Loss and Gain

Loss and Gain

Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex

Pairings: Duncan MacLeod/Methos, Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg, and another pairing

Disclaimer: "Highlander: The Series" and "The Sentinel," with their related characters and themes, do not belong to me. I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor.

Wherein the reader will meet Mr. Yodels, a little pheremone factory, and someone you mistakenly thought MacLeod killed (no, not that one, the other one - - actually, him too).

Notice: Yes, I like to change canon for my own purposes. Also, I write the lousiest crossovers. You've been warned.

Duncan never knew how it had happened. He'd thought that he'd figured out his life. He knew who he was, what he stood for, what he wanted, and what was important to him. He had a home, a job, and friends. Loft. Dojo. Richie, who had gone from student to close friend and trusted supporter. Richie lacked experience and patience, but enthusiasm and friendship meant a lot these days. Duncan tried not to hand out too much unasked-for advice, but it was hard not to tell a former student what to do. Duncan and Joe had, for the most part, ironed out the wrinkles in their friendship. They were friends and equals first and foremost. Amanda was good for entertainment in many ways, but she wasn't around much.

Then there was Methos.

Methos dropped by every three or four months to spend a week sleeping on Duncan's couch, drinking Duncan's beer, and using up all of the hot water. He'd spend time with Joe, bother Richie, and irritate Duncan like no one, in four hundred years, ever had. This pattern had been ongoing for three years, in which he'd seen Methos eleven times, a week at a time.

Duncan had learned a lot about Methos over those eleven weeks of Methos-intensive living. Methos read like no one else, huddled up on Duncan's sofa, not moving from the cushion, lost in the book, forgetting to drink the beer at hand, utterly focused. Once the book ended, Methos spent the next hour in a distracted daze. Methos read quickly, too, sucking up words like air, eyes darting quickly under the longest, thickest lashes that Duncan had ever seen. And Methos could cook. It had happened only once, on Methos' ninth visit, so perhaps it had been an aberration, but if the meal that Duncan ate that night had been any indication, somewhere (some time) along the way Methos had picked up a master chef's culinary skills. Methos didn't watch TV but appreciated music. Methos was flawlessly fluent, as far as Duncan could tell, in too many languages, and could speak English with an accurate accent from any culture. He did Scottish so well that Duncan felt inadequate by comparison.

Duncan also had surmised something very important. At first, Methos had been a very light sleeper. Methos slept with one eye open and the other open wider. Force of habit, Duncan had thought. Then, by the eighth visit, Methos must have felt safe or comfortable, because he slept like the dead. Now when Methos slept, he slept, and Duncan could do nothing to rouse him.

That was all fine and good. Duncan grew fond of the obnoxious, unannounced, intrusive visits. He looked forward to being taken advantage of and taken for granted.

Until one day he decided to move. Seacouver wasn't home to him the way that Paris had been. He knew that he should stop to consider; he had a life all set up for him, a job and friends that he shouldn't abandon. But something wasn't right; something was missing. He wasn't getting all that he needed in Seacouver.

He cast his brain about for possible new sites. Stay in the USA, go back to Europe, or go somewhere else? Maybe up to Canada - - no, Methos always looked cold; he should go south, maybe Louisiana; Methos loved New Orleans. Had Me-

Duncan blinked, pulling himself up short. Was he planning to establish a home based on what Methos might like? Why in the world would he do that? Why take anyone else into consideration, especially Methos, who was only around for three to four weeks of the year.

Yes, but if he picked a nice place, Methos might stay longer, might stop by more often.

Longer? More often? He didn't want prolonged visits; he certainly didn't want Methos living with him.

Living with him.

That insufferable, smug, arrogant, inscrutable, close-mouthed, glib, scrawny-

Close-mouthed and glib? That was Methos. One contradiction after another.

Scrawny? Methos was oddly modest, body-wise, but Duncan could imagine what was under those sweaters, and scrawny wasn't it.

At which point Duncan realized that he didn't know anything anymore. Didn't know who he was, what he stood for, what he wanted, or what was important to him. Or maybe he did, and that was his problem.

Blair Sandburg locked his office door and saw Dr. Richardson with, oh, what was that woman's name?

