thousand years," Joe said softly.  "Five thousand years and he collapses in a field.  Mac, I don't buy it.  Something's going on here."

        "What, Joe?"

        "Maybe he didn't want to kill you.  Maybe he poisoned himself?"

        "What do I do, Joe, wait a year and see if he revives?"

        "There has to be some way to determine cause of death.  Besides an autopsy.  Mac, you look awful.  You need a shower, sleep, some food, and a shave."

        "He's beautiful, isn't he?"

        "Do you mind if I touch him?"

        "Don't hurt him."

        "I won't."  Joe moved closer to the bed and put his hand to Methos' neck.  "How long has he been like this?  Since the field?"

        "Yes."

        "He's warm."

        "It hasn't been that long."

        "He doesn't look dead.  Aside from being still, and not breathing.  He's warm, he's not stiff or pale or - - he doesn't look dead, he looks like he's sleeping.  You and I have seen enough dead people to know the difference."

        "No pulse, no breath."

        "I don't think he's dead.  Mac, he still has his head."

        "Then what's wrong with him?!"

        "Take a shower, get something to eat.  I'll stay here with him."

        They were all dead, weren't they?  Robert and Gina, Claudia, Brian, not just Amanda and Richie, all of them, every last one.  People he'd known for centuries were dead now, gone, and they weren't coming back, not this time.  He'd depended on them, because they'd known him before, they knew him now, they'd lived life in the times and places that he had, they remembered worlds the history books couldn't quite capture.  They were living records, all of them, and they'd been their own society, not to mention his connection to his past, to his heritage.  Now every last one of them was gone.  And for what?  He'd won, but he'd won nothing, lost everything.

        Lost Amanda.

        Lost Richie.

        Lost Methos.

        He showered and changed.  Joe had some Chinese delivered, since he was out of food after holing up in the loft during the final days of the Gathering.  They ate quietly, not talking much.  The Watchers were busier than ever, it seemed, but from now on the main work would be researching.  He was the last one now, the only Immortal, so the Watchers' only job besides research was watching him, spying on him, recording his every move.  That was the final indignity, the final injustice, and he knew that Joe would do whatever possible to afford him privacy, but Joe couldn't do much.

        Joe left, finally, promising to return tomorrow, promising to look into the possible explanations for Methos' death.  Joe continued to contend that it was a temporary state, that Methos would be fine soon enough.  Duncan, however, was convinced: Methos was dead.

        Duncan carefully, not jostling Methos' body, sat on the edge of the mattress, facing the headboard.  "Methos," he said softly.  "I'm sorry.  You were supposed to win.  You deserved to win.  You should have won."  He rested his hand on the top of Methos' head, feeling the soft dark hair, and leaned forward, placing a loving kiss on Methos' forehead.  It was the most intimate physical display he'd ever shown with Methos.  Methos had delved deep into his psyche, seemed to know him inside and out, and, yes, they had sparred, so they knew each other's bodies and techniques.

        And he had raped Methos.

        They weren't affectionate.  They'd exchanged glances, glances where it was clear that Methos saw his feelings as though he were transparent, glances when Methos was feeling mature enough not to rub his feelings in his face.  Sometimes these would happen when Methos showed up unexpectedly, or even in the middle of a regular conversation.  Yet until now, and excluding their embrace on the sofa, their most intimate physical moment had been when he'd painted Methos' nose.

        He smoothed Methos' dark hair.  "You are beautiful.  You didn't believe me when I said it earlier, but you are beautiful." He heard his voice getting husky, taking on a choked sound, brogue thickening just a bit.  "There are things I never told you, Methos.  I didn't need to tell you, because you knew.  But I should have told you.  It was no excuse.  And there were things I did say that I always said too late, at the wrong time, not enough.  I thought that I'd always get a chance to make it right, because we were supposed to live forever.  You'd always be around.  You're Methos, you're a survivor.  But you're not here anymore.  And we're not together, like we should be.  I didn't get your quickening, and you didn't get mine.  Methos, I only-"

        Methos' body arched, back lifting from the bed.  Duncan, amazed, forced himself not to leave.  "Methos?"  Methos' mouth opened and drew in a long, harsh breath.  Those eyes opened wide, unseeing.  "Methos.  Methos!"

