Archive of Our Own

oh Lord we pay the price
with a spin of a wheel, with a roll of a dice
ah yeah you pay your fare
and if you don't know where you're going
any road will take you there

—George Harrison

* * *

December, 1998

A cold rain had been falling since morning, blurring the city into bleak monochrome. The depressing chill of the barge threatened to send Duncan's pensive mood into outright self-pity, so he'd escaped to the club for most of the afternoon. If his fencing partners provided little in the way of a real challenge, at least they spared him the unwelcome burden of his own company.

The rain had stopped by the time he left, the gray sky darkening fast toward dusk as the street lights came on, glittering on the wet pavement and the rain-beaded coats of passersby hurrying home from work. Duncan stowed his gear in the car and thought about driving over to Joe's, though his friend wasn't likely to be there for at least a couple of hours. A better idea was a walk up to the square, where he could find something to eat. The fresh air might help him get his head together.

He let the flow of pedestrians choose his route. The sounds, smells, and colors of the Paris streets—even the strangers he passed—were intimately familiar, and it was easy to imagine he'd crossed paths with any number of them at the newsstand, the market, on the metro. Perhaps that was the problem, and why he felt as though he'd only been going through the motions of living. Play it by ear, was what he'd told himself in the weeks after that strange, silent battle in Darius's church. He'd thought maybe Joe wanted to settle down for a while, and at the time it had seemed a good enough reason to stay, but maybe it had been easier than choosing something new. Weeks had become months, and he wasn't sure what he was doing here any more, what he was waiting for.

His pensive mood deepened as he sat at a sidewalk cafe, sipping wine and waiting for his brochette. Paris had been a connection to Tessa, and Richie had been part of that, too. But Tessa had been gone almost five years now, and he'd avenged Richie's death months ago. He'd thought he'd put it behind him—until he'd very nearly given up his life to O'Rourke, unable to bear the thought of losing anyone else.

Being with his friends again, having Amanda and Methos and Joe with him, he'd felt truly alive for the first time in far too long, but as the days passed, that brief reunion felt more like a farewell party. Amanda disappeared as easily as she'd arrived. Joe was busy with his own life for once, and Duncan was glad to see it; he'd finally met the mysterious Amy, and seen how good she was for his friend. And as for Methos...

Methos was no less a puzzle than he'd ever been. He'd shown up in Paris without fanfare, saying nothing about where he'd been for the past year and a half, his answers on the subject decidedly vague; he'd simply been there one day at the bar, same as always, serving himself beer from the tap and spinning stories to Joe as if he'd never been gone. Of Richie, of Ahriman, he'd said nothing. It was easier to let it go, pretend they were a couple of guys sharing a drink and bickering over unimportant things than it was to dig up the past. Then Methos had changed the rules again, passionately pleading with him to live, pulling another of his dramatic, eleventh hour rescues as if it were nothing. If he hadn't, Duncan would be dead; it was as simple as that.

That night had shaken Duncan more than he wanted to admit. After the impromptu celebration on the barge, he'd wanted to see Methos again. He'd gone by the bar a few times, hoping to run into him there, but so far, no luck. He couldn't help the niggling sense that Methos was still mad at him about O'Rourke, or maybe wary about getting too close to the bullseye MacLeod seemed to have painted on his back. Maybe Duncan had imagined the way they'd connected that night.

His supper came, and he ate it without really tasting it. Maybe Methos's disappearing act had nothing to do with him. Maybe Methos had a new job, a new girlfriend, a new life. Maybe he had the right idea, and Duncan ought to think about getting on with his own.

The cafes were busy by the time he settled his check and took to the sidewalk once more, his long stride carrying him in no particular direction. The clatter of dishes and glassware accompanied jazz and Latin and folk music, traffic sounds and laughter mingling as Parisians met their friends for a bite after work and tourists chattered about the things they'd seen that day. A young couple caught his eye, the woman's blonde hair shining for a moment in the glow from a street lamp as she laughed at something her companion had said; his hand rested at the small of her back, subtly protective. They crossed the street at the corner and Duncan lost them in the crowd.

Sometimes, he thought as he watched them out of sight, letting go was harder than other times. And wasn't that part of what Methos had tried to teach him, too? That life was about change... and about acceptance? Amanda and Joe and Methos had all managed it well enough—he should learn from their example. Not long from now, Joe would retire from his duties as a field Watcher. Duncan suspected Amanda wouldn't be dropping in on him for a while, at least not the way she had these last few years.

A car horn startled him out of his reverie, and he stopped at a curb, realizing he'd lost track of direction. He looked up to get his bearings—and had to smile. He'd wandered into Methos's neighborhood without realizing it. His subconscious trying to tell him something, no doubt.

He stood at the corner for a moment, glancing back in the direction of his car. Go on, or go back?

What was he waiting for? he wondered. For Methos to come to him, as he always had in the past? Wasn't it time to stop living life out of habit? Why not go see if Methos wanted to come have a drink with him? What was the worst he could do—say no?

And if he said yes, maybe tonight was a good night for Duncan to say his goodbyes. One last night spent with his friends, like old times.

The traffic sounds faded as he moved further from the main avenue, and he felt his mood lift at the prospect of seeing Methos. He hadn't realized he'd missed him so much, or that he'd been so locked into the idea that he had to wait for Methos to come to him. He found himself grinning at the thought of Methos's surprise when he saw him. Methos would pretend to be annoyed with him, of course, but he couldn't help feeling that deep down, Methos would be glad to see him, too.

He was crossing one of the narrow, winding side streets, still more than a block from Methos's building, when the buzz hit him, deep and strong as a hunting horn. Methos must be on his way home. Duncan hurried toward the corner, expecting to see the familiar figure on the cross street up ahead. But the shape that stepped from the shadows directly into his path, sword gleaming, wasn't Methos.

He checked himself mid-stride. And then straightened, feeling the turning of the wheel.

Tall, broad-shouldered, like Methos. Dark hair cropped short, olive skin, wide-set eyes—and a broadsword that looked as though it could take down a telephone pole. But the man before him was no one he knew.

Duncan glanced up, hoping to see the windows of flats overhead, but they were in an alley between what looked like a shipping office and a hotel that was under construction, and it didn't look like either building was occupied. "I'm not looking for a fight," he said, keeping his hands where the other Immortal could see them.

"Nevertheless, you have found one." The accent was barely detectable, nothing Duncan could easily identify. What little hope he'd had of avoiding the inevitable died when the other man moved forward and he got a good look at the battle scars on his hands, the anticipation in his eyes. Whoever he was, he'd been around a long time, and he'd been raised to make war of one kind or another.

And he happened to be hanging out in a dark alley, across the street from Methos's flat.

Duncan leveled his shoulders, the old determination settling over him. Every fight took a little more out of him, cost him a small measure of self he could never recover—but this was who he was, what they were. Resigned, he accepted it, and readied himself to do what he had to.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he said, as he always had, and drew his own blade.

* * *

They fought in shadows on an unlit battlefield, the moon hidden behind the buildings. The crash of their blades echoed on the wet streets.

It was plain from the start that Duncan was outmatched in strength and in reach, and the impression he'd gotten of the power his opponent could put behind that massive blade had not been wrong. Already he was feeling like he'd taken a beating with a two-by-four. He was out of practice—it had been a long time since he'd fought against anyone with this much experience. He'd have to count on smarts, speed, and luck if he wanted to live through this fight.

And he did want to live through it. That was something of a surprise. He'd sworn after O'Rourke that he wouldn't give up willingly ever again, but it was still a revelation to face a stranger's blade and know that he meant to be the one left standing—if for no other reason, he was pissed off. This guy, this Roderigo Cantric, or whatever he called himself, thought he could hunt his friends? Skulk around in the shadows waiting for them to come home? He'd better think again.

Only one problem—he had to stay alive long enough to bring the lesson home.

The bastard was pressing him hard. His methods of attack were half centuries-trained master and half military pragmatism, and Duncan couldn't be sure at any given moment which he'd have to defend against. It was the same essential strategy any good fighter relied on, but this guy had it down to an art form. And somehow, no matter how often he managed to deflect those powerful blows, the other man didn't seem to tire, while Duncan could feel his own reserves waning. The weight of that blade had to tell eventually, he told himself, so the longer he could keep moving, the greater his chances.

At last he managed to find an opening here, a gap there, and scored a few slices of his own to pay back the dozen or so that had stung through his own defenses, costing him strength in small measures. Like bee stings, his cuts seemed to goad his enemy; Cantric came at him with a brutal series of attacks that he barely answered, and he knew this was it, that neither of them could keep it up for long.

The buzz of another Immortal, when it came, tolled through him like cathedral bells. Methos—had to be. And why the hell had he picked tonight of all nights to ignore his 'do nothing' credo?

For a moment, pressed as he was, he couldn't see him. Then, he did: there in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, the familiar shape.

He paid for his split second of distraction with a deep gash in his side, a tearing wedge of agony that stole his breath. In some distant part of his brain, he registered that Methos's pistol was in his hand.

He couldn't spare attention for it. The scent of blood filled his senses, and most of it was his own; he fought desperately now, but his strength was failing him. Hot steel bit into the back of his thigh and pain burned acid through his flesh, but worse, he felt himself slipping, going down hard as his leg refused to support him. Hamstrung—the cut had sliced through his tendons. Through sheer force of will he got his sword up, blocking the blow he knew was coming. The shock of it echoed through his body. By some miracle of skill or blind luck, he managed to deflect the second attack, but a wave of weakness spread over him then and he could feel the blood running out of him like water. His guard was open. He willed himself to bring the sword up again—and felt his body fail him, and knew that this time, will wasn't going to be enough.

Time dilated. He saw himself down, his leg useless under him, arms shaking with the effort to keep his blade up. He saw Methos, denial written in his face. He saw the alley and the silver outline of clouds reflected in a puddle and the broad blade flashing.

His own denial surged. Somehow, with a desperate, sideways stagger, he managed to be elsewhere when the sword cleaved the space where his neck had been. His counterattack was a clumsy, sideways slash, raw instinct and nothing more. His balance was shot, his leverage wrong—but he felt his blade catch, muscle tearing at the back of his arm.

Something hit the ground with the too-familiar sound of cracking bone and soft flesh. He felt himself going down, unable to break his fall, locked with the other Immortal in the final embrace of death. The ring of steel died away in the night. He thought there was pain—great, red waves of it—but that was far away, a distant roar in his ears. Blackness swept across his vision, and the last thing he saw was Methos's face, white with shock, his eyes wide.

He thought Methos said his name. He tried to answer, tried to tell him it was all right—but something wasn't. His shirt felt wet, and he tried to move the other Immortal off of him, but he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Confusion swept over him. He was choking, and tasted blood, and then the blackness closed down and he knew nothing else.

* * *

It was cold in the loft. That was his first thought. Furnace must have gone out, was his second, and he stirred reluctantly toward waking, not really wanting to get out of bed to remedy the situation. Richie had kept him up way too late watching science fiction movies again, and all he wanted to do was pull the covers up and go back to sleep.

Consciousness intruded with unpleasant insistence. He was cold... and he'd been dreaming something, hadn't he? A niggling uncertainty threaded its way into his awareness, and he frowned. There was something he was supposed to remember. Something he'd wanted to tell Methos...

"MacLeod."

...something he'd wanted to...

"Come on, MacLeod. Can't sleep all day."

He knew that voice. Sleep fell away, and he stirred, opening his eyes.

Not the loft. An alley...

He sat up. It was night, and only the moon gave light to see, a pale, distant glow in an overcast sky. He was cold because he was in Paris, it was December, and he'd been lying on the wet ground.

"Fitz?"

"We've got to stop meeting like this, dear boy. People will talk."

Fitz was sitting on a concrete stoop, pipe in hand, watching him with a bemused expression. Duncan touched his throat. There was no sign of the Immortal he'd been fighting, but what had happened?

"Is this it, Fitz? Am I—?" He struggled to his feet, looking toward the mouth of the alley. Methos had been there at the end of it, he remembered. Apprehension gripped him. Would he challenge the guy? And if he did, could he win? "Fitz, you have to let me go back."

"Don't worry, laddie. Your head's still attached. Well," he smiled, "more or less."

"Then I'm not dead?"

"Oh, you're dead, all right. Just not in any permanent sense—which is more than I can say for your new acquaintance." He drew on his pipe thoughtfully. "Not having very good luck these days, are you?"

It was no less surreal than it had been the first time. Duncan ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out when, exactly, his life had gone completely around the bend. "Sure doesn't look that way, does it?" He paced a little, trying to get his head around it. "I half convinced myself it was a dream before. My subconscious trying to convince me that I made a difference. That seeing you was some kind of death-induced hallucination, or something. "

"Now, that's hardly very flattering."

"Well, what am I supposed to think? I mean... it's a lot to swallow, Fitz."

"Me being an angel, you mean? Or you mean the part about you making a difference?" He nodded as though Duncan answered him. "Well, you can think of me as an hallucination if it makes you feel better. The important thing is that you listened to what I had to say, and when push came to shove, you chose to live."

Duncan looked at him warily. "So what now? Did you come to give me another ten cent tour of the world without Duncan MacLeod? Because once was enough, believe me."

Fitz glanced around as if to see whether anyone was listening, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm here on my own ticket this time around. Just wanted to check up on you—purely personal interest, dear boy."

At that, Duncan smiled. He came and sat beside his friend on the stoop, dusting his hands off on his knees. "I'm okay, Fitz. Really. You did give me some perspective before, and it helped."

"If you say so," Fitz said, patting his knee.

"You don't sound convinced."

"Let's just say I know you better than you think." Fitz drew another mouthful of smoke, savored it, then let it out. "You're thinking of leaving Paris, aren't you?"

Duncan frowned. "How did you...?"

"Oh, I have my ways." He smiled, and waited, his look expectant.

"I was thinking about it," Duncan admitted at last, looking at his hands. "Not much to stick around for any more. I thought maybe it was time I moved on."

"Decided what you want to be when you grow up?"

"Something like that."

"Well, here's another little secret for you, my boy. Growing up is overrated. And sometimes, we can travel the whole world over looking for something, only to find that the answer we seek is right in front of us." He finished the last draught of his pipe, then tapped it out against his hand and tucked it away in his breast pocket. "What's on your mind, MacLeod? What is it that you're trying to get away from?"

"I'm not trying to get away from anything, Fitz. I just feel like maybe it's time I... I don't know. Stop holding on to this life, I guess. Start over somewhere."

"Mmm," Fitz said, nodding thoughtfully.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let me put it to you another way. What is it that's kept you here for so long?"

Duncan thought about that, deciding he'd been close to the truth. "Force of habit, I think. Joe has the club here... my friends know where to find me. And I guess I didn't want to let go."

"Let go?"

"Of Tessa. Darius." He smiled a little. "You."

Fitz nodded, understanding. "And your student, young Ryan."

Duncan's throat closed unexpectedly. "Yeah. Richie, too." He looked away, struggling against sudden heat behind his eyes. "Maybe Richie most of all, I don't know." He was silent for a moment, turning it over. "I don't know, Fitz. I keep thinking—"

Fitz waited. Then prompted gently, "You keep thinking...?"

Duncan didn't answer that right away. He looked sidelong at his friend, a man he'd seen killed before his eyes three years before, trying to decide whether he could bring himself to believe that this was real and not all in his head. "Fitz, can you... do you know where he is now?"

Fitz smiled, a look of such kindness that it threatened to undermine Duncan's hold on his emotions, already none too certain. "He's with you, laddie. You know that already. You don't need me to tell you."

Duncan nodded. Hearing it was harder than he'd expected. He pushed himself to his feet and started pacing again, trying to put into words why he couldn't move beyond it, even after all this time. "I keep thinking that there must have been something—some way I could have prevented what happened. I've lost so many, Fitz, but Richie—I can't get past it. I don't know why, but it's just a feeling I have that it wasn't supposed to happen like that, that something went wrong. That I went wrong."

"You're not responsible for his actions, MacLeod. He went to that racetrack all on his own, after you told him to stay put."

"I should've made sure. I should've known he wouldn't listen to me—he never listened when I tried to keep him out of trouble."

"So what makes you think you could have changed anything? We all make our choices. Ryan made his, and who's to say it wasn't the right one?"

Duncan stopped and looked at him in disbelief. "How can there be anything right about what happened to Richie?" He'd always felt that there was an order in the universe, some purpose that made it all make sense. He'd seen so many things in his life that had challenged that belief, but nothing had shaken its foundations as deeply as the thought of Richie's last moments of life, the unbearable memory of that fatal stroke, of his own horror and denial and the bitter rage of Richie's quickening.

Fitz didn't immediately answer, but met Duncan's gaze with an even one of his own, letting the question stand between them. At last, he asked, "Are you sure you want to know the answer to that?"

For a moment, Duncan didn't grasp what Fitz was offering. And then he did, and caught his breath. "You could do that?"

"It would be different this time," Fitz warned. "That reality has its own Duncan MacLeod, and once you've changed his future, only he can determine its shape. You understand? Consider carefully, dear boy. Letting people you care about make their own mistakes can be damned difficult, as you well know."

He did know. But all he could think about was a world where Richie hadn't died by his hand, where that terrible wrong could be made right. It had been the dearest, bitterest wish of his heart since the moment it had happened, and now it was being offered to him. He didn't even have to pay the price of his soul—all he had to do was say yes.

"What happens if I say yes?" he asked, torn with wanting to take what was being offered, and not quite trusting it. "This world doesn't change, right? I'll still come back here?"

"That's right, MacLeod. You can't rewrite the past. Once you've chosen your path, you can't change it, can't go back. Even I can't do that. I can only show you what the other paths might have looked like."

And Duncan chose what he knew he'd already chosen in his heart. "Then I'm sure. Show me how it could have happened, Fitz. I need to know."