"Mr. Sandburg," Dr. Richardson said.

"Dr. Richardson," Blair said with a smile, quickly freeing one hand to shake. "Dr. Carter."

Dr. Carter said, "You're the man doing your dissertation on Sentinels?" Blair nodded, surprised. "I have a friend who's up on the subject - - do you know Elaine Kirkpatrick?"

"No, I don't recall the name."

"She's living in Seattle. Let me give you her number - - you really should speak with her. I'm sure that she'd love to hear from you."

"Man, that would be great," Blair siad, finding a corner of free paper as Dr. Carter found a pen. "I really appreciate it."

And he did. It would be wonderful to be able to speak about Senstuff with someone who wasn't Jim. And a scholar, no less. He wondered how much Elaine Kirkpatrick knew. She might not know amything new and different, but she could be a sounding board.

He called her when he got back to the loft. She laughed and said that she knew nothing about Sentinels beyond the textbook definition, which really disappointed him. But she knew someone, if Blair really were interested, who knew a lot more.

Jim came home one evening to find Blair glaring at the telephone. "You okay, Chief?"

"Jim, man, I am so at the end of my rope, here. I have spent three weeks getting the run-around. First I played phone games with people all saying that they weren't the one, but there's someone else, and someone else says that she's not it, but there's this guy - - so finally there's someone I've heard of, a guy at Harvard of all places, who says that he knows someone, someone named Adam, who'll be in Washington State soon, and will come by and see me, and I'm seriously debating giving up the whole thing."

"Three weeks of these phone games and you're finally getting results and now you're quitting?"

Blair sighed. "Fine. But if he turns out to be a big blowhard I'll make you cook dinner."

"I don't think so, Chief."

A week later, Blair found a man waiting outside of his office. Tall, dark hair, pale skin, jeans, sweater, long black coat, nice neck, and...hazel eyes? "Hi."

"Hello."

English? Cool. Blair loved accents. "I'm Blair Sandburg," he said, unlocking the door. "May I help you with something?"

"I'm supposed to help you. Adam Pierson."

Definitely English. "That's great, I've been looking forward to seeing you - - come in and have a seat." Blair dumped books on his desk, bag by his feet. "What do you do?"

"I'm a graduate student," Adam said. "Dead and dying languages. Not much more esoteric than Sentinels, I must say. If you were looking for an impossible topic, you've found one."

"How much do you know about Sentinels?"

"More than most."

"Knowing the term is more than most."

"True. What do you have so far? And do I call you Blair, Mr. Sandburg, Mr. Yodels, Chief?"

Blair paused. Frowned. Adam waited patiently. "Have we met?"

"Today."

"You don't know me?"

"Not at all."

"What do you know?"

"That my shot in the dark has struck a nerve."

"Which of us is going to be honest first?"

"Which of us has less to hide?" Adam asked.

"My guess is you," Blair said.

"If you've done any work on your dissertation at all, you know that Sentinels need Guides."

"Sure." Simple enough. Blair relaxed a little. Then Jim walked in through the open doorway, frowning, and Blair frowned back at him. "Jim, what's going on? Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Aren't you supposed to be at work with me? Aren't you supposed to check your messages?"

"Oh, god, Jim, sorry - - there was this meeting, and then I - - oh, this is Adam Pierson, he's come to tell me about Sentinels. This is Jim Ellison. Jim, I'm really sorry, but you really didn't need to come all this way just-"

"Could you excuse us a moment?" Jim asked Adam.

"Sure. I'll stop by again soon," Adam said, rising.

"You don't have to-" Blair began desperately.

"Nice to meet you," Adam told Jim, and left.

"Damn it, Jim-"

"Who is that guy, Chief?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out! He knows something, I don't know, he just started talking about Guides when you stormed in here and he called me Chief!"

"What?"

"He also called me Mr. Yodels, but I'm inclined-"

"What?!"

"Jim, he has never met me and he knows my nickname, the one only you use. He started off talking about Guides, which isn't the natural place to start, so he must have meant something by it, and now he's gone, and why'd you send him off like that?"

"He was carrying a gun. He'd fired it recently."