        Methos sat up, fast, and Duncan was lucky enough to jerk out of the way first.  Methos gasped for breath, eyes darting.  "MacLeod?"

        Duncan rested his hand on Methos' back.  Methos still was in the dirty, torn, blood-stained clothes of the final fight.  "Methos."

        "Shit," Methos said, sounding rather like Richie, and then Methos dropped back down flat on the mattress, arms flung wide, and screamed.  Duncan reached out a hand in fear and support but was lanced by a shot of pure pain.  He fell off of the bed and onto the floor, vaguely hearing his own roar of outrage.  He felt it, felt his quickening rip free of its moorings, and it left his body, his life force and experiences and knowledge tearing from his soul.  Then it doubled back and invaded, only it was so much more, it was overwhelming, he was being raped and smothered.  The pain was immense, but the horror was worse.  He didn't know what was happening, couldn't understand it; his own quickening was attacking him.  He'd absorbed quickenings before, many, but he'd never had one invade him like this, never had one try to enter him against his will.

        He saw something, out of the corner of his eye, and he he summoned all of his power to turn slightly to glance at it.  It was a hand, Methos' hand.  Methos was lying on his bed, head turned to face him, hand reaching out to him.  "Don't fight it," Methos whispered.

        He reached up with what bare strength he had and wrapped his fingers around Methos'.  Methos pressed their hands together, palm to palm, fingers twined, and he felt everything shift.  The quickening flowed into his body, smooth as brandy, but as powerful and intoxicating as whiskey, 100 proof.  200 proof.  More so.  He realized, then, what it was.  It wasn't his quickening.  It was their quickening.  The quickening of every immortal that ever had been driven into another immortal that had been, eventually, taken by him or Methos.  It was his quickening and Methos', together, blended, united, and it was overwhelming, it was too much.  He was a strong immortal, and he'd taken many heads.  But he'd never known a power like this one.

        It was in him now, trying to get settled, trying to remain contained within his frame.  It was too much for him.

        He managed to sit up, still holding onto Methos' hand.  He looked to Methos, who was lying on the bed watching him.

        "Go get me a beer."

        "Is this the end?" Duncan asked.  "Or do you have to kill me?"

        "I don't want to kill you, I want a beer.  And a shower.  How long's it been?"

        "You were dead."

        "Nonsense."  Methos stood, shook off his hand, went to the refrigerator.  "MacLeod, there's no beer in here.  And do you honestly expect me to eat the leftovers of the American idea of Chinese food?"

        "Methos."

        "I'll assume that Joe was here."

        "Joe!"  Duncan found his feet somehow and staggered to the phone.  "Joe!  It's - - no, he's fine, he's alive.  Awake.  He's here.  Something's happened.  No, I-"

        Methos took the phone from Duncan's hand.  "Hello, Joe?  I'm fine, how are you?  Our quickenings have blended.  I have some of his and he has some of mine.  He's not taking it very well."

        Duncan remembered when they'd killed Silas and Kronos.  There had been so much power at that moment that he couldn't absorb it, and it had funneled off to Methos.  It made sense to him, now.  Methos already housed so much power that more, even at that volume, could be accepted.  Now, he had enormous power, more than he'd imagined, housed in his body.  It hummed in his veins and it pounded at his temples.  He could feel it, a coiled strength in his every movement.  How did Methos live like this?

        Methos had hung up the phone and was poking a fork through leftover pork fried rice.  Duncan watched, amazed at the false normality of the situation.  Just another guy with a container of Chinese food.  As though anything about Methos were remotely ordinary.

        "I love you."

        Methos spared him a glance.  "You really should.  I'm a wonderful person."

        "I'm in love with you."

        "Yes, I know.  You've been infatuated with me since we met."

        "I have not."

        "Yes, you have."

        "Not infatuated."

