Disclaimers: All the usual, I don't own Joe, Amanda, Richie, Kenny, Connor, the Horsemen (separately or as individuals), Cassandra (ugh!), or even Methos or Duncan, for that matter, but I can dream, can't I? I'll return most of 'em when I'm done.

I do own Peter Stepson and Olaf and other characters mentioned. They can be borrowed, just ask first. I don't own, nor can you borrow, Duffy Bishop, but by all means, when she plays in a club nearby - get there and see her! This woman does blues!

This story is rated NC-17 for very passionate, and sometimes violent homosexual male/male encounters. There is also violence of the Immortal sort. If any of this bothers you, delete this now. It's not my fault if you offend yourself.

As for the timeline, this fanfic is set after CaH and Rev6:8 and FUOT, but veers off from there, sending Methos overseas leaving Duncan in Seacouver. Also the Archangel B.S. didn't happen here. RFW rejoice! Rich is alive and happy 'round these parts! Don't think I've screwed anything else around, except for added time.

Please don't post this anywhere else without asking me, but saving and sharing is fine as long as credit is given. Feedback is greatly appreciated - sunmac@olywa.net. Methos, chocolate, and cat toys always wanted. Flames will be laughed at, brooded over, and deleted.

The Great Cat
by MoonPuppy

Thursday, August 7, 4:14 a.m.
Paris
Methos' Apartment

Sleep had gathered him into her arms like a mother, warm, quiet, comforting. Methos had always been one to hide, and, for him, sleep was the perfect place to hide. No one in his dreams knew who he was or who he had been. No one judged him. No one demanded anything from him. No one demanded anything of him. He could just be Methos, whatever countenance suited him during the dream.

Nightmares were not an infrequent occurrence, but they were usually of a short duration. Bloody, true. Painful, always. But short, usually. This night, however, the screams would not go away. The body he had just hacked down refused to stop clawing at him and screaming, madly, loudly, shrilly. Like a cat whose tail was being stepped on.

A cat? That sudden thought broke through the nightmare and woke him. The sound stopped suddenly.

Lying still, Methos carefully surveyed his surroundings, using all his senses except his eyes. Silence greeted him.

Okay. He was at home. No car alarms going off down on the street. No police sirens close by. No Amanda pounding on his door. Alone.

He let out a sigh of relief, rolled over, buried his head into his pillow and relaxed.

Then the screams started again. Right beside his head.

Methos levitated, or so it felt, out of bed, and found himself gripping his sword, eyes scanning his apartment for intruders. Then he realized the source of the screams. Moving the blinds carefully he peered out the nearest window.

Outside, on the window ledge, was the scrawniest, ugliest, and wettest cat, he had ever seen. No, he corrected himself, not a cat, a kitten - and just barely a kitten at that. To Methos it looked more like a small ball of mud.

Not lowering his sword, he scanned, as well as he could without opening a window, the ledge outside. He hadn't felt another Presence, but that didn't preclude sneak thieves from trying to break in. But he could see nothing of danger on the ledge. He yawned, watching the kitten watch him, yawned again, and turned back to his bed.

Shaking himself off to relax, he put his sword back in its customary place against the pillar, and crawled back in, the bed still warm from the heat of his body.

"Ummmm," he thought, "almost worth getting out of bed for. Bloody cat. Got a lot of nerve. Showing up on a night like this, scaring a man half to death." And then his brain woke up. He was on the third floor. How in hades had a kitten gotten onto his window ledge?

Thunder chose that moment to roll quietly over Paris, and with it, the rain that had been falling on and off all day began again.

Methos' conscience, the one he denied he had, came visiting and he sighed deeply, cursing himself. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." He hated losing fights with himself. He sat up in bed and looked out the window. The kitten had moved into a corner to try and avoid the worst of the rain. It looked even smaller and wetter than it did a few minutes ago. "Well," he thought as he crawled out of bed, "at least now I can get the window open without pushing it off the ledge."

When Methos finally got the kitten inside, he was as wet and cold as it was - he'd even managed to get his boxers wet, which he quickly stripped off - one handed. As a matter of course, when Methos opened the window to get the animal in, it backed as far away as possible, spat at him, and used its tiny claws with great accuracy, scoring Methos' fingers, hands, and finally, arms with long thin cuts. Alternately hissing in fright, and burying its needle sharp teeth in Methos' hands, it was brought unwillingly inside.

"Damn," Methos hissed himself, dropping the kitten after one particularly deep bite went into the web between his thumb and forefinger. He sucked at the wound and watched the small blob hit the floor and dart away into the darkness.

"Fine," he spoke to his conscience, "are you happy now?"

It's cold and wet and scared and hungry. How happy are you?

He started cursing himself again, but went into the kitchen, calling quietly, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." Keeping up the call and quiet cajoling sounds, he got a small bowl from his cupboard, poured some milk into it, and placed it on the floor. Leaving that alone he went into his bathroom for a towel. Returning to the kitchen, noting the lack of kitten, he got another small bowl out, this time opening a can of tuna and putting a small bit into the bowl and placed this bowl next to the first on the floor. He then stepped back into the shadows as far as he could, squatted down on his heels and waited, but not for long.

Soon a small shadow detached itself from a wall and shot across the kitchen to the bowls. Soon purring accompanied slurping as the kitten fed itself. And just as quickly Methos dropped the towel he had on top of the kitten, bowls and all. Not actually touching the animal, just holding the towel against the floor, he heard the kitten spit in fright and then return to its eating.

Grinning, he moved very slowly and brought the towel in to just around the kitten's body, leaving the head and bowls loosely covered. He picked it up, ending up with an instant terry bag, kitten inside, away from vulnerable body parts. Making quiet murmuring sounds he placed the bag on the counter and tentatively scratched a finger against the body and was rewarded with an equally tentative purr. He shifted the towel around just enough to free the head and carefully scritched the kitten under the chin with a finger. The purr doubled and the compact ball pushed its head out, pressing down as hard as it could onto the fingertip, eyes closed

Continuing to scratch, Methos spoke quietly to his newest roommate. "Little one, if you expect to stay here, you're going to have to have a bath, first thing, right now. Yes, yes you are, isn't that right?" Inwardly Methos dreaded the job. He wasn't sure that even with Immortal healing skills that he'd have any blood left by the time the bath was done.

Cradling the kitten still in the towel, in one hand, he turned on the light over the sink and ran a warm bath for the animal in it. Expecting the worst, he was mildly surprised when the worst reaction he got was a sneeze when rinse water ran into the kitten's face. During the bath, Methos discovered that his charge was female, was mostly skin-and-bones, and had more fleas per square inch on its body than it had fur. The bath killed the fleas, warmed the little thing up, and endeared it to Methos. Not once did she object to his treatment of her. While drying her off he discovered that her color and markings were enchanting - her main color was light brown with dark stripes and golden highlights, topped off with kitten-blue eyes. When he was done he moved the milk and tuna bowls to the counter so that she could finish her meal, so that he wouldn't have to worry about stepping on it - or her.

The kitten ignored Methos as she continued to eat. He, making use of this time, went hunting for something to use as a litter box.

"I live in an efficiency flat in the middle of Paris. It's 4 a.m. and not a convenience store in sight." His mumbling did two things - it kept him awake and it accustomed the kitten to his voice. After circling his apartment fruitlessly twice, he stopped in the kitchen where the kitten was carefully grooming herself after her meal. He picked her up and held her in one hand, under his chin, very pleased at her reaction, she had started grooming him. Then his eyes landed on the one living thing he'd allowed in his apartment - his beloved Wandering Jew.

He'd been carrying a piece of this same plant with him for longer than his memory allowed him to recall. He had no recollection where or when he first picked up a cutting of this plant, but, it held a place of importance with him. Even when he was forced to move involuntarily, he stuck a stem or two into his sword case or coat pocket and planted it the first chance he got.

And now, it held the only suitable medium for a small kitten to use as a litter box.

Methos took a deep breath, looked from the kitten in his hand to his Wandering Jew, sighed, and put her in the dirt in the pot. She looked at him, sniffed at the dirt, squatted, and ever so carefully covered her deed, taking care, to Methos' eye, not to disturb the plant. She then jumped down onto the floor, meowed once at him and trotted over to his bed.

Wanting to see what she'd do, Methos got another, dryer, pair of boxers out of a drawer, pulled them on and then climbed into bed again third time tonight, he thought, and watched her.

What she tried to do was climb up into bed with him. Failing that, she tried to jump up onto the bed. After missing twice, she meowed mournfully, and then Methos swore she pouted at him, sat on the floor by the head of his bed, curled up into the tightest ball she could manage, and looked miserable. Looking him directly in the eye.

He sighed and gave in, his last barrier broken. He reached down, gathered the little ball into his hand and put it on the bed at his feet. She immediately made her way up to his pillow and started kneading it, purring until Methos felt that the bed was shaking. Burrowing his head down he relaxed into the soothing sound.

* * *

Wakefulness came slowly. The first thing Methos was aware of was what felt like a mink tennis ball under his chin. Using his normal waking routine he determined that he was safe and alone. Then he remembered his guest. Rolling from his side onto his back, the kitten rolled with him, not even awake. Methos reached up a hand and, using his index finger, worked it into the center of the ball seeking a throat and chin. His efforts were rewarded with an alarmingly loud purr, accompanied by the ball unrolling and stretching. She opened one kitten-blue eye and met his gold-green ones. She moved her head just enough to dislodge his finger, licked him on the nose, then grabbed his finger in both front paws and started grooming it.

Methos hadn't giggled in a long time, but her performance demanded no less. He curled his other hand around her, his long fingers engulfing the tiny body and recited quietly:

"Thou art the Great Cat,
the avenger of the gods,
and the judge of words,
and the president of the sovereign chiefs,
and the governor of the holy Circle;
thou art indeed . . . the Great Cat." **

"And what is your name, Great Cat?" Methos continued quietly, as she finished one finger, released it, grabbed another, and started washing it. "Certainly not something as mundane as Puss, or Fluffy, or Snowball. No . . ." he cooed gently, "certainly not . . ."

Their exchange was interrupted by the chirping of Methos' phone. He was at a loss to answer it. One hand cradled the kitten and one hand was being cradled by the kitten. Apologizing, he let her lay back on the pillow and picked up the receiver.

"What?" He growled. Methos didn't do mornings, didn't like morning phone calls, and didn't enjoy having this little pleasure he and the kitten were sharing, interrupted.

"Good morning!" Came the bright response. "Want to join me for breakfast?"

Amanda. "No, but thanks for calling." Methos said into the phone and hung up. Not surprisingly it rang again. He let it ring. He returned his attentions to his new friend. "If it's all that important whoever it is can leave a message." He was one purring now.

Gathering up the kitten- what was he going to call her? he thought, he climbed carefully out of bed and padded into the kitchen not really hearing the answering machine click on.

"So, milk and tuna for breakfast?" left his mouth as his brain heard, "This is Adam Pierson. Leave me a message." then the beep and a voice said, "Adam Pierson, hmmm? What an interesting name." The voice was male and sounded cheerful.

Methos froze, listening to the caller. It was definitely not the same person as had first called.

"So, Adam Pierson, if you can't guess who this is, well, then, I guess you can't call me back. I'm in the book, bud. Gimme a call. We've got . . . old times to talk about." And the caller hung up.

The kitten's squeak was Methos' only clue that his grip had tightened a bit much, and he released her immediately, putting her on the floor. Ignoring him completely, she went quickly to his Wandering Jew and then to his counter and began demanding breakfast.

Mindlessly Methos filled both bowls, placed them on the floor, and went over to his answering machine to replay the message he'd just received.

Bud . . . old times to talk about . . . His thoughts were jarred for a third time as the phone rang again. Letting the machine answer again, he grimaced as his first caller cajoled him - Amanda again.

"Adam, c'mon, pick up, I know you're there. Let's go out for breakfast. I'm lonely. I'm hungry. I'm buying. Adam, please?" She gave up there, and hung up.

Methos dismissed her pleas, picked up his phone, and called his travel agent. "Deelie? It's Adam Pierson. Yeah, good morning. I need you to get me a flight out as soon as possible. Where? What's the first flight? Sounds great. First class. Put it under Alec Dumas. Got the card number? Great." His eyes strayed to the small dark ball that was now grooming herself at his feet. "Oh, yeah, one more thing, what about animal transport? Uh, huh. Without paperwork it's three months quarantine? Never mind. It was just a thought. I'll pick up the ticket at the counter. Thanks for your help. Bye." He hung up and focused on the purring form at his feet.