"What? Jim, he's a grad student. Grad students don't pack heat."

"He knows too much. He had a gun. I don't like it, Chief."

"What, you're going to investigate him? Don't scare him off. If he knows, if he can help-"

"He may not want to help. Not all men with guns are good guys, if you didn't figure it out yet."

"Jim..."

"And the man was just...swimming in pheremones. He's like a little pheremone factory. It's ridiculous."

"Oh, thank god, I thought that it was just me. I was about to zone."

Duncan knew that it was ridiculous to look for someone he'd feel before ever seeing, but as he drove home he kept an eye peeled anyway. Joe had given him a heads-up (bad pun, Duncan) on another headhunter. Duncan made a nice target, being young but, thanks to a quick sword, powerful. This last guy sounded like a hardy threat, but Duncan didn't feel like panicking over it.

He parked, walked into the dojo, and felt an overwhelming sensation of paranoia, claustrophobia, and adrenaline. He gripped his sword and made his way upstairs when no one appeared. He wouldn't run; this was his home.

He found Methos in his apartment, dressed in his black sweatpants and sweatshirt, walking from his bathroom. "Methos!"

"MacLeod." Methos kept walking, right past him to the refrigerator.

Since Methos didn't already have a beer, he couldn't have been there long. Long enough to put on Duncan's clothes. "Are you wearing my clothes?"

"Mine are dirty. I'll do laundry tomorrow." Methos settled on the sofa with a beer.

Duncan didn't want to scare Methos off, but he felt compelled to say, "Methos, you haven't come at the best time. A headhunter's in town, AJ-"

"No, he isn't."

"Yes, he is, Joe said-" He stopped as Methos looked at him patiently. "He isn't."

"Nope." Methos leaned back, taking a drink, closing his eyes.

"AJ Jannson isn't in town and your clothes are dirty."

"Putting together the pieces, are we?"

"He came here for me."

"No doubt."

"Where?"

"Downstairs. Don't worry, I cleaned up after myself."

"Were you hurt?"

"What an odd question. I'm going to sleep."

"I have a dinner to go to, a - - I have to go."

"Have a nice time."

Duncan may have been a barbarian in the eyes of some, but he did obey social mores on several points. He knew that a dinner date was a sacred trust. He could not bring a guest on his own with him, and he could not cancel, no matter who was on his sofa. So he was going to shower, dress, go, talk, eat, and have a wonderful time. And he was not, absolutely not, going to be jealous of a piece of furniture, no matter who was lying on it.

He got home quite late. Methos half sat up, looking at him through half-shut eyes. He realized how he looked, suddenly, how others saw him: well-dressed, cosmopolitan, something more, something...

He frowned as he noticed something wrong. "What if I'd been someone else? Now, and earlier today-"

"I know it's you." Methos had gotten a blanket at some point during Duncan's absence, and now was arranging himself comfortably.

"You can't-"

"As far as I know, I'm the only one who can do it, but I recognize quickenings." He sounded half-asleep. Duncan felt his heart wavering. "Yours leaves an aftertaste of haggis." Methos laughed softly and settled, eyes closed.

Duncan's heart flipped. Adam Pierson, soft-eyed grad student, was back in full force. No hard-edged Methos with the full weight of years, Kronos and Cassandra and Byron. Here was simply Adam. Warmer. Easier.

Duncan felt protective of both. Enjoyed the company of both. Wanted both, though with Adam he felt oddly like a cradle robber, which was ludicrous. They both made excellent companions, both had pros and cons. With Methos at times he felt like prey and, at times, like a fool, and sometimes he hated Methos for it. He never resented Adam. Did Methos know that? Did Methos switch from one to the other conciously, or was it just part of being sleepy?

He wished that he could recognize quickenings.

Duncan stripped, slept, awakened, jogged, showered, dressed, and made breakfast before going down to the dojo to call Joe, reporting Methos' return and Jannson's death. He promised to make Methos stop by Joe's soon, not that anyone doubted that Methos would do so. Then he went upstairs and found Meths standing by the sink drinking milk.

