Archive of Our Own ^beta

October 2011
Przylasek

Most days, he did all right.

In between working, and sleeping, and the hours he spent in the rather pleasant company of the natives, he didn't have much time to contemplate things lost.

There were moments, though, fleeting sounds or images, when everything would come back to him with a rush, his ease and acquiescence crushed under the weight of every single day of solitude, and he felt nearly suffocated with hurt and pointless rage. It could be a lonely coffee cup in the sink when he cleared away breakfast, or the dark-haired figure on the sidewalk, lanky shape wrapped up in a long coat, that could have been Methos.

A truck drove by, and that was all the warning Duncan got before cold water splashed his left leg from boot to hip. He winced, examining his mud-spattered jeans. They'd paved the roads, all right, and one would expect that after the constant rainfall this month, the grime of the harvest season would be washed away by now.

Duncan smiled faintly and shrugged. It wasn't like he had a business meeting to attend.

One last glance told him that the stranger had disappeared, and Duncan fumbled the keys out of a clammy pocket to open the door to his office. It hadn't been the right height, anyway.

The door was already unlocked. Michał smiled up at him from behind the desk as he entered. "Cześć, Mac," the kid greeted him, and the smile turned into a grin as he saw Duncan's pants. "Hey, what happened to you?"

"What happens to careless pedestrians." He crossed the small, stuffy room and dropped his keys on the desk.

"Serves you right for selling the car."

"Get over it. I'm sure you can find someone else's car to smash up when you get your license." The chair squealed as he sat down. "I have rent to pay, you know."

Michał leaned against the desk and grinned, arms folded across his chest. "My father says we pay you a fortune."

Duncan raised an eyebrow at him. "Your father also says that someone in the family dies if you do your laundry between Christmas and New Year's Eve. What are you doing here, anyway? It's Saturday, shouldn't you be sleeping, or watching TV, or whatever it is you kids do?"

Duncan could almost see Michał twitch with the urge to smack him a good one as he would one of his peers. It was a struggle not to smirk.

"Had to get out of the house. They're going mad over the baby."

Duncan pulled some files from a drawer and spread them out before him, shooing Michał off the desk to gain more room, then opened his calendar to see what part of this mess he had to take care of first. His jeans clung to his skin, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It wasn't supposed to be so cold already. Raising his head, he found Michał looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for some kind of task that would save him the pain of going back home and listening to his parents as they enthused over his sister's pregnancy.

Duncan decided to take pity on him. "How about this: You go over to my place and get me a clean pair of jeans, and then I'll tell you some more about the joys of legal consulting."

With a wide smile, Michał grabbed Duncan's keys. "Great. You're not done with the Szymczyk estate yet, are you?"

Duncan shook his head, first at the question, and then in wonder as he watched the kid dash off. Bartosiewicz should probably pay his son, not Duncan. Where that enthusiasm for administration came from, Duncan couldn't fathom. But the farmers could use that kind of dedication, would probably need it, as Duncan already wondered how long there would be money to spare for a job like this, and how long there would still be a corporation to do the job for.

"It's inevitable," Claire had said last night as he'd taken her to the train station, and she was right. All he could do was buy them some time, another year, another crop, another fund.

He was still busy with the September accounts when Michał returned, and Duncan gave him some instructions regarding next year's expense plan while changing into dry pants.

The kid grabbed some papers and a calculator and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall. Maybe it was time to get him a desk, or at least a small table, considering that they would probably be working together more, not less, in the future.

It came to Duncan then, as he saw Michał hunched over the papers, experimenting with numbers and sums on how best to divide the subsidies among the ten estates which made up the corporation, that he was talking about next year, about another twelve months here in Przylasek. And he'd just about accepted it.

Damn you, Methos. He was so tired of it.

Michał shook him out of it. "Has Żmuda already decided what he's going to do with the northern lands?"

"No, I think your father should talk to him again." With practiced ease he pushed the unwelcome thoughts away and focused his attention on the pile of paper in front of him.

Barring lunch break, they worked until about six in the evening, when Duncan thought that enough was enough. They closed up, and Michał, apparently still not too eager to get back home, decided to accompany Duncan to his apartment.

Duncan would have preferred to go for a longer walk, stroll through the fields, perhaps. But as charming as the kid was, dragging him around for an extended period of time was not something Duncan was very keen on, given his current frame of mind, and he couldn't think of a way to get rid of him that wouldn't seem rude. The walk to his apartment was fairly short, and Michał would hopefully leave him alone then.

"How's that French lady of yours?" Michał asked as they came to a halt at a crossing, waiting for the light to change.

"She's Belgian," Duncan corrected absent-mindedly. The night before, as they had stood on the platform, the icy wind making her shiver in her thin, neat business suit, he'd said goodbye not knowing whether to regret her departure or be glad that it spared him any further complications. He still didn't know. "She left for Strasbourg last night." Left for home, just like that. Packed her bags and her briefcase and got out of here.

But no, it wasn't the same, was it? She'd finished the job she'd come here for, nothing more, nothing less.

The mocking sound beside him was probably meant to provoke, but Duncan didn't rise to the bait. He wasn't in the mood for a discussion like that.

They crossed the street, and Michał kept his mouth shut the few remaining meters to the house where Duncan lived, an old, crooked building with a remarkable lack of right angles.

"My mother wants to know whether you're coming for lunch tomorrow," Michał said, while Duncan opened the door to the stairway to be greeted by the smell of fried onions.

He turned his head towards his companion. The kid still seemed a little out of sorts, and Duncan considered asking him upstairs for a beer, or whatever pathetic dinner he could scratch together from the last contents of his fridge, but his need to be alone won, and he simply answered, "Sure, thanks. Same time as usual?"

Michał pulled a face. "Okay. But don't complain to me when they bore you to death."

Duncan sent him off with a chuckle and started up the stairs. He liked the Bartosiewiczs, and he hadn't seen Katarzyna since she'd left for the university four years ago. She'd been so young then, and now she was building her own family.

The smell of food was strongest on the first floor, and it actually made Duncan's stomach growl. Some shopping would have been in order before the weekend, but he hadn't found the time. The invitation for lunch came in very handy. And it wasn't like there was much to do on Sundays, now that Claire was gone again.

His apartment was on the fourth floor, under the roof. It was even more crooked than the rest of the house, and Duncan admitted that he sometimes missed the luxury of an elevator. But it was affordable on his salary and provided him with the space he needed for workouts. The furniture was sparse, a bed in one corner, the dining table in the opposite, and a couch in the middle of the room that he moved aside when he wanted to do some training. A TV, a stereo, and the phone were sitting on the floor in another corner, and he had only one small shelf for the books he'd acquired over the years.

He locked the door behind him, out of habit, and went straight for the windows to drive out the slightly moldy smell of old wood that always permeated the room in winter, when the heater was on and he'd been gone all day.

Standing by the open window, Duncan suppressed a sigh as he let his eyes roam over the lights of the town. Diffuse and dim, they were no match for the stars, as if the town were huddling in a hollow of the otherwise dark countryside.

The tortured sound of an abused violin drifted up from downstairs, and suddenly Duncan found himself laughing at the pathetic picture he made. He left the windows open, though, the fearless endeavor of his neighbor—the teenage daughter from the first floor—oddly uplifting, as he turned towards the kitchen galley, where a pile of dishes from yesterday afternoon called for his attention.

Some time later, when the violin tunes were replaced by rock music from a stereo, Duncan shut the sounds out and put on some classical music himself. After a quick dinner of leftovers, he set about cleaning the bathroom, where he found Claire's forgotten toothbrush in the cabinet and discarded it in the trash can.

He was just making himself comfortable on the couch, finally too tired to read, or to think hard, the TV showing some program on Polish politics, when the phone rang. He frowned as he walked over and picked up the receiver, wondering whether Claire had forgotten something important. His employers rarely called him at home.

"Yes?"

The answering voice took him by surprise. "Hey, Mac, it's Joe."

"Joe!" There was a second of joy at hearing from his friend, before he realized that Joe wouldn't call him for a friendly chat. Almost involuntarily, he turned his back to the wall, keeping both door and window in sight. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mac. Listen—" Joe broke off when noise arose in the background, and barked something that Duncan couldn't make out.

This couldn't be good news. He gripped the receiver tighter, waiting. "Joe?"

The noise faded, and Joe was back. "There's been another one. Two days ago."

The familiar feeling of dread settled on his shoulders, yet he was shamefully relieved at the same time. Another one. Not Methos. Only some poor mortal who happened to look similar to him. "Our guy?" he asked, though Joe wouldn't have called him if it were different.

"Yes, the whole show. Several men, machine guns, same as usual. Mac—" Joe paused, and it gave Duncan the shivers. "There's been a Quickening this time."

No.

"People reported the lightning to the police, and there were fire marks all over the place when we got there. He was an Immortal."

It couldn't be. "So you must know him. You had him watched."

"No. We didn't know about him. We still don't know who he is. Was. His head—the machine guns, we can't identify him."

"Where?" He would recognize him, no matter what the bastards had done, there was no way Duncan wouldn't know. He had to.

"Mac, we're not sure, okay? You shouldn't—"

"Where?"

The moment of hesitation stretched out forever. "Here. In Prague."

Too damn close. It was both scary and a source of hope; Methos wouldn't go to Prague, not with all the Watchers bustling around there.

"Was there another Immortal there?"

"We don't know. Nobody we know about, anyway. Mac, listen. If this guy is baiting you, you'd better stay right where you are. And if not…"

"Then I can leave here anyway." Then all these years would have been wasted for nothing.

"Don't do this. Wait until I've found out more."

He couldn't quite contain his harsh laughter. "Sorry, Joe, but you haven't found out anything about that son of a bitch in five years. Maybe it's time we put this farce to an end."

"By getting yourself killed? Now that's going to be real helpful. Remember what that guy did in Paris?"

Like he would forget. This wasn't one to do things by halves. He wouldn't be here if he didn't remember, and if he weren't still, deep down, afraid. But thinking about the six patrons who had been killed in the explosion of Joe's bar and the ambush on the barge also made his anger flare higher, and if Methos was dead…

"I'm coming to Prague, Joe. I need to see the body." He heard Joe inhale at the other end of the line, but cut off the protest. "Can you arrange that?"

Joe grumbled something unintelligible, then conceded, "I'll see what I can do. You realize he might just be lying in wait?"

There was nothing to say to that, no reasonable argument that made it appear less dangerous.

Finally, Joe sighed. "All right. Call me when you get here."

"Thanks, Joe."

"You just be careful," Joe said, and Duncan was grateful that there was no further scolding. If he was completely honest with himself, he was aware of his desire to get up and do something at last, to put an end to drifting pointlessly from day to day.

And he needed to know. Needed to know if he'd hidden for nothing, waited for nothing, if they had finally, utterly, lost.

He mumbled a goodbye and hung up, trying to shut out the pain. Joe had said it himself; they didn't know. There was no point in letting himself be swept away.

He was nearly done packing when the phone rang a second time. Not knowing whether to hope that Joe had some good news or to be afraid of having his nightmare confirmed, he took a deep breath and answered.

It was Michał. "Hey, Mac. Who was that on the line, your girlfriend?" The words were loaded with gleeful insinuation, and Duncan fought down the urge to yell.

"What is it?"

There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then Michał apparently decided not to follow up on the subject of Claire and said more calmly, "You said you wanted to know when we had strangers in town. Well, there's this foreign guy, rented a room at the pub this afternoon. At least that's what my mom says."

Duncan straightened up, his body going on alert in an instant. "What's his name? Where's he from?"

"I don't know. He speaks Polish, my mother says, but it's weird. Kind of formal, you know. Like her grandparents used to talk. He's not from here." Michał paused. "Are you telling me what's going on this time? I mean, not that I mind watching out a little, but—"

"Thank you, Michał. I appreciate what you're doing." He hung up.

As he put on his coat and sheathed the katana in it, he contemplated his chances. Only one man, not the pack he had expected. Maybe this was just a tourist with a peculiar speech pattern.

But maybe he had been found. And if they were still hunting him, that meant Methos was still alive.

His breath was visible in the air when he stepped out of the door, but he didn't notice the cold. Unrushed, yet steadily, he made for the hotel. He estimated it was only about nine o'clock, but with the early sunset and the low temperature, hardly anybody was still on the streets.

He kept looking over his shoulder and stopped from time to time, listening into the dark for pursuers, but he seemed to be alone. Curtain-filtered light from the windows along the main road cast diffuse shadows all around him, and although he doubted that someone would be foolish enough to stage a full-blown attack by a horde of men with automatic weapons here, it still made him nervous that some mortal, someone he couldn't feel approaching, might be lurking between houses, on a roof, behind a parked car.

When the hotel came into sight, he halted and checked his surroundings once more. The nearer he'd gotten, the more he was convinced he was overreacting.

Still on the other side of the street, he could hear the muffled sounds from inside that flowed out when the door swung open and a young couple emerged. They didn't pay attention to him, walking off arm in arm, and Duncan took another deep breath and moved towards the pub.

The buzz hit him in the middle of the street; despite the fact that he hadn't felt another Immortal in years, or maybe because of it, it was still the same rush of adrenaline, the same surge of exhilaration that made his muscles tighten and his breath quicken.

How likely was it that this was a coincidence, a wandering Immortal arriving here in the middle of nowhere on the same day he learned that they had tracked him to this part of Europe?

No, the wait was over, and he was ready.

He positioned himself a few steps outside the circle of light the lamp over the pub's entrance cast onto the sidewalk. He kept his eyes on the door, knowing his buzz to be an invitation the hunter wouldn't resist.

But several minutes passed, and the lingering presence was unsettling to the extreme. He was just about ready to bite the bullet and go in when the door opened once more, and three young men appeared on top of the stairs. All three of them were mortals, and Duncan tensed, hand reaching for his sword as one of them spotted him.

"Dzień dobry," the young man said with a smile, his speech slightly slurred, and it took Duncan a moment to recognize him as one of Michał's friends. He forced himself to return the greeting and tried a smile, watching the boys saunter off, but the minor relief was squashed immediately when he noticed that the door was still held open, and then a fourth figure stepped out from behind it, revealing itself as the source of the Immortal presence.

Duncan froze. Nothing seemed to move, not even the air. He had waited for this, yes, and it made his mouth go dry and his pulse speed up as their eyes met.

"Hello, Mac," Methos said, descending with a measured step, and a lot about him was different, his hair and his clothes and the tense way he held his body, but not the voice, that was just as Duncan remembered it, smooth and nonchalant and cutting straight to his heart. "Nice to see you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The distance was not great, a step or two, an extended arm all they would have needed—but it might as well have been miles, or years. Five years.

Methos wrapped his jacket more closely around himself, fighting down the urge to squirm under Duncan's shocked stare. Funny how those first lines always were easy.

They looked at each other for a long moment, until Duncan asked with forced calm, "What do you go by?"

A strained beginning, but better than nothing. "David Stevens."

The silence was back. It would have been amusing, really, if it weren't for the way it broke his heart to see Duncan so at a loss.

"Shall we go inside?" Methos asked finally, jerking his head towards the entrance.

Duncan just nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor as he walked past Methos and opened the door.

Methos followed him inside. The waitress greeted Duncan with a smile, obviously recognizing a familiar face, and Duncan picked an empty table in the back corner while Methos went to the bar to get his beer mug. The pub wasn't packed, but it wasn't exactly empty either, a cluster of young people around the bar the major source of laughter and smoke.

"How did you know I was in town?" he asked when he'd made his way to the table and sat down, keeping his face blank.

"I have friends." Duncan had his hands folded on the scratched wood between them, but he looked up when he said, "It's been quite a while."

As if he needed the reminder. "True."

"You could have stayed in touch."

He probably should have anticipated this, but it still made him feel defensive. "I did."

"What, with postcards?" The man at the neighboring table gave them a curious once-over, and Duncan lowered his voice. "Five cards in five years. Yeah, I see, a real effort."

It brought a bitter taste to Methos' mouth. "Well, this hasn't exactly been a picnic for me, either." Downing the rest of his beer, he searched the room for the waitress and signaled for another.

This hadn't been a good idea. He should have kissed the man the second he'd seen him, without waiting for doubts to settle in; it would have spared him this conversation, and that hurt, disappointed look on Duncan's face.

"How's Joe?" he asked, keeping his eyes averted.

He was glad when Mac went along with the change of subject. "Fine. He's in history now, in their new headquarters."

"You see him often?"

A sudden outburst of laughter on the other side of the room made Methos flinch, but Duncan didn't seem to have noticed.

"About every six weeks, if I can find the time."

Against his better judgement, Methos said, "You know that's not safe."

"Joe's not getting any younger."

No, of course not. "Must have been one hell of an uproar when he told them he'd lost you." A cautious glance told him that Duncan was smiling, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

"He'll never let me hear the end of that."

Methos grinned at him. "Who would believe that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod could pull a disappearing act?"

The smile faded from Duncan's face. "Looks like I can," he said flatly.

"Yes, and you're quite good at it." He kept his voice neutral. "You don't touch your bank accounts, you don't get into fights, you're basically living a nice, quiet country life. I'm impressed, MacLeod." Duncan squirmed uneasily on his chair, and Methos found himself taking a grim pleasure from the man's discomfort. Strange, because he'd really meant that as a compliment.

He tried for a gentler tone, hoping to defuse some of the apprehension. "What do you do for a living?"

Mac shrugged uneasily, but went along with the change of subject. "I work for the local farmers. Legal consulting, dealing with the bureaucracy, that kind of thing."

"Choosing bloodless causes these days, are you?"

This time, Duncan grinned along with him. "You do what you can."

"You can't fight time."

Duncan only sighed to that, and smiled, and Methos gave in to the impulse to reach over and place his hand over Duncan's.

Duncan appeared startled for a moment, lowering his eyes to their joined hands, and Methos let his thumb stroke the back of Duncan's hand, the soft skin between the knuckles. He'd missed this—missed him.

Aware that they were bound to attract attention sooner or later, he made himself withdraw.

Duncan nodded as if to himself, then leaned back in his chair.

His hair was definitely too short. Methos wondered whether the cropped cut was another attempt on Duncan's part to blend in, to make himself less noticeable as the breathtakingly beautiful man he was, or whether he simply couldn't afford a good hairdresser. He couldn't quite suppress the evil snicker that arose from the thought, and Duncan shot him a look.

"What's so funny?"

Grinning, Methos shook his head. "Forget it."

His attention was diverted when the lively crowd of youths got ready for departure, good-byes and see-you-soons flung around before they took off and a chilly wind ghosted in.

He turned back towards Mac, who was regarding him intently, and the question that came was no surprise to him.

"How much longer?"