Fitz sighed, and there was a great sadness in his eyes, but he nodded at last and rose, putting his arm around Duncan as he had once before. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret this, but... as you wish, my old friend. Let's take a walk together, shall we...?"

* * *

He was walking in fog so thick he couldn't see more than a step in front of him. At first, he could sense Fitz close beside him, the weight of his hand against his back, but then the weight fell away, and he was alone. For a time he couldn't measure, he knew only his own footfalls, the sound of his breath, and the feel of his sword in his hand.

Finally, he heard something else, distant and faint. Voices, he thought. Somewhere up ahead. He followed the sound.

When he drew nearer, he realized that the voices were familiar. Nearer still, and he could make out the words, muffled and faint as if heard through an old telephone line, but growing stronger.

Look at the state of the world. War, famine, chaos. There has to be something to this prophecy...

Without realizing it, he shifted his grip on his sword, bringing it into defensive position. That had been his own voice, and he knew when he'd spoken those words. Knew he was almost out of time. He needed to warn them—

Look, if this is all in my mind, if I am crazy—it's too late. If not, then there's nothing you can do.

The phone's ring trilled out of the gray fog, a little clearer, a little closer, and a chill wind stirred at the sound. The voices were clearer now, too: his own, and then Richie's, sounding as if it were right in front of him, a few steps away.

"Mac, it's me. Look, I saw him, I saw Horton. He's got Joe."

Duncan froze where he was, trying to see. His heart raced, the sound of his pulse heavy in his ears. "Richie?" His voice came out a choked whisper, terror closing his throat.

"No, look, I know what I saw. I think they headed into the old racetrack."

"Richie! Where are you? I'm right here, but I can't—"

"Sorry, Mac." A shadow moved. There, in the fog, off to his right—

His sword scraped against metal: a pay phone appeared out of the grayness, mundane and solid to the touch. The receiver dangled as if it had been dropped, the cord still swinging back and forth.

"Richie! Wait!" A gust of wind swept across his body, and with it, a sheet of cold, spattering rain. "You don't know what you're facing!"

It was only as he shouted the words that he remembered he'd said them before. The wind gusted again. This time, the fog thinned, and he saw the old concrete grandstand looming out of the night, saw the black sedan, its doors standing open, its headlights glowing red.

He broke into a run.

* * *

When he reached the old escalator, it was silent, a thick layer of dust coating its steps. No red mist glowed at the top; no figure rode down it to taunt him.

No, it wouldn't, he realized, listening hard for the sound of footsteps, for any sign of the demon. This time, he knew what he was facing. Ahriman wouldn't rely on the same tricks—wouldn't count on his doubt of his own sanity. You don't even understand your place in any of this, do you? it had goaded him that night. But now, he did, and this time its tricks would have to be more subtle.

Think, he told himself, breathing deep and reaching for calm. You know this enemy. You know its face—you've beaten it once before. It hates peace. Fears love. Your anger fuels it. Your fear gives it power. Never will I renounce the good mind.

Peace is the answer.

The sword in his hand had defended his life many times. It was a part of him, as much as his name. "But not this time," he said softly, and sheathed it.

He left the escalator and moved deeper into the shadows. "Richie!" he called out, listening to the echoes die away. Listening for footsteps underneath the soft hiss of the sheeting rain outside. "Rich, where are you? "

And then, far off to the right, he heard an echo. It might have been Richie's voice, he couldn't be sure—but he hurried in that direction, moving as silently as he could without sacrificing speed.

Then he heard the gunshot. Forgetting about stealth, he ran.

It had killed Sophie Baines. It had killed Jason Landry in front of him, and burned his granddaughter Allison alive. Two Watchers in Iran, two more in the Dordogne—how many others? And how had he let himself forget that Ahriman didn't need him to kill?

Rain swept into the open gallery, racing schedules and streamers blowing like wet leaves across his path. He slipped as he turned the corner, caught himself—and then he saw him. Alive. But Richie's sword was in his hand, and he was embattled on all sides by an invisible foe, fighting desperately against no one Duncan could see. Duncan drew a breath to call out to him.

And hesitated, a grim possibility whispering itself into his mind. It could still be a trick. This might not be Richie at all. It would be Ahriman's kind of game, to show him the one thing he wanted most.

His hands flexed, and he thought of his sword in his coat, but then rejected that. It still wasn't an answer. Ahriman didn't want him dead, it wanted to hurt him, to make him hate enough to kill. So don't put the weapon in its hand.

He moved closer, wanting to believe it was Richie, and at the same time, wishing anything but for Richie to be here, trapped into taking this fight that should have been his—a fight Richie couldn't win any more than he could. His eyes took in the bullet wound, the cuts, the blood, each one hurting him; he knew the desperation in Richie's face too well, because it had been his own. And what faces did it wear in Richie's inner sight? Horton? Kronos? Or did it take the form of Richie's own demons?

Even watching it happen, it was hard to accept. He couldn't see the enemies Richie fought, couldn't hear the clash of his sword against any real blade, but the force of the blows shuddered through Richie's arms, forced him back, and the cuts were all too real, gashes that appeared on his arms, his thighs, that cut through his defenses until he was staggering with pain, sweat running down his face. A deep one opened on his arm and he cried out, going to one knee. He gasped out a name, a breathless protest that had lost any strength or hope for salvation—and Duncan knew, then, what face Richie's demon wore.

The teacher kills the pupil? Is that what this is all about? Is it because there can be only one?

It feared love, he reminded himself, because it fed on hate.

Making the leap of faith, he stepped out of the darkness and into the open, where Richie could see him.

"Richie, listen to me! That isn't me, Rich. It's the demon. It wants your hate, your fear. Don't give it what it wants."

"Mac?" Limping, he crouched to one side, and looked toward Duncan, but didn't seem to see him. Another invisible attack drove him backwards, drew a line of blood across his cheek. He fell back, breath sobbing. "I don't believe you. It's a trick."

Duncan closed the distance between them. He didn't know what Richie saw, whether it was distorted by some false vision, or whether he saw only another MacLeod coming to hurt him. Richie brought his sword up, but Duncan kept his hands open, fighting his own instincts.

"Richie, listen to me. I love you." His voice betrayed him, but he went on. "No matter what happens. Trust me, okay? You have to trust me." The despairing certainty swept over him that he was asking the impossible. How many times had he come after Richie? Confused by nightmare, lost in darkness—but it had been him, those other times, his blade that had hurt this boy who had only ever stood by him, tried to be like him. And in the end, it had been his blade that had killed him. Richie was right not to trust him.

He had to try. "Richie, I know I'm asking the impossible, but listen to me. It wants to use us to hurt each other. We can't let it. Look—" He shrugged out of his coat, cast it away, out of reach. "You have to put down your sword, Rich."

Richie laughed, a bitter, desperate sound. "And I'm supposed to believe you?"

"You were the only one who did believe me, Richie. The only one who didn't think I was crazy. You know this thing is real. We can't fight it, but we can resist it together, if you trust me, and put down your sword."

"Mac?" He faltered. He was close to the end of his endurance, Duncan saw. The thing was toying with him, now, easily penetrating his defense. Richie's clothes were sliced in ribbons, and blood stained the wet concrete at his feet. "I want to believe you."

"I know you do, Rich." Tears slipped down his face. "You always did."

And Richie Ryan nodded, drawing a breath that sounded like a sob. Then, he did what his teacher had taught him never to do, and let go of his sword.

When it hit the ground, a shriek of rage pierced the air, reverberating off the concrete. It seemed to shake the very foundations of the grandstand—seemed to tremble in the air as if it would crush them with the sheer force of its fury. Richie cried out and stumbled, raising his hands to protect himself and sinking into a crouch, and Duncan imagined he could see the flashing arc of the blade as it came for his neck, imagined he could feel its echo in his arms and shoulders, and the sickening shush of the ancient blade as it did its hideous work.

Then it was over, the echoes dying away into the night, leaving only the rain and the wind and the sound of Richie's sobs, of his own pounding heart.

He knelt beside Richie, relief flooding him, so intense it made his hands shake.

"Rich... you okay?"

Richie looked up, seeming to see him for the first time. He drew a shuddering breath. "Yeah." His hands went to his throat, but it was whole. The cuts on his body were already healing. "For a second there, I thought—" He reached out as if to touch Duncan's neck, then looked over at Duncan's coat, cast aside with his sword. "How'd you know it was really me?"

Duncan's throat closed. "I didn't," he admitted. There were more tears, now, but he didn't care. "I didn't." He fumbled for Richie's shoulder; it was solid and real under his hand. Then his arms were around him, holding him close—and Richie, whole and alive, hugged him back.

The world shifted subtly around them. The sensation was disorienting, a rushing sound in his ears and then a wave of vertigo, like double vision. It was a little like looking in a funhouse mirror, the reflections distorting and stretching away into infinity—then he was standing outside himself, seeing himself and Richie kneeling on the concrete, watching them as they finally let go and helped each other up, found his coat and Richie's sword, and walked away together, that other MacLeod's arm around Richie's shoulders.

Fitz stood beside him. "So, it's done," he said, watching them go. "You've changed his future for him, and he doesn't realize how close he came."

"Will he remember what happened tonight?"

"That MacLeod hasn't lived through what you have. Our experiences color our perceptions. He'll remember it, but it may look different to his eyes, his memories."

To his surprise, Duncan felt a spike of envy and resentment toward that other self. He wanted that second chance, so badly he could taste it. They started walking, following the direction the other two had gone. "Why didn't it happen like that, Fitz? Why couldn't I see that it was a trap the first time?"

"And if you'd known it was a trap, wouldn't you have still gone after him?"

"I suppose, but—" He tried to remember how it had happened that night, what he'd been thinking. It was so much easier to see your mistakes in hindsight. "I'll never understand why he came at me like he did. Why he didn't say anything—" He shook his head savagely. "I taught him better than that, Fitz. What the hell was he thinking?"

"He made a mistake. Something we all do, from time to time."

"Yeah." And saying it, Duncan recognized the anger he felt, acknowledging for the first time how deep it went. How long he'd been denying it. He'd directed it all at himself, at Ahriman, telling himself that Richie was the victim, that the blame was his alone. He hadn't let himself admit that he was angry at Richie, too. "I tried to protect him so many times, and he never listened. Not once."

"He was worried about your friend Dawson. He was worried about you. He didn't think about the danger to himself."

"He never did," Duncan admitted. They'd reached the ground floor. Their footsteps echoed down the long hallway, the sound of the rain muffled and distant. "So what happens now? How does it play out? Ahriman won't give up that easily." But maybe the body count wouldn't be quite so high, he thought. Maybe Sophie Baines wouldn't have to die this time. Maybe Joe's friends would be spared.

"Well, that's what we're here to see, laddie. That's what you asked for, isn't it? To know how things might have been different?"

They came to the end of the hallway, the ramp that led down to the parking lot curving away before them. Under the protective overhang of the entranceway he saw four figures, their silhouettes familiar. They stood talking, backlit against the acetylene glow from outside.

"Can they see us, Fitz?"

"From here on out, you and I are invisible as ghosts. They can't hear us, or touch us, and we can't interfere."

Duncan nodded, and drew nearer to the four men. The other MacLeod was talking, spreading his hands as if in persuasion.

"Look, whatever this thing wants with me, maybe it's not such a good idea for you guys to stick around right now."

But Joe Dawson was shaking his head. "Richie's right, Mac. You don't have to do this on your own."

"Joe, it came close to making me take Richie's head—or making him take mine. Next time we might not be so lucky."

"Man's got a point," Methos put in.

Joe shot him a disgusted look. "Yeah, well, you want to do your disappearing act, you go right ahead, but I'm sticking it out. I don't know what the hell Richie saw, but I do know one thing—Mac is not losing it. This thing is real. And whatever's going down, we're stronger together than apart."

"My sentiments exactly," Richie put in.

But MacLeod exchanged a look with Methos, a look that said the other two hadn't yet grasped how easily this thing could use them against one another, that he knew Methos had.

"Methos is right," he said firmly. "'You alone can stop him,' Landry said. It'll use any weapon it can against me, including any one of you—we know that now. This thing wants me, fine. I'll give it a fight. But not at the price we almost paid tonight." He reached out and squeezed Joe's arm, preventing the protest he would have made. "I'm sorry about before. I should never have attacked you the way I did."

"Yeah, well, I guess you've got reason to suspect my actions where Horton is concerned. And this thing, whatever it is, seems like it's really big on pushing your buttons."

"No excuses, Joe. You deserve better from me." He ran a hand over his face, fatigue dragging at him visibly. "It's late, and I think it's finished playing games with us for tonight. Let's get the hell out of here. We can argue about it in the morning."

Rain still fell in slow sheets as they made their way back to the cars. The black sedan was gone; only MacLeod's Citroen and Methos's Volvo waited for them, and their headlights were dark, no red glow threatening in the night. Richie's bike stood a little distance away.

"You have a place to stay tonight?" MacLeod asked him, his hand on Richie's shoulder as if he needed to keep reassuring himself he was real.

"You sure? Safety in numbers, you know."

"I'm sure, Rich. I don't think it'll be back for a while, and I think I need some time alone." He smiled a little. "Haven't exactly been getting much sleep lately."

He'd still had so far to go, then, Duncan thought, to understand what he was facing. So much to learn. But he was right to put as much distance between himself and his friends as possible.

Richie's taillights disappeared down the ramp, and MacLeod joined Methos beside his car. Joe was already in the passenger seat, out of earshot. "You'll take Joe home?" MacLeod said, and Methos nodded once, glancing toward their mortal friend.

"You sure you're all right to get home on your own?"

MacLeod nodded slowly. "I'm okay. I think... I'm not sure exactly what happened in there, but I think we hurt it. I think it's going to have to regroup. We bought a little time."

Methos's expression was unreadable. "Well, that's good news, I'm sure." He opened his car door, getting in. "You take care of yourself, okay, Mac?"

"I will. You too," he added after a moment, but Methos had already shut the door and was starting the engine. MacLeod stood in the rain and watched the Volvo drive away, hands in the pockets of his coat.

* * *

Summer sunshine danced on the waves of the Seine, the barge rocking as a tourist boat passed by, closer than it should have. The laughter and voices of the boat's passengers and the growl of its engines washed through the open portholes. Duncan turned away from one of them, his eyes sweeping the barge, taking in the bare floors, the pared down furnishings. It wasn't quite as stark as it had been when he'd come back from Malaysia, but he recognized the signs that his alter ego was trying to simplify his surroundings, to seek the understanding he would need to defeat the demon.

"How long?" he asked Fitz, his eyes falling on the books that lay spread on the desk, the scroll cases. He—that other MacLeod—was following the same trails he had. Trying to learn the same thing: how to stop it.

"About a month, give or take. Sophie Baines has been helping him."

"Sophie... no, that's not a good idea. It'll kill her before it will let them work together." He counted backward, trying to remember the sequence of events, to think how they would play out in this new reality.

Footsteps sounded above, someone walking along the deck. The door opened, and MacLeod came down the stairs into the salon, Methos behind him.

"Look, maybe she decided to take a vacation," Methos was saying. He took his jacket off and hung it on the rack, holding out his hand for MacLeod's. Underneath he wore a t-shirt, and the June sunshine had brought color to his face.

MacLeod shook his head. Preoccupied, he went to the desk and sifted through the books and papers there, looking for something. "I don't like it, Methos. It already killed Landry and his granddaughter because they knew too much. I think somehow..." He sat down, finding the book he'd been looking for and opening it, running his fingers over the page. "I think those who study him become vulnerable to him. It gives him power, somehow. Brings him closer to you."

"Well, then, have you thought about the possibility that maybe that's a very good reason to let it be?" MacLeod, absorbed in what he was reading, didn't appear to have heard. Methos sighed and went to the galley. "Mind if I get a beer?"

"Help yourself," MacLeod said absently.

Methos did, popping the cap off and taking a long swallow. He ambled over to MacLeod's desk, leaning against the edge. "Mac... maybe you ought to think of getting away from Paris for a while." He fell silent for a moment, then gestured with the bottle. "I mean, maybe you shouldn't make it so easy for this thing to find you, you know? And you could use a change of scenery. It might even help you clear your mind, focus better."

MacLeod turned a page, not looking up. "The barge helps ground me. It's easier to keep my mind clear here than it is anywhere else."

Methos nodded as if to himself. He ran his fingers lightly along the edge of the desk, then took another swallow of his beer. "It reminds you of Tessa," he said after a moment.

At last MacLeod looked up. He met Methos's gaze for a moment, then sat back, thinking about it. "Yes, that's part of it."

"And what would she say, now, Mac?" Methos asked carefully. "What would she make of all this, d'you think?"

MacLeod's gaze didn't falter. "I think she'd tell me to have faith." A smile touched his face. "And she'd probably tell me to get out of Paris for a while." For an instant, the smile was shared; then MacLeod's faded, and he got up. "Anyway, as a matter of fact, I am leaving tomorrow."

"Oh?" Methos watched him as he went to the porthole and looked out, the afternoon sun slanting across his face. When MacLeod didn't offer anything further, he prompted, "Mind telling me where, or is it a secret?"

MacLeod said nothing for a moment, but then seemed to come to some decision. "I'm going to Basra."

"In Iraq?"

MacLeod glanced over at that, amused. "No, the other Basra, in Sweden. Yes, in Iraq. Landry went there right before he died. He was investigating a tomb site there, and I think he found something. He didn't have a chance to tell me about it, but Sophie thinks it could be the key."

"Hmm, I see. And what do you think the Iraqi army will think about that, when they find you poking around in one of their ancient tombs?"

"Well, I'll just have to deal with that if it comes to it, won't I?"

Before Methos could answer, the phone rang. MacLeod sobered, and he strode over and picked it up. "Hello."