Scooping it up and holding it to his chest, he said, "I'm sorry, little one, but you can't come with me." An evil thought occurred to him. Maybe Amanda has a use after all.

* * *

British Air Flight 4553
First Class
2:34 p.m.

His ploy to give the kitten to Amanda didn't work. Getting settled on the plane with his sword locked underneath his seat, he took his coat off to hang it up when something moved in his pocket. Swearing silently, he reached a hand carefully in and felt exactly what he had expected - Caffre. Amanda had named her over breakfast. He hadn't felt her slight weight before boarding because of his sword.

{{"Well, I think it's perfectly suited, Methos. She's the exact same color as the temple cats, and according to what I heard, that's the breed they came from. It suits her."

Methos had thought he'd left Caffre safe and sound with Amanda, though neither one could find her before they parted at her apartment. "Don't worry Methos, she's probably just exploring her new home. She'll be fine."}}

Fine, he thought, safe in Paris, he thought, good old Amanda. he thought. That little brat.

The cabin steward interrupted his thoughts. "Sir, you've got to take your seat, we're about to taxi. Can I hang your coat up?" His hand was out, expecting to do just that.

Methos pulled his coat back towards him. "Uh, no, thanks. I'm a bit chilly. I'll just keep it with me."

"I can get you a blanket sir," the steward offered.

"No, no thanks. I'll just use my coat." Methos settled into his seat, glad he'd gotten a near-empty flight. There were only two other passengers in first class and neither was seated near him. Safely buckled in, he spread his coat over himself, one hand tucked into its pocket, Caffre happily attached to a finger, grooming it. After takeoff, he fished his cell phone out of his other pocket and one-handed made a call back to London.

"4191." Amanda sounded out of breath and worried.

"Amanda," Methos began.

"Oh dear, I was afraid you'd call." She rushed on, not allowing him to interrupt. "She's missing Methos, I can't find her. I've looked everywhere. I even checked down the laundry chute. You don't suppose she got out a window?"

Eventually his chanted, "Amanda. Amanda. Amanda." Broke her train of thought.

"What?"

"It's okay. She's with me."

"WHAT? Methos! Wha'd did you take her for? I was worried sick. Where are you?"

"I'm on my flight, we just took off." Methos chuckled. "I didn't take her, Amanda, she came with me." He lowered his voice to make sure he wasn't heard. "I found her in my coat pocket right after I boarded. Even as we speak she's trying to lick the skin off my finger."

"Well, then, feed her! What kind of parent are you?" Amanda demanded.

"How?" Methos hissed. "She's not even supposed to be on the flight, remember?"

"Oops. Yeah. Well, can I do anything? Fly ahead and meet you? Amanda questioned him. "Say, where are you going? You never did tell me. What's going on Methos? Are you being hunted?"

Shit. Give Amanda an opening and she'd pry the Crown Jewels off the Queen's head. "No. I'm fine. Just had to take a quick trip. Oops. Gotta go. They're serving breakfast. Thanks for the help, Amanda. Bye." He hung up on her protested squeak and turned the phone off. I may have to throw it away to hide from her. Not a bad idea.

***

Methos spent the next couple of months indulging in his favorite hobby - wandering Europe. He had veterinary papers made up by a friend of a friend of a friend of Alec Dumas, in Portugal, verifying that Caffre was indeed his, and had been since birth and was so healthy that the people handling her should be honored. He also came up with a pretty decent heritage to put on her lineage papers. What the hell, he thought, might as well go all the way. It works for Immortals.

The late summer and fall weather was perfect for wandering the countrysides. Caffre took everything in stride. Methos was her human, and so wherever he went, she went. She enjoyed parks, countrysides, and cafes, but didn't care too much for pubs, pigeons (pushy birds), or traffic. Methos, in exchange, never tried to leave her behind. She rode on his pack in she was too tired to walk, never strayed too far from him when they were in the countryside, and never, without exception, left him alone.

Lazing in a city park in Antwerp one afternoon, Methos was catching up on his daily chores, watching Caffre out of one corner of his eye. Her job, she had decided earlier, was to gather breakfast, so she was always out hunting. One time she'd brought him a mouse. Accepting his disdain at her offering, her next try brought in a small bird. Realizing that this was getting her nowhere, she aimed her sights at larger prey. She was tracking a snake. Not that this was going to work, either. The 'snake' she was stalking was a strap that had gotten torn off of Methos' backpack. Mending it was the major portion of his chores today. Methos appreciated a life like that.

Suddenly Caffre spun around and hissed in the direction of the café across from the park. She had puffed up and backed up to Methos' legs, like she was guarding him from something. Curious at her antics, Methos stared across at the café as the buzz of an Immortal Presence made itself know. A young woman entering the café raised her head and looked back at Methos. He raised an eyebrow, she shook her head slightly, then returned her attentions to her friends. Methos gazed down in wonder at the feline at his feet. She was now busily grooming herself, replacing all the ruffled fur into its normally perfect lines.

"You are amazing, Caffre," Methos spoke to her quietly. "Did you actually feel that woman over there?" Caffre looked up into his eyes, meowed in reply, and returned to her grooming. Methos chuckled, "Well folks, she's earned her cream today," speaking to himself and Caffre. Gathering up his kitten and his pack, he stood and headed out of the park, away from the café, just in case. "Well, Caf, what say you to a trip to Zurich? They've got great cream in Zurich."

***

The train ride to Zurich was uneventful, but their stay didn't last long.

As soon as they left the train, Methos felt a Presence. Try as he might, he couldn't lose it in the busy depot. Taxis were overflowing, so he grabbed mass transit, and felt the person get on with him. Craning his head to catch the other Immortal's eye and identify him or her, Methos had to fight his expression into one of fear instead of one of humor. The little brat Kenny that MacLeod told me about. Well, this ought to be fun. He relaxed and enjoyed the streetcar trip through town, and got off nearby a youth hostel. Hostels were great, inexpensive places to stay, and Caffre had never gotten him kicked out.

He felt, more than saw Kenny get off behind him, and, still playing the running man, he dove directly into the hostel to make arrangements for a bed for the night. That settled, he dropped off his pack, put on his greatcoat, checked his weapons, and headed back out.

Stepping outside into the late afternoon sunshine, he was glad for his long coat. Winter was soon going to be settling over Europe in general, and he'd have to think about heading south, or maybe west? To Seacouver? Hmmm, haven't seen MacLeod in a while. Might be a nice change. Wonder if he's still mad at me? He thought as he wandered down the street and felt Kenny's buzz, he was sure, following him. Forcing himself to not actually lose the boy, he set out on a course of evasion, ending up in a dead end alley that was normally part of the summer market. Now, however, in October, it was deserted. Perfect, he thought.

As he reached the dead end, he composed his face, and then spun around in a panic. "What, what do you want? Why are you following me?" His words dripped terror as they left his mouth.

Kenny had stopped at the mouth of the alley. "Hey, I'm sorry if I scared you mister. My name's Kenny, and I'm lost. I was just following you to see if you could lead me to the police." Kenny's voice was everything MacLeod had said it was. The perfect lost, little boy - how innocent.

"Lost? Help you?" Methos dropped the terror, and became solicitous. "Why, sure, I, well, I don't know. I'm new here in town. Why did you pick me to follow?"

"Well, because you're an Immortal, like me, and you looked friendly enough. I figured that you'd be safe. That you wouldn't try and take my head." Kenny let fear show on his face. He started to back away from Methos. "You're not going to try and take my head, are you?"

Methos took a few tentative steps forward, reaching his hands out. "No, Kenny, never." He lied. "I, I've never taken a head. It's just too violent." He laughed ruefully. "I've run away plenty of times." He paused and appeared to have an idea. "Tell you what. If you'd like to travel with me, we could watch each other's backs. How's that sound?"

Kenny appeared to think about the proposition. "Well, that'd be okay, I guess. But, how can I trust you not to kill me? I don't even have a sword. I'm too small."

Methos thought, oooh, he's a good one. No wonder he's taken so many heads. Out loud he said, "Well, I've got one, but only because I found it after a duel." He opened his coat and pulled his Ivanhoe out, but with only two fingers, as if in distaste of the blade. "Here, you want it?" He had to force himself not to laugh at the expressions that washed across Kenny's face - awe, then power, then greed. The little snot was sure he'd found himself the easiest head he'd ever taken, and the fool was offering him his sword to take it with.

Kenny stepped forward to touch the blade. "Wow. That's nice. Can I hold it?"

"Sure, Kenny, sure. Take it."

And Kenny did, holding the point on the ground, and backing away as if to admire the blade. "Wow." He said again. "Where'd you find this? How long have you had it?"

"Uh, somewhere in Greece. I travel a lot. I guess I've had it for a couple of years."

"And you've never taken a head with it? How long have you been Immortal?"

Methos appeared to concentrate on the question instead of Kenny's subtle actions. The boy had backed away and was testing the weight of the sword. Methos knew that his sword was heavy and it would take all of the boy's strength to get it into a striking position.

"Oh, gosh, I think it's been three or four years. I don't pay a lot of attention to the calendar. I work as a researcher in libraries. Time really doesn't matter all that much."

Kenny mumbled, "Not to you, I'll bet." Louder he said, "Mind if I swing it around? I promise I won't break it or anything."

"Sure, Kenny, go ahead. This is going to be great. You and me against the world." He made a show of searching his pockets. "I'll be right back, I dropped something over by the back wall when you startled me." Trustingly, Methos turned his back on the boy and walked to the rear of the alley. Taking Caffre out of his pocket he set her down, told her to "Stay", and began to feel around in the trash by the wall. He knew he had to give Kenny every chance he could before taking his head.

Concentrating, he could hear Kenny's footsteps approaching him quietly. Reaching inside his coat he slipped his dagger from its place and held it ready. As he felt, more than heard, his blade being raised for a killing blow, he slid down from the crouch he was in to a lying position on his side and stabbed up with the dagger, catching Kenny in the center of his chest. Methos would later shudder at the look of pure evil that shown through the hazel eyes of the boy. Kenny dropped the sword behind him and tried to stagger back, but was held in place by the dagger. Regaining his feet, Methos pushed the boy off the blade effortlessly.

Kenny tried the shame appeal. "But, you said you would be my friend, that you wouldn't try to kill me." His hands were pressed to his chest and he could feel his wound starting to heal.

"You're right." Methos stood up over the boy. "I said that I wouldn't try and kill you. Not that I wouldn't kill you."

Tears ran freely down the child's face. "But why? What did I ever do to you?" His last ploy - guilt.

"To me? Nothing. To people I care for, too many things." He had backed Kenny into a corner so that the boy couldn't run. "I know who and what you are Kenny. Duncan MacLeod told me. So did Amanda. I don't like liars, Kenny. And I don't like liars who try to kill me with my own sword."

Kenny's eyes went wide at the names mentioned. "Who are you? How can you do this to me? I'm only a kid."

"No, Kenny, you're not 'only a kid'. You're evil in a child's body. As to who I am, Kenny?" He raised the dagger to take the boy's head." Why, I'm Death Incarnate, Kenny." He leaned closer to Kenny's ear and whispered, "I'm Methos." And he took the head.

The Quickening lasted a very long time. Kenny was over 800 years old and had taken many, many head. His power was enormous, and unclean. When it finally ended, there were police sirens converging on the area. Methos grabbed his sword, and Caffre, stuffed her in a pocket, and ran for the hostel. He barely made it to his cot before the police were at the hostel door looking for suspects. Someone had seen him run from the scene, so it was 'grab the pack and out the back window'. The drop was only a couple of stories, not worth much more than a twisted ankle. So much for Zurich, he thought as he ran. Wonder what the weather's like in Seacouver?

***

(About a month later)
Monday, November 3, 7 a.m.
Seacouver
The Loft

"Methos! Make her stop! It tickles!" Duncan's only means of defending himself was his voice. He had woken a few minutes earlier to the smell of coffee brewing. Not a strange thing, but usually he was up first when Methos stayed over. His friend was definitely not a morning person. As he tried to stretch and get out of bed, the first thing he noticed was that he couldn't move. Eyes flying open he realized with absolute terror that he'd been tied to his bed, dressed only in his briefs. Raising his head to find who had done this to him, he saw Methos on the bed beside him, arms wrapped around his knees. Methos was rocking back and forth, tears running down his face, and blood running down his chin from his punctured lower lip, showing the effort Methos was going to to not laugh aloud at MacLeod's predicament.