A good question it was, indeed; one that crept up on him in the quiet moments, when he wasn't running, or fervently cataloguing his surroundings, or busy in some other way with staying alive. How much longer? "I don't know. I never thought it would last this long." He had never expected that kind of stamina, the relentless pursuit that had driven him halfway around the globe. Travelling, disappearing, blending in—so many times it had been an act of liberation, to pack up and go.

And now, absurdly, he only felt adrift, as if someone had cut him loose from roots he wasn't even supposed to have and tossed him to the tides to watch them play with him.

"Then maybe it's time you do something about it."

"And what do you suggest?" he snapped. "That I put an ad in the paper, ‘I'm here, come and kill me?'"

"Methos," Duncan hissed, and Methos could have sworn he was using his name in public just to piss him off.

"What?"

"I've spent the last five years in the middle of nowhere, because you said you wanted to handle it on your own, but frankly I don't see you doing much handling."

"Oh, please, MacLeod, it's Poland. Not the North Pole."

"Yes, but it's goddamn lonely." Having said it, Duncan instantly looked like he wanted to take it back, and it made Methos' heart bleed.

Do you think I don't know that, he wanted to say, and that he was sorry, that he had never meant any of this. But what would it change? And damn, he wasn't responsible for Duncan's decisions.

Duncan began to fidget, his lashes sweeping down to conceal his eyes. He cleared his throat. "At least tell me what's going on. I don't even know why I'm doing all this."

Methos gripped his beer mug tighter. "It won't make a difference."

"Doesn't matter. I want to know. Who's after you?"

It wasn't a path he wanted to tread, even more so since he doubted it would benefit either of them. But he conceded that, had he been in Duncan's place, he wouldn't like being kept in the dark either. With a sigh, he succumbed to the inevitable. "Well. Not so long ago, we were friends."

August 1825
Kent, England

A breeze had come up, making the lawn change its shade as the currents caressed it, and merry laughter arose from the other side of the table as Anne Norton tried to keep her blonde locks from interfering with her teacup. She looked all of eighteen, and Methos couldn't help but smile at his hostess.

"Are you sure you're not feeling cold, dear?" her husband asked, worried despite the warmth and the cloudless sky. They were sitting opposite Methos on the large balcony for their usual tea ritual, and Methos tried not to grin at the ensuing game of concern and reassurance. Staring out over the shallow hills, he recognized that he was bored. Deliciously so.

After a short debate, Paul Norton didn't look any less worried, but surrendered to his wife. She usually let him indulge his protectiveness without a slip in her quiet, gentle demeanor, so much so that even after three years of being their business associate and friend, Methos still thought it amazing.

"Well, then, if you'll excuse me," Paul said in Methos' direction, "I need to make some further arrangements before our departure."

"What is it, darling?" Anne inquired softly, but with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, just some things about the household, you never mind." He leaned over to press a kiss to her temple, nodding towards Methos before going inside.

As the balcony door closed, Anne's face broke into a knowing grin. "He's probably making sure that they start heating the house and see that I eat enough."

She leaned back in her chair, bracing her elbows on the armrests and interlacing her fingers over her belly. With the mischief written on her face, she promptly looked a lot less ladylike.

"I take it you still haven't told him," Methos said, grinning himself as he once again witnessed the metamorphosis. Paul was missing out, he thought. Surely Anne was pretty, but as long as she kept the facade up she seemed rather dull and bloodless to Methos.

"There's plenty of time." She suddenly grimaced, fumbling at the fastenings of her dress, pulled tight right under her chest. "Damn these dresses," she mumbled, trying to scratch herself.

Methos watched her with sympathetic amusement. "Just wait until you see the corsets they're wearing in London these days."

Her lips twitched, but then she just sighed and settled back in her seat. The look on her face reminded Methos so much of a grouchy little girl, forced into scratchy lace and uncomfortable shoes, that he wanted to give her a piece of candy.

It must have shown on his face, because she laughed. "What?"

He shook his head. "Tell me, what are you going to do about him?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid of scaring him. But there's not much I can do about it anyway, is there?"

"In the long run, no." He let the matter of taking Paul's first death into her hands slide. "I meant, are you going to teach him?"

Her face grew distant at that, and not for the first time Methos regretted the fact that she wouldn't let him know how old she was. He estimated she hadn't made a thousand yet, but she was no youngster, either.

"I don't know," she said again. "I thought about sending him to a friend. I don't want him to stay because he thinks he has to, or because he thinks he owes me." Her eyes swept over the countryside, then focused again on Methos. "Tell me, Adams, have you ever been there for one of us, I mean, before and after they died?"

He refilled his cup, dropped two lumps of sugar in. "I've never taught someone I loved." He looked at her from under his lashes. It was fascinating; she could perform sweet, innocent country wife without breaking a sweat, but when it came to her devotion for kind-hearted, youthful Paul Norton, she was completely transparent.

She gave him another smile then, a sad one that spoke of age, and struggle, and Methos knew exactly what that felt like, to be so weary of the world, and then to discover someone who was able to put things back in perspective.

Looking out over the hills, she asked, "Are you going to withdraw your money?"

Startled, Methos raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"We're not doing as well as we could, I'm sure Paul showed you the books."

"Yes, and?"

"Well, since Paul doesn't want to employ children—"

"Yes, I know that," Methos interrupted her, still wondering about her point.

Anne heaved a sigh. "Call it a personal favor to me. If you want your money back, I'll give it to you. If you demand it from Paul, it would ruin him financially."

He laughed. "You're telling me you'll pay me to keep my investment?"

She almost seemed to be blushing. "Well, yes. He's— He has tried so hard to do the right thing with this, being good to his people, that kind of thing. I can't let him fail." Inclining her head, she looked at him with a glint of humor in her eyes. "Is this the folly of the old?"

"Maybe," Methos conceded with a small nod, amused by the way he himself responded to Paul's idealistic enthusiasm. "But so what? We've earned it." He leaned back in his chair. "And I'm not quitting, Anne. I…like what he's doing."

She visibly relaxed, and he decided to steer them out of these emotionally troubled waters. "Are you sure you're not coming to London with us?"

She took the cue. Shaking her head vigorously enough that it made her hair fly, she declared, "No, I've spent enough time in cities to last me five lifetimes. I'll stay here and pester the staff."

Her grin became debauched then, her voice full of innuendo. "And don't give him any funny ideas. He's young and impressionable."

Methos laughed and saluted her with his teacup. "Don't worry. I'll be good."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What can I get you, Mac?"

The waitress' intrusion as she set Methos' second beer down startled Duncan momentarily, but he managed to return her smile. "One of those, too," he said with a gesture towards Methos' beer.

"Okay. Sorry I kept you waiting."

"Never mind, Anna."

She grinned at them both before she turned and went back to the bar.

"‘Mac?'" Methos enquired as soon as she was out of hearing range, giving the vowel the same short, flat intonation the waitress had used.

Duncan felt the burning urge to hide. "Short for Damek," he explained awkwardly. What had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time turned to utter foolishness under Methos' watchful assessment. "Damek Kotyczka. I thought—it would be easier to get used to."

But Methos' grin was strangely indulgent, and no reproach or ridicule followed. "Are you passing yourself off as a native?"

"My passport is Czech. I don't think they're convinced, but they don't ask."

He stopped when he saw Anna approaching and took his beer from the tray she carried so she didn't have to put it down.

"Thanks." She smiled and proceeded to the next table. He took a long swallow before bringing his attention back to Methos. A real tourist, with the cheap, multicolored polyester jacket—why was he still wearing it, anyway? It wasn't cold in here. The longer hair made him look young and reminded Duncan of their first meeting. He'd worn it much the same way then. It was longer than Duncan's own now.

Methos responded to his observations with a slow, mischievous grin, and it made Duncan's stomach flutter. It was good to see him. And maybe this was all coming to an end now.

"I missed you."

Methos' eyes wandered out over the room. "I missed you, too," he said quietly. "You have no idea."

"Oh, I think I do," Duncan replied, and found his smile mirrored on the other man's face. Loads of fear and worry, of deadening anguish, ebbed away in a silent moment of solidarity.

But there were questions that remained, and while he dreaded the turn of conversation, he was determined to bring this out in the open. "You still haven't told me why this Anne Norton is after your head. Or is it the man, what was his name?"

Methos' face closed down. "Paul. No. It's her."

"Why?"

"The usual. Revenge."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." Methos laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. "More or less, anyway."

Duncan waited, but Methos seemed inclined to leave it at that. He did his best to remain calm. "I want to know what happened, Methos. I won't put up with this anymore."

"An awful lot of self-pity you have there."

Stung, Duncan stared at him. "Do you think I'm doing this for the fun of it? That I like to be stuck here, doing farm accounts?"

Methos snorted. "Who are you, Cinderella? Guess what, MacLeod, I'm not here to rescue you from your backbreaking labor."

"Yeah, I know, you'd make a lousy Prince Charming."

Methos halted in mid-motion, then put the glass back down instead of drinking. His face was blank. "Glad you're beginning to see it my way."

"Methos—"

"Let's go." Ignoring the fact that neither of their glasses were empty yet, Methos stood up, fished for his wallet, and put some coins on the table.

Despite the situation, it made Duncan laugh. "Methos, you don't just leave money on the table."

Methos looked very scholarly all of a sudden, their argument taking a backseat to the discovery of a gap in his cultural knowledge. Duncan wanted to hug him. "No?"

"No." Putting on his coat, he gestured towards the door. "I'll pay at the bar. You can wait outside, if you like. Are you—" He hesitated. "Are you going to get your luggage?"

Methos nodded. "Yes. I think I am."

August 1825
en route to London

For maybe the tenth time, Methos pulled out his watch, only to sigh in disappointment. Not that he was in a hurry to reach London, but the poor condition of the road translated itself into a nasty backache, and after hours of being in the same carriage with Paul Norton, the topics of conversation were getting slim. Even the landscape was hidden behind a curtain of rain, and the humidity of the air made his scalp itch.

He glanced over at the handful of leaflets Paul was examining. "You've developed an interest in politics," he stated.

Paul looked up, half smiling, half shrugging. "I'm in favor of Labour Acts—but you know that."

"Yes. What I meant was, are you going to join a movement?"

"No." The papers rustled when Paul deposited them in his briefcase. "I thought about it," he admitted, looking somewhat apologetic, "but Anne isn't comfortable with it."

"Ah." The carriage hit another bump, and Methos winced once more. Immortal healing or no, this was intolerable.

"It's not that she doesn't care," Paul said, and the defensiveness in his voice suggested that he had misinterpreted Methos' silence. "She's not naive, she sees that there's a problem."

"I'm sure she does," Methos replied politely, trying not to confuse the young man by making his amusement too obvious.

"She knows a lot more than she sometimes lets on," Paul continued, but it seemed less directed at Methos than at himself, and it piqued Methos' interest. Maybe Anne was more herself when the two of them were alone than he had thought.

"So what did she say when you asked her?"

Paul laughed softly, fond amazement in his voice. "She looked at me like I had lost my mind, and then she said something about guillotines and that she'd had enough of politics for one lifetime."

Now, that was a picture Methos' mind could easily conjure up.

"I still don't know what she meant, but she was quite…emphatic about it."

"I can imagine."

Paul leaned back, looking out to where the downpour leveled all contours to a colorless mass. "She must have been through a lot," he mused.

"What makes you say that?"

"She's so calm sometimes, and sad. As if she has already seen many things. It intrigues me." Then, with a sigh and a shake of his head, Paul dragged himself out of it. "Sorry. I'm not terribly good company."

Methos smiled at him. What Anne saw in the youngster was obvious, and there was more to him than an innocent heart. "On the contrary, Paul," he said with consideration. "And I happen to know that your wife sees eye to eye with me on that."

Paul gave him a boyish grin, and Methos noted with detached amusement that Anne wasn't the only one with a soft spot for Paul.

He bit back a curse when another jolt from the uneven road rattled his spine. It was time they hurried with the railway building, really. Maybe he should consider an investment in that sector.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Progress definitely had its advantages, Methos thought with a smile as he stepped out the door and looked around on the street for Mac's car.

Mac was standing by the curb. "That way," he said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head. He extended his hand for Methos' travel bag, and Methos didn't even blink, just handed the thing over.

"I hope it's within walking distance, MacLeod. It's bloody cold." He fell in beside Mac, pulling his empty hands into his sleeves.

"Everything here is within walking distance, Methos."

The vapor of their breath mingled in the air, and even through layers of clothing, Methos thought he could feel the other man's presence, his body heat, a welcome contrast to the biting cold of the night. This was how it should be, the two of them together, with bickering and warmth and camaraderie. He hadn't come here to fight, or to dwell on his past. Time would be up too soon, anyway.

"You could have come and picked me up with your car."

"Sorry. Don't have one. I sold it."

Damn, it really was cold. Fucking freezing. He widened his stride. "You sold your car? Why?"

"The trips to Prague, mostly. They're beyond my budget."

Methos smiled to himself. "When was the last time you said something like that?"

"Oh, I told Amanda she was beyond my budget more than once."

The laughter died on his lips. Amanda. How long was it that Duncan hadn't seen her?

"It's all right, Methos. Amanda and I were never living in each other's pockets."

They turned a corner, and the sidewalk paving ended. Their footsteps were nearly silent. "How is she?"

"Joe says she's fine. She took on a student; they'd been camping out on Holy Ground for a while last time Joe heard from her."

They stopped in front of a house that must have been built before the Second World War. "Good to hear that," Methos said. "So that's where you live."

"It's not the Ritz." Duncan got out his keys and unlocked the door.

Even though it wasn't especially warm in the hallway, the absence of wind alone made it seem like a blessing. "But it's within the budget, I assume."

"It's within the budget," Duncan confirmed, his eyes suddenly sparkling in the dim glow of the one solitary light bulb. The travel bag made a soft sound on the floor as he dropped it.

It was an invitation, possibly a challenge, and Methos accepted. He stepped forward, the fabric of his jacket rustling in the empty hallway as he reached up with one hand for Duncan's neck and rested it there. So easy, what he should have done hours ago; Duncan's breath was warm on his face, making him forget the cold outside, and it was like another greeting, an honest one, without hidden resentment. He had a moment to see Duncan smile before he felt the other's lips on his, soft and unhurried, even as the arms that pulled him close told another tale.

With a quiet moan, Methos opened his mouth, allowing Duncan entry. So long. It had been so long. His hand on Duncan's neck brought them closer and deepened the kiss, but the thick winter clothes were an irritating barrier.

Duncan kept the kiss light at first, his exploration of Methos' mouth indeed like a greeting, tender and slow, until Methos pushed back with his tongue, demanding the fierceness he craved, and before he knew it he was pushing Duncan against the wall, holding Duncan's head still with both hands as he took over the kiss, his whole body burning with the effort to make up for countless days of loneliness.

The hallway went dark the next second.

Methos froze, feeling Duncan tense as well. His hand reached for the gun in his pocket, his ears straining to make out any sound of a possible attacker. But the only thing he heard was Duncan's low chuckle.

Then Duncan ruffled his hair and let his hand relax on Methos' shoulder. "Don't panic."

His eyes having adjusted to the darkness, Methos could make out Duncan's silhouette, but he heard the grin more than he saw it.

"It's only the light bulb, Methos. It burned out."

"Oh." Methos released his breath. Against his will, he had to laugh. "I can't believe you live in a place like this." He sighed and let his head drop on Duncan's shoulder.

Duncan patted his head, and Methos could imagine the smug look on his face. "The things I do for you, Methos."

The words, light as they were, made Methos tense up all over again.

"Methos?"

He lifted his head and stepped back. "You're not doing this for me," he said without thinking.

"What?"

He retreated another step, enough to shake off the hand on his shoulder. "It was your choice, MacLeod. I never asked you for any of this!" Part of him knew that he shouldn't go there, that this wasn't what he'd come here for, either, but he couldn't help it.

"Oh, I think I remember you telling me, ‘Please, MacLeod. They'll use you against me, MacLeod. Go hide, MacLeod.'" The edge faded from Duncan's voice. "Or something like that." His arm reached out for Methos again, but he didn't insist when Methos shook it off. "And I don't want to be used against you. I don't want to be bait for her."

"What makes you think I'd come for you?" Methos shot back, but Duncan just snorted.

"Yeah, right." He seemed to wait for something, but Methos couldn't see his face in the dark, and then he picked up the bag without a word and started up the stairs.

Methos followed, trying to keep his mind blank. "Which floor is it?"

"Fourth. Under the roof."

There was only the shuffle of their feet and the occasional creaking of the floor boards until they reached the top, where Duncan opened the door to the only apartment on that floor and let him pass.

Methos stopped just a couple of feet inside. He heard Duncan lock up behind him, the thud of the bag on the floor, then the switch of the light being flipped. It was just as dim as the one in the hallway had been.

Duncan walked around him, to the window side of the room, and let in fresh air. He remained there, his back to Methos, a cold breeze floating in.

Methos didn't complain, just pulled his jacket tighter. The place smelled musty, betraying its age. He took in the shabby furniture, sparse as it was, the worn, thin carpet that had gone wavy over time. It hurt. He couldn't tell why; the lack of luxury alone didn't seem that convincing a reason.

Duncan seemed to be moving in slow motion as he closed the windows, then turned back to Methos. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the wall between the two windows.

I never asked you for any of this.

In silence, Methos took off his jacket and walked over to what probably was the kitchen area. He put it over a chair, leaving sword and gun in, then got rid of the second gun in his ankle holster and the dagger on his belt.

When he heard Duncan begin to speak, he half expected a comment on the arsenal.

"What's going on, Methos?"

There were a couple of letters on the kitchen table. The one on top was addressed to Damek Kotyczka.

"Methos?"

He tore his eyes away. A name, nothing more.

Crossing the distance between them, Methos didn't give Duncan another chance to ask unwanted questions and brought their mouths together in a fierce kiss. He seized the back of Duncan's head with one hand, and a wave of arousal washed through him when he felt Duncan relax into his touch. It hadn't changed, no, this would never change. Whatever had gone wrong, whatever he'd let happen, this was still the same, the feel of Duncan's mouth and the heat of his body, and the hardness of his cock against Methos' thigh.

"I missed you," Duncan said once more when Methos let his mouth travel across the exposed skin of Duncan's throat, licking a trail down to the hollow where neck met torso while his hands freed the buttons of Duncan's shirt.

Duncan's hands were tugging at Methos' sweater, but Methos chased them away. He pulled the shirt open, but abandoned the effort when he saw that Duncan was wearing an undershirt, as well. Damn the winter, and this godforsaken place.

But Duncan wasn't cold anymore, he was hot and alive and writhing under Methos' hands and mouth, and it was good. Methos dropped to his knees.