Dear lord. Pederasty had never been a part of Duncan's life for four hundred years. He couldn't start now. And really, even without five thousand years, Adam had to be, what... Frankly, it was hard to tell, but certainly old enough. He supposed it was just the startling contrast between relative youth and five thousand-something that made Adam Pierson seem terribly young. Which gave him a brief flash of how young he must seem to Methos.

"I called Joe. He wants to see you."

Adam smiled, pleased. "Are you busy today?"

"Not much. Why?"

"Would you like to come with me?"

"Where?"

"Cascade."

"Why?"

"To make new friends," Adam teased. "It'll be a fun learning eperience for all. You can meet one of the other great alpha males of all time."

"Methos-"

"Let me get dressed. You can drive. Don't worry, they're mortal. Although one's a detective."

"Your clothes are dirty."

"I took care of that last night. The magic laundry fairies washed and dried as I slept."

Good lord, the man's eyes twinkled. He couldn't say no to Methos. He couldn't even think no to Adam.

Methos made a call to someone named Blair and they left, Duncan driving, Methos sketching out a basic explanation so that Duncan would know what to expect. Alpha male, indeed. He'd have to be careful around Jim, and even more so around Blair, since apparently if he seemed to be a threat to Blair, Jim would not take it well.

"Methos, why am I here?"

"I want to see them in their home environment, and I need you to distract Jim so that I can talk to Blair."

"Distract him how?"

"How can I say this without disturbing you? You and I, under normal circumstances, would never have met. You're older, you have more money-"

"You're older, and you have more money, I'm sure."

"I'm talking about appearances, MacLeod. If people saw us who didn't know any better, what would they think?"

"That we're friends."

"Sugar daddy."

"Are you trying to cause a car accident?"

"And the suave, sophisticated Scotsman who likes grad students may prove a threat to a balding, middle-aged cop."

"Maybe I will have a car accident, and you can spend the day in the morgue."

"I'm not asking you to camp it up, MacLeod. You be yourself and I'll be myself."

"That last bit was not reassuring."

Jim heard the elevator. "Someone's coming, Chief. Two someones. One's definitely Pierson."

"And how are those pheremones today?" Blair asked, grinning, turning off his laptop. "His name's Adam, Jim. He's not a jock or a cop or in the military."

Knock. Jim flared his nostrils and opened the door.

"Hey, Adam," Blair said, running around the sofa, pulling back his hair. "You remember Jim. Detective Ellison. Hi, I'm Blair."

"Duncan MacLeod," Duncan said, smiling, shaking his hand.

"Come in," he said, elbowing Jim out of the way. "Can I get you beer, tea, water?"

"Tea would be great, thank you," Methos said. His eyes took in the apartment. "I didn't realize that you two lived together." No Sentinel had ever caught Methos in a lie.

"Oh, yeah, my place burned down," Blair said, busy in the kitchen. "Take the sofa. You're Scottish? What are you doing over here?"

"He's trying to freeze my ass off," Methos said. "MacLeod loves to spend his time in the Scottish Highlands, in boats all winter, here - - it's all too cold for me. I prefer to be closer to the equator. Deserts, jungles. Some of the best life there - - the trees, the birds, the panthers-"

"Okay, man, we really need to talk, now," Blair said, handing Methos the tea and sitting beside him.

"Where would you like to begin?" Methos asked Blair.

"Why do you have a gun?" Jim asked.

Methos looked at Jim. "I never thought about that. You must have noticed it yesterday."

"How much do you know, and why?" Blair asked.

"I'm an angel sent by God to save your dissertation," Methos said. "I'd suggest that we speak in private but someone might eavesdrop."

"I'll turn on the white noise generator," Blair said. "We can talk in my room."

"No, you can't," Jim said.

"Jim," Blair began.

"I want to know who you are," Jim insisted.

"You tell me. You know what I've been eating, what soap I use, my laundry detergent, my pulse rate, and where I missed a spot shaving," Methos said.

"I don't know why you have a gun," Jim said.

"For protection and safety. I'm no threat to you."

"Why do you know what you know?"

"I've read a lot."

"What makes you think that you know more than Sandburg?"

Methos smiled. "If I don't know anything useful, then all we've wasted is time."