{{Sometime during the evening the plan had erupted full blown in Methos' head while he and Duncan argued about some obscure medieval castle defense plan. Methos was defending the fact that he, in fact, had lived through it, while MacLeod's only knowledge of the era was "book learning".

Eventually the evening wound down to a game of chess, which Methos lost because his mind was busy racing ahead to the next morning. The living room clock chimed.

Duncan glanced up at it. "Bed?" He asked casually.

Methos met his dark eyes steadily. "Sure. Bathroom?"

"You go ahead. I'll put this away." Duncan gestured at the chess set.

Methos nodded, yawning. He stood and headed into the bathroom. Washing his face, he marveled at how easily he and MacLeod had fallen into the 'roommate' routine. When Methos had turned up on his doorstep last month, Duncan hadn't even bothered with offering Methos his couch. It was winter and the loft was never terribly warm. Methos was always cold, and Duncan, out of friendship had offered Methos his bed to sleep in. Methos had refused.

{{{"Mac, this is your home and your bed. I'll be fine on the couch."

"Methos, even at your age, lying doesn't become you. I'm not offering to give up my bed, just to share it. Body heat and all, you know?" Duncan was doing what Duncan had always done, take care of his clan.

Methos knew better than to refuse.}}}

Peeling off his sweater he just missed MacLeod heading into the bathroom. Both chuckled as they swerved around each other. Just like cats, Methos thought as he dropped his sweater at the foot of the bed.

Making sure the bathroom door was still closed he rooted in his duffel bag for the thongs he'd put there before he'd left Antwerp last month. Never know when they'll come in handy, he'd thought, and tonight was the perfect time. Finding them, he tucked them under the mattress at the edge and finished undressing. He climbed into bed and picked up the book that Duncan had given him earlier in the evening. The title, "A Fool's Mission in Paradise" wasn't familiar to Duncan, or to Methos for that matter, but MacLeod had bought it for him, knowing how much Methos loved old books - the more obscure the better.

Before he got a chance to more than caress the cover, Duncan came out of the bathroom. Clicking off the light, he paused by his wardrobe to undress, hang his shirt up, and folded his slacks neatly. Yawning and stretching he crawled into his side of the bed. He reached over to Methos, took the book out of his hands, plopped it on the nightstand and turned off both lights.

Methos, lying next to Duncan, crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to be annoyed. "You know, if I wanted to read in bed, my mother would let me." His voice was petulant.

"How would you know?" Duncan yawned at him. "Reading hadn't been invented when you were a child. For that matter, neither had writing. " 'Night, Methos."

"Good night Highlander." Methos chuckled and slid down under the covers, setting his internal clock to go off at dawn.}}

His mind returning to the present, he watched his friend strain at his bonds, trying to avoid the ministrations of his tormentor, Caffre, who was at this moment, licking unsweetened whipped cream off of Duncan's chest. She wasn't even bothered by the motions made by the body underneath her - anything can be ignored for food.

"Methos. . ." came the outraged Highlander's voice, "you've gone too far . . ." he started laughing helplessly as Caffre reached skin, "oh, gods, Methos, get her off me. . ."

Methos was truly enjoying the laughter rolling helplessly out of Duncan MacLeod. Sometimes the Highlander just took himself way too seriously.

"Say 'uncle'?" Methos laughed at him. His wounded lower lip had healed, and he'd wiped the dried blood away.

Duncan tried to look offended, but failed as Caffre walked around the cream to get at a particularly lucious peak. "Never. . ." he began but had to stop as the kitten's tail settled itself in his mouth.

Spitting it out, his eyes darkened. "Methos," his tone of voice had darkened, also. "This isn't funny anymore. Untie me."

Methos' twinkling gold-green eyes met MacLeod's dark ones steadily. "Uncle?"

Snorting at the tail lying under his nose, he gave in. "Oh, all right. Uncle. Aunt. Great Grandma Harriet, if you insist. Now move this cat!" And he sneezed, exactly what he wanted not to do.

Caffre exploded at the sneeze, scratching Duncan's bare chest and then legs as she raced down them off of the bed.

"Dammit, Methos. . ." Duncan roared.

"Okay, okay, give me a second. I don't want to cut the thongs." Methos untied Duncan's legs first, then his arms, and retreated as quickly as possible, sure his friend was going to do him damage.

But Duncan didn't move a muscle until Methos moved away. Slowly, he slid to the edge of the bed, not wanting to drip melting whipped cream on his sheets. Cupping his hand to his chest, he stood up and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Methos thoughtfully rolled the thongs up and put them back into his duffel. May have gone a hair too far, old man, he thought. Ah well, no harm done.

"Caffre. . . come on sweets. . . that mean ol' chieftain won't hurt you. . . come here babe." He called his kitten softly, cooing at the dark body that scooted out from under the bed and wound itself around his ankles. He scooped her up and snuggled his face in her short fur, breathing in the soft scent of cat. Almost silently, he purred soothing words to her as she relaxed and returned his purr, much louder though. Lost in her sounds Methos didn't hear the bathroom door open.

Duncan had planned on raging at Methos when he finished his shower. Instead, his rage melted when he saw the tender scene before him.

It stirred feelings long surpressed. His friend Methos was a damned hard person to get to know. Everytime Duncan had made a friendly overture in the past, Methos had parried it away if it came too close. To Duncan it seemed that Methos was determined to not let their friendship grow beyond acquaintenship. Someone who'd watch his back, true, but definitely not a sword brother.

Like Kronos.

Duncan had only recently gotten over the fact that Methos had been Death with the Four Horsemen. The two-year separation had given him a lot of time to reconcile his feelings about the Methos he knew now and the one known as Death 3000 years ago. Methos had inferred long ago that he and Kronos had been true sword brothers, shield brothers for that matter. It had always been Silas and Caspian, and Methos and Kronos. It was the only way Methos felt he could have any control over Kronos. None of that mattered now in light of how Duncan felt.

He flushed when he realized that he wished that he could trade places with the kitten, and have Methos' head buried under his chin. That he could breathe in the unique scent that was Methos, that lingered on his sheets, in his bed. This last month together was the most enjoyable that Duncan had had since he'd lost Tessa, which brought surprising stirrings from his groin.

Except for the practical jokes. Well, even with the practical jokes. It seemed to Duncan that Methos took an unnatural joy in teasing him. Of making him look foolish. But, he realized, never in public. Always in private - always at home.

"Ahem," Duncan cleared his throat lightly.

Methos looked up at him and Duncan was deeply touched by the tenderness in his friend's eyes. "Yes?"

"Ah . . . well . . . that is . . ." Duncan stuttered.

"Well, this is certainly an occasion. Duncan MacLeod at a loss for words." Methos teased, Caffre tucked under his chin.

"Methos, do you enjoy playing jokes on me?" Was the only thing Duncan could think to say. Methos, as was his wont, had thrown him off-stride.

"As much as I've enjoyed anything in my life, MacLeod." He put Caffre down on the bed, and walked into the kitchen to get coffee. "You take yourself altogether too seriously, and life itself is far too serious for me to allow that to happen." He leaned against the kitchen-island, sipping from his cup, grinning at his friend.

"And who appointed you my keeper?" Duncan said with an outraged tone as he joined Methos at the island with his own coffee. Who was this man to tell him how to run his life?

"No one," came the chilled response. "Absolutely no one. I just thought that that self righteous shell of yours could do with some cracks in its highly polished surface." Methos drained his cup, put it down and pushed away from the island. "I was mistaken." His smile was gone.

He left the kitchen and went into the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, Methos got undressed, thinking, now why the hell am I getting so upset at MacLeod? I'm not his keeper. And why does it hurt so much when he takes offense at a friendly gesture. Methos shook his head at his own actions as he set the water temperature in the shower. It's time for me and Caffre to hit the road. Things are getting a bit too . . . uncomfortable to hang around here anymore. The sounds of a shower soon started.

The sounds of a shower could be heard by MacLeod who stared at the closed door, this time completely at a loss for words. Usually he was on the receiving end of sharp retorts and had to retreat away from Methos to gain control of his temper. Not this time, though. Damn, he must be rubbing off on me. he thought. Or I'm rubbing off on him, came immediately to mind.

Methos came out of the bathroom and breezed past MacLeod, dressed only in a towel wrapped around his hips.

"I think it's time that Caffre and I headed out. We've been hanging around here too long. Time to get back on the road." His tone was a study in neutrality.

"That's it then?" MacLeod asked, still outraged.

"What's it then?" Methos questioned, digging in his duffel bag for clean clothes.

"I finally get mad at you for all the jokes you've been playing on me this last month and the first thing you do is leave." MacLeod shook his head. "Seems awfully childish to me. You planning on throwing a temper tantrum next?" He grinned at his friend to soften his words.

"Next?" was Methos' answer. "There won't be a next time, MacLeod." Methos' hazel eyes glittered in anger. He pulled on a T-shirt, then a sweater, and sat on the bed to pull socks on, not breaking eye contact with MacLeod. "I don't do tantrums, temper or otherwise. I just think it's time for Caffre and me to move on." He stood to pull on his pants, then sat again to lace up his hiking boots.

"Methos," MacLeod began, "Don't do this. Don't be such a baby. I was only teasing." He moved from the kitchen to the bed and sat next to his friend.

Methos' control gave way to a hurt and an anger he hadn't consciously recognized he felt. He wasn't mad at Mac for treating him like a child. He was mad at himself for expecting more from MacLeod than he felt he deserved as a friend. He stood quickly and moved away from MacLeod towards the back door. "I am over five thousand fucking years old, MacLeod!" His rage was making itself know. "And you have the gall to call me childish? That I'm being a baby? Don't you . . . haven't you . . . ah, damn. I'm outta here. " Grabbing his greatcoat he slammed out the back door, got into his rental car and drove away as fast as the winter conditions allowed.

His departure had left MacLeod speechless, again. Even Caffre seemed affronted at the fact that her human had managed to leave without her hitching a ride.

Mac realized that Methos had just shown him some of his open wounds about how he felt about MacLeod, and that he, Duncan MacLeod, defender of the innocent, had managed to rub salt into all of them. Not understanding the how or the why, he headed down to the dojo to work off the built up tensions he was feeling.

A set of very physical katas hadn't cleared his mind any, but they had taken some of the edge off of his tension. He was just finishing up when a Presence entered his awareness.

Too light to be Methos, but familiar, so it must be, "Richie! What are you doing back in town?" MacLeod asked as his friend and ex-student entered the dojo. "I thought you were heading down to Phoenix for that concert. What's up?"

Richie dropped his helmet on a bench, sat next to it, and watched his former teacher continue his kata. "Well, you know, it seemed like a great idea last week, but . . ." his voice trailed off as he shook his head.

"But . . ." came MacLeod's response, "You had a fight with Marlinda and came home. Right?"

"Right. No, well, not exactly." He sat back and sighed. "Okay, we had a fight over I don't know what just outside Laughlin, Nevada. She took off with a bus-full of Deadheads that were heading down to the concert. I didn't want to end up there alone, so I came back here." He looked at his friend. "Mac, what was I supposed to do? Chase after her?"

"Not bloody likely, Rich." MacLeod grinned as his young friend. "Tell you what, how'd you feel bumming around with me today? I'd planned on heading over to Kennicott to look over some antiques. Your input would be very helpful."

"Sure, Mac. What are you looking at? Glassware? Furniture? I can't help you with that stuff, you know that."

"No, actually, there's an estate being liquidated that belonged to a bike collector."

"Bikes? Like Suzuki?"

"No, silly, bikes like Schwinn. Of course motorcycles. Actually, though, now that you mention it, there isn't a Suzuki listed, just a bunch of Harley Davidsons and Indians. I think there's a 1922 Gilera on the list too. Interested?"

"Interested? Let's go!" Richie's expression changed from gloom to excitement.

Mac grinned at his friend's enthusiasm. "Hang on, Rich, let me catch a shower, and we can head out."

"You got it. I'll lock the dojo and follow you up."

"Thanks, Rich. Sorry you had to miss the concert, though."

"For this? Mac, for a chance at a '22 Gilera I'd miss my own funeral!"

MacLeod's spirits were raised considerably by Richie's appearance and good humor. Maybe we can get back in time tonight to catch Duffy at Joe's tonight.

Richie, having locked the dojo came up into the loft. Hearing the shower running, he hollered, "It's just me," to assure MacLeod he was safe, then moved into the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge he found some leftovers to snack on, plopped down on the couch and turned on the tv to a hockey game.