He heard Duncan gasp above him, his name, and then a sigh as he efficiently unzipped Duncan's pants and pulled them down.

The gentle weight of Duncan's hands, one on his shoulder, one an almost-pressure on the side of his head, made him moan as he bowed his head forward to press a kiss to the juncture of hip and thigh, breathing in the scent of Duncan, of sweat and arousal.

Duncan lifted his hands, but Methos grabbed the one he could get hold of first and put it back in place. Keep them there, he wanted to say. I want them there.

He flicked his tongue across salty skin, moved his head until he felt Duncan's cock against the side of his face, and Duncan's fingers tightened against his scalp when Methos leaned back, brushing his cheek against its length.

But suddenly his movement was stopped.

"No, don't—not an apology," Duncan rasped, his hands holding Methos away and keeping him in place at the same time.

The words struck him like the jolts of a Quickening as white-hot anger fired through him, and he jerked his head back to escape MacLeod's grip.

But before he could demand what the fuck MacLeod was thinking, he was pulled, guided up, and his rage drained away as quickly as it had come, under the brush of Duncan's thumb across his cheek, and the gentleness of the kiss that made his head spin.

"No," he whispered against Duncan's lips, "no apology."

He let Duncan kiss him some more, connecting, touching ground. No apology. Nothing to prove. He held on to that.

They broke apart when Duncan grasped the hem of Methos' sweater and pulled it over his head, taking the T-shirt along.

He slid down before Duncan, slowly this time and keeping eye contact. "Anything else we need to discuss?"

"Nothing that can't wait," Duncan smiled, a hand toying idly with Methos' hair, and Methos decided he could let him have the last word.

His hands were on Duncan's hips, his fingers rubbing the skin in small circles, and he leaned forward, pulled Duncan against him in one motion, and opened his mouth.

Maybe he groaned when Duncan's cock slid past his lips, maybe it was Duncan; he couldn't tell with the blood rushing in his ears, and he took Duncan in deep, his tongue dancing over the hot flesh in his mouth, not bothering with a tentative prelude, just moving closer, deeper. So long, and he was so hard, but it didn't matter, he didn't care that his cock ached in his jeans, begging for touch, for some sort of friction, because feeling Duncan, tasting him, was enough for the moment. He did moan then, and clutched Duncan's hips tighter, even as their mingled sweat made his grasp slippery, when Duncan took hold of his head again, not to stop him now, but to guide him, to move him back and forth until that wasn't fast enough anymore, and Methos could feel him tense under his hands as Duncan fought for control. "Methos."

Releasing Duncan's cock, he opened his eyes to look up. The sight was glorious, and long-missed; Duncan struggling for breath, a fine layer of sweat making his skin gleam, his eyes dark with desire, not grief.

Methos let his hands slide down Duncan's thighs, giving up his hold and resting his head into Duncan's hands, his only way of communicating that it was all right, that they were okay. And Duncan understood. He looked into Methos' eyes for a long, sweet moment, the brush of one callused thumb over Methos' lips meant as a kiss, and he smiled again when Methos let his mouth go slack. Oh, please, do it—Methos was close to begging, the sound of his own breathing unnaturally loud in his ears, but then he didn't need to because Duncan was taking over, taking him, his mouth, holding him still as he slid in and out, his rhythm gentle yet strong.

It didn't take long then, and Duncan got faster, thrust deeper, a subtle tremor running through him as Methos stroked his hands up sweaty thighs again, lending support to Duncan's hips, and Duncan was coming, his hands dropping heavily onto Methos' shoulders as Methos swallowed.

Through the pulsing in his ears, Methos could hear his own harsh breaths, and he was aware that Duncan had said something. He sat back on his heels despite the hand still in his hair, and looked up to see Duncan following him, leaning forward until their lips touched again. Their ensuing moves were a little awkward, with Methos scrambling to get his legs out from under himself so he could lean back while Duncan attempted to kneel down without breaking the kiss, and the jeans that were bunched down around Duncan's knees didn't help, but they managed, eventually. The idea that it wouldn't take more than a minute to undress and exchange the rough, scratchy carpet for the bed crossed Methos' mind for a fleeting second, until he felt his pants being pulled down and Duncan's hand on his cock, and at no time did those kisses stop, soft and sweet and an anchor. Methos could feel Duncan's struggle, his urgency that made it so difficult to decide just what to do, where to touch. Take your time, he would have liked to say, we have time. But it would have been a lie, and so he abandoned the thought and gave himself over to the moment, to Duncan's roaming hands that were a hot presence all over his body, never lingering anywhere long enough, and the sensation of skin against skin as Duncan leaned down further, and to the kisses.

His orgasm took him by surprise, his hips straining upwards one last time as Duncan swallowed his moan, and he heard—felt—Duncan breathing with him, until exhaustion made them abandon the kiss, and Duncan rested his forehead on Methos' shoulder.

Wrapped in a pleasant haze of drowsiness, Methos didn't move for long moments, just took in the feeling of Duncan's slack body covering his own, the calming breaths against his skin, until the floor became too uncomfortable.

"Mac." He felt the shift of muscles all over Duncan's body and grinned at the obvious effort it took him to prop himself up on his elbows.

"Yeah, okay," Duncan sighed. He considered Methos long enough to get him worried, before his sincere expression broke into a grin, and he kissed Methos on the nose. Duncan disentangled them and got up, helping Methos to his feet as well. They made a ridiculous picture, Methos thought, half-dressed and splattered with semen, and it made him smile. He considered asking for a shower, but the lingering look he got from Duncan suggested that they weren't…done yet with getting sticky. The shower would have to wait until morning.

They both got rid of the rest of their clothing, the procedure interrupted by a few light kisses. Then Duncan grinned at him. "I'll get you something to clean up," he said, patting Methos' ass as he walked past him.

Methos turned his head to see Duncan walk towards the bathroom. A nice view.

The apartment didn't look quite as depressing anymore as he walked over to the bed and pulled back the covers. Sitting down on the side of the frame, he noticed the packed travel bag on the side of the door; he'd missed it when he'd entered.

The toilet flushed, and then Duncan emerged from the bathroom, still naked, a washcloth in his hand.

"Looks like I was right," Methos said with regard to the packed bag.

Duncan flipped the light switch in passing, and the room went grey. "About what?" He handed Methos the washcloth and flopped down behind him on the bed.

"Timing." He couldn't see much anymore as he tried to clean up the worst of the mess. "I heard about what happened in Prague. I thought you might decide to investigate." He dropped the washcloth to the floor and lay down. He was just about to turn towards Duncan when he realized the other hadn't replied. "Mac?"

The answer, when it came, was as cold as the wind had been, drowning out all remnants of arousal in Methos. "Is that why you're here?"

Methos swallowed, cursing himself for his thoughtless words. What could he say to that? He felt the stale, motionless air on his still-wet skin, the frost as it crept back into his body, and he couldn't even hear Duncan breathe.

Nothing, no sound, no touch, and after a while Methos pulled the cover up over his chest. He might as well get some sleep. Duncan wouldn't run. He'd be safe. Mission accomplished. "Duncan."

Another moment of silence, seemingly endless. He was just about to speak again when the mattress shifted, and then he heard Duncan say, "Shut up."

Lightly, Duncan's hand touched his shoulder, skimmed down to his chest to pull him close, and Methos wanted to laugh with relief. He didn't, though, just turned into the embrace and settled against Duncan's body, welcoming back the warmth as he let sleep become their refuge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a familiar struggle, the futile attempt to cheat the cold, empty bed for a few more minutes of blissful darkness. But as Duncan turned to the side and pulled the blankets up to his nose, trying hard not to leave that place where conscious thought didn't trouble him, he dimly remembered that this wasn't a morning like any other. Methos should be here.

Instantly alert, he sat up, his pulse racing at the realization that Methos might have snuck out sometime during the night, without as much as a goodbye. His stomach tightening, he untangled himself from the blankets and stood up just as he heard the sound of running water from the bathroom. He stopped dead, his mind suddenly blank except for an absurd flash of anger at the thought that Methos hadn't stayed in bed, that he'd let Duncan wake up alone. Again.

Then he chided himself for being ridiculous and called out Methos' name just to check.

"In here," came the prompt reply, muffled by the sound of water that wasn't loud enough to be the shower, and Duncan crossed the room and opened the bathroom door. Methos was dressed in yesterday's pants and one of Duncan's sweaters. He was standing at the sink…washing clothes?

"What are you doing?" He counted two wet T-shirts and three pairs of boxers laid out over the rim of the bathtub.

Methos looked up from his task—an undershirt, as it seemed—and frowned. "Doing some laundry. You mind?"

"Why are you hand-washing your underwear? In my sink? At this hour?"

"Because you don't have a washing machine?" Methos let the lathered fabric drop with a smacking sound. He looked as if Duncan was the one acting weird. "MacLeod, why don't you make some coffee? I couldn't find the coffeemaker, and I'll be done here any minute."

Duncan shook his head slowly. Okay. Make coffee. He retreated from the bathroom, deciding Methos would probably be easier to deal with when they'd both had some coffee.

He put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, checking his watch. During the practiced moves of making coffee—he didn't own a coffeemaker, he used a water heater and a filter—and discovering that none of the contents of his fridge would make for something remotely like breakfast, he thought about where they would go from here. Maybe now that he had Anne Norton's name, Joe could dig up some information, and they could do a little hunting of their own. On the other hand, if the Watchers had anything on her that could be used against her, Methos probably knew already. The Watchers weren't as big on security as they liked to think. One of his greatest worries had always been that the mysterious person whose reappearance had sent Methos fleeing from Paris in a heartbeat, whose heavily armed killers had eventually driven Duncan into hiding, too, would somehow gain access to the Watchers' resources. That was why he had gotten Joe to report that Duncan MacLeod had disappeared from the face of the earth, and after a while and enough insisting, the Watchers had finally bought the story.

By now Duncan thought that it hadn't been the smartest idea. They should have staged his death, a lost challenge against an unknown, dangerous Immortal. That way, if their adversary found out about the Watchers, it would even benefit them. But having Joe report Duncan's death now, after years of allegedly not finding him, was not an option.

Methos approached him, smelling faintly of washing powder, and grabbed one of the mugs Duncan had prepared. He sat down at the table, being his uncommunicative morning self.

It seemed so normal, so unlike anything one would expect from a morning after that had been preceded by five years of separation. Just this, looking at Methos slouched at the table, staring gloomily into his coffee, made Duncan feel as if they'd never left the barge, as if this were the straight continuation of the ten months they'd been living together, before everything went to shreds. Even the bizarre laundry thing seemed strangely domestic.

"So," he said, sitting down on the second chair, "why are you doing laundry at seven in the morning?"

Methos took a sip from his coffee, apparently undisturbed, but it made Duncan look closer, and he realized that the well-known performance was just that—an act. Underneath the relaxed pose, Methos was on edge. "I'm taking the bus at five o'clock this afternoon," he said evenly. "It needs time to dry."

Duncan almost asked where he'd be going when he realized what Methos meant. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Methos had already made it clear; he'd come to make sure Duncan didn't leave, carried out the task… The sharp pain of betrayal cut just as deep as the night before. "So that's it? You're leaving, just like that?" He forced himself to keep calm, tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, because it wouldn't help, not with Methos. Part of him simply wanted to savor these precious few hours, regardless of Methos' motives, of how much they hurt. But Methos' detached manner made him so angry he had to fight to keep still.

"MacLeod, stop it. We've discussed this before."

"I'm coming with you."

"No." Methos' head snapped up. "No way. Forget it."

"I'm not staying, Methos."

"Fuck, MacLeod, use your brain for once, will you? We're enough of a target when we're apart. Sooner or later, someone would figure us out. An Immortal, the Watchers… I hate to break it to you, but you're not particularly good at staying out of trouble."

"Oh, and you are?"

"MacLeod—"

"Who got us here?"

Methos just rolled his eyes at him and got up, spilling coffee on the table as he grabbed the mug and retreated to lean next to the window.

With an effort, Duncan fought down the impulse to walk over and shake some sense into him. It would end, he decided right then. He'd see to it.

He sat down at the table and said very calmly, "Why is it she wants your head?"

The question obviously surprised Methos, and he studied Duncan for a while. "Her husband. Paul."

"What about him?"

Methos sighed deeply, turning his face towards the window, but Duncan doubted he actually noticed anything of the view. "We went to London, on a business trip. Check out the factory. I was their business partner." Methos paused, and Duncan was surprised when he shot him a nervous glance.

"And?"

"Well." Another sigh. "I still don't know how it happened. There was a fire in the factory. I was cut off in the office, but some of the men got me out. I'd burned my arm and had a pretty hard time explaining the healing."

Duncan started to get an idea of where this was going. "And Paul?"

"Was in there, too. Somewhere in the storage rooms." Methos frowned, as if he was pondering something, but he went on without waiting for further prodding. "The people there thought the place was cleared. I told them that there was nobody inside. I thought I'd go and find him afterwards, no need to blow our cover."

"Seems reasonable."

"It does, doesn't it?" Methos smiled grimly.

Duncan nodded. "So what went wrong?"

Methos let out a slow, controlled sigh. "He didn't die."

August 1825
London

He closed the dead man's eyes with a brush of his hand, trying to shut out the high-pitched wail of some woman—the man's wife?—and stood. Yes, he knew her. She worked for them, too, just like her husband had.

Someone bumped into him when he exited from the house where they had taken the wounded, and he recognized Paul's secretary.

"Dr. Adams," the young man greeted him, "are you all right? The men told me you'd been injured."

"I'm fine, Frank. It was nothing."

Frank glanced at Methos' bandaged arm, but left it at that. "How many did we…" He made an undefined gesture towards the door, and Methos noticed that the man's skin was of a rather sickly color. The smell, probably. After having spent all night here, tending to the wounded, Methos didn't notice the stench of burnt flesh anymore. He stepped forward, surveying the damage, now clear to see in the light of the morning sun.

The worst of it had passed. The fire had been extinguished, still smoldering in some places, but the danger that it might spread to neighboring buildings was gone.

"Four men are dead," he told Frank. The outer walls of the factory were still standing. "Two of the others are still in danger."

"I sent for Mr. Norton, but the landlady said she hadn't seen him since yesterday morning."

Methos wasn't quite certain, but he thought he heard a trace of suspicion in Frank's voice, and he felt the man's eyes trained at him.

"He'll be devastated when he hears about this," Frank continued, and Methos mumbled an agreement. He was tired, weary to the bone. So much for that nice and quiet life. There would be no sleep for him any time soon; he had to find Paul and get him out of sight. Being burnt to death didn't make for an unobtrusive appearance.

"Have you sent word to Mrs. Norton?"

"Yes, a messenger is on his way."

"Good. Thank you, Frank. You can go and get some sleep now."

They exchanged nods, and Methos wasn't surprised when Frank didn't leave, but entered the house instead. Some moments later he heard him speak, his soft voice a stark contrast to the woman's sobs.

Methos crossed the street, heading for the opening in the wall where the door had been. He felt the heat radiate off the walls, obliterating the morning's chill, and for a moment he hesitated, the memory of being trapped, surrounded by heat and flames and inescapable death, be it only temporary, still vivid in his mind.

But this wasn't the time to indulge in personal horrors. There were a few people scattered on the street, but nobody seemed to find it odd that he would inspect the damage to his property, so he stepped inside.

He tried his best to ignore the sad, defeated look of the burnt interior, feeling the warmth of the ash-covered floor through his boots as he headed straight for the door leading to the storage rooms.

He hadn't gone far when he heard a sound, weak and distorted, and then he noticed it: a human form, close to the wall, half-covered by what looked like a fallen crossbar or some other piece of equipment.

There seemed to be a sudden outburst of activity behind him, someone was approaching him, and he thought he heard his current name, but he ignored it.

He forced himself to move forwards, not taking his eyes off the body slumped on the floor. Something was wrong, something was terribly, entirely—Methos stopped dead in his tracks. No sense of presence. There was only that weak signature of someone destined to become Immortal and the faint, wheezing noise of the figure's breathing.

"My God, it's Mr. Norton!" Frank's shout startled him out of it, but the other man rushed past him and knelt down beside Paul's injured body.

Methos stepped closer, trying to sort through his options. It looked bad, bad enough that it was a wonder Paul wasn't already dead. But he'd be scarred for life. Maybe if somehow Methos managed to kill him, he would still—

"Get away from him!" Frank yelled, and glared at him with such fury in his eyes that Methos drew back instinctively.

"Frank, he needs my help. Let me—"

"You've done enough. Neil! Get me Dr. Harris!" Frank called out to one of the men who'd come with him. "And help me move that thing off him."

Three men brushed past him and set about lifting the crossbar or whatever it was. This wasn't going right. He was a doctor, why wouldn't they let him help? "Frank—"

"You said he wasn't here!" Frank exploded, eyes wide in shock, his skin a ghostly white. His eyes dropped to Paul's face as they turned him over.

Oh, God. Methos stared, all thought gone from his mind but that of Anne, a fond smile on her lips as she waved them good-bye on their departure for London.

The left side of Paul's face, his lips and nose, seemed a black, bloody mass, his left ear nearly gone. But maybe it wouldn't be so bad once he'd been tended to by a doctor, when he'd been cleaned and—

It wouldn't heal.

Methos was still standing there, trying to come up with some sort of plan, when they carried Paul away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 "She can't possibly blame you for that!"

Methos let his eyes remain on the little town stretching out in front of him. He wondered if Mac had rented the place for the view; nothing else about the apartment seemed to justify spending money on it. But the view was nice. This had to be one of the tallest buildings around, except the church.

He smiled thinly at Mac's indignation. "I tried telling her that. She wasn't very impressed."

"You spoke to her after that?"

"Yes. I stayed in London until she arrived. They wouldn't let me see him once in that time. If I'd killed him right afterwards, maybe…"

"They thought you had tried to get Paul killed?"

Methos nodded, recalling the unadorned fury on Frank's face. After so many years, it still seemed ridiculous to him. "Frank—Paul's secretary—was convinced I'd set Paul up, for insurance money, or because I wanted the factory all to myself, or some such nonsense. It was stupid." He shook his head at the silliness of it. Maybe none of this would have happened if it hadn't been for one mortal's antipathy towards him. With a half-smile, he looked over to Mac. "I think he never liked me much."

Mac cocked his head sideways. "Now, Methos, why would anyone not like you? It's unbelievable."

"Indeed." They smiled at each other, until Mac's expression turned serious as he stood up, and Methos mentally recoiled from that feeling of trusting closeness. He couldn't afford to get sentimental now. So he turned away from the window when Mac approached him and walked over to where his travel bag stood, busying himself with cramming the clothes he'd pulled out earlier back in.