"Don't say that to anyone older than you," Jim advised. "How did you know about us?"

"I wasn't sure, but I figured that it was worth checking out, and when I met the two of you it made sense. I won't tell anyone ecept MacLeod, and he won't tell anyone."

"Why should we trust you?"

"Because we come in peace," Methos said gently, smiling. "I spent some time looking into Sentinels. I respect their - - your - - place in society, in the world. That goes for Guides, too. I know a lot about past Sentinels, their lives. I'd be happy to tell you what I know, as long as I don't need to reveal my sources."

Blair nodded. Without documented sources, he couldn't put it into his diss, but he knew full well that this was for Jim, not his work.

Hours later, two grown men were lying on the floor, side-by-side, one talking, one too busy listening in fascination to take notes. They were on their stomachs, raised on elbows, pressed hip to hip and thigh to thigh. Their alpha males were sitting far apart on the sofa, listening intently.

Methos, without pause in speech, tucked back Blair's hair. He'd been telling of past Sentinels, past Guides, from varying time periods; of trends he'd noted in their lives; of their jobs, relationships, adventures, hard times, and comedic moments.

He checked his watch. "I have to go. There's a lot more to tell you. Monday in your office?"

"Sure, I can't wait," Blair said, all eagerness and enthusiasm.

"Great." Methos smiled back at him. The men on the couch waited for the kiss, but it never came. Instead, Methos and Blair stood. "It was good to see you, Jim."

Duncan stood, made his good-byes, and followed Methos. Methos motioned Duncan to silence as they left the building. Only when they were out of Cascade did Methos say, "Thanks for coming. Jim's likely to see me as less of a threat if I have my own alpha male."

"Methos, why aren't you an alpha male?"

"I can be."

"Where'd you learn to gentle him like that?"

"You're waiting for me to say Kronos, aren't you?" He sounded amused. Were they at the point in their friendship where Kronos and amusement were possible in the same idea? Apparently so. "I don't know where I learned it. The Horsemen were equals, MacLeod, brothers. Kronos and I were both in charge."

"Silas and Caspian weren't?"

"Kronos and I were smarter than they. We all had a role to play, and the roles were of equal importance. Kronos tried to play nominal leader when he got the chance, but it was an act."

"Methos?"

"Yes."

"Were you and Kronos..."

"Yes, MacLeod. Kronos and I were lovers. I loved Silas. I loved Caspian. Kronos was the most important person in my life."

Methos had never said anything remotely that open and personal to Duncan. How to respond? What to say? What not to say? He couldn't manage to exclude himself from the situation. He'd killed Kronos. He'd done it at Methos' manipulation, but he'd done it. Three Horsemen dead. Kronos dead. Kronos meant so much to Methos, held such significance in so many ways, that Duncan couldn't dream of competing.

He had Kronos' quickening in him. For a long time he'd shied away sharply, even violently, from it, not wanting to know, not wanting to see. When they returned to the dojo, to the loft, he stopped in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, let it come. Kronos, Kronos' life, Kronos' memories, all of the death, the blood, the agony. The Horsemen. The glory. The gore. The bond. Methos, and a soul-wrenching love that rocked Duncan physically.

Kronos and Methos making love, after their reunion, before Duncan came with a sword.

"MacLeod?"

His eyes popped open; he staggered back only two steps. "You and he...made love... You gathered the Horsemen together, he was going to destroy the world, the monkeys, the fountain, and the two of you were fucking?!"

Adam to Methos in .0002 seconds. Hazel eyes flared and went cold. Voice low, seething with rage, loathing, disgust. "How dare you."

Duncan honestly believed that Methos would kill him. At least temporarily. But Methos only left, immediately, silently.

An hour and a half later the phone rang. Duncan grabbed it with too much desperation. "Hello?"

"Mac, it's Joe. I finally got an excuse to slip away and call you. Adam's here and he's in rare form. What happened?"

"He hasn't told you?"

"The day that he actually tells me anything is the day that I become Watcher of the Year. He's just sitting there with so many bristles sticking out that it's dangerous to come within a city block of him, and he's drinking whiskey so strong it could kill him for good."