He was soon joined by Caffre, demanding attention and food, which he gave and shared with her. As soon as MacLeod came out of the bath, he asked. "Say, where's Methos? I thought he never left this kitten alone."

MacLeod hesitated, a troubled look passed over his face. His voice was tight when he said, "He had to run out for something this morning. I think she was still asleep. Ready to go?"

Richie had caught the look and tone of voice, figuring he could talk to his friend about it during the drive to Kennicott. He stood, "Sure, what about her?"

Duncan tried to sound nonchalant. "Och, she'll be fine. She's housebroken." He shrugged into his overcoat. "C'mon, let's go. Did I tell you Duffy Bishop's playing at Joe's tonight?" His forced enthusiasm was not lost on Richie, though.

The pair left, leaving Caffre to fend for herself. And, like every ancestress before her, she made herself comfortable. Since the bed was left unmade, she settled under the comforter, and let the loft grow cold around her.

***

Monday, November 3, 6:30 p.m.
Seacouver
The Loft

Methos pulled his car into the dojo's parking lot, noting the addition of Richie's bike, and the absence of MacLeod's T-Bird. Letting himself in the back door, he paused, waiting for any Presence to make itself known. Finding none, he ventured further into the loft and started packing.

He had spent the majority of the day watching movies at a multi-plex that specialized in slasher films. Between films and during the drive to and from the 'plex, Methos raged in his mind at what he saw wrong with MacLeod's behavior and with his own.

I don't know why I thought anything would be different. Two years in an Immortal lifetime is like an afternoon walk in the park. But it sure hasn't felt that way to me.

He felt himself remembering the intervening years since he'd last seen Duncan MacLeod. His time in Paris had been uneventful, quiet even, except for encounters with Amanda. She had taken it upon herself to keep Methos up-to-date with Duncan's comings and goings and, more recently to worry about Methos' own health. Due to no fault of her own - or so she claimed - she had been denied access to the U.S. until a small matter of a missing necklace was cleared up. So, she had taken to mothering Methos. And to his no small credit, Methos had allowed it - realizing that it was something Amanda needed to do from time to time.

Aside from Amanda's distractions he had spent his days, and not a few nights, buried in ancient texts of Babylonian writings. He'd found himself taken with the idea of finding his original homeland. He'd harbored no hopes of success, he knew that any hopes of actually finding out where he'd come from had been destroyed in the burning of the Library at Alexandria, but he never knew what fact he'd ferret out - while looking for others.

But the days in Paris had dragged, not flown by as they had recently here in Seacouver. He had arrived at Duncan's door soaked to the skin with a hungry kitten in one hand, his duffel in his other, and his pack on his back. The reunion had gone congenially, Caffre smoothing any rough spots in their early conversations. Methos had felt relieved - the Horsemen were behind them, finally, Duncan was what he'd always been - Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and had taken over the mothering where Amanda had left off, sending Methos for a hot shower, drying Caffre off, and even running out to the store for the necessary items every cat needed - cream, tuna, and a litter box.

{{"Duncan, quit worrying, I'm sure I lost the guy in Antwerp. I haven't lived this long without learning a few tricks, you know." He shrugged, leaned back into the sofa, and yawned. He was warm, dry, and had Caffre purring in his lap.

"But, Methos, you don't know who this Immortal is, what he looks like, or even what his hunting patterns are. How d' you know you're safe?" Duncan was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arm crossed, frustrated at the relaxed state of his guest.

Methos, who knew exactly who was hunting him, made no effort to reassure Mac. "Because, Duncan, I'm, one," he ticked points off on his long fingers, "here with you and not out wandering the streets of Seacouver. That leads to two, I'm not advertising my presence by checking into a motel of any sort, and three, I'd know if any other Immortal comes anywhere near me," he pointed at Duncan, "as would you." He reached over, took his beer from the table next to the sofa and took a drink from it. "Any more questions?"

"You're not going to cooperate, are you?" Duncan said exasperated at his guests' nonchalance.

Methos pursed his mouth, and appeared to think about the question. "Nope." He answered, taking another drink of beer. That was exactly the point when Methos decided that what his friend needed was a little teasing, a little 'lightening up'.}}

Tense with anger, he stormed around the loft, MacLeod's loft, he angrily corrected himself, throwing his belongings in the general direction of his duffel bag sitting on the floor in front of the back door. Shirts, pants, a pair of tennies, all flew towards the bag, the shoes hitting the wall particularly hard.

Caffre, noting the anger in the air, pulled her favorite disappearing act - behind Duncan's wardrobe. She hadn't been found there yet, and she didn't approve of the anger radiating from her owner. He shouldn't be mad at the brown-eyed one, it's not his fault he loves Gold Eyes (her name for Methos). Some humans are so dense, was her last thought as she settled down for a quiet nap.

Thought I was welcome here. Thunk.

'Help yourself to anything, anytime.' Thunk.

'Don't worry, you can't . . .' Methos stopped his train of thought as his 5000 years of life automatically prevented him from throwing the book in his hand at the duffel. Damn, he thought, tears springing to his eyes as he gazed at the small book in his hand, Dunca. . . MacLeod gave this to me last night. I haven't even gotten a chance to read it. Wiping his eyes roughly with his free hand, he put the book back down where he'd found it on the nightstand next to his side of the bed. "Was, Methos, was," he said quietly. "Anything you read into this relationship was just a fantasy. Give it up." He took a deep breath and swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat.

Clearing his throat he called gently, "Caffre, come here girl, let's get out of here." Methos scanned the loft for his companion. "Caffre . . ." he cajoled, "C'mon sweets, let's get the hell out of here." Puzzled, Methos searched the loft. All of Caffre's favorite roosts were empty, and she never went down into the dojo alone. "Great," he muttered, "You've abandoned me too. I always figured you had better taste in friends, Caf." He spoke a little louder. "Fine, stay with MacLeod. See if I care. It's a helluva lot easier to travel alone."

Striding over to his duffel he stuffed all he could fit into it, rolled the rest into a ball which he stuffed into his pack, tucked it under his arm, then grabbed his greatcoat and sword and slammed out the back door. Opening the trunk to his rented Subaru four-wheel drive, he dropped his belongings inside, save his coat and sword. He slammed the trunk lid, went forward and climbed in the driver's seat. He put his sword and coat on the passenger's seat, started the car and drove away. The icy conditions caused him to fishtail a bit, and he barely missed hitting the car coming down the alley toward the dojo, MacLeod's latest Watcher-in-training, on his way for the evening shift. Hmph, Methos allowed himself to smirk, missed me. He allowed his anger to have the upper hand over any sorrow he was feeling at this parting. Clicking on the car's CD player, he relaxed into the driving rhythms of Joan Jett's 'I Hate Myself (for Loving You)', glad that he'd specified 6o watt speakers at the rental agency.

After leaving the dojo, he headed over to Joe's, a normal course of action to cool off. Turning right to pull up in front of the bar, he saw MacLeod's T-Bird parked on the street across from the bar and kept going.

"Wonderful" he muttered, "I can't even get drunk without him interfering in it." Stopping at the corner, he made a left and headed away from downtown Seacouver. There's always the waterfront. Plenty of bars down there to get out of this weather and into a beer.

The farther from downtown he proceeded, the darker the bars got, but not quite dark enough for his mood. He considered a dive he been in before, The Angry Salmon, but decided against going anywhere he'd been seen before. As he stopped for a red light, he surveyed his surroundings. The street he was on dead-ended a block ahead, actually, it dropped off into Seacouver Bay. He flipped on his left turn signal and waited for the light to change. Before it did, though, he glanced in his rear view mirror and saw a large delivery truck pull up behind him, not an unusual thing by the docks. What was unusual, though was that the truck didn't stop. It kept coming towards the Subaru. Methos gunned the engine to get out of the way, but the icy road defeated all of the four-wheel drive abilities of the car. The truck hit the Subaru, jolting Methos backwards then forwards, as both vehicles picked up speed.

Cute. Push me off the dock. Real cute. A flood of panic washed through Methos as he slammed his shoulder against his door, trying to force it open, but the impact had bent the frame just enough to jam the door.

Damn, that won't work. He glanced around the inside of the car as he was moved inexorably towards the dock. An icy hand closed over his heart. Shit! Peter, you bastard! You know I hate water! Thoughts surged through his head as he alternately tried to kick either the door or it's window open. As his car tipped off the dock and began its rapid decent into Seacouver Bay, his last coherent thought was sure glad Caffre stayed with MacLeod.

***

Tuesday, November 4, 3:10 a.m.
Seacouver
The Loft

Night had fallen long before Duncan MacLeod returned to his loft. The estate sale had gone quite well, and the bikes he'd bought would be delivered next week. He hadn't exactly avoided going home, he told himself; he was just out having a good time with Richie. A twinge of conscience refuted that fact, but enough Glenmorangie was numbing it.

Richie steadied his friend and mentor with one hand while raising the gate to the elevator with the other. "You sure you're okay, Mac?" He asked.

"Sure, Rich," Mac slurred. "Jus' fine. I'll lock up before I go to bed." Duncan steadied himself against Richie and entered the elevator.

"Okay, Mac, if you're sure. I'll lock up the dojo as I go out. I'll be back in the morning to pick up my bike, okay?" His blue eyes were filled with concern about the emotional condition of his friend.

"I'm sure, Rich. I'm fine. See you tomorrow." Mac blinked, trying to clear his eyes enough to find the elevator's key-switch. "Good night."

"'night, Mac." Rich said as he watched Duncan pull the gate down and start the elevator, then left.

Keying the elevator, he leaned against the wall, having just enough good grace not to hiccup, but he wasn't far from it.

Should never mix good scotch and . . . his thoughts paused, what was that fuzzy stuff? he puzzled, Och, who cares? Shouldn't mix good scotch with anything. The elevator bumped to a halt and as he pushed himself vertical again, MacLeod realized that something was missing. What? He closed the elevator gates and locked it in place, trying to figure out what was . . . wrong. Something was missing.

"Methos?" His voice echoed hollowly in the dark, quiet, cold loft. Moving through his home, easily finding his way around, he switched on a small table lamp by the bed. He took in the room before him. Nothing was out of place, but things were missing. There were no clothes at the foot of the bed, no shoes on the coffee table, no book on the . . . "Damn" he said quietly. The book he'd given his friend just last night was still on the nightstand. But his friend was gone. The only remnant Duncan saw was Caffre lying on Methos' pillow on the bed. She was watching MacLeod steadily, accusation in her eyes.

"Och, not yew too." Was his only statement as memories of the argument they'd had this morning, resurfaced, totally destroying a perfectly good Glenmorangie drunk.

Duncan, deep in thought, sat on his bed and, unconsciously, began petting Caffre. He'd never been much of a mind to keep pets, especially a cat, but after only a short while he enjoyed having Caffre around. He was never shown the devotion that she showed for Methos - never letting him leave the loft without her, but when both men were in the loft, Mac's lap was the one she ended up in. And now, here she was and no sign of Methos.

MacLeod began undressing in preparation for bed. As drunk as he was, it wouldn't do any good to try and find his friend tonight. Once he finished his bedtime routine, he crawled into bed and turned out the light. He had no success in falling asleep lying on his back, so he rolled onto his right side and regretted it instantly. Caffre was still on Methos' pillow watching MacLeod. When he rolled over her eyes met his. Forcing himself to close his eyes, he found that he could feel the guilt about how he had treated Methos washing over him. Opening his eyes again to meet Caffre's he felt that he had to explain his actions, to his cat if not to the man himself.

"Dammit, cat, it wasn't my fault. He was asking for it. I was just teasing him," he yawned, "just like he'd been teasing me. Turn about is fair play, right?"

Caffre yawned in his face, moved just enough to retuck her paws underneath her, and yawned again, her eyes not moving from his.

"Och, Caffre, don't be that way. I didn't want him to leave." He reached a finger tentatively out to her which she promptly bit. "OW!" He drew his injured digit back and sucked on it. "Well, it serves me right, I guess. It was my fault that he got mad at me, wasn't it?"

Caffre flicked one ear at him, saying 'and?'

"And," Duncan continued, "I went a bit overboard about the joke this morning, didn't I?"

The other ear flicked at him.

"And if I'd been paying closer attention I'd've realized that all he was doing was having fun, and that he had every right to get mad. Right?"

