And it’s a stupid misunderstanding. A message that didn’t get passed, a mistake he’s too damned old to be making. Now he’s lost the right to be angry. Goddammit—angry is so much easier. Now she’s going to think he’s crazy or that he’s overreacting way out of scale to the situation. In a minute she’ll get up and leave, because overt territoriality isn’t something she handles very well. Her history contains a broken jaw for Richie and a seven-month absence from MacLeod’s life to prove that. “Something bad happened while you were away.” Methos goes still all the way to the middle of himself and just sits there, breathing. His ears feel cold on the inside. Blood trickling around the worn stones and the ache in his chest from the wound that nearly disabled him, fighting to regain his feet, gasping from the Quickening and seeing double and stumbling in the rain. His old friend lying in two pieces at his feet. “Yes,” he whispers. Kait says nothing at all. No babbled clichés, no hellishly inane are-you-okay queries, no requests for more information. She doesn’t try to make eye contact or touch him to offer sympathy. She only slides out of her chair and pulls on her coat—weapons clanking faintly in the lining—and then stands close behind his chair until he does the same. He manages to shut off his brain during the ride home. It’s really really easy since he doesn’t have to worry about the possibility of conversation. His only coherent thoughts are about low clouds thickening in the sky and how they’re making the day seem shorter and darker than it should be. Duncan and Richie aren’t home. Like throwing salt, he offers up a silent prayer of thanks to gods that no one worships anymore. Methos doesn’t know what he looks like right now, but he has a feeling it’s more than a little frightening and he just doesn’t want to answer any questions. Kait finds him fifteen minutes later on the living room couch with his coat still on. She somehow scales the back of the couch holding two full cups of tea. The least hint of a smile traces his lips. Duncan’s always amused by the fact that Kait and Richie still have the youthful habit of jumping over obstacles that they could easily walk around. They must be the youngest students Duncan’s ever trained, because he doesn’t seem fully aware that their energy level isn’t going to change. Physical maturity will never affect them. They’ll have that teenage restlessness forever. Methos doesn’t envy them. She pushes tea into his hands, and curls up close enough that her knee and shoulder are solidly touching his. There’s a sob stuck in the back of his throat that he doesn’t want to let out. More than anything he doesn’t want to let it out. He did his grieving in Rome, afterward, and he doesn’t want to break down again out of numb gratitude that this child knows how to handle him. He feels more than half-ridiculous, needing comfort from someone who’s barely been alive compared to him, but he’s so tired. The light in the windows is fading. She’s looking at nothing with perfect alertness and he knows most of her mind is occupied with hatred for whatever made him hurt while he was gone. He sits very still, the heat of her shoulder against his own, and hopes the others won’t come home anytime soon. He doesn’t want to move. END _____________________________________________________________ Get email for your site ---> http://www.everyone.net