He listened for a minute. From the look on his face, it was not good news. Finally, he said, "Understood, Joe. Thank you for telling me." Slowly, he put down the phone, the set of his face grim.

"That didn't sound good," Methos said.

"No." He met Methos's eyes. "Sophie Baines was found in the river this morning. She drowned last night. They're saying it was a suicide." He started to pace, rubbing his hand absently against his mouth.

"You don't believe that," Methos said, watching him. "Why not?"

"Why not? Because I know what this thing is capable of. It's killed before, Methos."

Methos straightened up. "You mean Landry and his granddaughter."

MacLeod looked at him sharply. "Of course I do. Who else would I mean?" He glanced toward the sleeping area, then started in that direction. "I've got to pack. Maybe I can fly out tonight." He went to the chest beside the bed and started pulling out clothes. Methos watched as he put them into a duffel, then picked up the bag and came back to the desk, adding books on top of the clothing. At last he zipped the bag closed, then leaned on the edge of the desk and looked around the barge as if trying to remember whether he'd forgotten anything. Methos was still watching him, not saying anything; at last MacLeod looked at him in irritation. "What? Aren't you going to tell me this wasn't my fault? That I'm not responsible?"

"Now why would I say something like that?" Methos asked mildly. "It's obvious I'd be talking to myself if I did, so not much of a point, is there?"

MacLeod glowered at him, but there was nothing he could say to that. His irritation leeched away, leaving grim determination. He straightened, lifting the duffle onto his shoulder. He put his laptop into its case, and shouldered that, too. "Richie's gonna want to know where I went. Tell him you don't know, okay? I don't want him following me."

"Hey, what do I know? I'm just a guy."

"Yeah." MacLeod looked at him for a long moment, the brief flicker of amusement fading. "Listen, Methos." He swallowed. "You told me something once. After I killed Sean. You told me that maybe there was more room in you. Do you remember?"

Methos's face went still. Then, he nodded. "I remember."

"I don't know what I'll find in Iraq," MacLeod said, his gaze intent. "But whatever happens... I need to know that you can do what needs to be done, if you have to. If it comes to it." He hesitated, and there was something bleak and knowing in his eyes. "And until then—you stay away. Be my last line of defense. Can you do that?"

"Duncan—" But whatever Methos was going to say, he stopped himself. Instead, he drew a breath and nodded again; when MacLeod held out his hand, he took it, sealing the promise.

He watched MacLeod go. Watched him gather his coat, with his sword, watched him disappear into the stairwell. Listened as his footsteps passed overhead, and waited, head raised, until the rumble of the car engine faded away.

Then, he picked up the phone, and dialed one of the numbers on speed dial.

"Joe, it's me." He paused. "Yes, he told me about the Baines girl. He's on his way to the airport." Methos sat in MacLeod's chair, fingers running over the drawing that lay on the blotter: it was a rough charcoal rendering of a statue that bore only a passing resemblance to any living species of bird. "Joe, listen, I need to know if you've got confirmation of Mac's whereabouts last night..."

* * *

Troubled by what they'd seen, Duncan paced the foredeck, though in the small space he could barely go four steps in either direction.

"But this isn't right," he said to Fitz, who leaned against the rail. "Sophie isn't supposed to die for another year."

"You had the right idea when you went to that monastery. It was more than a haven for you. It bought you time—bought the world time—and it gave you the strength you needed to fight what you were facing. In this reality, you never went to Kuala Lumpur, and things moved along a little more quickly, I'm afraid. I keep telling you, MacLeod, you can't save everybody, no matter how hard you try."

"I know that, Fitz, but I thought—"

"You thought maybe by saving Richie, you could redeem yourself. And that if you could do that, then maybe nobody else had to die." Fitz sighed. "The problem with that, you see, is that it presupposes that death is a punishment. That somehow, your failures are to blame when you lose those you care about."

"But that's—"

"Ridiculous?" Fitz smiled affectionately. "My point exactly, dear boy."

Duncan came to lean beside him on the rail. "I guess I never thought about it like that. I mean, I know it doesn't work like that. Of course it doesn't."

"But sometimes it feels that way. I know, laddie. You wouldn't be who you are if you didn't take these things so hard." He squeezed Duncan's shoulder. "Believe me, I'm not trying to change you. Just trying to give you the big picture, as it were."

"So what happens to me in Iraq? And what was that about with Methos back there? He thinks I had something to do with Sophie's death?"

"He's worried about you. And he's not the only one."

The sudden shift from the bright sunlight on the river to the gloom of a covered car park left Duncan blinking. "I wish you'd warn me when you're going to do that," he muttered, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

"All part of the package, I'm afraid."

Duncan looked around the garage, its layout and numbering system familiar. "Orly Airport," he said. A car door slammed, and he saw the other MacLeod appear from behind a nearby van, the duffel over his shoulder. He strode toward the exit; after only a few steps, he stopped, stiffening with the tell-tale look of sensing another Immortal.

A motorcycle pulled into the garage, braking suddenly as its rider spotted MacLeod. It stopped a few yards away, and Richie dismounted, pulling off his helmet.

Anger darkened MacLeod's expression for a moment, but he controlled it. "You shouldn't be here," he said, and started walking again.

Richie fell into step beside him. "Yeah, well, neither should you. Are you sure this is such a good idea? I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but I seem to recall someone teaching me that walking into traps was not the best way to lead a long and healthy life."

MacLeod shot him a dark look. "Dawson's got a big mouth."

"Hey, don't blame him. He didn't know I was there."

"So you were eavesdropping."

"If you want to call it that." He took a few running steps to get in front of MacLeod, stopping him with a hand on his chest. "Mac, come on. Seriously, let's talk about this. At least let me come with you, watch your back—"

"Absolutely not." MacLeod sidestepped him and kept walking. "We've been through this, Richie. We already know this thing wants to kill you, and it wants me to do its dirty work. The smart thing to do is stay as far away from me as you can."

A look of mingled hurt and stubbornness flashed over Richie's face, and he stopped walking. "Fine."

Hearing the rebellion, MacLeod turned back. "Fine?" There was danger in his tone.

"Fine! You go ahead. But I'm not letting you push me away this time, Mac. You need help, and I don't trust Joe's little watchdogs as far as I can throw them. I may not be much, but I'm the best friend you've got right now. So you go ahead and get on that plane, but don't be surprised when you see me at the other end."

A change came over MacLeod then, so subtle that Duncan wasn't sure he'd seen it at first. Then MacLeod moved, two prowling steps forward. In a moment, his sword was in his hand.

Duncan started forward before he knew what he intended. "No—"

But Fitz's hand found his arm, stopping him.

MacLeod had gripped the front of Richie's shirt, his blade coming up to rest against Richie's neck. Richie, eyes wide and nostrils flared in fear, had no chance to draw his own.

"I suggest you rethink that decision," MacLeod growled. Then he grinned, a slow smile that chilled Duncan to the marrow. He'd seen it before, in a mirror in Le Havre. "And I suggest you listen to your friend, little boy. He knows me so much better than you do."

Then he let Richie go, and the grin faded, giving way to confusion. MacLeod blinked, and looked at the sword in his hand as if he had no idea how it had gotten there. His eyes met Richie's, and he backed away, horror dawning in his expression. "Richie." His voice shook. He turned the blade back, tucking it behind his arm. "I didn't—"

Richie took a half-step forward, but MacLeod brought up a hand as if to guard against a blow. "No. Get out of here." When Richie didn't immediately obey, he moved back again, face twisting. "For God's sake—go."

At last, Richie fled.

When the sound of the bike's engine faded, MacLeod sagged against a nearby car, closing his eyes for long moments. Finally, he put the sword away. His hands shook as he took out his cell phone and dialed.

"Joe, it's me." His voice sounded as unsteady as his hands. "It's MacLeod. Yeah, I know, I'm in a parking garage. Joe, listen to me. Something happened." He passed a hand over his eyes. "No, it's okay. No, I know—it's not your fault. But you've got to keep him away. I'm asking you, swear to me on our friendship that you'll do whatever it takes to keep him out of this." He listened for a moment, then nodded. "And you stay away, too, Joe. If you need to send me something, artifacts, texts, anything—you send it to the barge. No more visits, not until this is over." He pushed himself away from the car and started once more for the terminal, but stopped again in reaction to Joe's answer. "No! You listen to me, Joe. I'm dead serious about this. Stay away. Keep Richie away. And if you give a damn about your people, you'll keep them off my tail, or at least out of my reach. Do you understand me?"

Joe's answer must have satisfied him. Some of the rigid tension went out of his shoulders, and he started walking again. "I will. ...Yes, I will. I have to go, now, Joe. You take care of yourself. And watch your back."

He disappeared into the terminal as a jet's engine rumbled through the concrete; when Duncan turned back to look for Fitz, the sound faded and the concrete parking garage had become a tunnel, the soft light of late afternoon visible at the entrance. Fitz stood silhouetted against it, waiting for him, and he recognized the tunnel near the barge, the familiar quay beyond it.

Together, they walked out into the fading light. It was still summer, but the leaves had darkened since the last time they'd been there, and heat shimmered off the pavement. "You did go to Iraq," Fitz told him, watching a theater troupe setting up for the crowd of tourists. "And you did find the tomb Landry wrote about in his journals. It took you a little under two months, a handful of experts, and a quantity of money I don't like to think about to photograph, transcribe and decipher the writings in the burial chamber. For the past three days, you've been holed up in the barge trying to make sense of it all."

"But the answer won't be there," Duncan said, understanding. "He's—I'm going about it from the wrong direction. The answer is in the places where Ahriman isn't." A troubling thought occurred to him. "In going to Ahriman's temple, reading about him... he's opening the door, isn't he? He thinks he's fighting it, when all the time he's getting closer to it. Letting it in."

A group that had stopped to take each other's pictures with the cathedral in the background chose that moment to move on, and he saw Methos's car parked under the trees. As he watched, Methos climbed out and turned to lock the door behind him.

"What's he doing here?"

"Same as always, I should think. He does like to stick his nose into your affairs, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. And he's liable to get it cut off if he keeps it up." Along with the rest of his head, he thought grimly. "Come on, Fitz." He started for the barge.

Fitz stopped him with a smile and a hand on his arm. "Why not take the easy way?"

* * *

Inside, the other MacLeod sat at the table, a gooseneck lamp beside him and pieces of his shelf clock spread out before him. Books and papers covered nearly every other flat surface in view save for the countertop in the galley, which was currently occupied by his laptop, a scanner, and a printer. But he had moved a stack of books from the table onto the floor to make room for the clock repair project, which seemed to be wholly consuming him at the moment.

From the looks of things, Duncan MacLeod had not been getting a lot of sleep lately. Eating and personal grooming seemed to have slid down his priority list, too, judging by the sharpness of his cheekbones and his three-day shadow of beard. When the aura of Methos's buzz reached him, he jumped, almost dropping the assembly. He swore softly, concentration broken.

MacLeod's coat was in reach, but he didn't draw his sword, just went back to the clock until the footsteps above descended the stairs, and a familiar knock came at the door.

"It's open," he called, barely looking up.

Methos came into the salon, eyebrows lifting as he got a good look at the landscape.

"You've been busy, I see. What's that you've got there?"

"Spencer & Hotchkiss. 1827, I think."

"Doesn't look like it's working."

"Not at the moment."

Methos came closer, hands in his pockets. His gaze traveled over the mess, then came to rest once more on MacLeod, missing little. "What's wrong with it?"

MacLeod finally looked up, one corner of his mouth quirking. "If I knew that, it'd be working."

Methos smiled a little at that, but his concern was evident. "I thought you went to Basra to make sense of all this. Looks like you're just making more of a mess here."

MacLeod went back to working on his clock. "And I thought I told you to stay out of it," he said, a subtle warning in his tone. "Seems to me I said the same thing to Joe. I'm sensing a pattern."

"Yeah, Joe's not very good at not caring about you. I noticed that, too." Methos wandered over to the desk, shifting some papers. "You seem to have some messages here." He tilted his head to get a better look. "Seventeen, as a matter of fact." When MacLeod didn't answer that, he held his finger over the button. "Mind if I see what's so important?" Without waiting for MacLeod's approval, he pressed it.

"Mac, it's Joe. Sergei told me you got back this morning. Listen, we need to talk. Give me a call, okay?"

The end of message beep sounded, and Joe's voice returned. "Hey, Mac. It's me again. I have some information you need to hear. It's important—give me a call when you get a chance."

MacLeod rose as the third message began to play and came over, shutting off the machine. "Enough, Methos." He opened the recorder and popped the tape out, tossing it into the overflowing trash can. His look challenged Methos to say anything about it. When Methos only returned his gaze with that same faintly ironic expression he so often wore, MacLeod turned and went to the bar, getting a bottle of water out of the fridge. He opened it, tossing the cap into the sink. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Mac." Methos drew closer, opening one hand. "Look around you. This isn't working. Whatever it is you... you think you're doing here, it's not giving you any answers." He stopped a little distance away, as if to offer no threat. "There has to be a better way to handle this."

MacLeod drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm handling it fine. Except for the part where none of you can manage to do the one thing I asked of you."

"Yes, I can see how well you're handling things."

Anger made MacLeod's jaw set. "What do you want, Methos? Get to the point."

"All right, then. Where were you last night?"

"Excuse me?"

Methos only looked at him with that level gaze, waiting. MacLeod's discomfort grew until he pushed himself away from the bar, going to the porthole and looking out over the river. The setting sun showed his pallor, and the lines of weariness under his eyes. He didn't see the way Methos moved, subtly keeping a certain distance between them.

"I went to see Andrew Baines. I wanted to talk to him again, try to convince him to let me see Sophie's files." He looked bitterly at Methos. "Do I need your permission to leave the barge, now?"

Methos still hadn't taken his right hand out of his pocket, and his casual nonchalance about that fact was a little too studied, too casual. "Two Watchers were killed last night in Marne-la-Vallee."

The angry line of MacLeod's jaw eased, and he frowned. "One of us?"

"Looks like it. Stephen Moreau and Antoine LaRouche were their names. They were on special assignment."

"Following me, you mean." His expression closed up again.

"They were killed not far from your friend Andrew's house."

"It wasn't a social call, Methos. I needed to talk to him." His patience was plainly wearing thin. "Look—why come to me with this? If I knew anything, I would have told Joe."

Methos was watching him carefully now. All pretense at nonchalance had left him. "Whoever killed those Watchers didn't just take them out, Mac—he cut them to pieces. The police are calling it a ritual killing. They're questioning people, looking for anyone unusual who might have been in the area last night. They're testing for metal residue to identify the murder weapon."

At last, the other shoe dropped, and MacLeod turned from the window, appalled. For a long moment, words failed him. "You think I did this?"

"Somebody did. And it wasn't some cloud of red mist." Methos drew a step closer, hand open as if he were gentling a wild horse. "Mac, I saw the bodies."

MacLeod stared at him in disbelief. "Methos, you have to believe me, I had nothing to do with this."

"Do you remember walking home?"

"Yes, I—" But then something stopped him, and he hesitated.

"You've been missing time, haven't you?" Methos said gently. MacLeod shook his head, as if denying what he was saying, denying the pity in Methos's eyes. But Methos refused to let it go. "Richie told us what happened before you went to Iraq."

MacLeod stilled at that, and he drew a sharp breath. "Richie told—" It pushed him past the edge of his faltering control, and he looked like he'd taken a sudden cut to the belly. "It isn't enough that I have to fight this thing, now my friends are going behind my back informing on me? When did this become a conspiracy against me? And who picked you to be the messenger?" He sneered, an ugly expression. "I'm surprised they thought you'd be man enough to face me. Not like you to stick around when things get messy, is it, Methos? I would've thought you'd be on your way to Bora Bora by now."

"I haven't told you the rest of it," Methos said, as if the insults didn't matter. "It wasn't only the Watchers who were killed. Whoever did it went to their houses and killed their families while they slept. And they weren't just murdered, they were butchered. Their wives. Their kids. Antoine LaRouche had three little girls. Is any of this getting through to you?"

MacLeod looked as though he might be sick. The anger he felt at Methos's doubt was plain, but just as plain was the uncertainty, the questions. Had he looked at the clock when he'd gotten home last night? Was that why he'd thought something must be wrong with it? And why, if he had nothing to hide, did he look like a man who'd barely slept?

"So, I'm asking you again. Where were you last night?"

"Methos. It wasn't me. You have to believe me." But sick fear shadowed his eyes. He started to pace, shaking his head as if he could deny what he feared by sheer force of will.

"Believe me, Duncan, I would give anything to not have to ask you these questions. But I can't—I can't just watch you lose everything that you are."

"Right," he said bitterly. "I'm too important to lose."

"You're too important to me. To Richie, and Amanda. To Joe."

At that, MacLeod paled. "Does Joe know—?"

"He's the one who identified what was left of the bodies."

MacLeod swallowed hard, as if struggling against nausea. "And does he think that I—?"

Methos said nothing.

At last, desperate, MacLeod turned to him. "Methos. Help me. You have to."

"I'm trying, Mac." He spoke the way one might to a child. Or a mental patient. "But I don't think a holy spring is gonna fix this."

MacLeod's eyes widened as he understood at last. "You still think I'm crazy, don't you?" Betrayal twisted in his expression. "Did you ever believe in Ahriman, or were you humoring me?"

"Mac, I don't know what to believe any more—"

"Damn you!" MacLeod took a step toward him, a dangerous fury building in him, but Methos was ready for him. He moved back, and that was when MacLeod's eyes fell on the hand he'd kept hidden in his pocket.

"What do you have there, Methos? A gun? Gonna shoot me again? Shoot me and take my head, is that it?" Brightness shimmered in his eyes, but it wasn't rage he betrayed in his voice, it was relief.