In agreement, Caffre started to purr at him. Grinning, he reached out the injured finger again. She raised her head just enough to allow his finger access to her chin and her purring increased in intensity. He stopped after a couple of seconds. She rose and stretched, and moved to her normal sleeping place, curled up against Duncan's throat, on his hair, purring loudly. At his chuckle, her rough tongue started scraping his Adam's apple, washing it so that, obviously, it would be more comfortable for her to lean against. When he tried to move, she nipped the skin very lightly in warning, then went back to washing. As soon as she stopped, Duncan slipped off to sleep.

***

Tuesday, November 4, 11 a.m.
Seacouver
The Loft

Duncan MacLeod was nursing one of the worst hangovers he had felt in centuries. The loft was dark and silent, but for the purring of the kitten that lay in his lap. And, as much as he had tried to stop it, his mind kept focusing on one thing: Where was Methos?

He had locked the elevator in the loft when he came in so that no one could call it down. He wasn't sure that the noise it made wouldn't cause his head to explode, so when the buzz of a nearby Presence hit him, he winced and almost vomited.

Not getting up from his seat, he moved to hold his sword in front of him as defense. When the back door opened slowly and then closed, he called out, "If you're here for a challenge, don't bother, you can have my head."

Richie's head poked out around the elevator. "You serious?" Seeing MacLeod's expression, he asked, "Hangover?"

"Serious one. Come on in, Rich." MacLeod paused and swallowed, then said, "Just be quiet. I think my head's about to explode."

Richie hadn't been at all affected by last night's pub crawling. Of course, he amended to himself, I wasn't the one mixing scotch and beer. At least, not at the same time, in the same glass. He shuddered thinking about what MacLeod had put down last night. "Say, Mac," he asked quietly.

"What?" came the moaned response.

"Ummm, you want to talk about last night?" He asked delicately.

"What's there to talk about? I just learned not to mix Glenmorangie with anything. Ever. Again." He opened his eyes to see his friend watching him with concern. "I'll live, Rich, I'll live. I just won't like it." He closed his eyes again and lay his head back.

"Uh, that's not what I meant."

"Rich," came the exasperated response. "If you've got something to say, say it. I don't feel like word games today." Another twinge of regret over his fight with Methos hit his already painful head.

"Okay, fine, fine. You barely said a word to me during the drive to and from Kennicott. I just want to know why you were drinking so much last night. It just wasn't like you. Is there something bothering you? Are you worried about . . ." he broke off one thought and started the next. "Methos. You two had a fight and now he's gone and you're worried about him." Richie stood and got himself a soda out of the refrigerator. "Mac," he continued as he sat down again across from the silent Scot, "what is it with you two? When you're together, you're happy, but then something goes wrong, you two fight or something, he takes off, and Bam! You're depressed." He took a drink from his soda. "Is there anything about you and Methos I should know about?"

Even with the hangover, MacLeod flushed as unvoiced concerns rocketed out of his subconscious and into his conscious mind. Raising his head and opening his eyes, he gazed at his ex-student. "You know, Rich, I sometimes think that you should be the teacher, not me." He shook his head, very slowly and carefully, then sighed. "No, Rich, there's nothing like that between Methos and me, but, you know? I sometimes think that I'm missing something. Like he's sending me signals that I should know and recognize, but . . ."

"But if he wasn't a guy you'd've caught the first one, first time, right?" Richie finished the thought.

Duncan eyed Richie carefully. "Right. How'd you know?"

Richie sighed and laughed gently. "Mac, I grew up on the streets. It was part of my everyday life. Two boys get kicked out of their respective homes, discover feelings towards each other, then either run away from each other, and from the area they met." He took a sip, then continued, "Or they come to their senses and realize that being friends has nothing to do with sex. And if sex is involved, hey, great, comfort is comfort. Especially on the streets."

MacLeod was stunned at the depth of Richie's knowledge. "How old did you say you were?"

Richie, confused, look at Duncan. "Aw, Mac, it's not a matter of age. It's just about where you grew up. I've know all about this since I was ten or eleven." He drained his soda can and tossed it into the recycle bin. "Hey, I've got to run. I just stopped by to pick up my bike. Angela and I are catching a movie tonight. Wanna come?"

"Don't be silly. Have a good time. Oh, and, Rich?" he added as Richie headed out the back door. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Mac, anytime."

Deciding that he would probably survive this hangover, he picked up the phone.

"Joe's." the gravelly voice said.

"Joe, it's Duncan."

"Mac, how are you feeling?"

"I'll live. Got a question for you."

"Well, if it's about AA, I've got a card around here somewhere."

"AA? Why? What are you talking about?"

"Mac, you seriously dented my inventory last night. You probably don't remember, but every time I tried to cut you off you threatened to move into the stock room. Are you having problems I should know about? You wouldn't say anything to me last night."

Mac was quiet for a moment. Maybe there's something I'm ignoring going on with Methos. This all seems tied to him. And me.

"Mac, you there?" Joe's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Yeah, Joe, I'm here. About that question. Have you seen Adam recently?"

"Uh, let me think, since you've been here, or lately in general?"

"Since I was there."

"Nope. Last time I saw him was, oh, Saturday night. He and that kitten of his were in here." Joe's voice tensed. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"Not sure, Joe. He took off out of here sometime Monday after Richie and I headed out to that estate sale."

"Hey, Mac, not to worry. He probably's out chasing up a bit of research. He and Caffre'll turn up when he's done."

"Well, Joe, that's what's worrying me. The cat's here. He took off without her."

Joe was silent for a moment. "Gotcha. Let me run a check on the database. I haven't heard of anybody nasty in town, and I certainly haven't had any 'end of file' reports in a while. Mac, he's probably fine. I'll call you if I find anything." Joe hung up.

So did MacLeod and looked at the kitten sitting on his kitchen island. She was staring at him again, blaming him because Methos was gone.

Duncan ducked his head to avoid her eyes and headed in to take a shower.

***

Tuesday, November 4, 4:05 p.m.
Seacouver
Peter Stepson's Barge

Methos became Alive all at once, normal after he had drowned. Not moving, he tried to find out about his surroundings without giving anything away. Unfortunately, this time it didn't work. Because he had drowned, he had to cough to be able to breath. And cough he did, spewing water out of his lungs and passageways, not an easy thing to do with his arms and legs tied behind him.

"Methos, excuse me, I mean 'Adam', how nice of you to join me," a soft tenor voice chuckled.

Methos, stretched as well as his bonds would allow, feeling a chill of fear run down his body. He opened his eyes to face his captor. "Untie me, Peter. I'm wet and cold. You know I won't go anywhere," he said, letting annoyance tinge his voice.

Methos watched as emotions played over his captor's angular face. The resemblance between himself and Peter still struck him as unusual. To Methos' eye, Peter hadn't changed in 400 years, but then again, he thought, who does? The man standing over him was, Methos knew, the same height as himself. His skin was as pale as Methos' own, but his hair was blonde to the point of being white, cut in an easy maintenance buzz-type cut. The eyes that surveyed him were barely blue, so light as to be almost transparent, but the blue ranged from ice to peacock, depending on Peter's mood. He was the same build as Methos remembered, thin, but not overly. Remembering past times spent together, Methos remembered how much alike their bodies were. Lean and hard. Methos' gained through early years of starvation and abuse, Peter's due to a hungry upbringing - his village was poor, when one went hungry they all did.

{{1402, Late Afternoon
Just outside Smithsfield, England

They'd known each other for only a year before he and Peter had been killed by an angry mob over a behavior that he and Peter saw as normal, and that the village had seen as 'unnatural'. They'd made the mistake of falling in love with each other not hiding it. Not a wise thing, but when you're young and in love, caution sometimes was forgotten.

And in love they were. Methos couldn't recall a time when he had felt so care-free, so lost in the emotions of joy that he'd managed to push away the survival mask he'd worn for so long. When he and Peter had first met, Methos had felt a spark of electricity run through his body at the sight of this slight young man - his body double. They'd only known each other a week or two before Peter's nightly tutoring lessons became late-night sessions of seduction and love-making.

Methos had been killed by the mob first, and had revived not long after their bodies had been dumped in the woods. Wincing at the bruises still remaining, and the ache of bones broken by clubs and rocks healing, he lifted his head to look around him. He was surprised to find himself still clothed. The villagers had always scavenged anything useful from dead bodies. Then he remembered - he and Peter had been cursed as unnatural. Their possessions wouldn't be taken, for fear of cursing the rest of the village. He saw Peter lying not far away from him. Dead. Not surprised that Peter had been killed also, Methos sat by the body, waiting for the first reawakening. He knew how hard the first time could be, having known a few pre-Immies in his long life, and knew that it helped to have someone to work through it with you. He laid a hand on his lover's chest and felt for the heart to start.

Peter's first reawakening thought was PAIN! Oh, the white hot pain! Inhaling instinctively at the pain he felt, his eyes flew open and he screamed. Methos kept a hand on Peter's chest, now to hold him down, and to try and abate the panic his friend was feeling.

"Shhh, Peter, love. The pain will go away. Relax, love. It's Mark. You're not alone, shhhh." His words were meant to calm, to reassure, to stave off panic and shock. It had worked before, but now?

"Mark," came the gasping voice. "What happened? Are we in heaven? Where are the angels? Ice-blue eyes finally focused on Methos' face. He tried to rise and failed, lying back on the ground. "What happened?"

"Peter, calm down. Everything is fine. We need to talk." Methos was in control of the situation, and knew that he had some explaining to do.

"Talk? We need to talk? Mark? Why aren't you dead?"

"Well, I see you won't calm down until I fill you in." He took a deep breath to steady himself and began. "Peter you're not dead, and neither am I. This is not heaven. As a matter of fact," he paused and looked around them, "as near as I can tell, I think that we're about a mile from Smithsfield. And, unless I am gravely mistaken, heaven would never be downwind of a pig farm." He grinned at his friend, and was rewarded by a grin and a chuckle in return.

Peter raised a hand and took Methos' hand from his chest, holding onto it tightly, like a life line. He sat up and looked deeply into the hazel eyes that still, even during his panic, held endless fascination for him. "You're right, you know that? You're always right." He said softly. His free hand came up and caressed Methos' face, pausing at his lips, then circling behind the head to draw it closer to him. His kiss was soft and tentative at first, then became deeper as both men relaxed into the fact that they still had each other. Methos freed his captive hand only to use his arm to wrap around Peter's body and draw him closer. The pair held this position for a long while, the only portions of their bodies moving were their heads and lips, exploring each other as if they had been parted for years instead of for hours.

Methos reluctantly broke the kiss. "Peter, we still need to talk."

Peter nestled his head on Methos' shoulder. "So talk."

"Remember what we discussed a while back? About me not dying? Why I healed so well, so fast?"

"Um hmm," Peter's answer was distracted, he was trying to unlace Methos' pants without much success, Methos kept batting his hands away.

"Are you paying attention to what I'm saying?"

"No, not really."

Methos stood quickly, dumping Peter onto the ground. "Well then you'd better start. It's getting dark and we've got to get our things out of town before they're burnt."

Peter managed an offended look. "Burnt? Why would they burn our belongings?"

Methos offered Peter a hand, which he took, and Methos pulled him to his feet. "For the same reason that we were killed - because we were cursed. Unnatural. Remember?"

Peter's eyes darkened at the memory. "But I grew up there. They knew me."

"Just like they knew that I had come into the village not to teach - but to curse their children. Like I had cursed you." Methos spoke low and steadily, not showing all the anger he felt at the injustice done to Peter. He had long become used to being chased out of his home and village after he'd made the mistake of staying in one place too long.

"Curse? What curse?" Peter asked, outraged. "For telling me about yourself? How you could heal so quickly? About having a life outside the village, of not becoming a merchant like Father?" Peter was pacing around Methos now, gesturing widely. "This . . ." he paused as other things Methos had told him came back to mind. "This is what you spoke about earlier - the healing. The false death." He looked at Methos for guidance, and at his nod, continued. "And, now I can do it also?

Methos nodded. "Like I told you you would be able to do." More to himself than to Peter, he continued, "I'd just hoped that you'd have been able to be mortal a bit longer."

"But, why? How old were you the first time you died?"

"Can we head back to town and talk on the way? I'd really like to get my sword."

"Surely, lead on." Peter bowed and gestured playfully. "But please, tell me," he began as they headed back to Smithsfield. "How old were you the first time?"

Sighing deeply, Methos cast back over his memories. "Let me think." His silence lasted for quite some time, but Peter knew better than to try and coax Methos into speaking before he was ready. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Peter, but I just don't know. I can remember many things, but my age is lost to me. Guessing, I'd say I was anywhere between 20 and 30 years of age when I first died."