        "You had a crush on me, MacLeod, and it turned into an obsession very quickly."  Methos finished eating and disappeared into the bathroom.  Duncan heard the shower.  Methos emerged, dry, clean, dark hair damp, clean-shaven, naked save a towel.  Methos, in a display of utter disregard for Duncan's home, dropped the towel on the floor and got into the bed, sliding that lean muscled body between Duncan's sheets.  Methos sighed, rolled over, and fell asleep.

        Duncan tried to pick his jaw up from the floor.  He didn't bother to get the towel; that would mean getting close to Methos, and he didn't trust himself, not now.  He slept on the sofa, fully dressed.

        "Joe, do you have any idea how long it's been since I've read - - I'm not even sure which language this is."

        Duncan blinked.  Morning.  Methos.  He sat up, and remembered everything sharply when a jolt of power surged down his spine.  He'd never felt stronger.  As he'd slept, the quickening seemed to have taken root in him.

        "Nice of you to join us," Joe said to him.  "There's been a massive research wave, and we started cleaning out the archives, starting with the oldest.  We found this, and no one knows what it is, so I thought I'd bring it to good old Adam, to see if it's one of Methos'."  Joe and Methos were seated at the kitchen island.  Methos was leaning elbows on the countertop, staring down at the ancient sheaves before him.

        "Can you read it?" Duncan asked, rising, running his hands through his hair.  He almost never looked rumpled anymore, and he wasn't sure that he liked it.

        Methos carefully turned to the next page of text, handling the work with great caution.

        "What does it say?" Joe asked.  "Is it a log on some old immortal, a recipe for ice cubes, an ancient VCR instruction booklet, a personal letter, an official edict, what?"

        "I know what the Prize is," Methos said.

        "What?" Duncan asked, coming forward immediately.

        "The Prize?" Joe asked.

        "Joe, could you excuse us?  Come back tomorrow," Methos said.

        "Hey!  I brought you that-"

        "I really appreciate it.  I think that MacLeod's going to appreciate it even more.  Right now, I think that it's best if you leave."

        "And you're going to tell me everything?"

        "Everything, Joe, absolutely.  Don't I always?"

        "Tomorrow."

        "Tomorrow."

        "Bright and early."

        "Bright and - - well, not too early.  I'm not one for mornings."

        "I want you to tell me everything.  I'm counting on you." Joe told Duncan.

        "Have a nice day now," Methos said as Joe left.

        "Methos, what's going on?  What does that say that you can't tell Joe?" Duncan asked, concerned.

        "The Game is over, officially.  You won.  Congratulations, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

        "What's the Prize?  And if I won, what about you?  There can be only one, Methos.  Right now I'm still seeing two."

        "I never really liked the Game," Methos said.  "A bunch of petty, foolish children picking fights with each other.  Yes, I've taken heads.  Like Kristin, you remember Kristin.  She was killing people and she needed to be stopped, and there was only one way to do it, so I did it.  But I never really understood the point of running around from one immortal to the next making challenges.  I prefer to live and let live."

        "Methos, is there a point coming any time soon?" Duncan asked.  Methos was wandering around the loft a bit, almost talking to himself.  Duncan liked Methos' voice, the ever-changing inflections, the depth, the accent.

        "The Game was a bunch of foolish children picking fights with each other," Methos said again.  "No one really understood the reason for it all.  You'd think, wouldn't you, that somewhere in the beginning, at some point, we knew.  That the first immortals had a reason, that the legends grew from a truth."

        Duncan listened more intently.  Methos knew, then.  Methos had found the reason, the purpose of it all.

        "Do you remember the legend of the Trojan War?" Methos asked.  "Disregard the reality.  You remember what the stories say it was about."

        "Helen," Duncan said, startled by the change in conversation.

        "Everyone fighting over a good piece of ass," Methos said.

        "What were we fighting over?" Duncan asked, trying to steer their conversation back in its proper course.

        Methos stood behind the sofa, bracing both hands on it, giving Duncan a wicked smile.  "An even better piece of ass."

        "What?" Duncan asked, not sure whether he wanted Methos to repeat that or explain it.