"Methos, please."

He halted his motions. How he hated it, that strangled urgency that he himself was to blame for, that he had known would be there even before he'd ever gotten off the damned bus—hated it, hated the way it tore him open and left him bleeding, vulnerable to all kinds of idiocy.

"Methos, I'm not staying," Mac said calmly.

Methos hated that, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Yes. You are."

Duncan looked down at Methos' hunched form, saw the tension in his muscles, heard the frustration in his voice. Part of him wanted to give in, to do whatever Methos asked of him because it was the only power he had, his only way of helping.

Abandoning his position, he went back into the kitchen area and slumped down on one of the chairs. "It's been five years. I don't understand you. This won't just go away if we do nothing." No, Duncan didn't understand; he didn't understand why Methos insisted on making it so hard for them, or how facing the danger together could possibly be worse than this…living in a void.

"MacLeod." Methos stood, weariness obvious in each movement of his limbs. "Mac. It's hard enough for me to stay alive when I'm on my own. If I have to worry about you as well…"

"So you'd rather have me safely tucked away in a box, and you come and let me out to play for a day when you think I'm going to run off."

Only then did Methos meet his eyes. "Yes." A softly spoken word, still it rang like a shrill wail in Duncan's ears.

"So that's all I am. A liability."

Methos straightened up to his full height. "Cut the drama, MacLeod," he said, and that sliced deep, even when Duncan had thought it couldn't get any worse. He stared at Methos and thought that for a moment Methos' bland expression threatened to falter. But then it was gone, and Methos went on, his tone light, "She nearly got me, you know. Three times, to be precise. She's good, Mac. At least—the people she hired are."

"So are we." He hadn't even thought about it, but now that the words were out, he found them strangely reassuring, something to take heart from. "We've been up against much worse, Methos."

"Have we?"

"Yes."

They looked at each other across the silent room, and something flickered over Methos' features, something soft and exposing. "Mac…"

"Why don't you let me help?" Duncan asked, standing up and taking a step forward. It was absurd, but recognizing Methos' own uncertainty caused a surge of confidence to run through him, the knowledge that they were equals in their helplessness a comfort he hadn't known he sought.

He drew nearer, and for a moment he thought Methos was going to come near enough to touch, to let Duncan pull him close. As he extended his hand, however, Methos' face became a mask of indifference once more, giving him this alien, this out-of-reach look—seeing it was like touching ice.

"You can't ‘help,' MacLeod. You can only get yourself killed." Methos turned back to his bag, leaning down to zip it. "And I'd rather avoid that."

"I'm not staying," Duncan said yet again.

Methos' shoulders heaved in a slow intake of breath. He whirled around so suddenly that Duncan took a step back. "Fine! Go ahead! Get yourself killed! Just—" Another breath, this one shaky, and Methos added, without the rage, "Fine. Do as you please. But I'm leaving."

"What?"

"If you want to be an idiot, I can't stop you, but I'm not going to stick around and watch you die." With that, he picked up his travel bag and turned towards the door. He'd forgotten his coat, though, and his weapons, so he had to put the bag back down and walk past Duncan to get the rest of his belongings.

There was something sweet about the failed attempt at a theatrical exit. Talk about drama. "If anyone here is acting like an idiot, it's you," Duncan said. He had made his decision earlier this morning. Yes, it would end—whether Methos wanted it, or not.

Methos slowed his hectic struggle with the coat and actually managed to put it on. He didn't reply as he checked the fastenings of his weapons.

"I thought you were leaving at five o'clock."

"I changed my mind."

Their eyes met, but Methos looked away quickly and strode past Duncan, heading for his bag and the door.

I'm not staying. It felt good, good to know it was true. His newly found determination was like a comforting blanket around him, heavy and soothing, a shell of eerie calm.

Duncan took hold of his own coat and put it on, looking for his shoes.

"You're not coming with me," Methos said hastily, a trace of panic in his voice; it made Duncan even calmer.

"Not even to the bus station?" he asked, slightly amused.

Methos hesitated, then shrugged. "If you want to."

They passed the short walk in silence, and the forty minutes they waited for the next bus were awkward. Not to mention cold.

Duncan heard Methos' sigh of relief as the bus turned around the corner, and at that one sound all his resolve, his composure shriveled away to nothing. A liability.

"Don't go," he said, grabbing Methos' arm. "Not yet—"

The bus stopped in front of them, and he let go when he felt Methos tug against his grip. The door opened, and Methos stepped onto the stairs, turning back towards Duncan with a pleading look on his face. "Mac. Please. Stay out of this."

"I'm already in the middle of it!" Duncan burst out, ignoring the curious glance from the bus driver.

"Please, just—don't die," Methos whispered to him right before the door slammed shut, as if he were afraid of anything Duncan might answer, and both the words and the way Methos had used them as a weapon to keep him where he wouldn't die, where he wouldn't live—

Duncan stepped back from the pane of the door, in sudden need of distance even though they were already separated by years, years past and years to come.

Methos stared at him with eyes wide open, and Duncan saw a reflection of his own horror there, until the bus pulled away, leaving him standing at the curb on a wintry morning. Alone.

Duncan watched the bus drive out of sight, and he stood there for a while longer, until his toes started to hurt from the cold.

He wasn't staying.

Hamburg

Stupid. He'd been stupid, plain as that.

There was something about seeing Duncan like that, hiding and miserable, so goddamned passive, that brought up all of Methos' defense mechanisms and made reason fly right out the window.

He sat down in one of the plastic chairs for waiting train passengers with a groan, crumpling the ticket to Oslo with a vengeance. He'd already been aboard when he realized that what he had done had been…well, stupid.

He could easily invoke the memory of Duncan's face—it was painful to remember the downbeat expression, impossible not to see the silent accusation. I did that. All he wanted was to grab the man and shake him and make him see that it wasn't Methos' fault, that he wasn't responsible for all this.

Except that he was. He had wanted Duncan to stay there, keep hiding, keep safe, until it was all over, and he still wanted him to. Better down than dead.

Pissing Duncan off wouldn't help on that front, though.

Methos got up, throwing the ruined ticket into the nearest dustbin. It took him a couple of minutes to find a phone booth that accepted coins instead of cards. He never should have gone to Przylasek in the first place. That had been his first stupidity. A phone call would have been enough to make Duncan stay. But he'd been foolish, giving in to the need to see him—he just hadn't been prepared for the picture.

Five years ago in Paris, on that last morning, he had left Duncan on the barge to get breakfast; he had tried to be quiet, but Duncan had woken up nonetheless and grinned at him from the bed, their bed, making some suggestive remark or other that Methos had forgotten by now. The image had remained, had been etched onto his mind, Duncan naked, legs tangled in a crumpled sheet, his short curls disheveled, and he was smiling at Methos with sleep-heavy eyes, saying… But it was gone, all of it, what had been his comfort, his anchor for years erased by the vision of yesterday, Duncan's hurt, betrayed eyes and the lost look on his face as Methos had left him—yet again.

He picked up the receiver and put in a few coins. Someone had dropped a paper bowl with french fries in the corner of the booth, and he tried his best to ignore the smell of cold frying oil and dried ketchup.

He got out the small paper scrap scribbled full of numbers in a system nobody but him would understand and dialed Duncan's home number first. It was a workday, and he didn't expect Duncan to be home, so he wasn't surprised when nobody answered.

He tried the office, wondering briefly how Duncan would have reacted if he'd known that Methos had known how to reach him all along, with more than postcards. Postcards, for God's sake.

When nobody picked up on the third try, Methos started to get worried. He didn't name it, didn't allow himself to think about what it could mean, and he forced himself to dial the Bartosiewicz home number slowly.

"Swucham."

From the voice, Methos guessed he was talking to the senior Bartosiewicz. He introduced himself as David Stevens. "I'm a friend of Damek's," he said, "I need to talk to him. It's urgent, but I can't reach him at home or at work. Do you know where he is?"

"That's what I'd like to know!" Bartosiewicz rumbled, and Methos felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "He didn't show up for work, didn't say anything. I have no idea where he went. I have no idea how to get all the work done."

"He—" Methos cleared his throat. "He hasn't called in sick?"

"No, I'm telling you. He just disappeared. That was the last thing I needed!" There was a pause; Methos hoped against his better judgement that somehow, the facts would have changed when Bartosiewicz spoke again. But only his voice was different, more thoughtful, not as gruff. "You said it's urgent?"

"Yes."

"I talked to my son. He said… Hang on a minute."

Methos winced when Bartosiewicz yelled for his son without holding the receiver away. He concentrated on the shuffle of feet he heard, the grumpy exchange between father and son over who was getting on whose nerves. He wouldn't think about Duncan now.

"Yes?" said a boy's voice.

"Michał, right?" he answered, remembering what the father had called out.

"Yes. My father said you're a friend of Mac's?"

"Yes, I need to talk to him. It's urgent. Did he talk to you before he left?"

"No, I haven't seen him since Saturday. I know that he met someone at the pub that night; he was kind of strange about that."

Even though the kid was helpful, Methos was irritated that he'd volunteer information on Mac that easily. Michał had never seen Methos, after all. "Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

"Well, he seemed kind of depressed since his girlfriend left. Maybe he's gone to see her."

Girlfriend? MacLeod had a girlfriend? Methos cleared his throat again. "What girlfriend?"

"Uhm, that Europe lady. Beliard. Claire or Clara or something."

"And…where can I find that…Europe lady?"

"She's got her office in Strasbourg. I think…hang on a minute—Dad!" Methos winced again. "Do we have Beliard's office number?"

There was some more noise in the background. Methos took a pen out of his pocket and started tapping it on the phone's metal casing, the steady rhythm calming his nerves. Then Bartosiewicz called a number to his son, and Methos wrote the number down when Michał repeated it. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome," Michał mumbled, and suddenly added, "you are his friend, you said?"

A little late for that, kid. "Yes, I am. Thank you, Michał."

"Yeah, okay."

Methos hung up. A girlfriend. In Strasbourg. Great.

So much for all that loneliness bullshit.

He cursed when he found he didn't have enough coins left and went to get some change.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Duncan didn't drop his alias until he'd reached Prague. Leaving Bartosiewicz and his colleagues without a note or an explanation made him feel guilty by itself; he didn't need the additional worry of leading the people following him and Methos to Przylasek. Considering Damek Kotyczka's sorry financial situation, he couldn't withdraw money from the bank and get himself a car, so he took the train to Prague one last time instead. One last time, one last time… It raised the hairs on his neck, sang in his blood—it was over, it would be over.

He would ignore the worry for now, the dread of knowing just how badly it could all go wrong…

May 2006
Paris

It was an odd feeling to walk home alone, knowing the barge would be empty. Aside from that, everything was normal. Nobody followed him; he hadn't noticed anything suspicious all day.

Maybe there would be a message from Methos on his answering machine, something that would give Duncan more information than the panicked phone call three days ago. Methos hadn't sounded as if he were likely to change his mind about running off, but even though Duncan knew that, he still felt a twinge of disappointment when he approached the barge, when he was past the point where he would have felt Methos' presence. He was all alone.

He crossed the gangplank and unlocked the door. He hoped Methos would get in touch with him soon. Being left guessing like this pissed him off, never mind that he was worried sick at the same time. Walking down the stairs, he took off his coat, throwing it across a chair as he turned on the light.

Then it happened all at once; he saw the man in black clothing there, right in front of him, saw the gun and heard silenced shots before he could move, protect himself, and the pain tore into him, bullets striking his belly, his legs. He stumbled, trying to catch his balance, trying to shut out the flaring agony in his stomach, in other places, and he almost fell. No time for thought; he needed to get away, get out, he couldn't fight like this, had no idea what was going on, knew that he would die from this.

He'd reached the first step when he felt another shot smash into his stomach, and then one shattering his knee, and they didn't come from behind, there were more people, there had been somebody waiting outside, and Duncan doubled over, the floor reeling underneath him when his head crashed into something hard.

"Someone is after me." Methos' voice was a shrill memory, cutting through the confusion, the pain, the feeling of being caught, trapped. What did they want? Had they mistaken him for Methos?

He could still breathe. His lungs were fine. He concentrated on that as he tried to come up with something to do. Heavy steps approached and stopped next to him, and he thought he heard voices, but couldn't make out what was being said. He wanted to pull his knees up and get to his feet, fight back, anything. But his body didn't obey, just hurt, hurt so bad, burning and throbbing and running out of life.

If they thought him dead, he might be able to surprise them later. He held on to that thought, but it was hard to stay clear-headed, hard not to cringe or make any sound. Hard to play dead when so close to dying. Methos would probably have found that funny. He groaned when one of them prodded his injured leg, and cursed himself for that failure. He managed to roll to his side despite the feeling of being ripped apart, even got his arms underneath himself, but he was slow, so slow, and someone kicked him in the chest and sent him falling onto his back, screaming out loud.

It all seemed muted after that, everything hazy, voices and colors and thoughts, everything except the pain, and the crushing fear that there was nothing he could do.

He focused on the voices, because he knew they were talking, and maybe that would help, would tell him—

"Now what? Do we cut his head off?"

"No, we need him alive. For that other guy we're supposed to find."

No, not that, anything but that, he couldn't—

If only he didn't let go, if he held on just a minute longer, two, until they'd dragged him upstairs, and oh, God it hurt when they picked him up, he was about to pass out, or die… "Get the fuck out of Paris, MacLeod! This isn't a joke!" And Methos would die, too.

It seemed to go on for an eternity; swaying towards darkness, escaping its lure again. They would kill him if he didn't— No, they had said they wouldn't, but they would kill Methos, find him and kill him. Two men carried him, Duncan could feel them on each side, but he didn't know if there were others, couldn't see them, couldn't see clearly at all, the exit of the barge, the quay blurred to his eyes.

Then they were on deck, or at least he thought they were. He couldn't struggle against their grip; it wouldn't be enough.

Something scraped against his wrists, cold metal, and he thought dimly that they were handcuffing him. Then he heard a woman's voice, loud and clear, and it was strange, because he hadn't expected that there would be a woman with them.

"God! What happened to him? You—did you call for an ambulance?" The meaning was lost on him, but he sensed frantic movement around him at that, and he nearly fell to the side when one of the men carrying him let go. There, his chance, his only chance, maybe; get into the Seine, get away from them, die, heal. It was one hard, desperate yank, just one step to the side; it should have been easy, but it was agonizing and cost him all the strength he had left. He made it and fell over, hit the water, praying he would go down, praying they wouldn't find his body, praying he would be lucky. Luck—it was his only chance. Cold water was all around him, he was breathing it in, he was drowning on top of it all, and then everything was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He called Joe from the payphone aboard the train and left a message on the answering machine, announcing his coming, and once in Prague, got himself a rather expensive hotel room.

If the receptionist took offense at his rather scruffy exterior, she didn't let it show. With a bright smile she asked, "Your name, Sir?"

"Duncan MacLeod," he replied a little too forcefully, stopping himself from adding ‘of the Clan MacLeod' just in time. He grinned at himself—it was ridiculous, really.

Giving up his name hadn't been as hard as he'd feared, back then; he'd adjusted rather easily. For some strange reason, though, reclaiming it made him feel as if the battle was already halfway won.

The woman behind the counter appeared confused for a moment, and Duncan tried for a reassuring smile, but he couldn't hide his wicked delight as he ordered, "A room for two, please."

She didn't show any further sign of suspicion as she dealt with his request, and he bet that she'd seen much more bizarre people in her time than a poorly dressed guy with a bad haircut who was grinning like a madman for no reason.

He handed her his passport without waiting for her to demand it, and she seemed grateful that she didn't have to ask. He didn't have cash yet, or a valid credit card, and he knew she needed some sort of insurance that he wouldn't trash the room and run off. His passport was still valid. He was almost fifty according to it, but it would do.

She wished him a pleasant stay, and he made his way to the elevator, enjoying the tasteful decor and the gentle silence, his footsteps soundless on the plush carpet.

He wasn't sure whether Methos would truly follow him here; he wasn't sure about a lot of things with Methos, not anymore. But he thought it highly unlikely that Methos didn't have his own information sources. Duncan MacLeod making a splash in Prague wouldn't escape his notice. And Duncan MacLeod intended to make a big splash.

Once in his room—a nice room with a nice view and a shower that had walls—he called Joe again, and this time the Watcher was home.

"Mac!" he greeted Duncan, sounding surprisingly relieved. "You had me worried. What took you so long?"

Duncan frowned. "I only called you two hours ago."

"You said you were coming about the dead Immortal. Saturday, remember?"

Oh. Damn. Duncan sighed, finally recalling their conversation. "I'm sorry, Joe, I forgot."

"You forgot?" Joe snorted. "Man, this I have to hear."

"Methos dropped by."

There was a pause. "Methos? Are you sure?"

"Well, let me see. Five thousand years old, pissy attitude, drinks lots of beer—yeah, I'm sure, Joe. Though, wait a minute, he didn't really drink all that—"

"Okay, okay, I got it. So, what did he want?"

"To show me that he's still alive."

"What?"

"He heard about the guy who got killed here last week. He didn't want me to go off investigating." Saying it tasted bitter even now, and he hurried to continue, "He left yesterday. But I've decided that now would be a good time to get down to business."

"What are you going to do?"

Duncan sat down in one of the armchairs, stretching his legs out. "Spend some money. I think I'll put an ad in one of the papers—" He broke off, remembering Methos' sarcastic words yesterday morning, the defensiveness Duncan didn't understand. Just thinking of the way Methos refused to deal with any of this dulled his excitement to a certain extent. He went on nonetheless, "saying that I'm looking for information regarding this guy's beheading." He waited another moment. "I'm back to using my name, by the way."

"Does he know you're going to risk your head here?" Joe asked.

Duncan leaned back into the armchair's cushion, the exuberance of earlier gone, replaced by a sense of grim determination. "Not yet." He turned his eyes towards the window, looking out into the clear sky. "But I suppose he'll find out, eventually."

Strasbourg

Old people ought to be shot.

With an undignified yelp, Methos dashed forward and thrust one foot between the closing train doors. Modern technology be blessed, they halted and re-opened when they encountered resistance, and he heaved his travel bag onto the platform, and then jumped down himself. A woman with a baby carriage shot him an odd look before she continued giving good advice to the teenager sticking his head out of the train window, and Methos felt his cheeks burn.

Not for the first time today, he asked himself if he was losing his touch. Coming here had been idiotic enough, and now this.

He'd done the usual, picked a train that departed a couple of minutes before the one he actually planned to board, and gotten in a minute or so before the departure, intending to get off again at a different door. It was a simple and effective way to confuse possible followers, and now more than ever he couldn't afford to have anyone on his trail.