"But," Peter protested, "I'm 20 now. What's wrong with being 20?"

"If you've got a teacher and a protector? Nothing. But if you're alone? Or in a, shall we say, hostile situation? It's a very young age, Peter, very young." Methos was getting frustrated at his friend's inability to understand the seriousness of their situation.

"But, Mark, we're Immortal! Nothing can kill us!" His youthful exuberance was starting to try Methos' patience.

"Damn you, Peter." He stopped in the road and yelled at his friend. "Haven't you listened to a word I've said? There are worse things in this life than dying! Much, much worse." He stopped walking and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe away early memories of slavery from his mind.

Peter wrapped his arms around Methos immediately. "I'm sorry, Mark, I'm sorry. Please don't be sad. Don't be angry with me. I'm sorry, love."

Methos returned Peter's hug, holding his lover tightly to him. "It's okay, Peter. I'm sorry. My fault, not yours.}}

"Now, 'Adam', why don't I believe you?" Peter Stepson said, bringing Methos back to present times. He then walked away from Methos and towards the fireplace near the other end of the room. Warming his hands, he turned towards his prisoner. "Let's see, the last time I believed a word that you said I ended up being killed by a stampeding herd of wildebeest." He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Methos. "Correct?"

Methos shrugged as well as he could. Innocence filled his face and voice. "Not my fault. You were the one with the gun. I told you not to fire it."

"I didn't!" Peter roared at Methos. "You did! You started the stampede and then pushed me off the cliff down into it!" He strode back over to Methos and kicked him in the face, screaming, "Do you know how long it takes to die being trampled to death?" He kicked Methos again, "DO YOU? DO YOU?" He spat into the bloodied face. "You bastard!" He stepped over the body at his feet and left the room through the door behind Methos.

Methos searched his mouth methodically and spat out the pieces of broken teeth he found. Inhaling teeth was not a pleasant experience, especially since he couldn't breath through his nose. It was broken as well. That process done, he swiveled his head as much as he could to take in his situation. The room reminded him shockingly of MacLeod's barge in Paris. Long, low steps rising towards room in front of him, a large fireplace against one wall, and the exit was obviously behind him. Portholes lined both walls, letting in the weak light of a winter's day. Snow was drifting down, fluffy flakes settling onto the lower ledges.

Shivering he realized that the shock of seeing Peter again, and at having his nose and some teeth broken, had displaced the fact that he was still very wet, and getting colder by the minute. And, because he was still very wet, he thought that he'd only recently been dredged out of Seacouver Bay. Maybe. It's awfully light out there. How long have I been out? Methos had, more than once in his long life, kept an enemy Immortal dead so that he could take full advantage of them at a later date. A knife through the heart was the easiest, but it could be dislodged unless the body was held down. Water was always good; just keep the body covered. It was also less cruel. It didn't lend itself to the horror of the dying, reawakening, and dying again cycle. An Immortal held underwater never completely woke up. The body revived just enough and then drowned again immediately.

Feeling around his mouth with his tongue he found and then spit out more tooth fragments. He could feel his new teeth growing already, causing more than a slight ache in his jaws. Unfortunately, unless he could get his hands free, he wouldn't be able to straighten his nose before it healed.

Struggling against his bonds the only thing he managed to do was find out that Peter was still up to date when it came to tying knots. Nothing would budge. And Methos was tied in such a way that no amount of wrist twisting or bone breaking was going to free him. The ropes were stretched nylon, made to give a pressure, and then retighten, allowing no slack.

Peter had placed him too far away from the fireplace for him to gain any warmth from it. Figuring, what the hell, Methos began maneuvering his way towards the fireplace. If I have to stay trussed like a piece of meat, I might as well be a warm, dry one. Settling into a somewhat comfortable position, he relaxed and reviewed his situation. Peter's probably going to try and take my head soon. His personality has never permitted torture to go on for long. He wants my head, not my blood. He had to force himself to calmly review what was going on between himself and Peter Stepson. Otherwise the shivering he was doing from the cold would reveal itself as having fear as its source.

He squirmed around, trying to warm all quarters of his body. From the light outside, I'd guess that I've been out for at least 18 hours, so MacLeod'll be asking around for me. The though froze in his mind. Or would he? They hadn't parted on friendly terms, well at least on Methos' side. Sure he would. Eighteen or so hours of Caffre would send MacLeod into the streets screaming for help. Methos chuckled at the scene his mind had conjured up, but reality soon reasserted itself. The icy hand gripping his heart tightened even more. Nobody knows that I'm missing. For that matter, I doubt if anyone cares. Damn. Why did Peter pick now to re-enter my life?

At that thought, Peter stepped into the room and laughed at Methos' position by the fireplace.

"What?" Methos asked innocently, "I told you I was cold, didn't I? I asked nicely to be untied, didn't I?"

"True, 'Adam', true." He walked over to Methos, saying, "Roll over you git. Let me untie you. Can't have you dying of pneumonia." He undid the ropes then stood back quickly. "Ha. That's a funny one. You? Die of pneumonia? Ha." He went up the low stairs and left Methos alone momentarily.

Warily sitting upright he massaged his numb hands and feet, then pulled off his sodden sweater and moved as close to the fire as he could get. He didn't move when Peter re-entered the room bearing a tray.

"You always were a cold one, 'Adam'. Here, I've got bread and cheese. Eat something. You'll warm up faster."

Eyes still on the fire Methos asked, "What? No beer? What kind of host are you?" His voice was light and friendly, but his body was tense, waiting for his captor's next move. He stood, flexing long-tense muscles to keep them from cramping, but making no motion towards Peter.

"Beer? You expect beer?" Peter laughed as he sat the tray down next to Methos. "What kind of guest are you, demanding beer?" He laughed again, slapped Methos on the shoulder, and said, "Of course I've got beer. I thought you might've given it up."

It was Methos turn to laugh sharply. "What? Me? I'm not dead yet, you know." He turned in front of the fire, to warm his back and legs. "In the fridge?"

Peter nodded, "In the kitchen," he indicated the room he'd brought the tray from.

Methos took a few steps towards the room, turned and said, "What makes you think I won't try and escape, Peter?"

"Your word, 'Adam'."

Methos, annoyed, said, "Drop the 'Adam' crap, Peter. We all have to hide, you know that. But I'm curious, when did I give you my word? Not recently, was it?"

"No," Peter chuckled, "Not recently. It was in the Congo, remember? Just before you killed me? You promised that you'd never leave me. That when we parted it would be due to the death of one of us." His laughter and friendly manner stopped. His ice-blue eyes grew dark. "I had believed, honorably on my part, that you'd meant the true death, Methos, not the false death. You broke your word, Methos. And for that, you must truly die." The cold grin returned to his face.

Methos, having retrieved a beer from the kitchen laughed aloud at Peter's remark. "Peter," he laughed, "Must you be so melodramatic?" He took a sip of his beer. "Ah, nice. At least you've still got good taste in beer." And another. The alcohol was bringing needed, if temporary, warmth to his chilled body. He walked up to his captor, put a hand behind his head and pulled Peter's mouth to his. The kiss he left was hard and deep. "You have no intention of taking my head, do you?" His next kiss was just as deep, but softer, his mouth and tongue exploring those of Peter, whose surprise at the first kiss changed to surrender during the second. When Methos broke the kiss and looked into Peter's eyes, he saw that same surrender reflected.

"Um, no, not really. I'm just a bit . . ." Peter's voice trailed off at the look of desire in Methos' eyes.

"Anxious?" Methos finished Peter's sentence, his eyes returning to gold from green.

"Um, yeah, I guess so." Peter agreed quietly.

Methos laughed lightly, shaking his head. "You were always a bastard when you got horny." Methos released Peter's head and moved back to the fireplace. "So, what's up?" His question sounded innocent enough, hiding any worries he had about this kidnapping.

Peter moved up behind Methos and hugged him. "Ugh. You're wet." He stepped back again, and plucked at the west T-shirt.

"Not my fault. Your fault." Methos made no move to take off his wet shirt.

"Oh, Methos," Peter's voice became petulant. "I wouldn't have had to do this," he plucked again at the west shirt, "if you'd just returned my first call. Why did you ignore me, Methos, why?"

"I wasn't ignoring you, Peter." He turned around to face the man behind him. "I was running." His voice lowered. "Peter, you know what you meant to me." He took one of Peter's hands in his own. "When you threatened to leave me, I went crazy." He brought the captive hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss on it. "Yes, I started the stampede to kill you." He raised glittering gold-green eyes to meet ice-blue ones. "I wanted you dead. If I couldn't have you, then no one could."

"And when I called you months ago?" Peter asked gently. "Why didn't you return my call?"

Methos dropped his eyes to the hand he held. "Fear. I was afraid that you would still be mad at me. So I ran."

Peter drew Methos into an embrace, ignoring the wet clothing. "Oh, Methos, beloved," He buried his head into Methos neck. "How could I stay mad at you?" He breathed in the smell of the man in his embrace. "I was lonely. I found you. And you ran from me." His voice trembled with emotion as he voiced his question again, "Why, why?"

His questions were stilled by Methos' mouth on his own. Tender, soft kisses that chased the 'why' away. "I'm sorry, Peter." Methos murmured softly, lips moving against lips. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just that I've been jittery lately, and then I get a call out of nowhere from someone I thought was out to kill me . . ."

Kisses interrupted his words. ". . .'s okay, Methos, 's okay." Peter replied just as softly, "You were right to run. It was my fault. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just that . . ." his voice trailed away at the loss he had felt when 'Adam Pierson' hadn't returned his call. "I really couldn't bear to lose you again." He took Methos' face in both hands saying, "Talk to me, Methos. What happened to make you so suspicious? Is it something I should know?"

Methos pulled out of Peter's embrace, and finished his beer. He moved towards the kitchen asking, "you want one of these?" indicating the bottle in his hand.

Peter, unsure of his friend's actions said, "Sure. But don't you want to eat something? I mean . . ." he indicated the tray he'd brought out earlier.

Methos sighed and replied, "Peter. You kicked me in the face. You broke my nose and a few teeth. I had to wait for them to heal. Remember?"

Peter ducked his head and flushed red with embarrassment. "Oh. Well, I am sorry about that. I really didn't mean you any harm. It's just that, you made me mad." His voice had become petulant again. "And you know I don't do mad well." He looked up at his friend and grinned. "But that does explain your nose, though."

Methos' hands came up to his face. "You bastard. I'd forgotten about it. Give me a hand, will you?"

Still grinning, Peter stepped up to Methos and hit him hard - directly on his nose.

"Damn! I hate this part. Thanks. Bathroom?" Methos stated as he started manipulating his nose back into its somewhat original shape.

"Across from the kitchen. Need anything else?" Peter was relieved at Methos' good humor.

"Yeah," came the reply from the bathroom. "Some dry clothes."

"Oh, yeah, I'll be right back." Peter left the barge to retrieve Methos' duffel. Peter hadn't known for sure how Methos would act upon reviving, but knew that clean, dry clothes always improved his temperament. So while he held his friend dead, he had the rental car cleaned and returned to its agency and had Methos' clothes cleaned.

He'd found, when he followed Methos to Seacouver, that the barge was a perfect base of operations. It was central to most locations in town, and he bought it for a song. It had just been refinished by a couple who had planned on moving into it when a company transfer forced them to move inland. He'd kept the barge mostly unfurnished, adding only rugs, floor-pillows, a few tables and kitchen implements - he'd been a lounging floor-sitter for centuries.

Alone in the bathroom, Methos studied his now healing nose. Hmm, not bad, he thought turning his head from left to right, trying to see all aspects of his reflection. Once his nose had healed sufficiently, he stripped off his cold, clammy clothes and took advantage of the hot shower he knew Peter would have available.

As he was drying off, a soft knock came on the bath door. "Yes?"

"It's just me. I've got some clothes and stuff for you. You want 'em in there?"

"No, I'll get dressed out there."

"In front of the fire?" Peter chuckled at him.

"Whenever possible." As he heard Peter walk away, he added, "And have some food ready. I'm starved!" He heard the laughter echoing through the barge, and the sound warmed something inside of him that even a hot shower hadn't reached. Methos had forgotten, over the centuries, how much he'd missed having Peter at his side - the friendship, the laughter, the love.

Not quite ready to face Peter yet, he cast back in his thoughts about his past relationship with Peter Stepson. We had some rough times at the end though, he thought.