        "You want to know what the Prize is, Duncan.  You want to know what all of the fighting was about.  You want to know what you've won."

        "Yes!"

        "And...you want to know why I'm still here."

        "Yes!"

        Methos waited.

        Duncan waited.

        Methos sighed, pushing away from the sofa.  "I've drawn you the picture and sketched it in, now you want me to describe it to you.  Fine.  I'm the most ancient sentient being on this planet.  Wouldn't know it to look at me, would you?  Don't you think that there's a reason for me?  Don't you think that there's a purpose to my existence besides an appreciation for a fine beer and a good book?"

        "Yes."

        "Can you guess what it might be?  Because you won the Game, you won the Prize, I'm just hanging out here.  There can be only one and you're it.  Meanwhile I'm the oldest immortal.  I was around from the first."

        "You were there when the Game began," Duncan said.  "You remember, now, what its purpose was?"

        "Yes.  I do.  MacLeod, I know that you tend to believe that nothing spoken has any value unless it's said with a Scottish accent, but I rather like the accent I'm using now, and speaking with a Highland brogue makes me smell haggis.  Have you been listening to what I've said?"

        "Yes, Methos.  Just tell me what the Prize is!  Tell me what the Game was for!"  He was going to be mature and not remark on the haggis crack.

        "You remember my drawing a parallel between the Game and the Trojan War."

        "You said that the Prize is a...woman?"

        "Don't be heterosexist, MacLeod."

        "Heterowhat?"

        "MacLeod, I was hoping that I wouldn't have to rob myself of the tiny bit of dignity you've left me, but I can see that you're being especially thick-headed today."

        "You're not making any sense!  Don't blame me."

        "The best wars are fought for personal reasons.  Most wars are for territory, food, necessities.  But the people can be stirred up best when their emotions are exploited.  Nationalism, the 'we're better than they are' mentality.  People get riled up to save or support a certain hero, a brave young soldier, a beautiful victim.  Helen of Troy, a great beauty, they wanted her for sex.  This Game, your Game, was a battle just like any other.  Everyone fighting over one piece of ass."

        "What's the Prize, Methos?"  He was confused and frustrated and tired of Methos talking down to him.  "And it's not my Game, it's our Game.  You were in it, too."

        "Helen didn't grab a sword and swing into the battle, MacLeod."

        "What?"  Then it connected.  But it still didn't make sense.  "You're the Prize?"  He waited for Methos to laugh at him for the idiocy.  But Methos only smiled.  "Methos, you can't be serious.  Five thousand years of immortals killing each other, the Game, the Gathering, all of it, all of us, all of these lives, just for you?"

        "I'm not good enough?" Methos asked.

        "It doesn't make any sense.  You're one of us."

        "Am I?  Besides, if we're both immortal, you can keep your Prize with you forever."

        "Richie had to die so I could fuck you?" Duncan shouted.  "Methos, I know that you think a lot of yourself, but this is ridiculous!  Where did you get this idea?"

        "I know that you're in love with me."

        "That has nothing to do with it."

        "There can be only one.  We went through the Gathering, MacLeod, and saw it to the end.  The compulsion is over now.  You don't want to kill me, and I don't want to kill you.  We're the only ones left."

        "Maybe I'll take your head anyway."

        "You can't.  No one can.  No one ever has."

        "No one's taken my head, either."

        "Yes, but you've only managed to survive for four hundred years.  Four hundred years is nothing.  And you are the winner, after all."

        "Maybe you're the winner and I'm the Prize."

        "Not bloody likely."

        An insulting response, but an honest one.  "You think that all of this time, for five thousand years, we've all been fighting over you."

        "Yes."

        "What's so special about you?"

        "You're the one who's in love with me, why don't you tell me."

        "I'm no more in love with you than you're in love with yourself."

        "MacLeod, I didn't tell Joe to leave so that we could have a ridiculous and unending discussion that makes us both sound like repetitive idiots.  I'm the Prize and you won."

        "We don't know that."