"Mac." Tears were standing in Methos's eyes, too. He took his hand out of his pocket, revealing not a pistol but a tranquilizer gun. "I want to take you to a place where you won't be able to hurt anyone. Where we can keep you safe, sedated, until we figure out a way to help you."

MacLeod's breath caught. Dawning horror wiped away everything else. "No. No, that's what it wants, Methos. I can't fight it if I'm drugged up, locked up—" He backed away.

"It's a place called Sanctuary, on holy ground, Mac. Connor's there. You'll be safe. I don't like it any more than you do, but—"

"Connor?" It stopped him. Then he started to laugh, a bitter sound as he understood all the ways he'd been deceived. "You knew. How long have you been keeping that from me? You know how many years I spent looking for him, what he means to me. You sat there last year and let me tell you about him for two hours, watched me grieve for him, and you never said a word—"

"Mac, calm down! He came to me, all right? Four years ago, he came to me and asked me to help him. Made me swear never to tell you!" Methos drew a deep breath and visibly forced himself to relax, to keep his voice even. "Look—Connor and I have known each other for over two hundred years. He trusted me, and so can you. It's gonna be all right, if you just—"

"No," MacLeod said hoarsely, shaking his head. "No, I can't." He was moving, circling toward the door, but Methos was still between him and escape. "Methos, you're giving it what it wants. You lock me up in that place and it's won—that's the end of it. Game over."

"I wish there was another way. Believe me. If there was any other way—"

"Methos, you can't—"

"I'm sorry, Mac." He pulled the trigger.

MacLeod made a small, surprised sound. A slender, black dart had appeared over his heart. A second later, he crumpled to the deck.

Methos stood over his friend's body, still holding the gun. MacLeod was out cold, the dart sticking out of his chest. His dark hair spilled across the wood floor.

Methos took out his cell phone and pressed a button. "It's done," he said, never taking his eyes from the body at his feet—never taking his hand off the tranq gun, either. "Yeah, well, make it fast." He hung up and put away the phone. Then, slowly, he moved to the figure on the floor, and knelt beside it. He reached out and stroked the unconscious man's hair away from his face, a gesture of such tenderness that Duncan, watching, found himself catching his breath.

Methos pressed two fingers to the pulse point at the other man's throat—only then did he put the gun away. He took out a hypodermic needle and pushed up one sleeve, pressing the needle into a vein and depressing the plunger until the chamber was empty. Finally, he pulled out the dart and straightened the lifeless arms and legs until MacLeod looked as though he'd simply fallen asleep.

But it was the look on Methos's face that transfixed Duncan. He didn't know how to name what he saw there.

When at last he made himself look away, he and Fitz were standing at the top of a grassy terrace, near the gates of an old monastery. Early morning sunshine filtered through trees green with late summer, casting long shadows beside the stone pillars that marked the approach to the front door.

Fitz started walking along the cobbled drive toward the main building, and Duncan automatically fell into step with him. He was getting used to the sudden shifts, and barely noticed it this time. "Fitz, what was he talking about? That can't be right. Connor would never do something like that."

"As someone very wise once said, never is a very long time."

"It doesn't make any sense. I know he was upset about something when I saw him in New York, but he would never do that. Put himself in the hands of the Watchers? Hide on holy ground?"

"And why would your friend make up something like that?"

That part of it was even harder to take, because if it was true, it wasn't only this Methos who had been lying to him, but his Methos, as well. "My friend—hid it from me for years. From the day we met, he's been hiding it from me."

"As he swore to your kinsman he would."

Duncan had no answer for that, still not sure how he felt about it. "In the meantime," he said at last, "my friend also shot me with a tranquilizer dart, pumped me full of drugs, and turned me over to the Watchers." He frowned, noticing their surroundings for the first time. "Fitz, where are we? Is this where Methos was taking me? I mean, him?"

"It's an old monastery. Looks positively medieval, doesn't it? The Watchers keep their little pet project in the basement." The sound of a car engine approached, and Fitz turned as they reached the front steps. "And speak of the devils." They watched the black SUV as it pulled up the drive and stopped. Two men Duncan didn't recognize got out and went around to the back while Joe Dawson managed his artificial legs on the passenger side.

His two companions lifted a gurney out of the back of the car. On it was the unconscious form of Duncan MacLeod.

"Maybe Methos was right," Duncan said, watching them maneuver the gurney up the front walk. "When I defeated the demon, I told it that without my anger, it had no substance. Maybe if it can't control me, it can't manifest."

But Fitz put an end to that hope. "He may have meant well, but I'm afraid your friend Methos has made things worse by sending you here, not better."

"Worse?" His eyes fell on Joe, navigating the stone steps in slow, painful increments. "How much worse?"

"I don't think I can tell you, laddie. I think you have to see it for yourself..."

* * *

They were under the ground, in an earthen-floored tunnel lined with stones and lit by fluorescent bulbs. Water trickled over the stones and pooled on the ground. One of the men from the SUV wheeled the gurney, the faint squeak of its wheels echoing against the stone, counterpoint to Joe Dawson's uneven tread as he led the way.

They turned and went down another tunnel, this one sloping downward, too, but lit by torches rather than electric lamps. It might have been two hundred years old, or a thousand.

At last the tunnel opened into a large underground chamber. Duncan had the impression of a cave formed partly from the monastery's foundations, and partly from a natural cavern, dimly lit by a single string of lights—and then he saw them.

There were fifteen of the barbaric-looking contraptions, arranged loosely in a circle and connected by power conduits that ran haphazardly along the floor. Four of them were empty; one of these stood with its wrist and ankle restraints open, ready to receive a new occupant. And the others—

These were Immortals, he realized. He couldn't feel their Presence here, but the other MacLeod could: he was shifting restlessly on the gurney, his senses trying to warn him of danger nearby. Gut-level repulsion swept over Duncan. They were being held here like so much meat, drugged and catheterized, given nourishment through needles healed permanently into their veins. Some of them had to have been here for twenty years or more, for their hair and beards had grown nearly to the floor. Who they were, who they had been, was anyone's guess. But one—his eyes searched the faces below the metal visors, looking for the one he sought—there. Connor, his kinsman, insensate like all the rest.

"Connor, my friend, what have you done to yourself?" he murmured, though he knew only Fitz could hear him.

The string of lights overhead started to flicker. For a moment, they were plunged into darkness, the faint, distant torchlight providing only meager relief from it.

"What the hell?" That was Joe.

The small glow of a flashlight appeared. The other Watcher handed it to Joe, then disappeared into the shadows beyond its limited halo. "Must be a breaker. I'll take care of it. Stay with him."

"Hale, wait a second—"

"I'll be right back!"

The sound of his footsteps receded, and Joe was left alone with the drugged MacLeod. Perhaps roused by the auras of so many Immortals, he was stirring, his lips moving as his body fought the drugs and tried to wake. "Tessa?"

"It's okay, Mac. It's Joe."

"S'dark."

"I know it is, buddy. We'll take care of it."

"J-Joe?"

"Yeah, that's right. Listen, I'm sorry, but I have to do this." He'd laid the flashlight on the gurney, and there was a hypo in his hand.

"N-" MacLeod tried to reach for his hand, but was stopped by the restraints. "No more, Joe. Please. No more drugs. I won't—I won't fight you. I want to stop this thing as m-much as you do."

"Okay, man. Take it easy. No more drugs. It's gonna be okay—we're gonna find a way to help you."

"H-help me."

"We're workin' on it, my friend. You gotta trust me."

MacLeod nodded a little, as if he understood. The effort to talk seemed to have exhausted him. "Trust you."

Joe Dawson patted his shoulder. His eyes shone suspiciously in the pale gleam of the flashlight. "You got it, buddy."

For a moment, Duncan thought the other MacLeod had passed out again, but then his eyes fluttered open. "But you believe me, right, Joe? You believe Ahriman is real?"

Joe nodded. "Sure I do. I believe you, Mac." The words seemed to stick in his throat. MacLeod's eyes closed, and Joe squeezed his shoulder, his voice rough. "Poor bastard."

Fluorescent lantern light appeared out of the darkness, moving closer until the circle of its glow reached them. "I don't know what's wrong with the lights, but I found this. Let's get this done, and get the hell out of here." Hale set the lantern down and turned to MacLeod.

That was when Duncan saw it: the hated red mist. It barely teased at the edges of his vision, and for a moment he thought he was imagining it—then chill horror washed over him, and he knew he wasn't. "Joe. Joe!"

But Joe, helping Hale with the restraints that held MacLeod to the gurney, couldn't hear him.

Hurrying now, the Watchers finished with the straps. Hale wheeled the gurney over to the thing that looked like a medieval torture device, then turned to hook up the needle that would keep MacLeod sedated.

Except, he wasn't sedated. Joe had never given him the last hypo. In the split second before he moved, Joe realized his mistake, and opened his mouth—but it was too late. MacLeod was already off the gurney and moving fast; in less than a second, he had his arm around Hale's throat. "Don't do it, Joe!" MacLeod warned, seeing his reach for the gun he kept hidden in his coat. "If you do, he's a dead man." Seeing Joe's hesitation, MacLeod smiled, that dark smile that made Duncan's skin crawl. "Oh, Joseph. Such a hypocrite you are. Talking about trust when you're about to lock your best friend in a hole in the ground for the rest of his life. You really are dear to my heart, you know that? The world needs more people like you." He moved closer, forcing Hale to move with him. His hands were positioned to break Hale's neck.

Joe Dawson took a careful step backwards, trying to keep out of his reach. "Mac, let him go. I know you don't want to hurt anybody."

MacLeod chuckled softly. "And I'm going to have so much fun showing you how very wrong you are."

"Forget about me, Dawson!" Hale ordered. "Shoot me if you have to, but stop him!"

Again Joe moved back, closer to the edge of the circle of lamp light. Decision flickered in his face, and he drew the gun. He pointed it at MacLeod's head.

"Drugging me won't solve anything, you know," MacLeod told him. "You're going to have to cut off my head, Joe. You should have done it long ago."

"I'll do it if I have to, Mac."

"Of course you will," MacLeod said with a smile. And his hands twisted, snapping Hale's neck.

Before Joe could react, MacLeod shoved the body at him, knocking him backwards. As he twisted and went down, he slammed into the gurney, his hands coming instinctively to break his fall. Hale's weight and the unforgiving metal did their work, and the gun flew out of his hand.

MacLeod, standing over him, kicked the gun away, then the cane. He shoved Hale's corpse aside and laughed at the sight of Dawson on his back, bruised, bleeding and helpless. "Come on, Joe. I'm waiting for you to take care of business. Weren't you going to kill me? But that's not looking so easy now, is it?" Casually, he drew his arm back and smashed Joe across the face, breaking his nose, making him cry out. Then he knelt on top of Joe's shoulders, straddling his chest, and put his hand over Joe's mouth and nose, cutting off his air. Blood ran out from beneath his hand.

Joe's struggles weakened. When he was nearly unconscious, MacLeod pushed himself up, then lifted Dawson bodily and threw him on the gurney. He fastened the straps around Joe's wrists and forehead, then his legs for good measure, testing them to make sure they were secure. Sounding as though he were choking on his own blood, Joe fought for consciousness as MacLeod patted him lightly on the cheek. "Now, you be a good boy and stay here, while I go take care of your friends outside." With that, MacLeod disappeared up the tunnel.

* * *

Duncan bent over Joe's battered form, beside himself with the need to do something, to help. "Joe, come on, now's your chance." He clenched his fists in frustration. "Fitz, we have to help him."

"Now, laddie, we talked about this."

Dawson was fumbling at his restraints, struggling to hold on to consciousness, to reach something in his pocket. His cell phone, Duncan realized. The other MacLeod hadn't thought to take it from him. The chance that it would work this deep under the ground was vanishingly small, but it was a chance.

"You wanted to know what would have happened if Richie hadn't died," Fitz reminded him gently. "You asked to see this."

"Fitz, I know, but I can't just stand here and watch him suffer like this!"

"It's not real, MacLeod. It never happened. This is a might-have-been, a turn in the road."

"Then make it stop, or let me help him. Please." Fitz said nothing, and Duncan looked at him. "You can stop it, can't you?"

"If you're sure that's what you want me to do."

Footsteps echoed down the tunnel, and his doppelganger reappeared, a silhouette against the flickering torchlight at the tunnel entrance. The katana was in his hand. His own dark reflection, his future that could have been.

He swallowed. Drew a breath. "Fitz, wait." Something cold had come to rest in the pit of his stomach.

All I know is that evil exists in all of us, he'd said to his friend Joe Dawson not so long ago. When we deny that, we give evil power. He'd learned at great cost how very true that was, and that it wasn't a battle to be fought once and forgotten, but a lesson to be learned again and again, for as long as you lived. And what cost would be paid if he looked away from this darkness now, denied its truth?

"Finish it," he said, and steeled himself to look into the abyss.

MacLeod returned to Joe's side, amusement playing about his lips as he watched him struggle. "What've you got there, Dawson? A present for me?" He reached into Joe's coat and pulled out the cell phone. "Guess you won't be needing this." He tossed it away into the darkness; it crunched as it hit the stone floor. MacLeod circled the gurney, fingertips tracing idly over Dawson's body in a sensual caress. "So, you like to watch, do you?"

"Go to hell," Joe spat, jerking away from the too-familiar touch.

"Oh, come on. Admit it. You always got off on watching me take heads. That's really what the Watchers are about." MacLeod left Joe's side and moved into the circle of Immortals, the tip of his sword tracing over their necks as he passed each one. "You pretend to be historians, but the truth is you're a bunch of sick voyeurs, paying your five dollars to watch us through the peephole because it gets you off. Well, I'm gonna give you a show that'll jack you like nothing else, Joseph. Get ready for the ride of your sad little life—your trick whore's about to show you something worth watching." He stopped before one of the helpless figures and drew a delicate line of blood from ear to ear, watching it well forth. Then he smiled, an almost seductive expression, and winked at Joe.

Joe yelled at him, but it was too late, the sword already in motion.

Held up by their restraints, the heads didn't even fall. One after the other, the katana did its work; MacLeod left only his kinsman alive, beheading the last of them as the first bolt of power lanced into him, opening his arms to welcome the storm.

And the storm came. With the fury of hell and eleven Immortal souls betrayed, it came, but the figure at its center laughed and called down the lightning, taking it into his body and asking for more.

When at last the assault of energy was spent, he radiated power like a dark sun. Afire with it, tiny currents still sparking along his skin, he wiped blood from his sword and licked it from his finger, then laughed at Dawson's expression. But he wasn't finished yet.

He went to Connor and loosened the metal visor that hid his eyes, lifting it back to reveal his face, deep in slumber. "And then there was one," he said softly. "Connor MacLeod. You thought you could hide from me, but there is no place to hide, not any more. Your brother wants to bring you home now."

Joe broke in. "Mac, you can't do this. You know you can't. It's holy ground. That's Connor—your teacher, for God's sake! You've known him for almost four hundred years!"

MacLeod laughed, the ugly sound echoing against the stone. "What do you think I am, Dawson? You must know. You've been watching me kill for years. You fooled yourself that I was like you—I'm nothing like you. I've killed friends before, lovers—death is in me, and I am death. The world will know that soon enough. You should have stopped me years ago, Dawson. Now it's too late."

And with that, he drew the ancient Japanese blade easily through Connor's neck, separating his head from his body.

Numb with horror, Duncan felt the breath rush from his lungs. He wanted to look away, but a cold wind rose in the chamber, lifting his hair from his neck, and he felt transfixed. Then, a luminous fog rolled over the floor, ghostly blue swirled with a scarlet mist he knew too well. He shook his head, not wanting to believe it. "Oh, Connor, no."

The first bolt of Connor's quickening struck the other MacLeod with merciless fury, and Connor's murderer shouted out his triumph even as it drove him to his knees. Then the maelstrom hit.

MacLeod had already killed nearly a dozen strong Immortals, but the rage of Connor's single quickening was more violent still, as if Connor knew what monstrous treachery had been wrought upon him and sought his revenge in the only way he could. His lifeforce bludgeoned his killer into the floor, seeking its price in his flesh, ferocious as a hurricane in that enclosed space. Joe Dawson turned his face away, unable to watch; the periphery of the storm whipped at his hair, his clothing, but the furious energy sought only one target.

Of course, all its rage was futile, for this was what they'd been built for, and even as the figure at the center of the storm gave way under the assault of raw power, he absorbed it, claimed it, made it his own.

This time, when it was over, the chamber rang with the silence.

The torches had gone out. Hale's lantern made the only circle of light in the blackness. By its faint glow, MacLeod overcame the last of the quickening weakness and staggered to his feet. He shook the blood off his sword, then wiped it clean on Connor's coverall. Abandoning the blade for the time being, he went to one of the restraining racks and seized hold of the canister fastened to its back—the reservoir chamber used to dispense the powerful sedatives that had kept its occupant unconscious. With a grunt, MacLeod ripped it free. Its needle was still attached to the tubing, and trailed behind, bouncing against his thigh as he returned to Dawson's side.

Joe watched him, defiant, his struggle to overcome his fear plain on his expressive face.

"So, how about it, Joe?" MacLeod said casually, though his voice was hoarse from his screams. He laid the canister on the gurney beside Joe so that it nestled into the crook of the mortal's arm, then picked up the needle, examining the tip. "Was it good for you, too?"

Joe shook his head in denial. "Mac. Mac, you can't do this."

"Oh, but I am doing it." MacLeod smiled, as if overcome by affection. "See, that's the beauty of being me. I don't believe in 'can't' any more. Those days are over." He unwound the rubber tubing, and flicked the needle with his finger. "Not as sharp as it was, but it'll do the job." He seized the edge of Joe's sleeve and pushed it up, baring the vein.

Joe strained against his bonds, but they held fast. He was sweating now. "This is me, Mac. It's Joe. We've been friends for too long for you to—"

"Sorry, Joe. Time's up."