What he hadn't anticipated was the chattering gang of old ladies with enough bags to contain a small household that had blocked the aisle before him, and the equally well-packed if considerably younger army of neo-hippie, rucksack-travelling students who had appeared behind him out of nowhere, and the only way to avoid going on a nice trip to Basel, which was—thank you very much—not really on his way, was by making a genuine ass of himself and just shoveling the old ladies aside.

A brilliant way to stay unnoticed.

With a huff, he lifted his bag and strode towards the escalator.

He hated central Europe these days. Everywhere you went, it was crowded and hectic, and even the short time he spent in stations to change trains made him jumpy. Crowds were wonderful to disappear in, but they also made it difficult to tell an innocent bystander with the impolite habit of staring from someone who was after him.

After a small commotion at the base of the escalator, he had to jog the rest of the way to catch his train and just managed to jump in before the doors went shut. Fortunately, it didn't take him long to find a vacant seat, as he tended to travel first class, and he slumped down in it with a satisfied grunt. He was developing a serious dislike of trains.

A man in a business suit entered the car, and Methos felt another jolt of adrenaline as their eyes met for a second, but then the man only seemed to frown at Methos' touristy exterior and found himself a seat. Methos exhaled slowly with relief, but he was too frustrated to relax.

Four days since MacLeod had disappeared, and Methos had accomplished nothing, only collected an impressive stack of train tickets and hotel bills. He had called Claire Beliard after the Bartosiewicz boy had told him about her, and when he'd finally gotten through to her, she had denied knowing a Damek Kotyczka so brusquely that it had set off all his inner alarm bells. Since she refused to talk to him any further, he'd seen no other alternative but to take the trip to Strasbourg and see her in person if he wanted to get more information out of her.

Methos unlaced his shoes and took them off, putting his feet on the opposite seat. The landscape rushed by, leafless trees, bare fields, towns and motorways; wasted miles, wasted time.

He had located Beliard's office in the Palais de l'Europe, and getting in and finding what he was looking for hadn't turned out to be much of a difficulty. The secretary's desk in the anteroom had been abandoned, possibly for lunch, and Methos hadn't bothered to knock as he entered the cluttered yet spacious room, whose size made it obvious that Beliard had reached a certain position.

She was standing in front of a heavily burdened shelf, a book in hand. Probably in her late forties, she was wearing a suit jacket over jeans, dark-blonde hair kept in a disorderly bun that made her look as if she'd just fought her way through a thunderstorm.

"Bonjour," she said, her confusion quite obvious. "Can I help you?" It seemed genuine, and nothing about her suggested that she was in league with Anne, but a nice appearance and a lack of bad guy charisma weren't criteria Methos put much trust in.

He closed the door. "I hope so. My name is David Stevens, we've spoken on the phone."

Her face darkened immediately, and she shoved the book back in place. Her desk became a barrier between them as she walked to her chair and sat down, chin raised defiantly. She didn't ask him to take a seat on the visitor's chair, and Methos doubted it had anything to do with the piles of paper on it.

"Did my husband send you?" she asked.

It was the last thing Methos had expected. "Your husband?" he echoed, rather stupidly as he admitted to himself. This was bizarre. MacLeod hadn't married the woman, had he? A quick look at her hands, folded over her belly, told him that she wasn't wearing a ring.

"Yes, my husband. But you can tell him that he'd better mind his own goddamn business, unless he wants people to take a closer look at some of the skeletons in his closet."

"Skeletons?"

"That's why you're here, isn't it? To dig up some dirt about my private life? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Close the door on your way out."

Methos stifled a groan. Lovely. He grabbed the papers on the extra chair and deposited them on Beliard's desk, then sat down. "You're getting divorced?"

Her look turned from enraged to merely guarded, and she inclined her head. "You're not here because of my husband?"

"Madame Beliard, I don't even know your husband."

"Then you're a reporter?"

"No." Methos sighed. "I'm not looking for a scandal. I'm a friend of Damek Kotyczka."

Frowning, she looked him up and down, clearly wondering whether she could take him at face value.

"Look, I don't care that you had an affair with him," he said, though it didn't come as smoothly as he'd expected. "I already know that."

"From whom?"

"Well, it's not exactly a secret in Przylasek."

He could see the realization that he'd spoken with people like Michał, that there was no use in denial, hit home. "We worked together," she said, closing her eyes briefly. "It's my job to inspect whether the farmers we subsidize stick to the regulations. Damek is my contact down there. When we—"

"I know," he interrupted her before she moved into confession mode. He could live with the fact that Mac hadn't spent all this time pining for him, but he really didn't need to hear her describing the details. "Have you heard from him recently?"

The guarded look was back. "Has he disappeared?"

"Yes. And I need to find him."

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found."

So she had noticed that Mac was hiding, and she cared enough to keep it in mind when some stranger showed up in her office and asked uncomfortable questions.

"That's exactly the point. Maybe he has been found." He took a deep breath and leaned forward, counting on her willingness to help MacLeod. "I'm his friend. I want to help him. But I can't if I have no idea where he went, or if someone abducted him."

She contemplated that for a while, once more examining him openly. Then she sighed, giving in to the inevitable, but she looked as if she knew that Methos wouldn't like her answer. "I haven't heard from him since I left Przylasek." She raised her shoulders in apology. "I'm sorry you came all the way for nothing."

He cursed inwardly. "And you have no idea where he might have gone?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even. Why had he put so much faith in the melodramatic words of a teenager in the first place?

Shaking her head, she gave him a small smile. "I think… Don't overestimate that relationship, Mr. Stevens."

She didn't need to get more precise, and Methos appreciated her honesty, oddly grateful that she hadn't used less subtle words to describe the casualness of their affair.

He rose to his feet and tried a smile himself. "Thank you for your time."

"Never mind." She stood up as well. "And please excuse my rudeness. This divorce business is getting to me."

The divorce. "Did Mac…?"

She blinked. "What? Oh, no, Damek had nothing to do with it. He was just—" She broke off and looked at him.

"It's all right," Methos said automatically, his own feelings contradictory as he watched her shrug in embarrassment.

He extended his hand, and she seemed grateful for his diplomacy as she shook it. They said goodbye, but her voice stopped him at the door. "Mr. Stevens—would you tell me—he lost someone, didn't he?"

His hand on the doorknob, Methos turned halfway. "What?"

"I just thought that there must have been something terrible that happened to him, as if he'd lost someone. He often looked—" Her eyes dropped to her hands, hands that weren't wearing rings. "We didn't ask each other questions like that."

An oncoming train rushing by the window made him jump, startling him out of the memory. He felt the surprised stare of the train attendant who was distributing paper cups with coffee among the first class passengers. Methos glared at him until the man flushed red and turned away.

‘…as if he'd lost someone.' It had cost him not to run in that moment, he remembered now with the same sense of dread. Instead, he had forced out a polite lie, told her he didn't know, and walked out, giving the returning secretary a menacing look when she had set out to address him. Such a waste of time.

He should have gone to Prague right away, fuck the Watchers and Anne's cronies.

And if she had Mac, he'd better be where she could find him, anyway, he thought grimly. I don't think she has my number.

As if on cue, his cell phone rang.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Strangely enough, he saw Methos before he felt him. He had chosen a café by the riverside, sitting outside to enjoy the sunlight on his face. He could watch the stream of pedestrians sauntering across the Charles bridge; it wasn't the tourist season crowd, but still enough people that it would have been easy to miss the man in the long dark coat.

Methos seemed to be looking at him, and Duncan suspected that he'd followed him here from the hotel. Followed him. Picked up his trail to Prague.

Relief that he'd been right, surprise—Duncan couldn't sort it all out as he watched Methos approach from the foot of the bridge, Immortal presence now washing over him, and with it fear, too, of how Methos would react to being played like this.

He didn't look happy, that much was certain. "Mac," he said tersely, stepping up to Duncan's table. He seemed to loom over Duncan, his black clothes a sharp contrast to the clear blue sky.

"Methos, I'm glad you could make it," Duncan replied, but it didn't sound as casual as he'd meant it to. Methos glowered at him, and suddenly Duncan was afraid he'd simply turn and leave. "Sit down. Please."

Methos didn't move. "I was in Strasbourg."

"Strasbourg?" Duncan repeated. "What for?"

"I called your employers. Your friend, that boy, he said you'd gone to see your girlfriend." There was an edge to that last word, and Duncan felt his heart race. He had no idea what to say. It didn't matter, though, since Methos wasn't done yet. "But then it turns out she doesn't know where the fuck you are, either."

"You spoke to—"

"I thought you were bloody dead, MacLeod!"

That, he could answer. "So did I." There was a moment of silence. A flight of seagulls rose in a flurry, but neither of them reacted to the distraction. Then Methos let out a shuddering breath and finally sat down.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Mac?" he asked, and he looked so tired as he hunched forward, resting his forearms on the table, his skin startlingly pale in the glaring sunlight, that Duncan almost regretted his words.

"What were you thinking?" he asked back, quietly. "I told you I wasn't staying."He welcomed the interruption when the waitress approached, setting a cup of coffee down in front of him. Methos didn't order anything, just exchanged a couple of weird glances with her, apparently uncomfortable in her presence, and she looked even more annoyed with them. Duncan didn't blame her; he could see the goosebumps on her skin from three meters' distance. She wasn't dressed for customers on the terrace. "I thought you'd figure it out sooner or later. You knew I was in Przylasek, too."

Methos nodded slowly. "You can be certain that if my contacts read your paper ad, hers did as well."

"That was the plan, yes."

"Oh, so you've got a plan now."

"Well, someone has to. And since you obviously don't…" Duncan tried a smile, and there was a brief surge of hope as he saw Methos' lips twitching, telling him that yes, they were both

in this, that they were going to deal with it together.

"My plan was staying alive," Methos said, without the blank mask, without becoming that stranger Duncan didn't understand. "It worked up to here." No stranger. Just Methos, worried and cynical and afraid, as he once more resigned himself to a danger Duncan wouldn't avoid, risking his head because of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos let his gaze drift out over the river, then turned to the other side and tried to catch the waitress' attention through the café's glass front. He waved at her when she noticed him and watched her get the bill from the cash desk, all the while avoiding Duncan's grief-stricken face.

Oh, yes, that had hit home. And he hadn't even thought about it. But once out there, his words paved the way for him to get Duncan back into hiding, back to safety; it was now or never, and he knew that he could do it. So I'm going to die just because you have to play the hero. It was on his lips: the goddamned trump card.

Finally, the waitress arrived, slapping the tiny piece of paper on the table. Methos watched the ritual of payment and change without looking at Duncan's face. The waitress made him nervous; he felt as if she suspected them of something, her expression highly skeptical, until, as she looked at him directly, half-heartedly wishing them a nice day, he realized that it was only the peculiar way she had plucked her eyebrows that made her look so doubtful.

He followed her with his eyes as she hurried back into the warmth of the café; he thought of how strange women looked when they tried to hurry in high heels, of divorced politicians and old ladies with too many suitcases, and he heard himself snicker.

"I'm losing it, Mac," he said before Mac would ask, shaking his head. "I'm definitely losing it." He got up. "Let's go back to your hotel. I haven't showered in three days."

He heard the scrape of the chair on the concrete, and felt Mac step up beside him.

They were on the middle of the bridge, and without warning Methos had this image of them in Paris in his head, talking, laughing together, walking by the Seine, and it cut so deep that he had to stop and close his eyes. Yes, he remembered now, remembered how Duncan would look at him with a smile, confident and at ease, saying…

"That is such bullshit, Methos."

"Is it?"

"Yeah." The breeze picked up a strand of Mac's hair and made it curl against his forehead. Mac put on what was probably supposed to be a serious expression; it would have been effective, what with the wind blowing up his dark coat behind him and the menacing bulk of grey clouds as a background, if he could have stopped himself from grinning. "I do not…do that."

Methos raised both eyebrows at him. "Oooh, now I'm convinced, MacLeod. Talk about eloqu—" The rest of his reply was cut off when Mac grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him.

It was one of his better efforts; Methos was panting when Mac was done and almost willing to concede the point. Almost. "I don't know, MacLeod," he whispered, licking lightly at Mac's upper lip for an encore, "but this doesn't exactly disprove my theory."

"Your theory is bullshit, end of story," Mac whispered back, grinning. No, it wasn't precisely a whisper, more of a growl, and it went straight to Methos' groin. "And why would I be jealous?" Yep, definitely a growl. And Mac looked kind of large as he stepped even closer, a solid, hard force to melt against. "You're so hot for me I can smell it from here." He raked his teeth against Methos' lower lip. "I like that smell."

"Uhm, you know," Methos tried one last time, "you scared that woman to death back in the restaurant, just because she thought I was nice."

"You are nice. You smell nice. Or is that fear?"

Methos gave up on his theory when Mac started licking his ear. "Okay, MacLeod, you win," he breathed.

"Hmm, thought so," Mac murmured and patted Methos' ass possessively. And then he let him go. "Now that that's proven, we can go to that nightclub you suggested," he said brightly, stepping back.

It took Methos a moment to get his brain to work. "MacLeod! That's not funny!"

"Really?" Mac was grinning again. "I'm pretty entertained." With that, he turned around, coat waving behind him, laughing over his shoulder as Methos hurried to catch up.

"Methos?"

Methos took a deep breath, shutting the memory out. "That plan of yours."

Duncan tensed slightly, but his voice was carefully even. "Yes?"

"I don't think it's going to take them long now."

"So…you're going to stay?"

"I suppose I am." He could see the fight going on in Duncan; it was almost as if he could read the arguments on his face, the danger versus safety, each horrifying. He wasn't sure himself which one he wanted to win.

"All right," Duncan said then, and they nodded at each other, simultaneously, before they continued to walk, their arms touching.

"Oh, and about this being your plan," Methos said after a couple of steps. "I'm claiming authorship over the part with the ad."

Duncan gave a quiet chuckle in response, a faint echo of his laughter on another day, by another river, and Methos smiled, glad for it, wanting to cry at the same time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His footsteps resonated in the empty street, the air in his lungs bitingly cold, wonderfully clear. Duncan knew they were there, could feel them even though they were mortals, the sense of being followed prickling on his skin. He wasn't afraid; there was no reason to be. His only point of concern was that maybe he was being too obvious in his movements, too knowing, too sure, risking too much as he turned the corner into an even darker alley.

Here, this would be it; there were no windows, no sources of light except for the stars. It might have been storage buildings, or houses abandoned by former inhabitants, Duncan couldn't say with certainty, but it didn't matter anyway. He slowed his steps, feeling the cobblestones under his feet, straining for any sound his pursuers might make.

They were good, one had to give them that much. Duncan saw three figures coming in his direction, proof that they had anticipated his path, and as he briefly looked over his shoulder, there were two men behind him, so silent he hadn't heard their steps. He slowed down even more and came to a halt, waiting for them to approach, his hands in the pockets of his coat.

The group in front of him was closer than the one behind him, and when they were close enough he didn't have to shout he said, "Gentlemen. Good evening."

He saw their surprised stop, with one of them fidgeting, the others then taking a few hesitant steps towards him, and he felt a jolt of excitement at this slip in their skilled performance. "You're looking for me, I assume?" It bothered him that he couldn't make out their faces, but then this, too, was not of importance.

"You're Duncan MacLeod," one of them, the one furthest to the left, said in Czech, with what could be a French accent.

"That's correct." He did hear the footsteps behind him now, the loud shuffle of feet that was calculated to intimidate him and make him feel surrounded.

The same man spoke again. "There's someone who'd like to talk to you."

"Oh, I'm all for talking. If you give me a date and a place, I'm sure I can arrange that."

"We'll do the arranging for you," the man said, and the rustle of clothes behind him told him the conversation was over. Dodging to the right, Duncan swirled around, pulled out his gun, and fired. He saw one of the men he faced go down, aimed and fired at the second one, who was holding what looked like a knife. So they'd intended to stab him and take him…wherever. It didn't matter, he'd know soon enough.

A bullet struck him in the chest before he'd even turned back around; he recognized the pain, identified it, but it didn't really hurt. Then he felt shots ripping into his back as he turned, shots to his belly, and he toppled over, his body cringing of its own will. He tasted blood in his mouth, and he didn't mind.

He managed to roll onto his back and looked up at the three figures that towered over him, the three men he hadn't managed to take out.

One of them leapt forward as Duncan moved his arm, and kicked the gun from his hand. Then he fell, without even making a sound, as swiftly as a puppet whose strings had been cut. Duncan smiled as he watched the remaining two start, but the second man went down before they had time to react, and right afterwards the last one doubled over, clutching at his stomach.

Duncan found it hard to breathe, and he closed his eyes, concentrating. He opened them again to see Methos step into his view.

"That was…just in time," Duncan managed to choke out around the blood filling his lungs.

"Stop nagging." Methos kneeled down next to him and poked at the holes in Duncan's coat. "You'll be dead any minute now. Don't fight it."

"The man…" Methos' face was beginning to blur in front of Duncan's eyes, and he focused on the hand caressing his cheek.

"He can still talk. Don't worry about it." Methos stood. "I'll handle this."

There was a joke in there somewhere, Duncan thought briefly, but then he decided to follow Methos' advice for once and give himself over to darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos heard the coughing as Mac came to. He hadn't been out long, but the time had been enough for Methos.

"Methos?" Mac asked shakily, and Methos closed the hatch over the cellar window through which he'd dumped the bodies and returned to where Mac was slowly working himself into a sitting position. "Did we get it?"

"Yes." He picked up his coat, which he'd taken off when he'd started to sweat from dragging dead bodies around. "He didn't know where she lives, but they got their money from a bank in Brest."

Mac seemed to be recovering quickly; he got to his feet with far too much enthusiasm for a man who'd just died of multiple gunshots. "That's in Brittany, right?"

Methos nodded. "I'd assume she's somewhere in the area."

"Why not in Brest itself?" Mac looked around. "Where are the bodies?"

Methos adjusted the fastening of his ankle holster that had gotten out of place. "I dumped them into one of the cellars."

"The guy…"

"Is dead, too. I really don't need her to throw us a welcoming party."

"Then let's go."

"Where?"

"To Brest?" Mac said, sounding as if he considered him a little slow on the uptake. "Well, first we go back to the hotel and get my things, but then we'd better get moving."

So they did, with Mac striding out ahead and Methos hurrying to keep up.

It was nearly an hour's walk to the hotel; they would be there around four and hopefully manage to avoid any early morning birds. Mac looked so fierce and determined that Methos feared he would terrify any innocent passerby unlucky enough to cross their path.

"Did he say anything else?" Mac asked after a while.

The pace was making Methos pant, and his lungs hurt from the cold air. "Who?"

"The man you asked so nicely."