        "I know that.  If you want to be stubborn and close-minded, that's up to you.  I'll bet that no one looked at Helen and said, 'Oh, we fought for this?  Her?' and walked off grumbling.  You're just ungrateful."

        "Ungrateful?  That after four hundred years of pain and blood I've 'won' a raving lunatic?"

        "This raving lunatic happens to be part and parcel of a very nice piece of ass that I don't think you're appreciating fully."

        "Methos, you're jumping to conclusions."

        "I remember.  I remember how it began.  I felt that feeling - - it was different, then.  Now it's claustrophobia and adrenalin and paranoia rushing over us.  Back then it was a thrum, gentle.  The first immortals I'd ever met...they were standing by the river.  I went over to them, and we introduced ourselves.  They were two men, and they explained to me that we were a strange race who couldn't die, that we were identifiable to each other by that feeling, and that we had to keep it a secret from the others, from the mortals.  I remember...there was some confusion.  Because I couldn't remember dying.  I couldn't remember being any different from the way I was then, and I'd been that way for a long time.  I was either confused or very old, they weren't sure.  They told me about their first deaths, explained that it was natural for us to grow up like anyone else and then come back to life after death, and stop aging at that point.  But I couldn't remember a life from before, or dying."  Methos paused, thinking.  "They liked me, and I thought that they could be my friends.  I didn't have any friends.  They liked me more and more, and I knew that they were interested in me sexually.  They introduced me to another pair of immortals, and the five of us spent time together.  We were...nomads, wanderers.  One day the first two were arguing, over me; they were jealous, each thought that the other was trying to steal me.  The one strangled the other.  When he came back to life, they fought again, and they kept killing each other, kept wanting the other to be gone for good.  It was terrifying, to be alone in the desert with two madmen.  The other two were drawn into their fight.  Then one came upon the idea of cutting off the head, severing the body, dismemberment.  I was too scared and lost to stop it, and three ganged up on the other, and I won't tell you what it was like, except to say that it took a long time.  But when the head was severed, there was a quickening, the first anyone ever had seen.  I ran away that night.  They came after me.  They'd done what they'd done for me, after all.  They chased me.  Word spread, in time, from one immortal to the next.  They were on the lookout for me, trying to hunt me down.  Then, as time passed, the tradition of killing each other, to gain power and control, continued.  But word of me specifically changed, then abated, became more vague."

        "You may have been the first?"

        "Assuming that I am one of you."

        The world was tilting.  Methos always managed to make him question and wonder no matter how firmly nailed down he thought he had his world.  It was one of the most infuriating of Methos' traits.

        "Congratulations," Methos said.  "You won the Prize.  Will you be going to Disneyland?"

        He had a feeling that Richie had influenced that remark, and that Richie was the only reason he understood it.  Richie was with him still, then, thanks to the influx of Methos' quickening.  He was grateful for that, at least.

        Methos crouched down behind the sofa, and Duncan frowned.  Then Methos straightened again and, in a stunning display of agile grace, pulled off his bulky sweater to reveal a lean, tight, pale form, one of the most fascinating displays of male beauty that Duncan ever had been privileged to witness.

        Was it so hard to believe, after all, that five thousands years' worth of immortals had battled for this man?

        Yes, of course it was, the idea was ridiculous.  There was no possible way that-

        -oh.  "Methos, what are you doing?"  Good lord, his voice couldn't possibly sound like that.

        "You won me, MacLeod.  I'm your Prize now."  Methos stretched out over the bed, rolled to his back, settled in comfortably.  "Wake me if you're ever in the mood."

        Faced with Methos' slender form naked on a bed, could anyone not be in the mood?

        Duncan turned his back and cursed at himself silently.  He needed to get a grip on reality.  Methos was not a toy in a cereal box.  Methos was an irritable, pompous immortal who'd gone insane at some point in the past few hours.  He had not won Methos.  He was not going to have sex with Methos.  He wasn't even going to look at Methos' naked body, no matter how tempting it was, no matter that it was right there in his bed within plain sight.

        Duncan peed and ate.  Methos slept.  Duncan went shopping for groceries and paid some bills.  Methos ordered pizza that Duncan had to accept at the door because Methos was still naked in his bed.  Duncan paid without question and wasn't sure why.