He was still smiling when he shoved the needle into Joe's arm, when Joe bit back his cry of pain, then gasped, a sound like a sob. He struggled harder, snarling, his face twisted with impotent rage. "You son of a bitch!"

MacLeod kissed him on the forehead. "Good night, Joseph," he said softly, and took the drip clamp off. He laid it on Joe's chest, retrieved the katana, picked up the lantern and walked out of that place; by the time the light had faded, no sound at all remained in the dark place under the ground.

* * *

Duncan was silent for a long time. Fitz said nothing, just sat close beside him, their shoulders touching.

They were in Darius's church. Sunlight streamed through the small round window over the altar, and except for a few dust motes moving lazily in the circle of light it cast, they were alone.

He wanted to believe it was a lie. That Connor would never do that—would never willingly put himself in a place like that. That there weren't still Watchers around capable of that kind of interference in the Game. That Methos and Joe hadn't really been keeping it from him all this time. All the levels and degrees of betrayal and horror made him feel sick, like he'd been a fool, naïve and trusting, and nothing was true any more. So much easier to believe it was all a trick, some kind of illusion—except, he didn't. Since Richie had died, he'd been close enough to taste that kind of despair, hadn't he? He knew first hand how tempting oblivion could be. How much easier than risking your heart again.

He shoved his chair back and stood up, pacing angrily. "So, what? I'm supposed to see it's a trade-off? That if I didn't kill Richie, I was gonna lose Connor and Joe? Is that supposed to make some kind of karmic sense or something?"

Fitz shook his head sadly. "You still don't understand, do you? You still think this is about you. That all of this is some kind of punishment, your payment for the mistakes you've made. For all the people you couldn't save. You say you don't believe that, but in your heart, you do." He sighed. "Ah, laddie. I wish it was that simple."

A cold finger touched Duncan's heart, and he stopped. "There's more, isn't there? It doesn't end with Joe." Fitz looked at him, then, and Duncan saw there were tears on his face. "Fitz?"

"You said it yourself, dear boy. The ultimate struggle between good and evil is fought within one soul."

The chill spread through Duncan, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck. "Armageddon."

Fitz nodded, and his eyes were ancient and bleak. "The end of the world, my friend. And it began that night, but no, I'm afraid it didn't end there..."

Reality shifted. They stood in a swank penthouse office. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a breathtaking panorama of the familiar New York skyline framed a sky darkening toward evening, the lights of the city glittering against its vibrant backdrop.

One of the double doors opened. Duncan saw himself walk through it, and again he had that disorienting sensation of deja vu mixed with the funhouse mirror feeling. From outside, a secretary's voice could be heard, saying something about a man waiting to see him.

"Yes, I know. Not now, Marie," the other MacLeod said absently, his attention on a piece of paper he was reading. "I'm busy." He closed the door behind him, crossing the room slowly as his eyes scanned the paper.

He was dressed all in black: a four thousand dollar suit, black silk shirt buttoned to the throat, no tie; power radiated from him like heat from a bonfire, and it awoke every defensive instinct Duncan possessed. The familiar eyes were bottomless, impenetrable. MacLeod dropped the paper on his desk and picked up a remote control, pressing a button. A wall slid aside, revealing a bank of state-of-the-art audio visual equipment, and the flat screen TV turned on. MacLeod pressed another button and it switched to the news. The graphics showed election results coming in, and an announcer was saying that they'd have numbers for the senatorial race in North Carolina in a few minutes.

Duncan turned to Fitz. "How much time has passed?"

"A little more than a year, since you—since he wiped out the sanctuary."

"1998," Duncan said. "This year."

Fitz nodded. "And he's been busy. He left that place with the power of a dozen quickenings—and something else besides. He took Dawson's laptop computer."

"The Watcher records? But I..." He broke off, looking at his other self, the dark reflection that stood before the television screen, a smile playing about his lips as if he were thinking about some terribly amusing private joke. "Ahriman. It's still in him."

Fitz sighed. "Not too many Immortals left by now, I'm afraid."

Duncan's breath stopped in his throat. He swallowed hard, feeling sick. "Who?"

"Too many to count, my friend. Old enemies. Old friends. And each one he kills makes him stronger. He made Jacob Kell look like a rank amateur—that is, until he killed him and his little posse, and added their power to his own."

Duncan didn't recognize the name Kell, but it didn't matter; he'd known others. Kalas. Kronos. They were all the same. Their deaths were no loss to the world, but the power they held... "He's going to win the Game," Duncan said, and the words shook him, made him feel like the sick horror would choke him—because even as he said it, he knew it was true. He couldn't look away from the monster that wore his face, the monster he might have become. His worst fear, made flesh. "In the end, there can be only one."

"He does still have a few friends left, though," Fitz said. As if he'd heard, the other MacLeod tossed the remote aside and turned, expectant, to face the doors before they burst open.

"Mac!"

It was Richie. He looked like hell, and his clothes had seen better days, as though he'd been on the road a long time. He carried his motorcycle helmet under his arm.

The other MacLeod smiled at the sight of him, a grin that showed too many teeth. He leaned back against the desk, crossing his ankles and folding his arms against his chest.

"Richard! So you're the one who's been waiting to see me. If I'd known you were coming, I'd've had my hair done."

The secretary appeared in the open doorway, out of breath. "Mister MacLeod, I'm sorry, I tried to stop him—"

"It's all right, Marie. Leave us." She did as ordered, closing the doors behind her; when she was gone, MacLeod pressed a hidden button, the lock engaging with an audible click.

Ignoring the threat in that shark's grin, Richie pleaded with him. "Mac, please, you have to listen to me."

"What, no sword this time?"

"What's the point?" Richie said bitterly. "We both know you can take me any time you want."

At that, MacLeod pushed himself away from the desk, circling him, menace written in every line of his body. "Then why are you here, little boy? I told you, I'll come for you when I'm ready."

Angry tears shone in Richie's eyes. "Like you came for Joe? For Connor? For Amanda?"

"Just like that. Bright boy."

MacLeod had stopped in front of his student, and now he reached out casually, brushing his fingertips along the collar of Richie's leather jacket, close to his throat. Richie held still, breathing hard and obviously afraid, but stubbornly refusing to back down. "So why haven't you killed me already? Huh, Mac? Why let me live, when you've killed so many others?"

"Because it amuses me." MacLeod shrugged, and his grin had become a sneer. "What can I say? I'm a big fan of dramatic irony." He caressed Richie's cheek, and Richie flinched away, his hands closing into fists. "Your friend Methos would appreciate that." He tilted his head, eyes glittering. "Did he send you?"

Richie laughed, but it sounded forced. "Methos? He's long gone. He's probably hiding out in a cave somewhere. You'll never find him."

At that, MacLeod laid his hand against Richie's throat, thumb playing over the adam's apple. "Oh, Rich. You know better than that." He smiled to himself, and Richie made a sound of pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, sweat breaking out on his face.

"Fitz, what's he doing to him?" But as soon as he said it, Duncan realized he knew. All that power inside of him. He'd known for a while that something was changing in his perceptions of the world, that he was on the cusp of reaching a new level of... something. Awareness. Understanding. The last few years, he'd started having dreams in which he knew things, sensed things, that he couldn't know. Feelings that weren't his. Sometimes, he got visions of things that were happening to other people, other places. Sometimes, it was an insight he couldn't explain, but that he knew was right—like when he'd known without question that Byron wasn't what he'd seemed, that he was dangerous. Sometimes, it was more specific. A vision that proved to be true; insight into feelings others kept hidden. Darius had hinted for years that he'd had visions of the future sometimes. Cassandra and Roland could control people with the Voice. If Connor was to be believed, Ramirez had been able to do more than any of them. Was it so hard to imagine that he, too, might eventually discover hidden abilities of his own?

This Duncan MacLeod was stronger than he'd ever dreamed of being. And if he'd learned how to use that power...

"Are you the decoy?" the other MacLeod growled, eyes burning with it. "Is that it? Are you supposed to draw me out into the open, so my dear friend Methos can take my head?" He chuckled low in his throat, and the hair stood up on Duncan's arms. Richie made a low, keening sound, deep in his throat; the vein at his forehead pulsed as if his heart were being pushed beyond its limits. MacLeod's thumb caressed his throat again, pressed harder on the vulnerable cartilage that housed his larynx.

"He doesn't know I'm here," Richie gasped out, trembling with some inner strain. Sweat rolled down his face, his skin as flushed as if he'd run ten miles.

"Ah, Richie. Now, why don't I believe you?" At last MacLeod let him go, shoving him back in disgust. Richie made a choking sound and rubbed at his throat, trying to catch his breath. The look on his face was one of hatred and betrayal, all his idealism and hero worship burned away to ash. His eyes were hollow with it.

MacLeod had turned his back, attention captured once more by the news broadcast, the election results. The announcer was talking about the New York race now, and the unfortunate, sudden death of Al D'Amato some months before, which had left his seat open and threatened to give the state to the Democrats.

"What are you?" Richie Ryan asked the man who had been his teacher, his friend. "What did you do to him?" He might as well have been a gnat, for all the attention MacLeod paid him. Despair written all over him, he took a reckless step closer. "I know you're still in there. Somewhere inside that... thing, I know you can hear me. It's using you, Mac. You have to fight it!" Fighting tears, Richie reached inside his jacket, pulling out an automatic pistol. His hand shook. "You have to fight it."

"Go home, Richie," MacLeod said, sounding bored. "Tell Methos I send my love, and that I can't wait to see what little games he's got in store for me. Tell him I'm gonna love the taste of his Quickening." He glanced back over his shoulder then, and there was nothing human in his eyes. "And don't worry. I'll come for you sooner or later. I wouldn't miss it."

Richie's face twisted in a snarl, and he brought the pistol up, closed both hands around it, aiming for MacLeod's broad back, but before he could squeeze the trigger he cried out and crumpled to the floor as if run through, doubled over in agony. Heartsick, Duncan wanted to turn away, or go to him; all he could do was watch, his fists clenched in helpless impotence.

The other MacLeod smiled, watching the young man he'd once considered a son writhing in nameless torment. "So predictable. When are you guys gonna figure out that it's not that easy any more? The day when you could have shot me in the back is long past, Rich. We're in the end days, now, and I'm getting stronger all the time. Your kind is in the last phase of its extinction."

"Mac—" Richie gasped, and blood welled from his nose, dark against the cream-colored carpet.

On the television, numbers for the New York race appeared at last, and MacLeod turned to watch, his smile turning to one of satisfaction as the results appeared. "Ah, that's my boy." He reached for the remote, pressing a button, and the announcer's voice rose.

"...death of incumbent Senator Al D'Amato, longtime opponent of President Bill Clinton, left the field wide open for Democratic challenger Charles Schumer. But after a fierce, whirlwind campaign that took the whole country by surprise, newcomer Alan Wilkinson won a decisive victory today, defeating Schumer and winning a valuable seat for the rapidly growing New Freedom Party..."

"Wilkinson." Duncan wrenched his attention from Richie's pain, chill realization washing over him. "Oh, no. It can't be..."

The image cut to Wilkinson's campaign headquarters, riotous cheering and balloons surrounding the familiar figure, who grinned with elation and raised his hands above his head in a gesture of victory. A banner stretched above him bearing the slightly altered but all too familiar slogan: A New Outlook for a New World. Ingrid had been right after all.

And Duncan MacLeod's phone was ringing, a discreet chirp in counterpoint to the grating sound of Wilkinson's self-congratulation. The figure in black muted the television and answered it. "MacLeod." He chuckled softly. "Yes, I saw. I'm watching it now." Richie was still panting on the floor, his cries turned now to faint gasps, consciousness fading. The stain of his blood had spread. "Tell him I told him it would be easy," MacLeod said, looking out over the city, the lights glittering below. "And tell him it's only the beginning."

"This isn't real," Duncan told himself fiercely, backing away from the thing that wore his face, that spoke with his voice. "It's not real."

As if his words broke the spell, he was in a park, and the sun was shining all around him. It dappled the grass beneath the trees, shone on the lake. Kids played frisbee with dogs and each other; somewhere in the distance, a car horn sounded.

"But it could have been," Fitz said beside him, subdued. He, too, had been affected by what they'd seen. "There are as many futures as there are choices, MacLeod."

They walked together down a paved path, the scent of honeysuckle a thick, sweet current on the wind. Duncan recognized the familiar landmarks of Central Park. His hands were cold, and he slipped them into his pockets; from the green of the landscape it was summer here, and the sun was warm—hot, even—but he didn't think the chill he felt would dissipate any time soon.

"All because Richie... because I killed Richie at the racetrack."

Fitz smiled sidelong at him, a fond look, but shook his head. "Because you loved him, dear boy. Because losing him gave you the conviction you needed to become the champion you were meant to be. That could never have happened if you hadn't loved him. If you hadn't been the man you are."

"And if he hadn't died."

"If he hadn't loved you, and Joe Dawson, enough to put himself in harm's way. It's all about love, MacLeod. You know that. You've always known it. It's all we have to keep us from the darkness."

Duncan nodded, pensive. He did know that, but it was still hard to accept. Still hard to get his head around it. Could the balance of the world really be so fragile, that the choices one person made could change so much? Darius had foreseen his own death, but he'd still chosen to meet it head on, not to run from it. And what would have happened if he had run? If Horton had come after someone else, or chosen another hunting ground, and Duncan hadn't pieced together what was going on? How many more of his friends might have died before Horton was stopped? He'd been angry with his old friend when he'd realized Darius had known, and had done nothing to change it. He'd never really understood until now.

"And Ingrid was right," he said, thinking of the choices they'd both made that night. The choice Methos had made to come with him to that rally, when he could have stayed safely out of the line of fire. How many times had Methos chosen to stand beside him despite his own feelings about Duncan's 'little moral dilemmas'—and at what cost?

"Fitz, what about Methos? Could he have stopped it?"

Fitz's smile faded, but didn't entirely disappear. He turned his gaze back to the path. "Ah, yes, your friend Methos again. He always seems to turn up whenever you're in trouble, doesn't he?"

"You notice that, huh?"

"Indeed I do, my boy, but do you, is the question?" He nodded to himself, not seeming to expect an answer. "Yes, he's an interesting chap, that one. Not as much fun as me, of course, but I have to admit it sets my mind at ease to know he's around to keep an eye on you. You need someone like him to keep you honest."

Duncan had to laugh at that. "The day Methos keeps anyone honest is the day Amanda takes up knitting."

"And the day you need lessons in the boy scout code is the day I give up women. No, MacLeod, you need somebody who'll keep you honest with yourself, that's what I mean."

"Yeah," Duncan admitted. "He is good for that."

"And not a bad fellow to have at your back in a fight, if it comes to it."

"No argument there."

They walked on for a little while, the unanswered question heavy between them.

At last his old friend sighed, and looked up at him, his careworn face resigned. "You sure you want to go through with this, laddie? It isn't required, you know. You already averted this particular future, and nobody's asking you to do penance."

Duncan swallowed, hearing the answer in Fitz's reluctance, his compassion. Knowing what he'd already known, what he'd always known—that nobody lived forever, not even Immortals. Not even Methos. He knew what it was like to watch Methos die at his hand. Fitz had shown him once before. And if every future was possible, one choice away from becoming reality, in how many of them did it come down to him and Methos in the end?

Not knowing was worse than knowing. "Show me," he said to Fitz, needing to know it all, to see the end of the dark road they'd started down. Needing to look it in the face, not run from it, because he'd learned more than once that the danger you couldn't see was the one that would kill you—

The park was gone. He and Fitz stood on a rooftop under the stars, a dusting of snow pricking his hands and face as it scattered before a freezing wind.

His heart felt tight, heavy in his chest. "When?" he asked. He recognized the where. They were still in Manhattan, not far from the office where Richie had tried to shoot his other self in the back.

"Two years from now. It's New Year's Eve, MacLeod."

"The eve of the millennium."

"That's right, laddie. But I'm afraid there isn't much to celebrate. The world has always had its share of war, poverty, disease...but nothing like what's coming, what's already started. Next month, Alan Wilkinson will be sworn in as the forty-third President of the United States, and at his right hand will sit a demon with the power of all the Immortals. Dark times ahead, my friend. Very dark times."

They stood at the edge of the rooftop, breathing the scent of frost on the wind. Behind them, a door opened, and footsteps crunched on the gravel and snow. Duncan turned.

Methos stood on the roof with them, taller than Duncan remembered. He stopped a little distance from the stairwell, looking out across the city and adjusting one of his black gloves, his eyes narrowed against the sting of the wind. He looked carved from ice himself, the planes of his face elemental and immutable. His heavy black coat blew against his body, weighted with hidden threats.

Emotion knotted in Duncan's stomach, affection and apprehension and grief all tangled up together, and in spite of himself, in spite of what he knew, his heart lifted with a traitorous spark of hope. Strength and power were communicated in every line of Methos's body, as though he had cast aside two thousand years of camouflage, of making himself small, hiding himself in monasteries and libraries and a grad student's baggy sweaters. This was the man Kronos would have killed for, he thought, his breath catching at the insight. This was Methos, pared down to the essential.

Then Methos stiffened, head lifting in a look Duncan knew too well. Something flickered over his face and was gone too fast to be read; he strode toward the middle of the roof and stood waiting, nothing save readiness betrayed in his body language or in his expression.

"Happy New Year, Methos," MacLeod said, stepping out of the shadows. He was barely more than a shadow himself in his dark clothing, but the katana gleamed in his hand, and the white flash of his teeth was briefly visible as he grinned. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Methos said, the wind ruffling his hair. "You always did throw a good party."

"You disappoint me, though."

"Not for the first time, I imagine. Were you hoping I'd bring the champagne?"

"I don't know, I expected more from you, after all this time. And after what I did to Joe, and to Amanda, and Richie, too. But here you are, no helicopters, no shock troops—I don't even think you've got a tranq gun under there this time. Mano a mano isn't exactly your style, is it? I might start to think you don't love me any more."