{{Morning, February, 1595
The Congo

"Dammit, Methos," Peter yelled across the camp to object of his anger. "Why'd you drag me out of bed this early?" He was pulling clothing on, trying to ward off the morning's chill.

Methos winced when Peter called him by his real name. After a century together, he had confided his true name to Peter, but still went by 'Mark' in public. Using 'Methos' in front of bearers was just one thing Peter did to irritate him. He looked up from where he was seated in front of his own tent. "You said you wanted to see the wildebeest migration, didn't you?"

"Yes." Came the irritated answer. "So?"

"So, they're migrating." Methos finished lacing his boots and went back into his tent. That in itself was a major change in their relationship. Before they left London on this trip, Peter insisted that they would be more comfortable in separate tents, and because of constant arguing they'd been doing for the last year, Methos acquiesced. Something has got to give, he thought as he prepared his pack for the day trip. Peter's doing everything possible to irritate me, why? Just because he wants to dally with those prigs in Transylvania? He shook his head in disgust and, shouldering his pack, went back outside.

Peter hadn't actually come out and said anything to Methos, but Methos could tell that something in the relationship was broken. Arguments occurred all hours of the day and night, mostly with Peter as the instigator, like he was trying to force Methos into leaving him.

The wildebeest herd filled the valley below them. Their day-camp was set up on a bluff overlooking them. Once they arrived and got set-up, Peter's attacks on Methos became more personal. They were standing on the edge watching the animals move slowly towards them.

"Tell me," Peter said, "What is it about this place you like so much?"

"Me? Like it?" Methos exclaimed, "This whole expedition was your idea!"

"Well," Peter began, "You've been acting so sad lately, I thought that a trip into the wilds would do your soul a world of good."

"Peter," Methos said, exasperated, "What are you getting at? When have I ever expressed an interest in the Congo?"

"Maybe not the Congo, exactly. But you always wax so lyrical about your time with the Horsemen, riding free on the plains. . ."

He was interrupted by Methos exclamation, "Wax lyrical? About the," his voice dropped to an angry hiss, "Horsemen?" His voice rose again, "Are you daft? What makes you think I enjoyed those times?"

Peter turned a cool expression towards his lover. "Why the last time we shared sex, Methos. You tried to split me in two."

Methos flushed in embarrassment. "I said I was sorry. I . . . I got out of control. I apologized." He ducked his head. His past life with the Horsemen tended to rear its ugly head during particularly intense emotional periods, and lately, that had included sex between himself and Peter.

Peter leaned in to Methos until their foreheads were touching. "The apology wasn't accepted in case you forgot. The apology didn't make up for damn near dismembering me last week either." He took a step back and continued. "You know? When I joined up with you, I hadn't expected to have to live with your past, too."

When Methos started to protest, Peter waved him to silence. "I know, I know. I said I'd never judge your past, Methos, and I'm not. I'm sick of living with it." Peter turned away from Methos and faced the edge of the bluff. "I'm just sick of us, I guess." He said quietly.

Methos heard the comment, and his anger rose. He stepped up behind Peter, and spoke to him over his shoulder. "Peter, I swore many years ago that I'd never leave you, and I hold myself to my word." His blood was boiling at both Peter's words and his recent actions. "So if you're unhappy, I guess that you'd better leave."

With that he pushed Peter off the edge of the bluff and down into the mass of wildebeest moving beneath them. Stepping back he found the gun that Peter had left leaning against a nearby tree and made sure that it was properly loaded. Placing the butt of the gun to his shoulder he took careful aim, not at Peter's body lying in an opening in the herd, but back farther into the herd. He fired the weapon, which had its expected action. The wildebeests, sure they were under attack, bolted forward, burying Peter under its mass of hooves.}}

Knocking on the bathroom door interrupted his thoughts. "Methos? You okay in there?" Peter called. "I've got fooooooood."

"Yeah, Peter, coming." Methos checked his appearance in the mirror, tried to make his hair do something besides stick straight up, gave up, and opened the bathroom door.

Peter was leaning against the doorjamb holding a piece of string cheese in his fingers. He was peeling off thin strips and sucking them into his mouth. He dangled a strip in front of Methos. "Want some?"

Methos felt himself flush with passionate feelings towards his old lover. He pushed his face into the cheese and drew it slowly into his mouth, his eyes locked on Peter's. With a quick 'slurp' he sucked the remainder of the cheese out of Peter's fingers and into his mouth, He chewed and swallowed it quickly and then met Peter's waiting lips with his own. The remainder of the cheese was dropped and forgotten as the two men reawakened their mutual flames of desire. Methos drove his tongue into Peter's mouth demanding satisfaction. His hands grabbed Peter's arms and held them down at their sides. Peter may have been the captor, but Methos was in control now.

Now, he thought, letting his anger at Peter's treatment of him reassert itself, let's see what's really going on here.

Not breaking the kiss, he used his body to push Peter backward towards the fireplace. Peter misstepped and stumbled backwards away from Methos who encouraged the fall by pushing Peter away. Peter landed on the floor, not far from where Methos had been lying while he was still tied.

"Damn you, Methos!" Peter cursed, rubbing the back of his head. Stepping lightly down the stairs, Methos plucked a piece of fruit from the tray by the fireplace and ate it. "Damn me, Peter Stepson?" He asked coldly. "You're the one who's been trying to find me." He ate a slice of apple. "You're the one who had me killed to finally get me here." He stood over Peter's body. "You're the one who kicked me in the head to show me how much you missed me." Noticing his duffel bag on the floor, he walked away from Peter, and pulling clothes out of it, got dressed, his back to his friend.

Peter, watching Methos dress, realized that this was going badly. It seemed that everything he did only distanced Methos farther away from him. His next gesture of friendship had better work or he'd lose Methos again. He stood and walked over to a closet that was inset into the wall next to the fireplace. Opening the door, he reached in and stopped moving. Methos' sword was pressing gently on his throat.

"Something I should know about?" Methos whispered into Peter's ear.

"Methos," Peter pleaded, "I never meant to harm you. Please believe me."

"What about the truck, when was that? Earlier today? Yesterday? The day before?" The blade pressed just a little harder into the skin beneath it.

Peter tried to draw back but was trapped between the blade and Methos, who was leaning against him from the back. "Yesterday. Methos. Please. I can't breath."

"So? Neither could I. Drowning is terribly unpleasant. Especially when the water is just above freezing." Methos hissed.

"It wasn't my fault. I didn't mean for him to kill you. I just wanted him to bring you to me. I chose badly." Tears were running down Peter's cheeks. "I'm sorry, Methos."

Methos pulled his blade away and stepped back. When Peter turned to face him, Methos put the point under his chin. "What were you getting out of there?" His free hand gestured.

"A present for you. A rug." Peter swallowed as the point of the sword dropped to the floor.

"A rug?" Methos asked in disbelief.

Peter nodded, then turned and pulled a rolled rug out of the closet. "Remember this?"

Methos eyes opened wide and he started laughing. He laid his sword down on the floor and gathered Peter into his arms. "I'm sorry, Peter." He released him from the hug and pulled the rug out of Peter's hands. He rolled the rug out in front of the fireplace. It was the exact duplicate of the rug that he and Peter made love on over 500 years ago. He knelt down on it, feeling the nap.

"Where'd you find it?" He asked absent-mindedly.

"From an antique dealer in New York, oh gods, about a hundred years ago." Peter smiled gently. "Like it?"

Methos smiled back. "Love it."

He knelt down on the rug in front of Methos. "We need to talk?"

Methos stood. "We need to talk. Beer first. Talk later. Be right back." After he returned from the kitchen he and Peter settled down on the rug in front of the fireplace, propped up by some large pillows.

Silence grew in the room until Peter couldn't take it any longer. He said, "You first? Or me first?"

Methos sighed. "You first. Your story's got to be less complicated than mine."

Taking a deep breath and a drink of beer, Peter began. "Well let's see, I assume you want me to start a couple of months ago, right? Not 400 years?" At Methos' nod, he continued. "I had been living in Paris since, oh, I don't know, January, this year? Sounds rights. Anyway I was putzing around the old book stores, feeling sorry for myself."

"Why?" Methos asked.

"Because I was lonely. I haven't had a lover for years, and one-offs get so tiring, you know? Like I was saying, I was haunting some old bookstores, and I felt a Presence. Ducking inside, I peered out through the window and thought I saw someone I knew go by, obviously trying to fade out of range. 'Damn,' I said to myself. 'That's Methos. It has to be.' My heart damn near leapt out of my chest. So, I hired a private eye to find you. I knew that after our last parting you'd be hard to get close to, so I had someone else do the work for me." He shrugged. "When I got your number, I called. Then you ran." Tears filled Peter's eyes. "That hurt Methos. That really hurt. After all these years you still hated me."

Methos lay a hand over one of Peter's. "I didn't hate you, love." He said gently.

Peter jerked his hand away. "That's not how I saw it," he said coldly. Wiping his eyes, he continued, "So I had you followed. Interesting course you took." He looked into his old friend's eyes. "Tell me the truth. Were you running from me?"

Methos returned his gaze steadily. "At first, yes. I was running." He shrugged. "But then, the wandering spirit took over and I just got into traveling around the continent." He stretched and got comfortable again. "I've . . ." He stopped himself. My turn later. "Finish what you're saying. So I was being followed, huh?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. The only thing I missed was a first hand account of the Quickening in Zurich. My private saw you and the kid go into the alley and saw you come out again. He ducked inside a pub when he saw the lightening storm come up. I guess I don't need to tell you how relieved I was when I heard about it."

"Why?" Methos interrupted again. "So you could take my head instead of some stranger?"

Peter glared at Methos. "Methos, stop that. You're being vindictive. That's not like you."

"It is now." Was Methos' reply.

Peter looked deeply into the gold-green eyes that had made him fall in love with Methos in the first place. They were dark now - dark with anger. "You're mad at me because of how I treated you earlier, aren't you? Because I kicked you."

"And spit on me."

"And spit on you."

"And threatened to take my head."

Peter nodded reluctantly. "And threatened to take your head. Is that why you're so angry with me?" Peter moved closer to Methos. "I was mad at you. I tried to make a friendly overture towards you in August. And now it's November. Yes. I was mad at you. I lost my temper." Tears again gathered in Peter's eyes. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I was just looking for an old friend." He stood and walked away from Methos towards the outside door. He said, over his shoulder, "I had your car taken back to the rental agency. You can take mine, the keys are in it. It's parked on the dock next to the barge." He reached the outside door before Methos came up behind him.

"No, wait, don't leave." Methos put a hand gently on one arm.

"Why should I stay?" Peter snapped. "I've done nothing but fuck up since I saw you. Not to mention how I made you act 400 years ago to break us up." He turned to face Methos. "I can't stay. I just can't. It's better to be lonely than to be hurting you constantly." He looked down at the hand on his arm. "Let me go, Methos." He said softly.

Methos replied, just as softly, "No."

Peter looked up into Methos' eyes. "No?" Methos nodded. "Why?"

"Because it's my turn to talk, to explain. If you want me to leave after that, I will - no recriminations. No fight." He tightened his grasp slightly. "But I get to talk first."

Peter nodded. "Beer?"

"Always."

This time Peter made the beer run while Methos fed the fire. It was snowing heavily now, and the barge was starting to cool down. When they had both re-settled themselves on the rug and pillows, Methos began speaking.

"I'm going to skip over the strange details, if you don't mind, involving a nightmare and a kitten, and start back a bit earlier. Why I ran." He took a long drink of beer. Peter nodded and Methos continued.

"Remember a talk we had not too long before we headed for the Congo?"

Peter's brow wrinkled in thought. "Before the Congo. We were in London, just after the plague hit." He recited slowly, voicing his memories. "We were walking down the street and you said that the piles of bodies reminded you of when you rode with the Horsemen." He flushed remember the fight they'd had in the Congo that ended his his death. In those last days he'd kept bringing the Horsemen up to Methos. He looked at Methos. His own eyes widened. "The Horsemen?" He said in horror. "They're back?"

Methos shook his head. "No. They're not back. They're all dead. Except for me."

"When? How? Why? Even Silas?" Peter had met Silas during a trip he and Methos had taken through what was now Romania. The friendly giant had struck him as a good man.

Methos was silent for a long while. Peter took the opportunity to study him. He looks older now. He's lost a lot of the fun in life we used to share. By the gods, something I did scared him so bad he had to run. The phone call. I should have gone in person. he thought.