"Kronos liked whiskey," Duncan said without thinking.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know," Duncan said, and sat.

"We all know that Adam drinks beer. Kronos drinks - - drank -- whiskey? Is today Scarface's birthday?" Joe was hardly the one to characterize others by their disfigurements, but he had issues with Kronos.

"Adam told me something. He really opened up, told me... And I said...the wrong thing."

"About Kronos."

"Yes."

"Damn it, Mac, could you have picked a more sensitive subject?"

"No." At least he was honest.

"I'll do what I can here. You stay there unless I tell you otherwise." Joe hung up the phone.

Duncan stared across the floor. He'd fallen in love with his best friend. He'd killed his best friend's brother, lover, most significant other. Then he'd yelled at Methos for taking one last moment with Kronos before Kronos' death, orchestrated by Methos and performed by himself.

He was a horrible person. He was inhuman.

Oh my god no.

Did he love Methos because Kronos did? He had Kronos within him now, Kronos and that all-consuming love, that burning, scalding - - Methos and Kronos weren't brothers, weren't lovers, weren't anything defined under human terms. Were his feelings, his own love for Methos, merey an after effect-

-but they weren't mere. And they weren't his own.

I love him. I love Methos. Kronos loves Methos. Methos loves Kronos.

Duncan remained in a stupor for half an hour until he felt someone coming. He snapped to attention, relieved to see Richie. Richie was reassuringly normal.

"Hey, Mac. Joe called, said you and Methos had a fight. You okay?"

"Friends argue, Richie." Duncan put away his katana.

"Sure, but Methos messes you up more than anyone. Not that I don't do my part to make you nuts, but that's different. I'm your former student, and what happens to me reflects on you, makes you angry, guilty, worried. When you and Methos fight, it makes you crazy for a long time."

"Why?"

"You really want me to answer that"

"I could use a second opinion. My own isn't objective."

"Well... How can I say it... At first you two were good friends, I thought. You needed someone your own age to play with, an equal. Joe's mortal, I'm too young, Amanda's Amanda. Fitzcairn and Darius were gone, and you needed someone like them. But Methos is different, he's a grumpy old man, he's pushy and selfish, and you know it, and you...you adore him for it. You like how he is. You've stopped, as much as you ever will, with the lectures, and you just let him be who he is. He shows up a few times a year and you light up like it's Christmas. And you haven't had sex in a while. If you don't count Amanda's last visit, it's really a while. Which, for you, is serious business. I know that you and Methos aren't sleeping together, and... Is it the gay thing?"

"What are you trying to say, Richie?"

"If this comparison makes you mad, remember that my sword's closer than yours. I haven't seen you like this about anyone but Tessa. And we both know that Tessa was the one for you. Maybe, from the way you act, Methos is the one too. Just the surly male immortal version.'

"Richie, are you stoned?"

"I'm okay with the gay thing. And I'm glad that he's immortal, though that comes with its own seriously bad problems. But did it have to be Methos?'

"You just don't like being the youngest."

"Being the youngest is okay. I just don't like how out of proportion it is."

"You think that I'm in love with Methos."

"And I know you pretty well."

"Why would I love him?"

"I'm not going to count the ways, Mac. I don't know why you love him. Bad taste, maybe? Okay, he's smart, and he looks okay, and he seems to bathe regularly, so..." Richie shrugged. "I don't know, you can talk to him. Tell him stuff, and he understands. I lack experience, Joe's your Watcher, Amanda's Amanda, but you can talk to Methos and he gets it. And he challenges you, he makes you think, which seems sort of masochistic, but you enjoy it, even though you get mad. And he's a puzzle. You haven't figured him out yet, and you seem to be having fun working at it slowly. So what did you fight about this time?"

"His past."

"Pretty broad subject."

"Kronos."

"Wow. I thought you got over that."

Got over it. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Sure. Trying to get rid of me?"

"Yes. Could you please go to Joe's and keep an eye on Methos?"

"He doesn't like babysitters and he doesn't like me."

"Too bad for him."

"That's the spirit."