Methos smiled, a faint cant of his lips that made Duncan's heart hurt. "But you know that's not true, don't you? The same way you know that I'm not trying to trick you."

The demon laughed, a low sound that raised all of Duncan's hackles. "You got me there, old friend. There isn't much I don't know these days. Not much I can't see. The future... the past. All the truths people think they hide from everyone. I can see it all now, and it's getting clearer every day. And soon, I'll have you, too, and then this body will be a fitting vessel for me." He'd drawn closer to Methos now, the sword held negligently at his side. "Except you still don't believe in me, do you, Methos? I can see that, too. You still think I'm a myth—a figment of your friend's psychosis. You still think you can save him."

The flicker of crimson that surfaced in the dark eyes then might have been a reflection, a trick of the light—except Duncan knew it wasn't. Seeing it, his stomach twisted, and he caught his breath. Hope died in his breast.

Methos's broadsword was in his hand. He held it before him and stood his ground. "Somewhere inside of you, the Duncan that I knew still lives. I didn't give up on you when you killed Sean. I'm not giving up on you now. I was willing to give you my quickening when we first met if it would help you, and I still am."

"No, Methos—" Duncan spoke without meaning to. He felt Fitz's hand on his shoulder. Of course, Methos couldn't hear him.

The other MacLeod was grinning now, circling Methos, his feet making no sound on the gravel roof. "Nice sentiment. I never knew you were such a romantic. Maybe you should write greeting cards instead of fortune cookies." The katana flickered, testing Methos's reflexes, not quite touching the heavier blade. "That might have worked, if you hadn't been so very wrong about everything, Metarru."

For the first time, Methos betrayed a visible reaction. It lasted only a fraction of a second, no more than a flicker of doubt, quickly controlled. Amusement played over the demon's too-familiar features, seeing it. "And now you begin to understand. As they all do, in the end. As your friend did. You are the last of your kind, as is fitting, but I am older than you by far." The katana struck then, faster than thought. Methos was faster still, and the attack slid harmlessly off his blade, but the demon only laughed. Mist the color of blood rolled across the snow-dusted roof, and its eyes were scarlet, inhuman.

"Cheap parlor tricks now?" Methos said, but he sounded less certain, breathlessness in his voice that hadn't been there before. "We owe each other better than that, Duncan."

"Ah, Methos. Your little romantic fantasies won't help you now, I'm afraid. I existed before time began, and I will exist when time is ended—and for you, all that matters is that I am the last thing you will ever see." The smile wasn't human, either, and Duncan knew its voice too well. He wanted to close his eyes, wanted not to see—but it was too late. Steel flashed, rang out across the night in a sudden, violent clash.

He'd always known Methos was good, and his friend fought now for more than his own survival, but all his skill and strength wouldn't be enough. Duncan knew it, and still he couldn't help the racing of his heart as the blades met again and again, as time after time Methos managed to parry blows that should have met flesh.

It couldn't last. There had never been anything fair in this fight; he saw it in Methos's face when he knew it, when the truth came home to him and he knew that there was no hope here, not even the desperate one he'd counted on as a last resort. He fought gamely anyway. But the broadsword was a heavy weapon, meant to overpower an opponent quickly, and he was beginning to tire.

Heart in his throat, Duncan knew he was going to falter a second before he did. Still, he flinched when the katana at last rent cloth and flesh, when Methos fell back a little, hissing sharply, and Duncan saw the cut was deep across his sword hand. For a second, Duncan thought he might lose his grip, but he recovered, switching the blade to his other hand and shifting to a defensive posture, giving ground.

"Are you tired of fighting yet?" the demon taunted him, looking as fresh as when they'd begun. "Have I fulfilled your image of him—of how this was meant to be? Or are you ready to admit that it will be a mercy when I kill you, when I take you inside me? We were close, once, you and I. The blood on your hands fed me, sustained me then. For a thousand years, my darkness lived within you, and yours in me. I've missed you."

"I'm afraid the feeling is not mutual," Methos said grimly. And attacked, for the first time taking the offensive.

It was a valiant effort, and the grace and power behind his attack took Duncan's breath, made him want to shout in pure admiration. His heart pounded. It hurt, because he knew it was the end, and still something sang in him, some fierce joy that made him want to run forward, to put himself between Methos and that fate, to somehow wrench the inevitable from the hands of the Universe and change it for all time, in every future.

But he was powerless here, and as he'd known it must, the end came. The demon's blade shone red with Methos's blood. The broadsword fell. At the last, driven to his knees, Methos closed his eyes and bowed his head, as if unwilling to see the face and form his death wore as it raised the katana for the last time—

"Enough, Fitz." Duncan turned away, his own eyes closing against what he'd seen in Methos's face, unable to bear any more.

They stood alone on the rooftop. The ring of steel, the smell of blood, the hateful red mist, were gone.

"It never happened, my friend," Fitz said gently, standing close, his hand a steadying weight against Duncan's back. "Thanks to you, and young Ryan, it never will."

The wind was quiet now, and snow started to fall gently, soft flakes that glistened in the moonlight filtering through the clouds, that melted on his skin. Duncan drew a breath, though it felt like it took more effort than it should have. His insides felt bruised, his heart clenched tight like a fist. Like a stone, heavy with grief and the helplessness he'd felt, the bitter knowledge he'd sought. He wished desperately that he'd never asked to see this, to know this—and yet he knew he'd needed to look it in the face, to remember, and accept it, so that he could make sure it never came to pass.

He looked out over the city, making himself breathe the sweet, cold air. Far below, the traffic lights changed, red to green. One late-night taxi turned the corner and moved down the street, taillights fading into the distance.

"I should never have let you talk me into this," Fitz said beside him. "I knew it was a bad idea."

"It's not your fault. I wanted to know. I think I needed to know." He smiled and wiped his face. "You used to say I was a glutton for punishment, remember?"

"Still are, you silly bugger. You never did listen to me, did you?"

"Maybe I should have."

"Oh, so now he admits it." Fitz glanced heavenward. "I hope someone up there is writing this down!"

A chuckle escaped Duncan, and if it was unsteady, he didn't think his old friend would mind. "Fitz. You always could make me laugh."

"It's better than working for a living."

"Lucky for me."

Fitz's answering smile was fond and sad, and Duncan knew it was time to say goodbye. The edges of his vision seemed to be blurring, and he couldn't feel the night air on his face any more. "We could do this again some time," he said, only half joking. "There must be some universe where you and I get pissed and sit around telling tall stories half the night."

"That does sound like fun. But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather you stayed out of trouble for a while. Your friends deserve a rest from the drama, don't you think?"

Duncan's throat closed, thinking of how ready he'd been to walk away from them tonight. "Yes, they do."

Fitz squeezed his shoulder, then smiled his lopsided smile. "I'll be with you, laddie, don't you worry about that. Just like Richie, and Tessa. Just like we always have been." He frowned, then, trying to look stern. "Now, there's one more thing, and I want you to listen, because I'm overdue and you're almost out of time." And he was. Already, Fitz's voice sounded like it was receding from him; already, the city below had faded, and soon the rooftop would, too.

"I'm listening," Duncan said, trying to hold on to the illusion a little longer. Brightness flooded the edges of his vision, and he couldn't see Fitz any more. Could only hear him, fading now—

"Then, for the last time, will you please do as I tell you and... look up!"

A light, stinging blow against his cheek woke him, and for a moment the deja vu was strong, disorienting. Where...? Not a train tunnel, this time, but a Paris flat, a couch, yellow lamp light making him blink, making it hard to see—

Methos. Slapping his face lightly, muttering about MacLeod's ancestry in unflattering terms. The sharp angles of his face were familiar, too, and the concern in his eyes, at odds with the rest.

"Finally," Methos said, and sat back, his hand falling away.

"Methos?"

"No, it's the Easter bunny. Who d'you think?" Methos was sitting on the coffee table, as if he'd been leaning over him for some time, waiting him for him to wake up. Impatience colored his tone. Duncan frowned, noticing that there was blood on his face, a faint streak of it along his jaw. There was some on his shirt, too.

"You're bleeding," he said, starting to reach out.

Methos stared at him for a second in disbelief, then laughed, sardonic. "That's right, MacLeod. That's why you're lying on my favorite couch with your shirt cut to ribbons, dead to the world and ruining my upholstery—because I cut myself shaving. That's good." He shook his head and turned away, dropping a blood-soaked cloth into the bowl beside him.

Duncan spread his hands against his midsection, remembering at last that he'd been fighting. The alley. Cantric... was that his name? An older one seemed to echo in his mind, below the surface of conscious thought. "You saw the fight?"

Methos turned back, his eyes opaque as mirrors. "The end of it," he said shortly, as if the details didn't interest him.

"How long was I out?"

"About two hours, give or take." He stood up abruptly, picking up the bowl and moving away from the couch. "He did a number on you, MacLeod. Getting you back here was no picnic—and you owe me a new sweater."

Duncan swallowed, tasting the metallic scent of blood in the room, feeling the residue of it still sticky on his skin. Methos must have disposed of the shirt he'd been wearing. From the looks of things, there probably hadn't been much of it left to save. He was thirsty—desperately so, he realized, once the need had registered. His throat hurt as though he'd been yelling.

Methos didn't seem inclined to treat him like a guest now that he was back among the living, so he sat up, wincing at the pull of muscle along his collarbone. Instinctively, he touched the place; he felt something like a long welt, hot and tingly when he touched it. It stretched from the side of his throat down over his collarbone and toward the center of his chest, ending somewhere near his sternum. Beneath it he felt a bone-deep ache, and realized that broad blade must have nearly cleaved him in two. The bastard had almost had him.

And Methos was angry with him, that much was obvious. He said nothing when MacLeod came into the kitchen, just went on washing out the cloth and the bowl in the sink, but tension underscored every line of his body. It wasn't like him to be so closed-mouthed, either—particularly not with such a ripe opportunity to take potshots at MacLeod for his high-risk lifestyle.

It pained Duncan, and he wondered if there was any way they could make it through the next half an hour without shouting at each other.

"Mind if I get some water?" he asked.

"Suit yourself."

He hesitated.

"Mind showing me where the glasses are?"

Methos still didn't look at him, but irritation flickered in his profile. He put down the bowl, rinsed his hands, and turned the water off, then dried them on a towel. Then he reached up and got a glass out of one of the cabinets, filled it with water from the tap, and handed it to him.

"Thanks." Duncan brought the water to his lips; it was such a relief that he found himself closing his eyes, drinking the whole glass down in long swallows. A drop ran onto his chest, cool against his skin.

When he finished the water and opened his eyes, Methos was still standing by the sink, his gaze on the place where Duncan had felt the scar tissue, his face unreadable. His eyes flicked away when he saw Duncan was looking at him, then lifted to his. The look was accusing.

"I know what you were doing out there, and so we're clear, I don't appreciate it."

"I can see that," Duncan said carefully. "Want to tell me what I did wrong?"

"What you did wrong?" Methos smiled, but the expression was bleak. "Oh, nothing. Nothing anybody wouldn't do for a friend, right?"

Duncan felt as though he'd missed several important points in the conversation. "Come on, what's this about?"

Methos turned away, busying himself at the sink, folding the towel with too much care. "Where you get off casting yourself as my personal knight in shining armor, I don't know, but that schtick's getting old, don't you think? Isn't it time for you to work on a new act?"

Duncan kept a hold on his patience with both hands. Tonight of all nights, the last thing he wanted was to fight. "Methos, you're losing me here. Does this have to do with the guy in the alley? Was he a friend of yours?"

"A friend of—" Methos shot him a look of disbelief. He drew a breath, and for a second he looked as if he wanted to get into a real shouting match, or maybe smash his hand into something. But something in Duncan's face must have convinced him that he really didn't know what Methos was talking about, because he controlled it with a visible effort. "I'm talking about my address, MacLeod. In his pocket. I'm talking about you deciding that you had to play hero one more time, and almost bringing down half of Paris on our heads while you were at it. I'm talking about the insane mess that is my life every time you get within a five-mile radius!"

His voice rose, the list of Duncan's supposed sins obviously sparking off his temper again. Duncan felt helpless in the face of his anger, helpless to know what he'd done to cause it, and he was tired of feeling helpless. He'd had enough of that tonight to last a lifetime, in fact, and the sudden memory of how it had felt to stand by and watch Joe and Connor die at his own hand, to watch Methos make an impossible stand and lose, made him feel shaky, his own temper dangerously close to slipping. Anger was easier than fear—easier than looking that hellish nightmare in the face and knowing how much he still had left to lose, and he—

His perception shifted. A stillness opened within him, and he saw himself, and Methos, and what Fitz had been trying to tell him all at once, a kaleidoscope of faceted truths that fell together in his mind. What is it that you're trying to get away from?

What is it that's kept you here for so long?

"Mac?"

He drew a breath, feeling dazed. "Yeah."

"Are you okay? Because I gotta tell you, you've looked better."

"I've felt better. Methos, what the hell are we doing?"

Methos blinked. Slowly, as if it had occurred to him that maybe Duncan MacLeod was not firing on all thrusters, he said, "We're ruining my couch, and having an extraordinarily stupid conversation. What did you think we were doing?"

"No, I mean, what the hell are we doing? Look at us." Duncan reached out and caught Methos by the wrist before he could pull away. Methos's skin felt cold. He tensed under Duncan's grip, but not before Duncan knew he'd been right. Sometimes the anger was easier than the fear. "You're still shaking. I can feel it." Methos jerked hard against his hold, but Duncan held on. "You're not the only one."

They stared at each other, joined by his merciless grasp on Methos's hand until, finally, Methos pulled free. "Good!" he snapped. "Maybe it'll stop you from being such a bloody arrogant—" Flustered, he struggled for a word good enough. "I don't need your protection!"

"You think I don't know that?"

"Could have fooled me!"

"Look, I didn't know he was after you, okay? But if I had, it wouldn't have made any difference. He didn't give me a choice."

"There's always a choice. But how would you know? You wouldn't know how to walk away if I gave you a road map!" He was shouting now, but it wasn't anger Duncan saw naked in his eyes. He knew now what it really was, and knowing it made him feel like he'd run a long, grueling race and the finish was in sight. In his mind's eye, he saw alternate futures refracted from each moment, each choice, like a ray of light shone through a prism. And what would have happened if he'd chosen differently tonight, standing on that street corner?

"Methos—" He reached out again, but Methos pushed himself away from the sink and stalked out of the kitchen, out of his reach. A safe distance away, he stopped, his back to Duncan. A tremor ran through him as if he, too, was close to the end of his endurance.

"You know what? You're right. This is stupid—forget it. Look, if you want to take a shower, go ahead. Clothes are on the counter in there. I'm going to clean up the rest of this mess before it's too late to get the stains out."

"Dammit—" Frustrated, Duncan started after him.

When he saw Methos's face, he stopped, biting back the demands he would have made. He wanted to push the issue, perhaps more than he'd ever wanted anything; he longed to stop running at last and face this head on. He'd seen some of the bleak futures in which they hadn't, and he wanted to do whatever it took to obliterate every one of them, once and for all. But it wasn't only his choices that mattered here.

"Listen, I'm sorry about your couch, all right?"

It obviously wasn't what Methos expected, any more than it was what he'd intended to say. But for once, it was the right thing. Methos glanced at Duncan sidelong, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"My favorite couch."

"It's your only couch."

"Right, therefore it's my favorite by default."

They looked at each other, able to do it now, and the brittle anger that Methos had held around him like a shield gave way to something more like his usual air of amused exasperation.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You really didn't know?"

"I really didn't." Duncan's throat felt tight. "Came by to see if you wanted to grab a beer. Bad timing, I guess."

"Certainly from his point of view, it was."

"Yeah."

The urge to close the distance between them was strong, but Duncan pushed it down, willing himself to be patient, to go slow. Let him meet you halfway.

"I'm gonna take you up on that shower now," he said.

"Yeah, good idea."

He made himself go before he could talk himself out of it.

* * *

Showering in Methos's bathroom was an odd kind of intimacy, and he found himself wondering whether it had felt strange to Methos, those times when he'd stayed with Duncan at the loft, or the barge. He'd never thought about it before, but a bathroom was a very personal space, and it affected him now perhaps more than it should have. It was a good feeling, though, to wash his hair with Methos's shampoo, to clean his body with Methos's soap, to be naked in a place where Methos had stood naked many times—a safe feeling, he decided.

The scents were familiar—that was part of it. More than that, it felt safe because he felt trusted; Methos had given him permission to be in this space that was so personal to him. And in return, his own willingness to leave himself naked and vulnerable, weaponless, with another Immortal close by, implied that the trust was shared. So many things he'd kept himself from thinking about too closely, from feeling.

"You've got it bad if you're getting poetic about his bathroom," he told himself under his breath, and had to laugh, because he knew it was true. It didn't hurt that delayed reaction was setting in, the aftermath of so much adrenaline and intense emotion leaving him shaky. But he was alive, and Methos was, and his heart felt lighter than he could remember it being.

He wrote Methos's name in the steam on the shower enclosure, grinning to himself as he got out and dried off. And if using his shampoo was strange, what did you call wearing his clothes?

He pulled on the jeans, finding them comfortable if snug, then wiped some of the steam off the mirror, examining his neck. The welt was almost gone now, a faint red mark left at the place where his collarbone met his throat. The skin below was smooth and unmarred. In another hour or so, the scar would be gone.

The flat was cool after the warmth of the bathroom, and he was glad of the borrowed sweater as he came back down the hall, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. Methos was sitting on the coffee table. He'd done away with the sheet he'd used to cover the couch, and the bloodstained towels were nowhere in evidence. He'd changed his shirt and washed the blood off his face; he looked worn out, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.