"No. He didn't have any more information." ‘You sure?' He expected it, but it didn't come. He was sure; the bastard had been scared out of his mind before Methos had even made an outright threat. Methos' words alone had then been enough to make him volunteer any information from his mother's birth name to his PIN number.

"You don't think she's in Brest?"

"No. With Paul's injuries, I bet they've gotten a place somewhere they could live pretty isolated."

"So we'll look around in the rural area, ask some questions."

"Yes, I think that would be the way to go."

They were coming into a busier part of the town, and as they passed a street lamp, Methos noticed the blood stains on the back of Mac's coat. The bullet holes. He had completely forgotten.

"Mac, stop," he said, and Mac turned around, just inside the street lamp's circle of light.

The front of his coat was speckled with dark spots, and somehow he'd gotten a streak of blood on his cheek. Evidence of a battle fought and won. "What?" he asked, and something must have shown on Methos' face that made Duncan look at him, look right into him with this dark gleam in his eyes. "What, Methos?"

"You need to get out of that coat before anyone sees you," Methos answered, slowly stepping forward. "You're covered in blood."

"Oh." Duncan shrugged out of his coat, letting it drop where he stood. He hadn't even brought the katana, just this one solitary gun, trusting Methos to watch his back. He looked up at Methos. "You okay?"

"Yes, sure." Methos reached up and rubbed his hand over the blood on Duncan's cheek, even though the sight of it made his skin rise in goosebumps, and erasing it felt so utterly wrong. "Mac…"

"What?"

A car drove around the corner, and the sound shook Methos out of it. They stepped out of the spotlight quickly, and Methos took his coat off. "Nothing." He handed it to Mac. "Your sweater's ruined, too."

Mac put the coat on without asking, and Methos waited for him to continue their walk, for him to take the lead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Driving so long after having been up all night was probably not the most reasonable thing to do, and Methos made sure, in every nuanced way possible, that Duncan was aware of that. But Duncan knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep anyway, and he didn't feel like wasting money on one of those godawful hotels along the autoroute just to end up tossing and turning all night.

"Do we have enough cash for a couple of weeks?" Methos asked at that, and Duncan seized the opportunity to finally drop the issue.

"Yes, it should do. Do you really think it's going to take us weeks?"

"Depends. It's a matter of luck, I'd say."

"Do you think it will work?"

"What? Counting on village gossip?"

"Yeah. I don't know, maybe nobody's ever seen him. Paul, I mean. If he's an invalid, he might not have been to the village—if they really live in one of the villages." There was a pause, but not long enough for Duncan to ask what was wrong.

"What makes you think Paul…is an invalid?"

The motorway was almost empty at this hour, and Duncan spared a glance sideways. Methos' face gave nothing away. "You keep saying Anne is after you. I don't know, it sounded as if…" His voice trailed off; it was as if he had known it a second before the knowledge registered. "Paul is dead?"

They were behind a motor home, and Duncan started to overtake.

Methos waited until they were back in the right lane. "Yes."

"Did she do it?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Methos lean forward slightly. "What?"

Duncan shrugged. "Just asking. Maybe she thought of it as a mercy killing."

The incredulity was still evident in Methos' voice. "No. No, MacLeod, she didn't do it." He slouched back in his seat. "It was me." He didn't give Duncan time to ask anything, say anything, just went on quickly, "It was a challenge, okay? He found me that day in Paris, he challenged me, I took his head. End of story."

Duncan clutched the steering wheel tighter. He didn't believe it. "End of story? Excuse me, but don't you think you could have told me that a little earlier?"

"It doesn't make any difference, MacLeod!"

"Then why didn't you just tell me, for God's sake? Do you get some sick thrill out of keeping things from me?"

"No," Methos said, and it sounded subdued. Well, that was a first.

Duncan cleared his throat, feeling his anger recede strangely fast. "So." He looked over at Methos, and maybe it was the miserable way he looked, or maybe Duncan was simply too tired of all their fighting to get very excited about this now. He'd trusted Methos, his judgement, so much, and Methos wouldn't even let him know the whole story. "I don't get you, Methos," he said quietly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not important," Methos muttered. Duncan heard him take a deep breath. "Really, it isn't. He was determined to kill me, and now that he's dead, she'll see to it for him."

Duncan waited to see if Methos would add anything, but after another minute spent in silence, the only sound the rumble of the engine, Duncan said, "It bothers you, doesn't it?"

It was getting darker, and even though Duncan saw that Methos was looking at him, it was hard to see his expression clearly. "That she's trying to kill me?"

"That you killed him. That he got burnt, and that you killed him."

The silence stretched out long enough that Duncan thought Methos wouldn't answer. Duncan didn't feel like he needed to hear it anyway; something had clicked into place, something tiny, a minor detail that allowed him to think that maybe he did know Methos, after all.

"I wouldn't exactly want to put it in my C.V."

They drove by another péage sign, and Methos busied himself with getting the money ready.

"If Paul is dead, why do you think she'll still be living in the same place?" Duncan asked once they'd paid and were moving again.

"She's been with him for nearly two hundred years. She's even made his private little obsession with me her own. Where would she go?"

"Are you sure?"

Methos turned the radio on, but kept it on a low volume. "Yes. I'm sure."

They drove on in silence for some time, and shortly after Rennes, Methos fell asleep. They would continue an hour or two, Duncan decided, before he'd stop and get them a hotel room. He was getting tired, too, and now that they were off the autoroute, he had to concentrate more.

A soft drizzle had started, and it dimmed the yellow light that fell through the windows as they passed through another town, bathing Methos' relaxed features in a gentle glow. The radio was still playing, soft tunes that merged with the sound of the engine, muted by the lower speed, with the squish of tires on wet asphalt, and Methos' even breathing.

Duncan doubted that it would take them long to find a vacant room, but he still wanted to drive on for a little longer. Getting out of the car and into a cold and rainy night didn't hold that great an appeal right now.

He cast another glance at Methos' sleeping form, then stepped on the gas as they left the town behind them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the fourth day of their journey, they had investigated six small villages and found no indication whatsoever that Anne and Paul had ever lived in the vicinity. They left the hotel they'd spent the night in early, and had only been on the road for an hour when Methos decided that he truly didn't like cars, not even the swish new BMW Mac had gotten himself. His ass hurt, and not in a good way, and he thought he could feel every single minute they'd spent driving in his legs, which was strange, since the car was rather spacious. It was too bad, really, since he thought that if he ever had to step on a train again, he would throw up, and planes made him edgy as well. Guess that only leaves steamers. He chuckled, and that earned him a confused look from MacLeod.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You laughed."

"Yes. It happens. Sue me." He looked over at Mac to check whether he might have taken it the wrong way, but Mac didn't seem affronted. "Say, MacLeod. Wouldn't you rather take me through France in a canoe?"

To his credit, Mac didn't even flinch. "I know you complained about the air conditioning, but I didn't know it was damaging to your brain." After a second, he added, "And you don't even like the water."

"Oh." Methos had to think about that for a moment. "True. Forget I said anything."

Under different circumstances, the scenery would have been enjoyable. For Methos, anyway; Mac was probably fed up with all things quiet and secluded. They couldn't see the ocean from here, but it wasn't very far, and this morning blessed them with an almost cloudless sky, light blue set off from the rich green of the land stretching out around them, with only rare traces of civilization.

"Give me some of that coffee," Mac asked after a while.

"I believe the word is ‘please,' MacLeod." Methos bent down to retrieve the thermos from the bag on the floor and uncapped the bottle. He filled the cap halfway, then stared down into the black liquid. "You didn't put milk in," he stated.

Mac gave him an odd look. "No. Why?"

"Why not?"

"Ever drunk from a bottle that's had milk going sour in it?"

"Oh, come on, MacLeod, that is just pedantic."

"Hey, you can take care of the provisions next time if it makes you happy."

"Yes, I think I'll do that." Slouching back in his seat, he tried not to let his grin show. Sulking was hard if you had to laugh at the same time. He took a sip from the cap, then handed it over to Mac.

After Mac had finished the coffee, he said, "I've been thinking. About that Immortal in Prague."

"What about him?"

"Did you know him?"

"No, of course not. Not even the Watchers knew him. He was just some poor bastard who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Maybe it was a plan, and he was in on it," Mac mused, not taking his eyes off the road.

Methos jerked his head around to see if he was serious. "Yeah. Sure, MacLeod. Remind me that next time I get into a conspiracy, I make it one that ends with my head getting cut off."

"Maybe they staged it."

"How do you stage a Quickening? Not to mention a headless body to go with it."

"Well, it's certainly possible to…" Mac's voice trailed off, and when he glanced over at Methos again he was smiling, looking just a tad sheepish. "Okay. So he wasn't in on it."

Methos snorted at that piece of insight, but couldn't help returning the smile.

Just then, another village came into sight, and from the corner of his eye Methos could see Mac tense.

Methos released a slow breath as they approached the little cluster of houses. Back to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not long after noon, they met again at the village square, which was hardly more than a traffic circle with a patch of grass and a bench in the middle. Methos was sitting on that bench, a bag from the local supermarket on the ground between his legs.

"Nothing," Duncan announced as he came to a halt beside him, examining the bag. "You?"

"No. Nobody ever heard of a man with burn scars like that, or a woman living alone that fits Anne's description." Methos leaned his head back and peered up at Duncan. "On the other hand, I've been given a detailed account of every injury every male inhabitant of this town has ever sustained, from the Second World War to the thunderstorms of three years ago."

Duncan laughed, sitting down next to Methos. They weren't making progress, and he knew that it made Methos nervous; the more time they spent snooping around, the higher chances were that something would go wrong. They weren't asking the most ordinary questions. But at least they were doing something, and they were doing it together.

"Did you know," Methos asked, pointing towards one of the houses around the square, "that over there lived a man who lost both his arms in the war? He died just last month, of cancer. And his daughter burnt her left arm severely, when the gas oven exploded last spring. That could have set the whole town on fire! But they were lucky, it started to rain—"

Methos tasted of salty butter and croissant as Duncan efficiently shut him up, but then he had to laugh, and the kiss broke. "You're such a whiner, Methos," he grinned.

Methos lowered his eyes and replied, "It's an art form." He looked endearing like this, all fake modesty and bashfulness, with the wind tugging at his hair and the sun shining down on him. Duncan knew the smile playing around Methos' lips was supposed to be shy, but it only helped to make Methos' posture, his whole attitude, look like a challenge, daring Duncan to test just how real—

Methos' eyes grew distant, his body tensing up as he focussed on something over Duncan's shoulder, and it took Duncan only a split second to shake himself out of it and turn his head.

Methos stood up with a rash movement, but Duncan didn't take his eyes off the black van approaching them, coming towards the traffic circle on the main road, from the direction they had come, too.

"It's just a feeling, and I hate to appear paranoid," Methos said dispassionately, "but I think we'd better get to the car."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain exploded in Methos' shoulder as he was hit by another bullet, but he managed to keep himself from falling over, just went on running. He didn't know if the pain in his lungs came from his harsh breathing, the desperate struggle of his body to get enough oxygen into his system as he hastened through the narrow streets of the village a step or two behind Mac, or if he'd taken a hit there, too, but he could see the car from here, and he knew he wouldn't have to keep up much longer.

When Mac slowed down, fumbling for the keys and trying to press the button to unlock the car, Methos almost ran into him, sending them staggering to stay on their feet. Neither of them had bothered to try and shoot back at the men following them; there were at least seven, and simply running and taking a route where the van couldn't follow had been their best chance.

Methos was almost at the car when he was hit in the thigh, the impact making him stumble, slam against the metal, the ridge of the windshield knocking the last breath out of him.

But Mac was there instantly, pulled him away from the door, opened the car, shoved him inside. Methos managed to close the door on his own as Mac rushed to the other side and stumbled in, igniting the engine and making it howl as he stepped on the gas.

Methos slumped down in his seat, trying to breathe, to find out where he was hit. His shoulder hurt like hell; the bone, no doubt about it. Probably splintered. Would make for some really long healing. "How the fuck did they find us?" he grated out. God, they were going fast. They were just lucky that there wasn't any traffic.

"I don't know," Mac said flatly, though Methos hadn't expected an answer.

He was bleeding all over the classy upholstery, he found as he looked down at himself, and noted that he was probably going to bleed to death from the leg wound. A good thing Mac could still drive. "You okay, Mac?"

"Yeah." A pause. "You?"

"You'll have to excuse me for a while, I'd say."

They'd been lucky, Methos thought; lucky that neither of them had been hit fatally, lucky that Mac hadn't parked the car far from the traffic circle, lucky even that they hadn't been run over by someone driving by as they made their frantic dash for their car without looking left and right, lucky that they'd been in a spot with a good overview.

It was too much luck for Methos' taste.

And why were the bad guys always driving black vans, anyway? It was so cliché. Methos managed to keep from laughing; it would only make Mac worry over his mental state.

There were smears of blood in the windshield's upper right corner; his own blood, and the air stream had given the trickles a very funny pattern, like an abstract painting or some such thing.

He focussed on that, and then color faded, and the last thing Methos was aware of was Mac, telling him to let go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We need to get rid of the car," Duncan said some time later in the afternoon, after Methos had come back to consciousness. They'd taken a quick break, and Methos had changed clothes. It was very peculiar to have Methos sitting in the backseat, but the passenger seat was soaked in blood.

"You think they've found us through the car?"

The thought made Duncan uneasy. Maybe he should have gone for something less distinguished after all. "I don't know, but by now they know what it looks like. And we can't drive around in a car with bullet holes on the outside and blood stains on the inside." He kept checking the mirrors, but nobody seemed to be following them. Their attackers probably hadn't made it back to the van fast enough. That little chase through the narrow streets of the village had taken some time. They'd been lucky that none of the residents had gotten injured, though they would probably remember this day for a while to come. "Maybe they weren't looking for us at all."

It took Methos a moment to answer, and that made Duncan even more uncomfortable. "No. Of course not, this was all a coincidence."

"Maybe she lives near here, and those were, I don't know, her guards, and they were just…"

He heard Methos laugh, and it sounded affectionate. "Going shopping?"

"Yeah," Mac smiled back, meeting Methos' eyes in the rearview mirror. "Why not?"

"Why not," Methos repeated, then sighed. "I have no idea, Mac. Maybe we drew attention somewhere. We're not exactly asking the most mundane questions. Maybe she does live near here. I don't know."

A mile or so before the next village, Duncan took them off the road onto open field, and they left the car behind the next best hedge that would conceal it from anyone driving by.

They didn't walk alongside the road to get to the village, but still Duncan felt vulnerable without the chance to make a quick escape. Methos didn't say anything, but his set face, still pale from blood loss, and his fast pace, echoed Duncan's sentiment.

They weren't that far from the first houses of the village when Duncan heard the sound of a car heading in their direction, and next thing he knew Methos gave him a shove that sent him to the heather-covered ground. Methos landed next to him with a thud.

"Our guys?" Duncan asked, whispering even though there was no need to.

"I don't know." Methos crawled to his elbows, looking to where the sound came from, and then Duncan spotted the vehicle himself. It was red, rather small, and as it got closer Duncan noted that it was making some interesting rattling sounds. A kayak was attached to its roof.

Duncan dropped his head in a gesture of resignation, only to get something green and spiky into his nose. He felt stupid.

Methos was getting up, brushing his hands over the front of his coat. He was still pale, but there was just the hint of a smile on his face as he reached out a hand to help Duncan up. "If those are our guys, I really look forward to seeing what they plan to do with that kayak."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wine was good, at least. And to be honest, dinner hadn't been too bad, either, although he had missed Mac's company. Their room smelled of mothballs, and the bed was too short by at least a few inches. It squeaked, too, as Methos had found out when he'd thrown his bag onto it. He had decided to stay in the restaurant of the small hotel until Mac returned.

From time to time, he listened in on the conversation of an older couple at another table, but mostly he just nursed his wine and enjoyed the quiet. Mac was somewhere in the village, trying to charm someone into selling them a car, and Methos didn't mind letting him do the work and kicking back for an hour or two. He was the one who had bled to death today, as Mac had pointed out, and Methos hadn't found it in himself to argue.

The chairs weren't too comfortable, the seat being rather on the small side, but he liked the place; the dark, worn wood of the tables and doors gave it an atmosphere of sturdiness and age, and he welcomed the calm. Apart from the older couple, there weren't any other guests that might have disturbed him, and the waiter left him alone. He'd even found a table next to the stairs where he couldn't be seen from outside, and while he kept an eye on the door and had checked for another exit, it was nice to feel the tension in his muscles lessen. Mac was out there, doing his thing, and Methos enjoyed it to just breathe deeply and let him do it. They'd better find her soon, he knew, and Mac knew as well. Maybe they were already close, and that was the reason they'd been detected.

Taking another sip, he wondered whether he should have ordered dessert. They probably had another stressful day ahead, and he needed to replenish his energy. He had gotten some baguette and cheese for Mac to eat later, and for tomorrow—he'd volunteered for the job of handling their provisions, after all. He grinned as he remembered that. They should do this sometime, he thought as he poured the rest of his wine into the glass, when they weren't being hunted. Just the two of them, travelling. Would be fun.

He rolled the coaster across the rough fabric of the tablecloth, trying to hit the vinegar bottle in its rack, but failed. His attention was diverted when the couple got up to leave, and he watched them exchange pleasantries with the waiter. It looked like they were regulars.

They both smiled at him before they turned towards the door, and then Methos was alone in the restaurant. He could hear the waiter chatting with someone, another member of staff he assumed, but he couldn't make out what was being said. He would have liked to stay a little longer; going up to their room wasn't very appealing. But his glass was empty by now, and sitting alone in a restaurant with nothing to drink felt awkward. The waiter would be glad if he didn't have to keep the restaurant open for one guest. So Methos got up—the waiter poked his head from the reception into the dining room at the sound and wished him a good night—and trudged up the stairs.

He opened the window right away to drive out the worst of the smell. Looking around for an alarm clock proved unsuccessful, and he sighed. He'd have to get a wake-up call from downstairs; they needed to start early again, and move fast.

He opened the door and headed back to the stairs. As he took the first step down, he heard voices. He stopped; it couldn't be Mac, he didn't feel his presence.

"…no couple, I'm afraid, Monsieur. We only have one guest, and he's travelling alone."

It was as if his stomach dropped a few meters. He recognized the waiter's voice, but the person answering was speaking too low. No way was this a coincidence. He edged closer to the stairs, his heart beating in a frantic rhythm. Not now, this couldn't happen now, with Mac God knew where and him here alone.

"…tall…dark hair…have seen…"

What to do now? He started to bend down to retrieve his spare gun only to remember that he'd taken the holster off earlier and given it to Mac. If they came up the stairs now, and quickly, he'd be defenseless. But he had to hear what was being said. He judged the distance to his room; he might make it there in time if they decided to come up, but it was narrow.