Alone, Duncan spent his time trying not to relive Kronos' memories. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Kronos' hands sliding over Methos' flesh. He was not managing to read, standing at the kitchen counter to avoid the couch, when he felt another immortal. Breaking one of his cardinal rules, wondering if he'd developed a death wish, he stayed where he was and didn't reach for his katana.

Methos walked into the apartment from the elevator. Shed his coat. Ignored Duncan. Went into the bathroom. Emerged; dropped his boots, socks, sweater, and jeans with his bag by the sofa. Walked, in boxers and T-shirt, to Duncan's bed. Laid down, pulled up covers, rolled over, and went to sleep.

Duncan waited fifteen minutes, then started over quietly. He just passed the sofa when, in the quickest and most gracefully natural move that Duncan could recall, Methos sat up in bed and threw a dagger. The weapon hurtled end over end with speed and near-lethal accuracy, whipping just past Duncan's temple. If he'd had time to flinch he would have had a dagger in his brain. Methos settled down again, having made the point eloquently if wordlessly.

Duncan was angry, guilt-stricken, and awed; he wondered in amazement where the dagger had been secured. Taped to Methos' chest beneath the T-shirt? Placed by the bed at some point and unnoticed by Duncan all of this time?

Duncan slept clothed in his dojo office, troubled by Kronos' dreams, awakening with shorts full of cum.

When he made it upstairs, Methos was gone, as were all traces of Methos. Duncan grabbed the phone immediately and dialed.

"Dawson."

"Joe, it's Mac. Have you heard from Methos?"

"When he left last night he promised to go straight to your place."

"He was here, but now he's gone. His bag, too."

"You really pissed him off, didn't you?"

Duncan remembered the dagger. "Yeah, Joe, I did."

"Well, I'll keep an eye out. But if he doesn't want to see you, that's his business."

"I know. Can you just tell me when he gets in touch?"

"I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Joe."

Two days without Methos later, Duncan got a phone number and placed a call.

"Blair Sandburg."

Good, not Ellison. "Blair, this is Duncan MacLeod-"'

"Adam's friend? How've you been, man?"

"I'm fine, but I seem to have misplaced someone. Have you heard from Adam?"

"Every day."

"When he left here - - I don't have his number. Could you tell me where he's staying?"

"He's staying here, at the loft, with us."

"Ellison's okay with that?"

"Totally. Surprised the heck out of me. Anyway, he's staying here. You're totally welcome to stop by any time, Duncan."

"Thank you, very much."

When Methos returned that evening, Blair was in his room and Jim was watching sports. Blair said, "Hey, Adam, Duncan called."

"MacLeod?" Methos asked, pausing as he removed his coat.

"Yeah."

"What did he want?" Jim asked.

"He just wanted to track down Adam," Blair called.

"He'll be here tomorrow," Methos predicted. He got a beer and tossed another one to Jim, who asked, "You okay with that?"

"I can handle it," Methos said from the sink area.

"Tomorrow's my day off, so I'll be around." Jim said.

Methos nodded. "Thanks."

"Okay," Blair said, coming from his room, tying back his hair, "what's going on? What's wrong with Duncan?"

"We had a fight," Methos said.

"Must have been ugly," Blair said.

"I can get a motel room," Methos said. "If I'm in the way here."

"No, it's great having you here," Blair said.

"I don't mean to upset the Sentinel-Guide dynamic."

"No, man, totally the opposite, I can't tell you how much you've helped," Blair said sincerely. "Should we worry about you and Duncan?"

"I can take care of myself."

"He's dangerous?" Blair asked, surprised, confused.

"You know how to use that gun you carry?" Jim asked.

"Woah, wait, guys -- what's Duncan going to do?" Blair demanded. "You're shooting him?!"

"I can take care of myself," Methos said again. "MacLeod probably only wants to talk to me."

"He's dangerous? Violent? Threatening?" Blair asked.

"He feels betrayed," Methos said. "Threatened."

"You cheated on him?" Blair asked.

"He might see it that way. I didn't."

"So who's the other guy?"

"He was very..." Methos couldn't finish, wasn't able to tell these men about his overwhelming Kronos.

"Was?" Blair repeated softly.

"He died."

"I'm sorry."