Methos began speaking again. "Kronos found me. Here in Seacouver as a matter of fact." He laughed lightly, sadly. "Why is it that my past keeps catching up with me here? Anyway, he found me. Said he was going to bring back the Horsemen. He took me first, I think, because he didn't know that Silas and Caspian were still alive."

"Took you? As in 'killed you'?" Peter studied the man across from him.

Methos laughed ruefully, "As in a dagger in my chest." He finished his beer. "To make a very long, unpleasant story short, but still unpleasant, I enlisted a friend to help me get rid of them. Oh, I forgot to mention that the witch was around also."

"Cassandra? What the hell was she doing around you? I thought she vowed to kill you the next time she saw you."

"She tried. She drug my friend into the battle. I had no choice in dealing with her. Luckily I kept my head."

"She's dead, then?"

"No." He tried to drink from his empty bottle, and failed.

"More?" Peter asked. At Methos nod, he said. "Let me get it. Keep talking."

"Okay, let me think. I managed to get my friend to kill Caspian and Kronos." He accepted the fresh beer, and took a long drink. "Thanks."

"And Silas? Did the witch take him?" Peter asked as he resettled himself on the rug.

Methos shook his head sadly. "No, though I sometimes think it would have been better if she had. No, I took his head. I had no choice." He sighed deeply. "A lot of nights, the long, dark ones, I can still feel him," he tapped his chest with his bottle, "here, inside me. He's been a hard one to let go of." It was Methos' turn to have tears appear in his eyes. "I loved Silas, Peter. Kronos and Caspian were brutes, animals. But Silas had a tender soul. He was a warm light during a period in my life that was nothing but cold darkness." He drew in a breath and wiped his eyes. He sat up and swallowed. "Anyway, that was about two years ago. I haven't been back to Seacouver since then."

"And I forced you here?" Peter questioned.

"No, not really. Well, in a way you did. I was getting kind of tired of wandering around Europe and the weather was getting cold."

Peter, looking out a porthole, noting the weather, wryly said, "So you came here? Methos, have you noticed that it's snowing out there?"

Methos grinned. "The weather here had nothing to do with it. I made a good friend here about, oh, four years ago. I hadn't seen him in awhile, and I knew I'd have a place to stay." At Peter's upraised eyebrow, he amended, "I knew that I'd have a place to hide."

It was Peter's turn to interrupt. "Who is the friend of yours anyhow? My competition?"

"No, not by a long shot. His name's Duncan MacLeod."

Peter broke in again. "MacLeod? Is he any relation to Connor MacLeod?"

"Um, yeah, same clan, I think. Why?"

"I ran into a Connor MacLeod about a century ago. We almost challenged each other over a misunderstanding." Peter ran his hand across the rug's surface. "He's the antique dealer I got this from. He's a very nice guy. Great person to have at your back. Has a taste for good scotch."

"That's Connor. Hell, that's Duncan, too." He finished his beer with his second drink. He stretched back against his pillow, then relaxed again. "That's the basic background of why I ran, Peter. Between nightmares from the Horsemen, Silas' ghost haunting me, and my name getting around, I was ready to run at the slightest excuse."

"And I gave you that excuse." Peter handed Methos a fresh beer. "What's this Duncan MacLeod fellow got to do with the Horsemen? And with the witch still being alive? For that matter, what do you mean that your name is getting around? You've still left a open a lot of unanswered questions, Methos.

"You've always had a good memory, haven't you?" Methos asked gently. He hoped that he could gloss over the worst of the pain, but Peter wanted the whole story. Well, hell, I guess he deserves it. "Like I said, I met this MacLeod fellow about five years ago. In a way, yeah, he's your competition." He paused to sip at his beer. "He's got the same sense of honor and loyalty that you do - only he uses it like a weapon? Like a shield? I don't know how to describe it. Anyway, we met through a mutual friend, and my life has been pure chaos since then. You know, before I met him I hadn't taken a head in at least 200 years? In these last five years I've taken, oh, ten? Fifteen? It's been insane. I hang around the Highlander and I end up killing people. And the worst part is the fact that my name's somehow being spread through the Immortal community, such as it is. I spend more time deleting messages from challengers on my answering machine than actually returning calls to people I want to see."

"Just exactly how are they getting your number? I know Methos isn't listed in the Paris directory."

Methos shook his head in disgust. "I'm not real sure, but I suspect the witch is behind it. Probably writing my name and number in dark stalls around the world."

"And my innocent call spooked you." Peter's face fell.

"No, Peter, no. You've got to understand. From my point of view, your call wasn't innocent. To me, that morning, it was another call from a challenger. Only this challenger was an old lover with whom I'd parted on unfriendly terms. That's what spooked me. But we've gone over this part enough." He leaned back, grabbed a couple of apples and tossed one to Peter. Biting into his own, he continued. "Because I knew there was no way I would be able to kill Kronos myself, I tricked MacLeod into doing it. Unfortunately, because of the situation, I had to kill Silas at the same time. A double Quickening." He took a sip of beer. "I don't think I've every felt pain like that. And I don't plan on every trying it again." He finished off his apple and tossed the core into the fire. "The witch was there. She tried to take my head with Silas' axe after the Quickening. MacLeod recovered first and saved my life. Unfortunately, she got away." He was silent for awhile, lost in thought. "That's MacLeod for you. A Boy Scout. In every sense of the word." He narrowed his eyes, gazing fondly at Peter. "He reminds me of you."

Peter blushed. His sense of honor had long been a prickly point between Methos and him. He had one. Methos claimed not to. "Oh, so, you were looking to replace me, after all," he teased.

"Replace you?" Methos barked out a laugh. "I guess I missed one thing about MacLeod. He's as straight as my sword. You won't see him sniffing after anything that isn't female." His eyes twinkled with amusement. "But if it's female, he's worse than any dog you've ever seen!"

That last comment set both men off laughing and finally broke down the last of the barriers between them. Peter tried to stand up to reach the fruit tray, tripped on an empty bottle and fell directly onto Methos. Never one to pass up an opportunity, he started tickling Methos.

"Oh, gods, Peter, stop it!" Methos' laughter flowed freely. He tried to fight off Peter's hands, but only managed to get his hands snagged and held firmly. While this stopped the tickling, it left him vulnerable to another sort of attack, which Peter immediately took advantage of. Methos stretched his neck back as far as he could as Peter started kissing him gently at its base.

"Ooooooh," was the only sound that escaped Methos.

Still nuzzling, Peter whispered, "I've missed you, love. Truly missed you." Alternating kisses and words, he continued. "You taste marvelous. I must have more," and releasing Methos' hands he tugged off the sweater and T-shirt Methos had on and tossed them away. He returned to his first task and continued his line of kisses down Methos' chest. "Oh gods, Methos, you've gotten thin. "Doesn't that MacLeod fellow ever feed you?" He took a detour to gently tease each nipple in turn, raising them to tight buds.

Methos moaned and shivered. He had missed this. He had missed being treated like this, the attention. Being the one who was wanted. He moaned and arched his back as Peter continued his line down Methos' stomach, pausing to tease his naval, then sliding down lower until his progress was impeded by Methos' jeans. He started plucking at the buttons, but was grabbed under his arms and dragged upwards.

"Oh no you don't, not yet." Methos scolded. "Come here." His gold-green eyes glittered with anticipation. "Kiss me." Peter complied.

They explored each other's mouths thoroughly, breaking the kiss only long enough to catch a breath, then returning to their explorations. Methos had his arms wrapped around Peter's body holding him down tightly. Peter broke the kiss and pushed himself up enough to look into Methos' eyes. His own ice-blue eyes had gone dark with passion. "I want you. Now." Methos released him, and began undressing Peter. Pushing his hands away, Peter said, "Let me. When I said now, I meant now." He stood and quickly stripped of his shirt and pants. His throbbing erection sprang free as he pulled his shorts off. Methos, in return, had pulled his pants down, and rolled over onto his stomach. Positioning a pillow beneath himself to cradle his erection, he reached back and pulled Peter down onto him. Composing himself, he closed his eyes and willed his body to relax. "Now." Was all he said, and it was all that Peter was waiting for before he thrust hard into the waiting body below him.

"Ah!" Escaped from Methos' clenched teeth. Damn, that hurts. Oh, ah, yes, "Yes, Peter, yes." His thoughts became words as he thrust back against his partner. The dryness at the unlubricated joining was soon moistened by Methos' blood seeping from torn skin. It made the thrusting easier, and Peter quickened his pace and started thrusting harder, bringing himself to a climax.

"Oh. Gods. Methos. Oh. Gods." Peter chanted as he came, burying himself heart and soul into Methos. As soon as he could, he pulled out and rolled off onto his back, knowing what was to come. Methos hadn't climaxed, waiting for his turn.

As soon as Peter rolled off, Methos rose up, turned, and positioned himself between Peter's legs, pulling them up over his shoulders, kneeling with the head of his throbbing penis positioned against Peter's vulnerable anus. Glancing up, he met Peter's eyes and asked, "Ready?"

Peter nodded. "Now." And inhaled at Methos' instant thrust.

Methos, consciously, let a part of himself free, and began to enjoy the body captive beneath his. A session of rough lovemaking felt right. His wounded feelings about his treatment by Peter recently, melding with the anger he still held onto from the Congo expedition, allowed him to forget the tenderness that Adam Pierson had always shown his lovers and to let Methos free to control the joining. Methos, the five thousand year old man, that didn't let slights go unanswered.

Ripping the anus open, allowing blood to lubricate the rape, Methos buried his cock in Peter's ass. Bending over Peter's body, Methos began kissing and biting the man along his shoulders, drawing as much blood here as he had below. As Peter cried out from the pain, Methos thrust harder, and yet harder, forcing the man beneath him to sob out, "Please, Methos, please, no more, no more." Methos silenced Peter with a brutal kiss, biting lips and tongue, and driving his own tongue as deeply into the mouth as his punishing cock was driving into Peter's body. Not able to take any more pain, Peter captured Methos' tongue in his mouth and bit it - hard.

Methos gasped in pain, pulled his head back forcefully and spat blood into Peter's face. And came - hard. Even coming was painful. It had been so long. He thrust and thrust, each thrust driving cum deep into Peter's body. Methos finally collapsed against Peter, lay still for a moment, then pulled out and rolled away lying on his side, facing away from Peter. His voice was quiet. Peter could barely hear him.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I've done it again." His voice wavered, "Give me a second and I'll leave."

Peter didn't give Methos a chance to continue. He reached over and gatherer his lover into his arms. He pulled Methos close and cradled the shivering body against his. "It's okay, Methos, it's okay. It's no worse than what I did to you."

Methos tried to pull away and failed. "No Peter, it's not okay. I hurt you on purpose. I all but raped you. I meant to do it." He began weeping softly, wrapping his arms around Peter. "I'm sorry, so very sorry," was all he murmured.

Peter knew what he had to do, and he did it. He crooned to the head buried in his chest. He hadn't forgotten about Methos' violent side. It had reared it's ugly head several times during their long relationship, with all but the last time ending just this way, Methos ashamed of his behavior, and Peter being the forgiver, the comforter. It was a role he had accepted unwillingly, much the same way Methos accepted that he had no control over the violence when it happened.

They stayed in this position until Methos regained control of himself. By that time, both men had healed, physically at least, enough to get up and take showers - alone. Methos was still embarrassed by his actions, so he grabbed the first shower and then retreated to the kitchen to fix more food. Coming out of the kitchen with another tray laden with fruit, bread and cheese, Methos rejoined Peter on the rug in front of the re-stoked fire. Stretching out nude next to his lover, Methos grabbed some grapes and fed them to Peter.

"Ummm, thanks," Peter purred. "What, not peeled?" He protested gently as he chewed.

"Give it up, love," Methos replied, grinning and pushing another grape into Peter's mouth. "You were born much too late for that."

Peter chewed, swallowed and yawned, interrupting his feeding. "One can never be born too late for peeled grapes." He yawned again. "I'm sorry, Methos," he stretched out. "I'm bushed." He looked directly into Methos' eyes. "You wore me out."

Methos growled low in his throat and tossed the grapes away. He pushed Peter down onto his back, saying, "And I'm not done yet," as he rolled on top of him and began the lovemaking again, this time gently and tenderly, lasting a lot longer than the previous session.

Sometime just after dawn both men finally fell asleep, entwined with each other, having pulled an afghan over themselves to fend off the winter's chill.

To The Great Cat - Part Two

**Inscription on the royal tombs at Thebes