Then he heard the waiter again, louder now, and a chill crept into his bones at the panicked words. "No, please! Don't—there's money! At the desk! You can take—" An almost silent click, and then a dull thud; he thought he heard some rasping pants, mumbling, but maybe he was imagining it— No, there was another soundless shot, they'd had to shoot the waiter twice… They would be coming up now.

He heard a door open with forcefulness and a woman's voice call out, "Vincent, I'm done here. Can I go—" He didn't know who she was; a maid, the cook—he just heard her body hit the floor.

There was silence for a moment. Methos' legs felt numb; he found it hard to move. But then nobody was rushing up the stairs, nobody was coming for him. He heard footsteps, unhurried, and the soft jingle of the bell as the door to the street was opened and closed.

They had decided to wait.

Slowly, he slunk away from the stairs, keeping close to the wall. The people down there were dead; nothing he could do. From up here, his only way out was through a window. And he was willing to bet they'd surrounded the house. What were they waiting for?

He snuck back into his room. He stayed away from the window, but didn't dare to turn off the light. They didn't need to know that he knew they were there. Maybe they were going for a more subtle approach; brute force hadn't worked all that well the last time. Did they think Mac was up here with him? Did they want to surprise him in his sleep? He snatched his coat off the bed, taking the gun in one hand and the sword in the other. If he stood close to the wall, he could get a look at the street outside without letting himself be seen. It wasn't that high; jumping wouldn't be a problem. But he couldn't risk it now, not alone, not without Mac, without him knowing what was going on.

Methos tightened his grip on the weapons. He'd have to wait. Wait for Mac, or wait until they'd stop waiting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos would be complaining about the car for hours, Duncan just knew it. The engine came to life with a laborious wheeze, and Duncan winced, smiling all the same. Oh no, Methos wouldn't like it. Not that Duncan had had much choice. After four hours of wheedling and coaxing, he'd have bought a tractor if somebody had sold him one. Judging from how this thing sounded, he might as well have, he thought as he pulled out into the street.

The hotel wasn't far. The town was small; it reminded him of Przylasek in that, but they were just passing through. They wouldn't stay for long. He wondered if Methos had left him anything to eat. It was strange that he was so hungry, with all that adrenaline floating through his system.

He didn't drive right up to the hotel, but parked the car in a smaller alley. He'd take the back exit inside; Methos had said he'd see that it would be open, and it was safer if he appeared to be travelling alone. As he turned the corner, he saw a pedestrian standing near the entrance, and he retreated and decided to wait. He didn't need to be seen sneaking in like a thief.

A minute passed, two—and he realized that there weren't any footsteps. Everything was quiet. He glanced around the corner carefully, and the man was still standing there. Not smoking, or taking the dog for a walk, or doing something else that would justify his presence here. The suspicion made him feel cold all over. If they had Methos, if Methos was dead—but no, he would have noticed if there'd been a Quickening, the town was so small…

He drew back slowly, trying not to make any sound as he took a parallel street to get to the front of the hotel. They could have captured Methos while he was alone in the hotel; it probably hadn't even caused much attention, this close to midnight and with Methos being the only guest. No, that didn't make sense; if they had Methos already, they didn't need Duncan, they wouldn't be waiting outside.

He tried to survey the street in front of the hotel without showing himself. There was nobody to be seen, either outside or in the restaurant; he could see it clearly through the illuminated windows. Nobody. He was just about to tell himself off for being an idiot and head for the entrance when he remembered—there ought to be somebody. The place wasn't closed down. A receptionist, a doorman, somebody ought to be there. Then he noticed the car parked next to the hotel: a big, dark vehicle that hadn't been there when he'd dropped Methos off.

He moved closer, careful to stay in the shadows. One car meant four, maybe five men, at worst. He'd only seen one of them. There was no way he could take them all out.

Then Methos' presence washed over him, and that alone was so comforting that he almost laughed from the easing of tension. He crouched behind a parked car; he could see their window from here. The light was on; Methos was upstairs, and he knew that Duncan was here. Duncan only hoped he wouldn't do anything rash.

He stayed there, behind the car, for a while longer, to see if Methos would react to sensing him. If he didn't, he'd probably noticed the thugs hanging about. Duncan tried to fight down nervousness. It was worse than the attack this afternoon. There were too many uncertainties, too many variables. They should never have split up.

There was movement underneath the window, and now at last Duncan spotted two more men; hardly more than shadows, but he could make them out if he looked hard enough.

It seemed like an eternity passed, and nothing happened, no sound, no movement. He needed to go, needed to get the car closer. Like this, they didn't stand a chance. He didn't even know where the rest of that gang was. Methos hadn't budged, so there was at least the chance that he was aware of the danger. But Duncan hated to turn his back now, with so much at stake, so much that could go wrong.

It was a struggle to move slowly as he crept backwards; he wanted to hurry, get it over with quickly. With every step, he expected for someone to hear him, to go after him, after Methos, when they weren't ready, when they weren't together.

He finally reached the corner. He walked silently for a few meters, then broke into a run. Making it to the car, he tried to get his breathing under control. He could do this. He could get Methos out of there, and they would be fine.

The noise of the engine didn't amuse him this time. His palms were sweaty on the steering wheel, and he briefly closed his eyes. They would kill Methos. They would hear the car, or see him approaching, and they would go upstairs and kill Methos.

He released the parking brake; even that seemed to screech in the empty street. He took out his gun. Neither his own nor the one Methos had given him had a silencer, so there was no point in trying to sneak up on their attackers, anyway.

He set the car in motion, and from then on it seemed only a second or two until he was down the road and around the corner and in front of the hotel, and he noticed that the dark vehicle was still there and that he still couldn't see more than the two guys underneath the window, and that he could feel Methos' presence again. He slammed on the brakes. He needed to damage their car; he could never outrun them with this pile of trash he'd bought.

He heard one of them yell; it sounded like a command, but he wasn't sure with the ringing in his ears. He cursed when he couldn't get the window to roll down, then just thrust the door open. He aimed for the tires and hoped he'd succeeded; he had to get closer to Methos. "Get down here!" he shouted, and then a second time, hoping, praying that Methos would fucking get it—

The car lurched forward as he stepped on the gas, heading for the window, for the two figures he had startled out of their immobility; he supposed they were trying to shoot him from there, but he couldn't care about that now. One of them jumped to the side when Duncan nearly ran him over, and then Duncan heard shots coming from inside the hotel room, and there was the splintering of glass and a thud as Methos landed on the pavement. Their eyes met for a split second, and Duncan saw his own terror reflected back at him. Then Methos pushed himself up and yanked the back door open, yelling at Duncan to go as he threw himself in, and Duncan didn't even take the time to be relieved as he complied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was true, he hadn't liked the BMW, but that had been nothing in comparison to his outright hatred of what they had now; he couldn't stretch his legs out no matter how he adjusted the seat, and the constant rattling of old metal was wearing him down.

At least he hadn't been shot again; if they kept going like this, he'd run out of clothes soon. He considered making a joke about that, to cheer Mac up a little. But it didn't feel funny.

He'd known that she'd had her people kill mortals, men who bore a certain resemblance to him. He'd read about it, been informed about it, and it hadn't bothered him much. He'd merely wondered if she really thought that this way, one day it truly would be him, or whether she was trying to lure Mac out of hiding. He still didn't know.

But the waiter's voice as he'd pleaded with his murderer—that had stayed with Methos. It startled him how far she would go, how ruthless she'd become for the sake of her dead husband. They'd been friends. It hadn't even been that long.

"You're not injured, are you?" Mac asked over the noise of the car. He was really pushing that engine.

The question sounded familiar somehow; had Mac asked him before? He wasn't sure, so he just shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

"That was close."

"Yes." They hit another pothole, and their seats squeaked from the jolt. "Thanks."

"For what?" There was genuine surprise in Mac's voice.

Methos tried to get a look at him, but it was too dark. "For, you know, saving my ass back there?"

Mac didn't move, and the silence became uncomfortable. Whatever was going on in his head, Methos had a feeling he wouldn't like it.

"If it weren't for me, this wouldn't have happened at all."

No. No, please, he didn't want to deal with that. "What do you mean?"

"I got us into this. If I hadn't insisted…"

There, so familiar, his own words and thoughts thrown back at him. Methos closed his eyes. Oh, he'd drawn on this, on Duncan's fear, his need not be a danger to Methos. He'd used it to protect himself, protect both of them. It was frightening to see how well it had worked.

At least he didn't have to look at Duncan now. "Mac, she's after me," he managed to get out. "You said it yourself—"

"Yes, she's after you, and I'm making you a target."

There was a rise in the road, and Duncan had to shift down. Methos could feel Duncan's hand against his leg for a moment. "Mac, listen," he said, taking a deep breath. "I really don't need you to quote it back to me. But—" He could feel Duncan's attempt to read his profile. Yes, he was glad for the darkness in the car. "We need to deal with it anyway. So we might as well do it together, before I've gone crazy with paranoia and you've died of boredom in your little village. Okay?" There were all kinds of possible replies to that, any number of points Duncan could make if he wanted to continue on his little guilt trip, and from the silence that stretched out in the car Methos knew that Duncan was trying out every single one of them.

"Okay. I got it."

Methos released the breath he'd been holding. Their situation was still the same, none of the threat gone, but it felt just a little less desperate all of a sudden.

"I never wanted to put your life at risk," Duncan said after a couple of minutes, his voice quiet and gentle. "You know that, right?"

There was no accusation, no charge of blame in his words, and Methos tried to cling to that, to the small relief of just moments ago. He knew, all right. He'd known all along. "Mac. I never wanted… I didn't want you to be stuck there that long." Years, bloody years spent in that lost, empty place, only…waiting. Enduring. He'd never wanted that.

Duncan was fidgeting, and then he said, "It's okay, Methos."

Methos heard himself laugh coldly. "Is it?"

"Yeah. It was my choice." Methos could see Duncan lift his hand from the steering wheel briefly, as if he'd wanted to reach over to Methos, but then thought better of it. Methos would have liked to feel that hand now, warm and strong and confident. "I didn't want you to die. I'm kind of attached to you."

They drove on for a while, and Methos was glad that he wasn't the one who had to concentrate on driving.

"That really got to you back there," Duncan stated then.

"Nearly getting killed twice in one day isn't that common, not even for me," Methos replied without thinking. It wasn't the answer to the question Duncan hadn't asked, he realized. He could have let it go easily. But maybe it was the darkness, maybe he was tired, somehow he wanted Duncan to know. "She wasn't like that when I knew her."

"Were you lovers?"

Methos jerked his head around to look at Duncan. "What?"

"Just asking." Duncan shrugged. "This bothers you so much. You still seem to care about her."

"No," Methos sighed, "no, MacLeod, we weren't lovers. You know, unlike some other people, I do not have a sexual history with every female Immortal who comes to town."

He could hear Duncan snort. "Right, you only have history with women who hire mob squads to kill you. I can see how that's a lot healthier."

Methos sank back in his seat. He tried to let Duncan's lighter mood infect him, but the tension in his body wouldn't ease. He felt each spring of the seat through the thin upholstery, the rough fabric of the seatbelt was biting into his neck, and he didn't have room for his legs. "Pull over," he said, his voice tense, and Duncan didn't question him.

They came to a halt, and it got a little better as soon as he was outside, breathing deeply, leaning against the hood. Duncan got out as well and walked around to Methos' side, and Methos felt the car shift slightly as Duncan leaned next to him. "She wasn't like that," he repeated. "She cared about life."

"She changed." Methos could feel Duncan fidget, obviously not sure what to do, not knowing if Methos wanted to be comforted. So Methos leaned in a little, and it seemed to tell Duncan enough; he lifted his arm and draped it around Methos' back. "You know that happens. You keep going on about it all the time." Duncan sounded bemused.

Slowly, Methos turned into the embrace, resting his chin on Duncan's shoulder. He brought a hand up to the back of Duncan's head, let it linger there, trail along the hairline. "I know. She changed. It happens."

"It's still scary," Duncan offered.

Scary. "Yes." He felt the hair underneath his palm; so short, so different. "She changed so much." It slid through his fingers without resistance. "For him. Because she loved him."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Move."

Getting the demand out wasn't easy; it required breath, and a minimum of coherent thought, and Duncan had to twist his face sideways, out of the crumpled sheets that were damp with his sweat.

Quiet laughter drifted up from behind him, and the pressure on the insides of his thighs increased, spreading him further, wider, making him gasp from the strain. Duncan clutched harder at Methos' fingers, which were interlaced with his own, pinning his hands to the mattress. He tried to arch his body back for more, more contact, more heat, but Methos had him, held him, kept him in place with his knees and his hands and his cock, and Duncan sagged back onto the bed, whispering again, "Move."

"Pushy, are we?" Methos whispered back, and he did move, just not enough, not hard enough, just so that he could place his mouth against Duncan's shoulder blade, creating one more hot, inescapable point of pressure. There was no fighting this. Duncan could only yield, and struggle for breath, and wait for Methos to decide that— Oh, God, yes, Methos was moving, still slowly, still teasing, but going deep enough that it made Duncan moan and try to push backwards again, pressing harder against Methos' mouth and its wet caress. Methos bit down, softly, not enough to hurt, and then his lips were gone, and Duncan could hear him, feel Methos' breath on his neck. "Feels good?"

Something about that, about the dark way Methos had said it, made Duncan laugh, and he heard Methos' sharp intake of breath at the fine shaking of Duncan's body around him. "What do you think?" he countered, and Methos' answering chuckle felt good, too, along with one fast thrust that made Duncan rock forward. But then Methos' voice was all calm and firm again, saying, "Tell me it's good."

It was. It made him shake and tremble and yearn for more, and he felt so alive like this, when every fierce touch proved that they were together, and alive, and that they would be all right. Methos needed to know that, too.

So Duncan tightened his grip on Methos' fingers, determined not to let go, and pulled their joined hands to his chest, pulled Methos around him. Methos seemed willing to follow him, because he didn't resist, or object, or tease Duncan; he simply followed, leaned forward until Duncan could feel him along his back, covering him, around him, inside him.

Methos shuddered, and Duncan heard him pant, sensed hot air against his skin. "It's good," he said, and it was hard to move, nearly impossible to push back in this position, but he could feel Methos relax ever so slightly, leaning heavier on him. "I'm fine, Methos. It's good. We'll be fine."

Methos exhaled slowly, and the force of his grip lessened, but he didn't separate their hands as he shifted some of his weight back, not much, not losing contact, and then finally began thrusting in earnest. Duncan found the strength to rock back against Methos' long, steady strokes, and there was no game here, no more teasing, no more distance, just an easy, familiar rhythm, Methos moving inside him, moving with him.

Duncan held his breath when Methos paused for a moment to press his thighs open further again, and he heard Methos laugh softly again in time with the next stroke. "What?" Duncan gasped out, and Methos was laughing still, resting his forehead on Duncan's shoulder blade.

"You're right." He kept Duncan waiting for a few seconds before he took up the rhythm again and continued, "It feels good."

That did it; Methos' touch and his laughter and the mutual realization that the whole conversation was absurd. "Told you so," Duncan managed to say through his own laughter, but soon fell quiet; he could feel Methos move, feel it build, and then all thought was gone as Methos pushed in hard, and Duncan came.

Long, drowsy minutes they stayed together, until eventually Methos rolled off Duncan and pulled himself into a sitting position. Duncan turned to his side, even though the dim light made it hard to see much, and laid an arm over Methos' legs. He liked the sensation of sweaty skin against his palm. "You okay?"

Methos seemed to examine him for a moment. "You could say that," he said then, a touch of amusement in his voice.

Duncan chuckled, but said nonetheless, "That's not what I mean."

Methos sighed in the near-darkness and placed a hand on Duncan's arm, his thumb stroking it leisurely. "I'm okay."

"So you're done freaking out?" He felt the subtle tremor of suppressed laughter and smiled, huddling closer.

"I wasn't freaking out."

"Yes, you were."

"No, I wasn't."

Duncan let it go. It was an odd kind of embrace, with Methos sitting and him lying on his side, his forehead almost touching Methos' hip. Methos put his other hand on Duncan's shoulder. "You know that was nonsense, right?" Duncan asked.

"What?"

"That thing with her and me. I haven't… We're still the same." Methos didn't respond, and Duncan sighed. "I'd come up there and kiss some sense into you, but I'm too tired to move."

That earned him a snort, and it was a relief to hear it, to know that Methos understood. "That sounds tempting, MacLeod, but I got it."

"Good."

For a while, they didn't move, and then Methos said, "Go to sleep. I'll stay up, I don't want any more surprises tonight."

That, Duncan found, was a tempting thought as well, and though he thought briefly that he ought to suggest sleeping in shifts, he decided to take Methos up on his offer, knowing Methos would wake him up if necessary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The smell of fresh croissants was like a friendly welcome as he stepped into the boulangerie, and it soothed his still frayed nerves. He got in line, nodding at the clerk with a smile. He wasn't entirely comfortable with leaving Duncan at the hotel, when every fiber of his tired body reminded him of what had happened the last time they had split up. But they couldn't spend every single minute glued together—as appealing as the thought might be. Methos shook his head slightly, grinning as he remembered. That had been soothing for the nerves, all right.

There were two people in front of him, a boy of twelve, thirteen, perhaps, and an elderly woman. The kid was obviously done and breezed past Methos, the clerk's attention turning to the woman. Methos put his hands into the pockets of his coat, determined to quit worrying so much. Mac could take care of himself. He'd be okay. Methos smiled again at that thought. ‘We'll be fine.' Commonplace words, said for comfort, for reassurance; it was so very tempting to trust Mac on this.

"…how much she bought. I know she says she's living alone, but I don't believe it for a second." There was a cutting spite to the clerk's voice that made her hard to tune out, and for some reason, it bothered him. But then he told himself that this was a small village, and she probably didn't get out much. If this kind of gossip made her happier…

"She always acts as if we're all idiots," the older woman replied, and Methos stifled a groan. He wanted to get back to the hotel, preferably before midday.

"Who cares what she thinks?" the clerk said, and at last she put two baguettes in the bag the woman had brought with her and went over to the cash desk. "I really wonder what's going on in that house of hers."

"You sure you want to know? I'd bet she's gone nuts by now, spending all her time out there alone. That's just not normal."

Methos caught his breath. He felt the hairs on his body rise. This couldn't be—

"…haven't seen him in ages," he heard the woman say, and she reached over the counter for her bag. "He's dead, I'm telling you. And one day," she finished triumphantly, "they'll find his bones in the cellar."