"MacLoed hasn't gotten over my past, my relationship. He can't accept any of it, or me. That's why I came to your doorstep."

"You want to be with Duncan?" Blair asked.

"I thought that I could be with him, that I was ready and that he was the one. Now I think that it's wrong, that I'm a one-man guy, and since my man is dead, I'll be alone."

"You shouldn't have to be alone," Blair said. "Maybe not Duncan, but someone. You don't want to be alone."

Duncan came knocking. Blair was at the university. Jim opened the door. "MacLeod."

"Ellison. I'd like to speak with Adam."

"He's not here."

"Yes, he is."

Methos walked up behind Jim. "MacLeod."

"Adam."

Jim backed away slightly, giving them room.

"May I come in?" Duncan asked Methos.

"What do you want?"

"To apologize."

"For what?"

"Don't make this difficult, Adam. I said something I shouldn't have said, and I'm sorry."

"Good."

"We've been friends for years. This is no reason to throw it away."

"I know that you see him as the embodiment of all that's evil, MacLeod. Don't forget that I once was that, too. He still speaks to that part of me."

"You miss him." Small words for a tremendous loss. Methos nodded. "He's in you."

"He's in you, too."

"Is that why you keep coming around?" Duncan asked, to lighten the mood a bit.

Methos smiled slightly. "It's not for the beer."

"Joe's playing tonight. If you stop by, he might give you something worthy of your refined tastes."

Methos' eyes narrowed fractionally. "I might do that."

Methos did stop by the bar that evening, and sat at a table with Duncan to listen to Joe's first set. Everything seemed to be returning to normal between the two of them. Methos was planning to stay in Cascade for another week, but subtly let Duncan know that it was to help Jim and Blair, not to avoid him.

There was a new and somewhat disturbing development, however. Methos kept looking at him. Studying him, perhaps, or calculating. By the time they left Joe's, the constantly, lingering gaze was driving Duncan batty. Finally, standing by their cars about to part, he demanded, "Would you stop staring at me?"

Methos' right eyebrow lifted just enough to be mocking. "Excuse me?"

"You've been staring at me all night. I want to know why."

"Staring at you all night? You're not that good-looking, MacLeod."

"I am so." Oh, had he said that?

Methos just smiled and replied, "You wish."

"Why have you been looking at me?" Best to return to the main point as soon as possible.

"You'd rather I didn't?"

"Methos."

Methos unlocked the door to his rather unsightly American sedan. "I'll follow you to the loft."

O...kay. Duncan drove home, wondering why Methos was coming over, what Methos wanted. Wondering why his heart was pounding. Wondering how he'd ever explain to a cop that he'd run a stop sign because he couldn't stop seeing a dead man's memories of sex, hot, sweaty sex on a level of passion that even Duncan, in his years of experience, had never reached.

And then he was alone with Methos in his loft, and his heart was still racing, and Methos didn't head for the sofa or for the beer but just for him, right for him, and touched his jaw with long fingers.

"He's in you," Methos said, looking right into his eyes and maybe not seeing him at all.

Duncan didn't know what to say, or how in the hell he'd excuse away his sudden arousal if Methos asked.

Methos didn't ask. "He's in you. If he's in you," and Methos' hand slid around to his nape, pulling him closer, "I want to be in you, too."

It was fast and hard and deep. There was a throbbing blur of passion, sensations and images seen clearly only later. Methos' kiss, his hair on his shoulders, Methos stripping him quickly, a hand on his sex, a mattress at his back, wet fingers deep within him, long cock even deeper. Methos, panting, muscles flexing, sometimes whispering his name, sometimes begging another. When it was over, Duncan tried to catch his breath, stared at the ceiling; but it wasn't over, not by a long shot. Methos kept going, kissing him, licking him, touching him, mouth and hands everywhere, rubbing against him, stroking each and every nerve ending.

And in the morning, in the morning he was in Methos, in where it was so so tight and so so hot and he'd never felt anything like this, not this good, not this frightening.

When Methos left him, left for Cascade, and kissed him and murmured, "I love you," he didn't ask whether Methos were talking to him or not. He just savored the kiss, and repeated the words, and meant them.

matthew@matthewtime.com
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