Duncan sat down on the couch opposite him, their knees almost touching. That was startlingly intimate for them, too. A frisson of tension rose between them, and Methos lifted his head as if wary of what he might do next, but Duncan didn't let it stop him.

"How would you know?" he asked without preamble.

The look Methos gave him said the jury was still out on whether he had, in fact, lost it. "How would I know what?"

Duncan's heart was beating too fast, but he didn't let that stop him, either. "It so happens that I've gotten very good at walking away this last year or so. Which you'd know, if you'd been around. And if you want to talk foolish heroics, I hardly think I'm the one who should get a reprimand here, do you?"

Plainly disconcerted, Methos rubbed his hands on his thighs. He glanced away, pointedly not answering that, then frowned at him. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Not yet, but I will be."

Methos seemed to hear all the levels of meaning in it, for he looked keenly at Duncan then. "You mean that."

"Yeah, I do." It was hard to keep the lightness he was feeling inside—and from the look on Methos's face, he suspected he wasn't doing a very good job of it. "Surprised?"

"Just—glad to hear it."

"Me too. I missed you."

He doubted Methos could have looked more surprised if he'd put on Groucho glasses and started reciting the Aeneid in Farsi. Seeing him speechless was a rare and wonderful thing, and Duncan couldn't help it; he started to laugh.

Irritated, Methos found words at last. "What's so funny?"

"I wish you could have seen your face."

"Well, what do you expect? Drop a bombshell like that."

"I should have said it before. And I'm sorry I scared you."

There was no mistaking the color that bloomed in Methos's face. Predictably, his irritation sharpened. "If you want to throw yourself in front of every edged weapon in the northern hemisphere, that's your business."

Duncan knew that if Methos could have fled without it being obvious, he would have, but Duncan was in his space, making that impossible. So easy, he thought, realizing it always could have been. That it still could be. "Methos."

"What?"

It took Methos a moment to realize Duncan was holding out his hand, palm up, between them. Duncan saw the hesitation, the uncertainty. The flush in his cheeks deepened. For a long, awkward span of heartbeats, Methos didn't move; then, slowly, he let himself reach out and clasped Duncan's hand in his.

Their knees brushed, and they sat like that for a long time, resting their elbows on their thighs and holding on, looking down at their joined hands. At last, Duncan said roughly, "Sometimes, it's better to fight. We both know that."

"Don't tell me what I know, if you don't mind."

"All right, then you tell me. Why is it so hard for us to admit we care about each other?"

Methos tried to pull away, then, but Duncan was ready for him, and held on. Methos gave him an irritated look. "What's got into you?"

"Maybe I'm tired of playing games with you. God knows we're old enough to know better."

Methos tried to laugh it off. "I'm starting to think some of your brains spilled out with all that blood. Do you even know what you're going on about?" It was forced, and Duncan knew he was afraid now, maybe more afraid than Duncan had ever seen him. He squeezed Methos's hand.

"Yeah. I'm talking about you and me, going around and around the same old track, as if we had all the time in the world. You'd think between us we'd know better. We're in a rut, Methos. We're both fools."

"Well, one of us is, at any rate."

"Both of us. But not any more."

"Right, okay, if you say so." He was obviously flustered now, losing the battle to keep his cool in the face of a Duncan MacLeod who'd decided to break all their rules at once. "You think I could have my hand back some time this century?"

"Why?" Duncan demanded, not giving him an inch of ground. "Got somewhere more important to be? Because I don't. I haven't for a long time." At that, Methos's breath caught, as if he couldn't prevent it, couldn't look away from what he saw in Duncan's eyes. A surge of hope rose in Duncan. "Tell me what you know, Methos. Tell me what you—tell me how you feel."

If he had ever seen Methos more acutely uncomfortable, he couldn't remember it. "What do you want me to say, Mac?"

"I want you to tell me the truth, whatever it is. I want you to tell me if I'm more of a fool than I thought, for believing you might give a damn what happens to me."

"You're not." The words seemed to surprise him. Duncan knew how he felt.

"No?" His own heart was beating fast now, and his breathlessness threatened to become painful.

"God—no, you're not." Methos finally pulled free and got up, and this time Duncan let him go. But Methos stood before him like a man who was tired of running. "Yes, all right. I care for you. More than I should. It's nothing new, all right? Are you happy?"

Duncan caught his hand again, his relief so acute he couldn't help the grin that escaped him. "Yes."

"That's all you have to say?"

"Yes, I'm happy. What else is there to say? It doesn't have to be so hard, Methos. It can be easy."

"Since when?"

"Since right now."

"Mac—"

"Come here." He tugged Methos down to the couch, close beside him. "See? That wasn't so hard."

"That's not the part I'm worried about."

"Which part then? This part?" Pulse racing, he did what he'd been wanting to do for what felt like hours; he reached up and slipped his hand inside the neck of Methos's shirt, spreading his fingers against the warm curve of his neck. Methos made a soft sound like pain, his body yielding with a sweet helplessness that made Duncan's heart soar. He leaned closer, not meaning to, but compelled by the rapid beat of Methos's heart under his fingertips. "Or this part?" he said roughly, and touched his lips to the pulse point. Methos's long fingers flexed, grasping at Duncan's thigh for something solid to brace against; he arched his neck and his other hand found the back of Duncan's head.

"Yes, that, for starters," he gasped. "Mac, what are you—"

Duncan chuckled at that, everything in him curled into a knot of want as he breathed Methos's scent, warm and heady. "If you don't know, then you've been spending more time in monasteries than I have." The spot he'd kissed had felt silky and warm against his lips. He closed his eyes and tasted it with his tongue.

Methos moaned softly, and his head fell back, his whole body yielding as it had before, only more eagerly this time; in response, heat tightened in Duncan's belly and chest. He grew hard at the sound Methos made, so quickly it threatened to take his breath. He hadn't meant for this to go so fast, had only meant to breach his friend's tightly guarded defenses, but his own hunger caught him off-guard. He was on a hair trigger anyway, and tasting Methos's answering desire, feeling it in the warmth of his skin and the faint tremors that ran through him, his self-control was crumbling fast.

But Methos's hand came up between them, pressing against his chest. "Mac—Mac. Stop." The obvious heat of Methos's body argued with the steady pressure he exerted. He extricated himself and got up, putting distance between them, closing his eyes as if in a struggle with his own better judgment.

Flushed, lips reddened with arousal, he looked good enough to eat, and it took all of Duncan's will not to press the issue, knowing Methos felt something for him, at least, knowing he could persuade him with the heat of his hands and his mouth if he tried. Cursing himself for pushing too hard, he drew a shaky breath and went to him.

"You're not gonna tell me you haven't thought about this."

"That's not—of course I have, but—" Methos broke off, looking anywhere but at him, the lines of his face revealing an inner strain that awakened all of Duncan's protective impulses. Methos wasn't playing games with him. He was genuinely upset, and hiding it badly. Of course I have. That jolted in Duncan's belly, making him painfully aware of his erection. He wanted this more than was safe—had wanted it for a long time, and hadn't admitted it to himself. He reached out before he meant to do it, his hand finding the back of Methos's neck. He stroked the pulse at the other man's throat with his thumb, feeling Methos shudder faintly at the touch. A thrill went through him that was half excitement, half fear, like standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

"Then what?" he said, and his voice was rougher than he expected it to be.

Methos's hands made a sharp, abortive gesture of frustration. "You have to ask? MacLeod—" He looked up at last. "There are reasons we've never crossed this line. You know that as well as I do."

"If so, they were stupid reasons. And look where it got us. Nowhere, that's where." He squeezed gently against the tension he could feel in Methos's neck. "Well, the hell with that. I'm tired of it. I want you in my life. Not once in a while, but all the time. I want to know what it feels like to make love with you." He felt the stillness that came over Methos at the words, given voice after so long—felt his heart tripping in answer. "What do you want?"

"It's not that simple," Methos said, but his voice betrayed him, breaking on the last word.

"Methos." His friend's arms were bare to the elbow, his sleeves pushed up. Instinct took over, Duncan's heartbeat feeling like it was pressing at his chest, his throat. Methos's hand felt warm, the skin of his wrist smooth where Duncan reached out and gripped it. After a long, breathless stillness, Methos's hand closed reluctantly over Duncan's forearm, and with an effort that looked like it cost him, Methos met his gaze. "Just tell me," Duncan said roughly. "Right here, this once, let's tell it like it is."

The hazel eyes were wide, Methos's nostrils flaring as if he scented danger, but he held himself still, head lifting.

"You don't ask much, do you?"

"Yeah." His courage made Duncan ache, the surge of love he felt so powerful it hurt. "I do. I'm tired of running." Without warning, heat shimmered across his eyes. "Aren't you?"

Methos drew a sharp breath. "Duncan." His grip tightened, pulling Duncan close, the heat of his body an unexpected homecoming. He held on, his other hand suddenly rough against the side of Duncan's face, and then their mouths were touching, and they were kissing, silky fire brushing against Duncan's lips and tongue, a shudder of heat unfurling.

It might have been a moment only—he lost all sense of time and closed his eyes and let it happen, let his mouth learn the warm, wet pressure of Methos's kiss, the heat that jolted through him in response. He thought he moaned faintly, and his body swayed against Methos's, pleasure licking deep within him as they held on, held each other up. Methos's fingertips were wet on his cheek.

They broke apart, meeting one another's eyes with what felt like a terrifying recognition. His grasp on Methos's arm was a necessity, and he felt the same desperation in the fierceness of Methos's answering grip. He felt shaky again, like something had shifted at the core of himself.

Methos blinked, then drew a deep breath. The corner of his mouth lifted, and laughter sparked in his eyes, but with it was a kind of wonder, blinding to look at. "Well."

Duncan swallowed hard. "Well," he agreed. His voice sounded as shaken as he felt. For a long, painful moment, he couldn't think of a single thing to say, and the beating of his heart felt like a runaway train, scary and out of control. He was painfully hard. He drew a breath with effort. "Can we...?"

"Do that again?"

"Yeah."

This time when Methos kissed him, they let go, and Duncan felt Methos's arms go around him, his warm hands finding bare skin under his sweater. His body melted against Methos, felt the solid strength of him and his hard readiness, the eager press of his hips. He made a helpless, hungry sound, and shifted. Methos rocked against him and moaned into his mouth. His tongue pressed against Duncan's, knowing him, touching something naked and needing within him. It hurt, made him want to curl up inside it. He couldn't feel like that again, couldn't bear it—except he could, he did, because this was Methos, who knew him, understood him in ways that no one ever had, who had made running a way of life but who wasn't running now, when it counted, whose body was warm and strong and alive in his arms, whose hands were sure and demanding against his skin.

Hunger swept him, a deep current that matched the ache of need in his heart, that made him want to lie down and spread himself open to Methos's hands, his mouth, his cock. He opened deeper for Methos's tongue, kissed him back with a fierce desperation that felt like jumping off a cliff, like free fall. Fear ran through him like a river, but it didn't matter any more. He'd lived with that fear for years.

He broke away from Methos's mouth with effort, breathless and unsteady and not caring. Methos's eyes were closed, his lips red, his cheeks flushed; he was breathing hard, too, his hands braced against Duncan's waist as if to support himself. Duncan touched his face, and he opened his eyes.

"Please come to bed with me. I want to lie down with you, feel you against me."

Methos's eyes widened in response, and his breath made a hitch in his throat. "I—yes. Anything you want."

All the things he wanted pressed against his heart. "That could take a while. How much time have you got?"

A laugh escaped Methos, and he closed his eyes and leaned forward, his forehead bumping against Duncan's shoulder. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Duncan chuckled and held him close. "That definitely wasn't on the list."

When they could, they parted at last, and Methos led the way, turning off the light. Beside the bed, Duncan dragged Methos's shirt off and cast it aside. His own followed. His hands shook as he tried to unfasten the buttons of his borrowed jeans, but Methos helped him, bracing him as he got them off one leg, then the other. He stood up, naked in the moonlight, and a small sound escaped Methos, as if something had hurt him.

"Oh, Mac—" Methos reached for him and his mouth found Duncan's and it was hot, so hot, their tongues meeting as Methos's hand fit against him, gripping him without mercy. So good, to feel his hips surge in answer, to feel that intimate pressure between his thighs, to feel Methos stroking him and tangling one hand in his hair, urging him on. Methos's body slid against his. He wanted to slow down, to make it last, but he couldn't think with Methos's mouth tender and brutal against his.

He fumbled blindly, gentling the kiss and stilling Methos's hand on him until he could breathe again. His hand spread against Methos's bared skin, roaming hungrily, and Methos's nipples drew taut under his touch. The sound Methos made fanned his own heat, making him ache with a sweet anguish.

His love for this difficult soul, this man who had hurt him and tested him, who had kept him from despair and guarded his back more times than he could count, rushed up in him again without warning, and he sank to his knees, his arms catching tight against Methos's hips. Methos was hard against him. "Methos." His heart pounded. Methos's breathing was ragged, too, and Duncan looked up, saw his own fear reflected back at him. "Let me—" He struggled with the fastenings. Methos didn't protest, only spread his legs to give him more room.

At last his mouth found warm, bare skin and he closed his eyes. His lips parted and he let himself taste, tongue touching. Methos's hands came up at that, a sharp gasp escaping him as his fingers slid into Duncan's hair. "God, Mac."

"Let me."

"Yes, for God's sake—" Methos's fierce plea broke off as Duncan finally got the buttons open and freed him, his cock a live thing rising to meet him, seeking his mouth as eagerly as his own pressed against his belly. Slippery fluid streaked his own thighs and he was shaking, struggling to undo the last buttons so he could pull Methos's jeans past his hips. "Forget it," Methos gasped, and he was shaking, too, his hands an urgent pressure against Duncan's head. Duncan gave up and spread his hand at the small of his back, took him deep.

Methos cried out when Duncan's mouth sheathed him, hips surging under Duncan's hands. Duncan closed his eyes. He wrapped one arm around Methos's waist, cradled him close, yielding muscles he'd forgotten. Even so he couldn't take Methos entirely, and he pressed frustrating cloth aside, gripping him. Methos's scent overtook his senses; Methos's hands slipped down his neck, a caress so tender that Duncan shivered, pleasure and heat throbbing through him. He didn't let it distract him from the helpless surge of Methos's hips as he let go at last, let himself take what Duncan gave him.

Against the restraining grip of Duncan's fist and his encircling arm, Methos's thrusts became slow, deliberate, and Duncan gave way with his tongue and his throat, unable to breathe, not caring as he felt Methos surrender against him, into him, in long, shuddering strokes. A haze of euphoria enveloped him, lifted him out of himself; when Methos's climax came it was sudden and powerful and Methos made a sound so vulnerable that it was hard for Duncan to bear. Salty-sweet fluid surged over his tongue and he choked but held him close, letting it fill his mouth, swallowing it.

When it was over, they drew apart. Methos looked as dazed as he felt, as deeply shaken. They met each other's eyes because they couldn't do anything else.

"Come here," Methos demanded. That he could do. That was easy. His muscles protested as he urged them to cooperate, and he ached now from being so hard for so long, but he pushed himself up into Methos's arms. Methos stroked his hair back from his temple, then kissed him. He finished unbuttoning his jeans and slid them down with one hand, stepping out of them and urging Duncan down onto the bed.

The bedclothes were cool but Methos was warm, body lithe and unbearably intimate against him, as he'd known it would be. Duncan closed his eyes and lost himself in the whole-body caress, the truth of it both comforting and erotic, both known and startlingly unfamiliar. It had been so long since he'd lain with someone like this, just pressed into the animal comfort of pure, sensual expression found between two people who chose one another freely.

And did they choose each other freely, he and Methos? Did Methos feel this, too—this painful rightness between them when they touched like this, when they kissed? He closed his eyes and gave himself to the deep caresses of Methos's tongue, the slightly sticky warmth of his belly and the slide of Methos's strong thigh between his, needing this too much to question it any more. Tension flowed out of him like the tide ebbing as Methos traced the shapes of his calves and his feet with his own, as Methos's hands roamed freely over his back and into his hair, stroking him into a haze of pleasure that was both sexual and soothing, and purely hedonistic. His own fluid slicked the place where his cock slid against the hollow of Methos's hip, and he hovered near orgasm, neither seeking it nor fighting it, floating on waves of arousal that rose steadily higher until he thought he might shake apart.

"Doesn't seem real," Methos murmured at last. "Does it?"

Duncan made himself meet his eyes, though it was hard to look at him now that there were no barriers between them. "This is real," he said roughly, laying his hand against Methos's chest. Beneath his palm, the beat was strong and steady. "We're real."

Methos smiled, a lifetime beyond measure in his eyes. "Are you sure?"

Duncan found Methos's hand and moved it onto his cock, wrapping his own around it and pressing himself into Methos's hand. His breathing roughened. He held Methos's gaze. "I'm sure. More sure than I've been in a long time." Bright steel arced across his inner sight. "I know what's at stake now."

"Do you?" Something glittered then in Methos's eyes, unexpected.

Duncan nodded, pressing himself into Methos's hand. Methos tightened his grip, and the throb of pleasure made him bite back a groan. He spread his legs, wanting more. "Because you should know," Methos said, "if you ever die on me, I'll kill you."

"Same here," Duncan told him, his pulse racing now with the dark note in Methos's voice, the intensity in his eyes. He couldn't look away.

"Just so we're clear on that."

"I hear you." He held Methos's gaze, letting him see his need. "Are you going to make me beg for this?" His voice cracked when he said it.

"Would you?" Methos asked darkly. "Beg?"

"I might."