        At three a.m. the phone rang.  Duncan was sleeping on the sofa in his own home, again.  He found the phone.  "Hello?"

        "Mac, it's Joe.  We think we've found something here.  We have our language experts looking over the ancient archives sorting through the texts, and one of them found something that sounds pretty important."

        "What is it?"

        "From what I've been told, it says that the immortals are fighting to win the hand of the ancient beauty.  Does that mean anything to you?  Is it a metaphor for something?"

        "Oh no."

        "So it means what I thnk it means?  Don't tell me it means what I think it means, Mac.  Because the guys here are wetting themselves trying to figure it out, but seeing as I know something they don't, I'm begging you to tell me that it doesn't mean what I know it probably means."

        "What do they think it means?"

        "They have no idea.  But, like I said, I have a little more inside information than they have.  I wouldn't go so far as to call him a beauty, but I sure know someone pretty ancient."

        "He told me that he was the Prize."

        "Is that what the text I brought over says?"

        "According to him, yes."

        "It's even older than the one we have here.  That's two separate sources."

        "He told me about a memory.  I don't know how real it is.  Come over tomorrow and he can tell you himself."

        "I guess we have to take this seriously, then.  It's not just Adam blowing smoke up your ass?  You know as well as I do that he's not always a hundred percent accurate in his versions of the truth."

        "I know.  I don't know what to think."

        "If he's the Prize...  Mac, I've kept a lot from the Watchers.  This thing's getting too big for me to keep to myself."

        "I can't make you keep my secrets, or his secrets, Joe," Duncan said.  "That's your decision."

        "I know.  Doesn't make it any easier."

        "Would you say good-bye and hang up the phone so I can sleep?" Methos demanded from the bed.

        "He's a real prize, all right," Joe said.  "See you two tomorrow."

        "Bye, Joe."  Duncan hung up the phone and settled down on the couch.  He missed his bed.  His bed, his loft, "Methos."

        Methos didn't respond.

        Duncan rose, walked to the bed.  "Methos.  This is my home, my loft, my bed.  You can go back to the sofa."

        "I'm your Prize, MacLeod, not your servant.  Learn to be hospitable."

        "Hospitable - - you show up here unannounced, you've been living here and eating here and using up all of the hot water for-"

        "It seemed to me that you'd be grateful for a cold shower or two," Methos said, rolling onto his side away from Duncan.  "I'll share, but I'm not leaving."

        "So nice of you to let me use my own bed."

        "Generous to a fault," Methos agreed sleepily.

        "Get out!"

        "Of your bed...your loft...or your life?" Methos asked.

        The question shook him so badly that he couldn't face it.  "Methos, I know you aren't planning to take up permanent residence here.  You always leave."

        "It's a survival tactic.  Being around you tends to put me in danger.  But now no one's coming to kill you or me, so I might be persuaded to stay."

        "For how long?"

        "How long do you have?  I don't have any pressing appointments until...  Well, I was thinking of having a nice birthday celebration in another five thousand years.  Nothing fancy, just a small...gathering."  Methos chuckled.  "Sorry about that; I should have chosen another word."

        "Methos!"

        Methos rolled to his back and looked up at Duncan patiently.  "MacLeod, I'm trying to sleep.  If you insist on bothering me, at least do it quickly,  What do you want?"

        "What are you doing?"

        "Trying to sleep.  Or did you mean in the larger view?  Well, what I do is up to you now.  After all, you won me.  You get to decide what happens to me.  I'm in suspense, MacLeod.  Will you kick me out for good?  Keep me as a passing acquaintance?  Let me be your closest friend?  Try to fuck me senseless?  Let me fuck you?  Beg me to fuck you?  Or kill me?"

        "If I ask you to stay?" he asked, his tone somewhat defensive.

        "Then I'll stay."

        "For how long?"

        "I'm immortal, MacLeod.  If I say forever, I may just mean it."

        "You'd stay with me?"