There was a malevolent gleam in the clerk's eyes as she answered, "Maybe she fed him to the fishes. It's not far from the shore."

"Or maybe she's keeping him around somewhere, rotting away."

"In her bed, you think? That wouldn't be a pretty sight."

The woman tucked her purse away. "Not that he ever was." It seemed to be a frequently discussed issue, because the woman just laughed and said her goodbyes. "Tell André he can come and get his bike; it's finished," she told the clerk, and turned to go.

Methos waited until the door had closed behind her and then ordered two baguettes. He desperately thought about how to approach the subject without being too obvious, but in the end he couldn't think of anything clever and just said bluntly, "That seems to be an interesting story." He hoped he didn't sound too eager.

The clerk looked at him, dumbfounded. "What?"

Shifting his weight to look more relaxed, he produced what he hoped was a winning smile. "The woman who fed her husband to the fishes."

She smiled back at him, cocking her head sideways; it made her look less obnoxious. "Oh, that's just a theory. We have a pretty strange woman living nearby, she hardly ever comes into town."

"And she lives alone?"

"Well, that's what she says. She used to be married, but nobody has seen her husband in ages. Maybe she got sick of taking care of him."

Oh, yes, he was on to something. It made him sweat and fight to keep breathing evenly. They would be fine. They could be fine, if this— "Take care of him? He was…?" He raised his index finger to his temple and made a rotating motion.

She shrugged uncomfortably, shaking her head. "No. I've only seen him twice, a couple of years ago. He must have had some fire accident. Didn't look pretty." She wrapped some paper around the two baguettes so that he could carry them and handed them over the counter. "Why are you interested?" she asked, but it didn't sound like a suspicion.

Methos forced himself to maintain his calm appearance. "Oh, I'm thinking about moving somewhere here in the area. You have to know about the neighbors." He gave her another smile, then left the shop.

On the street, he took two measured steps, until he was away from the window, and started to run. He could make it end; they could find her, and they could end it—it was his only thought as he made for the hotel, reaching it in less than two minutes.

The receptionist looked him over doubtfully, but Methos didn't care. He dashed up the stairs and for their room, pushing the door open and—

He stopped with a stagger, the katana millimeters from his throat. Frozen, Methos stared down at the steel, not daring to inhale, and then ever so slowly managed to raise his eyes.

Duncan was so close, on alert, ready to fight; there was no rage on his face, but Methos knew it had been there just seconds ago.

Duncan lowered the weapon, but Methos halted the motion by putting his hand over Duncan's, the contact burning against his palm. Methos tightened his grip; he threatened to sway under this feverish blend of relief and exhilaration. "She's here," he said, out of breath, and found that he wasn't afraid at all. "We found her."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally.

It wasn't much of a plan; Duncan acknowledged as much. He kept expecting Methos to say it, to remind him that this wasn't a walk in the park, that it might turn out fatal.

But Methos said nothing, just sat next to Duncan in the car, staring straight ahead as Duncan took them towards Anne's mansion. He heard Methos' sharp intake of breath as the house came into sight. It hadn't been hard to find; they had simply followed the side road leading away from the village. His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

They had no idea how well she was guarded in this remote house of hers, how great a defense they would encounter. Duncan didn't even know how good she was with a sword. But for once they had surprise on their side, and it wouldn't serve them to wait until they were detected again. He was prepared to explain all that to Methos, to argue that there were more reasons to do this now, right now, reasons beyond the excitement, the hot, fast thrumming of his pulse. Except that he didn't need to.

They were getting closer; it was a flat, wide house, light-colored stones set off clearly against the green surroundings. There was nobody to be seen.

"They're not expecting us," Methos said, and Duncan thought there was just a trace of satisfaction in his voice.

"Why would they?" Duncan could make out doors and windows now. "They've hunted us until now." He turned his head briefly, but Methos kept his eyes to the road.

"Until now." Calm. Determined. No, Methos wouldn't argue here. But there wasn't much time to think about that; they'd reached the driveway. Duncan turned off the engine. He noted two parked cars. Still, there was nobody; everything was quiet.

They got out, and for the first time since Methos had come dashing into the hotel room, nervousness rose in Duncan. He surveyed the house, checking for an alarm system or other precautionary measures, but Methos had been right; they hadn't been expected.

Methos pulled his gun out and looked at him. "Okay?"

Duncan took one more deep breath. "Okay."

It seemed remarkably easy; letting Methos fire at the door lock, then pushing the door open and stepping in, Methos following him.

They were alone in the hallway, it seemed, but in the next instant the door to one of the adjoining room burst open, and Duncan swirled around, hearing the shot and feeling the pain in his arm before he'd really registered the two men coming towards him. But he did notice them go down as Methos killed them with two clean shots, and he pressed himself against the wall and fired at the third man, who didn't have the sense to stay covered. The bullet struck his leg, and the man grunted as he hit the floor. Duncan was upon him in a second, disarming him with a kick. Laughably easy. He ignored the wound in his arm; it didn't hurt much, was probably healing already. And it didn't hinder him as he grabbed the surviving man and dragged him up from the floor, pushing him back against the doorframe with one hand on his chest and the other around his neck. "How many guards are there?" he hissed. The man's pulse was beating against his palm, a frenzied counterpoint to Duncan's own. The man struggled for air. "How many?" Duncan asked again, and tightened his grip for emphasis. The man's face was contorted with fear.

From the corner of his eye, Duncan could see Methos tucking his gun away, then approaching leisurely, until Duncan thought he could feel the heat coming off his body. He turned his gaze from his captive to find that Methos was studying him closely. There was a small, almost grim smile playing on Methos' face that made him look very serene, and threatening. "You know," he said, and somehow Duncan knew he was talking to the man Duncan had in his grip, even though he never took his eyes off Duncan, "I wouldn't piss him off, if I were you." The words were casual on the surface, amused even, but with an underlying intensity that unfolded a hot, twisting sensation in Duncan's stomach; he could feel the man underneath his hands begin to tremble, and Methos' voice was smooth and silky as he continued, "He's had a rough couple of years."

Just this, and the man started to babble, and Duncan took in the information that, no, there were no more guards, just three, the three of them, and he wouldn't fight them, and would they please let him live, and Anne was on the shore, alone… And all the while, he felt Methos' eyes on him, open and burning. Asking a question. Duncan couldn't find the smile he wanted to give him; he nodded instead, once, slowly, and Methos' soft exhalation of breath told him it was enough.

"On the shore," he repeated the man's words, and this time, Methos nodded, straightening up.

"What about him?"

Duncan looked at the man, then stepped back, letting him collapse into a whimpering heap on the floor. "I don't think he'll give us any trouble."

Methos touched his arm lightly. "Then let's go."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It turned out that they didn't need to walk as far as the shore. They were walking along the side of the house when Methos felt the buzz, and he stopped dead, hearing Mac draw in a surprised breath next to him. She had to be at the back of the house. He could feel Mac's excitement, but found no echoing sentiment in himself now, even though he had reveled in it just moments ago. So, they had found her. It would end.

Only a few steps; they reached the corner and turned, and Methos felt a chill crawl over him as he saw Anne standing there, alone, staring at him with such confusion that he wondered if she recognized him at all. He recognized her. It was strange that he should feel so little after everything she had put them through. He examined her as she stood there, motionless with shock, and she didn't look that different. Her hair was shorter, her face a little more rounded, but she didn't seem dangerous, not at all. There were green stains on her white blouse, and her legs seemed short with the cuffs of her jeans rolled up. He noted her bare feet, the pair of sneakers in the same hand that held a sheathed sword, and wondered if she wasn't cold. Seeing her like this, he could still picture her giggling like a young girl.

"Adams." No threat, not even hatred, just astonishment in her voice, and she seemed to be leaning away from them. Methos wasn't sure if she was afraid.

"It's been a while." It sounded flat, emotionless to his own ears.

She didn't spare a glance for Mac, just kept staring at Methos as if she hadn't even registered the presence of another person. "What—why—"

"You went to great lengths to find me," he made himself say, but it was hard. "Well, I'm here." He didn't look back at Duncan, but found it comforting to know he was there, watching, waiting, ready to help if Methos needed it. He wished briefly that he could let Duncan do it, because Duncan had the anger Methos would have liked to feel, the fury that would make it easier.

It wasn't an option.

"I see," she said after a pause, and finally there was some edge to her voice, some sense of antagonism as she drew herself up. She didn't try to escape into the house, or call for her guards, and Methos assumed that she had realized she wasn't protected anymore. "So. It ends now."

It made him shudder, that finality, the cold in her voice. "Is that all you want? To end it?" he said before he could think better of it.

"I want you dead," she snapped.

"Do you? Or did he?"

She recoiled visibly, and what little rage she had shown drained away so quickly Methos found it frightening. "I loved him," she said without transition. "And you killed him."

"He challenged me."

"Not then." She turned her head away from him, to where they could see the ocean. "I watched him die year by year. Do you know what that's like? I tried to—he wouldn't— It ate him up, until he could think of nothing else." She shut her eyes abruptly, and then Methos saw her tense as she became aware whom she was talking to. "I want you dead, I want it over," she gritted out, looking at him again, and he could see how she struggled to sound angry and threatening, but it only came out as weary.

"Why? Why all this? All those deaths, Anne, why?"

"You have to ask?"

"They ran around murdering people at random! Don't you care at all?"

"He wouldn't even let me kiss him anymore!" she cried out suddenly, and Methos thought she was on the verge of breaking down. But she kept her balance, never taking her eyes off him. Her voice shrank to a hoarse whisper. "He wouldn't even let me kiss him."

He wanted to tell her that it wasn't his fault, that she was wrong, but there was no point to it; Duncan knew, and she wouldn't care.

"He hired those people, didn't he, and you just kept on paying them." It wasn't important anymore, but he asked nevertheless, because they would fight soon, and he would have to kill her, and he guessed that Duncan might want to know all the facts.

She nodded curtly, and Methos thought it was odd that she bothered to answer him. He was glad that Duncan stayed out of it, that he didn't say anything, glad to have him here at the same time. They could move on after this; Methos only had to end it.

He could smell the salt of the sea, hear the waves crashing on the shore, and there was one last moment of quiet.

She dropped her shoes, unsheathing the sword with the next motion. He wasn't sure if he was surprised that she had her sword with her, considering the guards and her isolated life, but it was a relief that he didn't have to decide whether to let her go and get it or kill her on the spot, unarmed. He took his own sword in hand and waited. He didn't think she could beat him, not after years spent out of the Game, and not with the lethargy that cloaked her. He'd win, unless something unexpected happened.

He thought briefly of how ironic that would be, how bitterly absurd; to come so far, survive so much, traps and ambushes and years of fear, only to die in a simple challenge.

Then she raised her sword, and he focused on what needed to be done. He parried the blow without difficulty, shocked by its weakness. The next one was harder, and as they continued it did seem like she was fighting for real, like she was trying.

But she wasn't fast enough, her moves slowed down by years without training, weariness perhaps. Methos didn't care, not really, but he couldn't find the rage in himself that would spur on his own fighting. He felt Duncan's eyes on him, and he sped up the pace, making her struggle for breath as she got more and more frantic in her attempts to hold him off, until he slashed her thigh and she screamed, going down on one knee. Disarming her was easy then.

The whole fight had been easy. It would be easy now. Methos looked down at her, and the sword he held to her neck was heavy and alien in his hand.

She didn't ask him to finish it, as so many did, so many who grasped for that last straw of power, making themselves believe they could claim that final choice as theirs. Her eyes were clear, holding his gaze steadily, and she didn't bow her head, just knelt there, ready, waiting for the killing blow. She wasn't supposed to be so calm. She should have been angry, or scared, or glad, anything—but not indifferent.

"Why didn't you live," he whispered, involuntary words that nearly made him choke.

Her features softened at that, and she looked almost apologetic for a moment. It had been such a waste. Such an awful, horrifying waste, and he didn't have another way out, and she didn't show him one.

He reached inside, reached for the cold and the fear and the loneliness, and for the look on Duncan's face as he had left him standing at the bus station, and then he closed his eyes to her tired smile as he swung.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Duncan took his time as he trailed across the green land to where it dropped and turned into sandy beach. A soft drizzle had started, and Duncan didn't mind. Methos was standing there, his back turned to him. Duncan had let him alone for a while after the fight. He could do that now, without having to worry about someone sneaking up on them.

He had expected to feel more of a triumph, some sense of victory, but this was good, too, this quiet relief, this feeling of being able to breathe. Wet grass squished underneath his feet as he headed to where Methos was standing, and Duncan was astonished that it should be so easy, that the hiding and the running and the fear were over. It had happened so fast; five long years of fearing for Methos' life, for his own, this weight pressing him down, and it had all ended in… Duncan wasn't sure. It had happened so fast.

Methos acknowledged Duncan's approach with a brief turning of his head, and Duncan stepped up next to him and said, "I was wrong, you know." He cast a sideways glance at him; Methos looked like a drowned mouse with his wet hair plastered against his head.

The sarcastic reply was practically written on his face, but it seemed that Methos had decided to keep it in. It looked like an effort. "About what?"

"About Prince Charming. You're not half bad."

Methos moved his shoulders awkwardly as if he was embarrassed, but a tiny grin stole itself onto his features. "Doesn't work. You don't really have that princess look."

Duncan chuckled at that. "I'm hurt, Methos. If it helps, I can grow my hair back out." He caught Methos' eyes and found them wary, and full of sadness. This shouldn't be, he thought, not now, not anymore. "What's wrong?"

"As far as I know, Prince Charming doesn't tend to run off in the face of danger and leave the princess to fend for herself." Methos' voice was tense, but he didn't turn his head away, challenging Duncan for an answer.

Somehow, he'd seen it coming, that question; it had been in Methos' hunched shoulders as he'd taken off after the fight, and in every snappy refusal of help as he'd staggered with the aftereffects of the Quickening.

Without breaking eye contact, Duncan took one of Methos' hands in his, opened the closed fist with a gentle brush of his thumb, and raised it to his face. "Who cares now," he said deliberately, and pressed a kiss to the palm. Not a lie, not entirely the truth either, but close enough that he hoped it would do.

Methos' body went rigid for a second, his fingers stiff and cramped in Duncan's, and then he released a slow, almost imperceptible breath. With a light caress over Duncan's cheek, he withdrew his hand and hid it in his coat pocket, averting his eyes to once more stare out to the sea. "I thought it would feel different."

"Hmm. Me, too." They had won. They had come out of everything alive. It was odd to think it, to know it, without the exhilaration that had driven them to the mansion this morning. Duncan supposed it would kick in later, at the hotel, after they'd gotten some sleep, something to eat. Later… Yes, they could think about later now, about tomorrow, the next week, and they didn't have to be afraid, and they wouldn't have to be alone. Duncan took another deep breath, smelling rain and wet grass, feeling a slow warmth unfold somewhere inside of him, spreading through his limbs and his skin and his heart in spite of the weather. "I'm glad it's finished."

"Yeah," Methos sighed, and Duncan heard his own relief in Methos' answer, knew that Methos welcomed the end just as much as he did. They were together in this, too.

There was amusement in Methos' voice when he said, "About your hair." His gaze flickered back to Duncan. "Would you do it?"

Duncan smiled and turned his body towards the water, mimicking Methos' pose. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes. Just…a little. You look like someone has run you over with a lawnmower."

That made them both laugh, and Duncan shook his head. "Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome." They looked at each other, and then back out into the distance, though the rain was getting heavier and there wasn't much of a view left. "It's nice here," Methos said after a moment.

"It's raining."

"Not now. In general."

Duncan smiled again, nudging Methos with his elbow. "Yeah, I know. And you're right. It's nice."

"I could get a place here. I mean, not right here, but…in the area."

"Tired of travelling?"

Methos nodded emphatically. "Just thinking about it makes me sick."

They should get out of the rain soon, Duncan thought; they were soaked. But he was reluctant to move now, to disturb this peacefulness. No, Methos hadn't liked doing this, and Duncan had found it painful to watch. He would have taken over for Methos, had wanted to help him so badly. But Methos had needed to do it himself, and they had both known it. And now, it was over, and they would be fine. "I need to go back, you know."

"Back to where?" Methos asked, but from the sudden tension in his voice Duncan knew he'd already guessed the answer.

"To Przylasek. I left in quite a hurry. There's some stuff I need to take care of. And I didn't even leave a message." He still felt a little guilty about that.

Methos seemed to hold his breath before he said, "Oh. Okay."

"They depend on me there. I have to—"

"Yes, MacLeod, I got it," Methos interrupted him, but didn't add anything.

"We should get out of the rain."

"Probably."

Neither of them moved. Duncan felt the wetness on his skin and wondered how many clothes they had left. "About that place you're getting."

Methos' voice was still tense when he asked, "Yes?"

"Do me a favor. Get something decent." Methos looked over at him with raised eyebrows, and Duncan let his grin show. Oh, it was good to know that they could have this back, this room for teasing, for fun, without everything being darkened by danger. "I want the whole deal. Nice carpet. Underfloor heating in the bathroom. And an elevator for everything that's higher than one flight of stairs."

It took a moment to register, and then a slow smile spread over Methos' face. "No hardwood?"

"Carpet. Soft, warm carpet." He put on the sternest expression he could muster. "Got it?"

"Perfectly." Methos looked like he had a hard time containing his laughter, and Duncan leaned over to place a kiss to that grinning mouth, and he liked that, liked feeling Methos laugh even though he couldn't hear it.

"And now?" Methos asked then.

Duncan sighed, straightening up. His shoes were squeaking with water as he shifted his weight. "I'd say we head for a bigger town and get a decent hotel, and I'll get a decent car."

"Oh, that's a good idea." Methos looked down at the wet ground. "How long…"

"Not long. Two weeks, I'd say. Maybe three. Just so they can find somebody."

"Sure." This time, it didn't sound apprehensive. "Maybe we ought to keep a low profile for a while yet, until it's clear that Anne is not paying her bills anymore."

"Yeah, we should do that." Methos was right, it would take a couple of days for word to get around. But that didn't seem threatening now; they could just hole up somewhere for another week or so. It even sounded enticing.

"Why don't you get the car, Mac? Pick me up here." Methos closed his eyes and turned his face up into the rain. He looked relaxed, and smiled again as he opened his eyes again and looked at Duncan. Yes, things would be all right.

Duncan nodded, and started to where they'd left the car, but after fifty meters or so, he stopped to look back at Methos.

The rain blurred his profile, made him hard to distinguish clearly against the greyish haze of clouds and sea, but Duncan knew he hadn't moved an inch, was still standing with his hands in his pockets, face turned towards the ocean.

Duncan smiled, letting his eyes linger on the image for another moment before he resumed his path. He just knew.

End