Methos looked at him for a long moment. There were shadows in Methos's eyes, and things he should fear, things he knew he would never fully understand. Then Methos gently pulled his hand away, letting him go. "No," he said roughly, and his eyes suddenly shimmered. "No, you shouldn't have to—" He broke off, and touched Duncan's cheek with infinite tenderness, startling him. "I love you, Duncan. I wanted to say that before. When you asked me, and I couldn't—but that's how it is. That's how I feel. I love you, as much as I've ever loved any person on this earth, and that's the truth of it." His fingertips traced the shape of Duncan's face, the curve of his eyebrow and the line of his jaw. "And I may not be what you hoped for, but you never have to ask me to love you. Okay?"

Duncan drew a breath that felt like the first he'd taken in a long time. Something had let go inside him, a fisted knot he hadn't known was there, and his stomach felt like he was on the long fall of a rollercoaster's biggest drop, like he might never hit bottom.

Methos kissed him before he could answer. His body responded even while his mind was still reeling, struggling to encompass what Methos had said, and even more, the bone-deep certainty he felt that he'd meant it. And only now, believing it, did he know how close they'd come to missing their last chance.

"Methos—"

"Shh. Let me—Just a minute." Methos left him for a few moments, rummaging under the bed. He came up with a box, polished wood and beautifully inlaid; inside this he found a small bottle. He smiled in vindication, flashing his grin at Duncan, a look of such unguarded anticipation that Duncan's heart skipped. Happiness, he named that look, and couldn't help the way it made him feel to see it in Methos.

Methos squeezed clear fluid onto his fingertips, then more into his hand. It glistened, the rich scent unfolding around them, stimulating the senses. Duncan breathed deeply, his own anticipation spiking. He spread his legs, one hand against his inner thigh; their eyes met, and heat leapt between them. Naked and aroused as he, Methos knelt between his thighs and let his hand rest against Duncan's cock, slowly spreading the glistening oil over his shaft and the sensitive tip.

Duncan made a sound, his eyes closing as pleasure slid over him in a wave, his hips lifting into Methos's hand. As they did, Methos touched him with his other hand, letting drops of the warm oil slide over his fingertips and against his opening, rubbing them in to the skin gently, making circles against the tight muscle.

"Oh, God." Duncan choked, and tried to draw breath. Still Methos's hands stroked him in counterpoint, making him slick with oil and his own fluid. "Methos—"

"Shh," Methos said again, making circles, and circles, unraveling him in seconds until he was panting, his thighs trembling where he held them apart. Then Methos slipped a finger easily inside him. Hot, and slick, and—oh, God, he was going to come.

He made another sound, thick and pleading, and Methos answered, pressing into him until Duncan could feel his hand pressed up against him, could feel Methos touching him deep inside. He started to come apart then, his thoughts splintering into fragments, pleasure spiking hard through his body and making him groan softly.

"Duncan."

So hard to make himself meet those knowing eyes, to look into that hot, proprietary gaze and acknowledge what Methos was doing to him, to feel his touch in a place so private, and to know it was written all over him how much this excited him, how much he wanted more.

But when he did, the radiance he'd seen in Methos's smile was still there, shining in his eyes, and it was just him and Methos, coming at last to the end of a road they'd been walking since they'd met. Methos nodded a little, as if he'd spoken, and then withdrew, resting his hands lightly on Duncan's thighs.

"You ready?"

"Ready," he said, though that didn't really begin to cover it.

Methos squeezed more oil into his hand and spread it over himself, his breath coming faster at the stimulation. Then he cast the bottle aside and lifted Duncan's legs so his weight was supported on Methos's arms. Nerves shivered over Duncan's skin, and he found himself flashing on that first day in Paris, when they'd met, the feeling he'd had that he'd never really acknowledged, that they'd met before, or known each other in some other place, some other lifetime. The way Methos's eyes had felt so familiar, as if they knew all his secrets.

He had none now, if he ever had. Methos pressed against him, his cock feeling impossibly big as it started to push inside of him. Duncan caught his breath, feeling the first squeeze of panic in his chest, fighting it. He'd done this before, but it had been a long time; Methos saw the sharp flicker of pain as he controlled it, and eased off a little, spreading his hands against Duncan's hips.

"It's okay," Duncan said, though it sounded strained.

Methos nodded. He was breathing harder now, making an effort at control, leaning on Duncan's thighs. "I'll go slow."

Duncan chuckled a little, trying to relax. Despite the dull throb of pain, his arousal was acute. "Not too slow, I hope."

The shared laughter helped. This time, when Methos pushed inside him, he remembered to let out the breath he was holding; the muscle stretched, slowly, and a wave of something that wasn't pain unfolded within him. Cautiously, he drew another breath, and felt the pain easing. Methos was waiting, he realized. Trembling faintly against him with the effort, but waiting. He nodded jerkily, his hand seeking Methos's and curling around it. "Yes, that's—"

Methos let out the breath he was holding in a rush. "You feel so good." His voice shook. Duncan opened his eyes and sought his face, his breath catching at what he saw there.

"Methos."

With an effortless glide, Methos pressed the rest of the way inside him. Duncan reached for his hands and Methos laced their fingers together, letting Duncan's thighs rest on his arms. Slowly, so slowly, Methos stroked himself inside Duncan. Once. Twice. A faint sheen of sweat sprang up along Duncan's skin, and he felt it when his body started to listen to the persuasion of Methos's cock, when the slow stroking began to awaken nerves he'd almost forgotten. Their eyes held, until Methos's closed and his breath hitched raggedly. "I don't think I can—"

"It's okay," Duncan said again, his voice sounding high and breathless in his own ears.

Methos rubbed his head against the inside of Duncan's knee, his breath coming faster. His eyelashes were dark smudges against his cheeks, fluttering faintly as he struggled now to make it last. He moved faster, and sparks cascaded within Duncan, his cock leaking slickness onto his belly. Then, at last, Methos stopped fighting it and let himself go, rocking hard against Duncan again and again; by then, the pain was a distant memory, and only pleasure welled through him, deep and irresistible. When Methos's hand at last let go of his and closed around his cock, Duncan groaned softly, giving himself to it, to Methos, nothing held back.

He could bear only a few strokes before orgasm came like a storm rolling through him, and he shuddered into it, crying out hoarsely; the powerful wave was still ebbing when Methos choked on a shout and gave himself to his own release.

Shaking in the aftermath, they held each other close, and Duncan thought it was because they couldn't bear to let go, couldn't bear to see the reflection of their own terror in one another's faces. Love and panic flooded through him for a long, agonizing span of heartbeats, bigger than he could contain, and he could feel Methos's heart against his own, racing just as fast, could feel the unsteadiness that ran through them despite both their efforts to control it. Somehow, in all his certainty, he hadn't really understood—hadn't been ready for this. But there was no way you could be ready, was there? Because if you could, you'd never be able to make the leap.

The thought steadied him. He breathed a little, let the panic subside, let himself reassure them both with long, steady strokes up and down Methos's back. The shaking eased after a while, and they were able to let it go, able to give themselves instead to reassuring touches that said the things that needed to be said.

At last Methos drew the bedcovers around them. A wave of exhaustion swept over Duncan, mercifully taking the last of the tremors with it, and he closed his eyes, his arm finding a comfortable resting place around Methos's waist; once there, he thought he might not move again—ever, if it was up to him. His gratitude for Methos's skill in managing such an arrangement without his help was profound.

Getting his tongue and his voice to cooperate seemed unimaginably difficult. "Methos." There was something else Duncan wanted to ask him, to tell him.

"I know, Mac," Methos murmured, from what felt like a long way away. A touch brushed against his hair. "It's okay. It'll keep."

Every part of him felt heavy, and warm, as if something soft and comfortable and infinitely safe were pressing him down. He gave in to it at last; under his cheek, Methos's breathing evened out, and they slept.

* * *

Someone was saying his name. It was warm where he was, and he felt so comfortable... he didn't want to leave, so he tried to ignore the someone, but they didn't seem to be going away.

Brightness suddenly shone against his eyelids, pulling him further from the comfortable haven of sleep. He covered his face with his arm.

"Come on, lazybones. You're gonna sleep the day away."

Sunlight slanted across the room through the opened blinds, patterned across the sheets and his nakedness. He blinked into it. Methos stood over him, showered, dressed, bright-eyed and clean-shaven, two white paper sacks in his arms.

"There you are. Thought I was going to have to resort to drastic measures there for a minute."

"I shudder to think," Duncan managed, shaking off the haze of sleep with effort. "Did you call me 'lazybones?'"

"You heard me."

"Yeah, I heard you." He rubbed his eyes, ran the back of his hand along his jaw, feeling the roughness there. Summoning strength, he swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. "Is that coffee? It smells incredible."

"The best cafe au lait in Paris. And not-too-shabby chocolate croissants. I'm saving them for people who're awake and dressed, though, and who'll go to the park with me, so get your buns out of bed, and let's go."

"Are you always this obnoxious in the morning?"

"I've been saving it up. And you're one to talk, mister ten-mile-runs before breakfast."

"It was five. And as I recall, you left me in the dust."

Methos shrugged. "No substitute for natural talent."

"Yeah, that must be it."

They looked at each other, Methos smug, Duncan pretending to be annoyed, and under it, shared laughter ran like a current, binding them and mirroring the brightness in the room. Duncan's heart felt too big for his chest.

A smile played around Methos's lips, his eyes warm. "I think you'd better get dressed, or this coffee's gonna get cold."

The hell with the coffee, Duncan thought. But Methos wanted to go to the park with him, and right now, Duncan didn't think he had it in him to deny him much of anything.

"I'm going," he said. Then he grinned and nodded toward the living room, feeling the flush in his face. "But maybe you'd better wait over there, to be safe."

He pulled on his borrowed clothes from the night before, then went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face and cleaned his teeth using the tried and true finger-and-toothpaste method. Running his wet fingers through his cropped hair to tame it, he called it good enough.

He turned and shut the light off, and that's when he saw it. The morning sunlight shone in from the small bathroom window, refracted through the glass shower enclosure, and in the thin residue of steam that lingered he saw three words written under the faint outline of Methos's name:

You are insane.

He was still grinning when they left the flat.

* * *

"I'm going to sell the barge," he said.

Methos didn't say anything, just looked at him, pale winter sunlight turning his eyes gold. They sat on a bench in a park a few blocks from Methos's building, a light, cold wind stirring their hair and leeching steam from their cups, warmth from their faces. To counter it, they'd chosen a spot in the sunshine and they sat close, Methos's knee pressed against his.

Duncan gave a half-shrug and added, "It's time," answering the question in Methos's eyes.

Methos nodded. His gaze wandered to a man and a little boy who were stringing Christmas lights on the far side of the street, threading them around an ironwork fence. He sipped his coffee, and steam rose around his mouth and nose. "You've spent a lot of time here," he said at last. "After a while, everybody needs a change of scenery."

Duncan's arm rested along the back of the bench, not quite resting against Methos's shoulders. He moved his fingers lightly along the seam of Methos's coat. "Not sure yet whether I want to leave Paris. I was thinking maybe I could buy a place outside the city and renovate it. Someplace with a bit more space to move around. Where I could keep some horses, maybe." He shrugged again. "Just an idea." He watched the play of his fingertips. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you." Smiling a little, he gave in to temptation and let his fingers roam past the collar of Methos's coat, brushing the warm skin of his neck. He felt Methos's tiny shiver of response. "Think you'll stay in Paris a while?"

Methos turned his enigmatic gaze back to Duncan. "I'd been thinking about it. There's a teaching position open at the Sorbonne. They'd like to have me, but I haven't answered them yet."

"And what do you think you'll tell them?"

They studied one another, trying to read between the lines.

"Well, I guess that depends," Methos said at last.

"It depends?"

"Yes, it depends."

"On...?" Duncan felt the smile that played around his lips. It was reflected back at him, glinting in hazel eyes.

"I think you know very well what it depends on," Methos said, lowering his eyes and lifting his coffee once more to his lips. He sipped it, the warmth turning his cheeks pink, and went back to watching the Saturday morning activities of his neighbors. A tiny, round, elderly woman bundled up to her chin walked a trio of white dogs, clucking to them every few steps. The father and child had finished wrapping the railing with lights and had started on the shrubs around the door. Other people passed by on the sidewalks and streets, busy with their lives, not noticing them, seemingly untroubled by any unexplained lightning storms or police sirens the night before.

Duncan let his hand rest on Methos's shoulder, barely touching. He remembered the sudden bright flash of Methos's pistol in the darkness as he'd knelt in front of O'Rourke. He remembered the way he'd felt when he'd walked into Joe's after a year and a half and felt Methos's presence, heard his voice—the way it had felt like something crucial he hadn't known was missing settled into place. He remembered the curve of Methos's neck, a snowy rooftop and the flash of his own sword.

"Hey, you okay?"

He looked up. Methos was studying him, brows drawn together in concern. Duncan wondered how many times he'd seen Methos look at him that way, and hadn't let himself look beyond the surface to understand what it really meant. "Yeah, I am. Listen—" He stopped. His heart was beating too fast, and for a fleeting moment he wished he could forget everything Fitz had shown him. Wished he could dismiss it as a dream, and go back to believing that this world was the only one that mattered, that saving those you loved would always be the right choice, that good would always triumph over evil.

But Darius had been right. Once glimpsed, the future had power over you; once known, the truth couldn't be unknown. And if Fitz was right, too, and there were as many futures as there were choices, then he would choose the one where he and Methos started from a place of truth, no more keeping silent about the things that mattered, no more denying what was in their hearts.

"Mac, what is it? You can tell me."

He wanted that future so badly he could taste it. Determination settling in his chest, he turned sideways on the bench and took Methos's hand, turning it over so their palms touched and he could feel the rhythm of Methos's pulse against his fingertips. Even that was hard. For so long they'd held themselves back from any touch, any intimacy that might risk making them vulnerable to each other. But now he knew what could happen on that path, and he chose to go another way.

Methos had gone still under his touch. Duncan squeezed their hands together, and made himself look up.

"I need to ask you something. Not because I really want to hear it, but because I need there to be trust between us. You understand?"

Methos watched him warily, his face guarded, the old defenses going up in his eyes. But he didn't pull his hand away, and after a moment, he nodded.

Duncan's throat had closed. He went on anyway, knowing it was too late to do anything else. "Methos, where's Connor?"

Some part of him had still believed—had hoped—that it was as crazy as it should have been, to think that what he'd seen was real, that it was any version of the truth. To think that Methos could know anything about Connor's disappearance, could have had a hand in concealing it from the one person who loved them both.

That part of him had hoped to see disbelief in Methos's eyes, maybe even anger. But Methos's expression changed when he said the name, and what he saw told him his hope had been a false one.

Methos opened his mouth, but for a second, nothing came out. Color rose to his cheeks. "Connor?" he said finally, and his voice cracked. "Mac, what—?" But he stopped, and looked down at their hands. "What do you know about Connor?"

"I know that he's with the Watchers. He came to you, didn't he? Asked you to help him."

At his even tone, the set of Methos's face relaxed a little. He met Duncan's eyes. "How long have you known?"

Duncan swallowed. "Not long, and if I told you how I found out, you wouldn't believe me. Methos—I am angry that you and Joe kept this from me, but I understand why you did. I don't have to like it, I just—" He closed his other hand over their joined ones, rubbing the back of Methos's thumb. "I needed to know."

"What are you going to do?"

He looked up, and their eyes met and held this time, and Duncan drew a breath that felt like it was the first he'd taken in too long. "Honestly, I don't know. Connor made his choice, and I can't say whether it was the right one—but I can't help feeling that the whole thing is wrong, that it's a mistake. I can't believe the Watchers haven't thought about what might happen if somebody like Kalas finds out what they're doing."

"Well, you try telling them that. The Watchers are nothing if not nearsighted when it comes to their own best laid plans."

"You tried to talk them out of it," Duncan said with sudden insight. "Didn't you?"

"I've argued against it, yes. So has Joe. But there are people in the organization who are convinced they can control the Game—and there are always Immortals who can't resist the temptation. It's like when two friends who are totally wrong for each other decide to get married, you know? When they both want it so much, there's no talking sense to either side."

Duncan smiled. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Methos's hand tightened on Duncan's. "Well," he said after a moment, "I don't know about totally wrong."

"Sometimes two wrongs make a right?"

"Stranger things have happened."

Duncan nodded, and they sat like that for a while, holding hands on a park bench in broad daylight. Stranger things, indeed.

So many things still remained unsaid between them, he thought they might need a couple of lifetimes to have a chance at half of them. He badly wanted to talk to Methos about the experiences he'd had with Fitz, about his visions and dreams, and what they might mean. Wanted to ask him a thousand questions about his life, questions he'd wanted to ask since they'd met, to listen to him talk for hours. Wanted to know where he'd been for the past year and a half, and whether he could ever accept what had really happened to Duncan the night that Richie had died, and after, in Darius's church.

But this day would only happen once for them; they'd never have the chance to live it over. He made the choice then and there that this one day, at least, he'd have to remember without regrets.

"Come on," he said, tugging Methos to his feet. "I've got an idea."

"Does it involve Christmas shopping or the Eiffel Tower?"

Duncan laughed. "Oh, you think you know me so well. No, you old cynic. It involves you and me and a country road, at the end of which is a place I know with the best wine list in France, and food so good it will bring tears to your eyes."

Methos pretended to consider. "Does it also involve a picnic lunch?"

"It could."

"With beer?"

"I assumed that was a given."

Relenting, Methos fell into step with him. "Okay, but we're taking my car. I remember what your car's like on country roads, and it's an experience I don't care to repeat."

"Methos—you've ridden in my car all of one time."

"Well, once was more than enough."

"And it wasn't a country road, it was a train yard! There's nothing wrong with my car."

"If you say so."

Duncan shook his head, impressed. "You really are this impossible all the time, aren't you?"

Methos's answering grin shone over his whole face. "Only with people I like."

They headed back through the park in the December sunshine, hands in their pockets, shoulders touching as they followed the bright path through the trees.

The End