        "Yes.  As a friend, if you'd like.  As a companion and sometime lover.  As the grand love of your life."

        "You'll commit yourself to me?  You'll be my lover for the next four hundred years of my life?"

        "At least."

        It should have terrified him.  It really should have.  Could he put up with anyone for that length of time?  There were people he'd known for that long, but he'd seen them only sporadically, not on a day-to-day basis.  How could he possibly handle that commitment?  And with Methos, no less.  Methos was absolutely irritating and arrogant and knew every last button he had, and pushed them all with a sort of smug glee.

        On the other hand, Methos was very intelligent, well-informed, experienced, handsome, beautiful, and had been known to be generous.  Methos walked where mortals and immortals feared to tread.

        Besides which, it was pretty hard to consider the ramifications of his actions, or anything at all, when he had Methos naked on his bed, when he was standing beside that bed.

        He was a romantic at heart.  "I'm in love with you."

        Methos smiled.  "I know you are, Duncan."  One strong pale hand rose up from the scarlet bedclothes, long fingers an invitation.  "Come and show me."

        He knew that, on some level, Methos was mocking his romantic notions.  He didn't care.  He took Methos' hand and sat on the bed, leaning in as Methos came up on one elbow.  His eyes closed and their lips met.  A tiny puff of quickening passed between them, sealing their kiss.  Sealing their union?  Sealing their fate?

        It wasn't as he'd imagined.  He couldn't have imagined anything as powerful as this experience.  Making love with Methos shattered him and exploded him, healed him and sent him soaring, made him whole and made them one.

        He knew sex.  He'd had lovers, four hundred years' worth.  He'd even had men.

        But he'd never had Methos.

        Maybe the difference was nothing more than the combination of their personalities.  Maybe it was just that with his experience and Methos' combined, the sex was bound to be...unique.  Maybe it was just something about true love that enhanced the sex.  Maybe it was because five thousand years of immortals had lived and died for this moment, and because he'd spent four hundred years trying to get here.

        He couldn't explain it.  He knew only that he was in love with Methos, and that he'd never guessed that sex, a simple and well-worn act, could arouse such a series of deeply felt feelings and prime sensations that it made taking a quickening pale in comparison.

        They settled, finally.  He rested on his side, Methos facing him, each propped on an elbow, their free hands playing over each other's body.  He met those damned inscrutable eyes again.  "I am in love with you."

        "I know, MacLeod."

        Apparently that "Duncan" had been a one-time deal.  He'd work on it.  "I want you to stay.  I want you to be my partner and my lover and my best friend.  I want to be with you for the rest of my life, wherever we go.  But I want us to be equals.  I don't want you with me because of any Prize or any Game.  I want you to be with me because you want to be with me."

        "MacLeod."  Methos' long fingers passed over his wrist to lace with his fingers.  "When have you ever known me to do anything I didn't want to do?  If I'm here, it's because I walked into this situation knowing exactly what was going to happen, what I wanted to happen, how I could get what I wanted, and how to escape if I needed to leave.  I know you, MacLeod.  I know what you want from me and on what terms.  I know what you need from me and from life.  I know that you don't want me to be your friend and you don't want me to be the spoils of a war.  You want me to be madly in love with you so that we can walk into eternity holding hands in an unrealistic bliss."

        Since that was, in a sense, exactly what he wanted, he kept his mouth shut.

        "We both have enough experience in life that we know what breaks marriages.  We know how to ruin a good thing.  And we know how to keep a relationship healthy.  We know that we're endlessly compatible even though we're very different people.  We know that I know how to drive you completely insane and that I know how to put you and keep you on the right track.  We know that the sex...works.  Given that knowledge, here is my proposal."

        The words "marriages" and "proposal" had gotten stuck in Duncan's brain.

        "You, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and I, Methos, will be madly in love with each other and walk into eternity holding hands in bliss."

        "Unrealistic bliss," he corrected, once he found his brain and his mouth.

        "I've heard many things called unrealistic.  I've learned," Methos said, "that when something becomes a part of my experience, it is very real indeed."

MatthewHaldemanTime.com