Disclaimer in part 0 ------------------------- Methos took a deep breath. "Duncan," he said. No shock, no denial. Duncan fled into the woods. At first he ran blind, disgracing Little Deer's people by the amount of noise he made. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he slowed, struggling with his anguish, tears wetting his face. How could he... ? How could he have... ? The terrain sloped sharply upward, and Duncan tired relatively quickly. He wanted to run until he exhausted himself, punished himself, but it wasn't practical in the dense underbrush. He stopped and sat where he was, feeling the damp earth chilly through his jeans like an intrusive memory. He pulled his knees up, rested his elbows on them, and hung his head in his hands. He had to face this. What had he done? He groped through his fuzzy memory and watched in horror as the images crystallized. *The delicious quickening over, 'Victory! I win again!' sings through his veins as he regards the headless corpse before him. Now to kill that fucking traitor, Methos, after beating him until all his bones are splintered and he bleeds from every opening. Still weak from the quickening, the fight, he raises his head to see that slave whore poised to give his traitorous brother an easy death. "Cassandra!" he yells. She should remember the punishment for disobedience. She hesitates, then raises Silas's ax again. "Cassandra!" he yells again, furious. "You want him to live?" she demands. Methos, the disgusting weakling, weeps on his knees, too cowardly to defend himself. "I want him to live!" he yells back. What does the cunt think? That she can have his brother's quickening? He'll tear her in half if she does it. Still shaking, he pulls himself to his feet, and puts away his sword, a katana. Not his sword, but it feels right. "I want him to live!" he yells again. Of course he wants him to live. His brother, his friend. They fought this threat together, didn't they? But Methos had his own ideas... that traitor. Cassandra sways and then drops the ax. She gives him a furious, betrayed look and leaves, her boots echoing in the concrete cave. Now the only sound is Methos' weeping. As he grows stronger he moves up behind the man, but he leaves the katana out of his hand. He wants Methos to live, but he must be punished. Punished for ... his betrayal. Yes, he ... what did he do? His enemy must have been powerful, for he knows this instant, raging hard-on would only grip him like this after an intense quickening. Around him, the scorched concrete and vaporized moisture also speak of the death of an incredibly powerful immortal. He releases his burning groin from its constraints, a belt now in his hand. Methos continues to sob, heedless of the danger behind him. Fury fills him, and he yanks Methos by the back of his jeans, flipping him on his side. He backhands him as a pre-emptory strike, and deftly rips open the fastenings of the jeans. "Mac?" Methos asks, breathless, his so-tricky eyes red and unfocused in shock. As strong now as he was weak moments ago, he pins the man's wrists in one of his hands and has the belt tight around them a second later. He yanks down the jeans, and a concealed dagger falls into his hand. Useful, particularly since the bastard has found his strength and has planted a foot in his attacker's solar plexus. The choice of strike was an insult, a non-damaging kick used against slaves or children, nothing like the piercing, wounding strikes due to a brother immortal. "Oof," he cries, but his fury burns brighter at the insult. He stabs the dagger into Methos' collarbone, hard, sinking it in to the hilt, feeling the bone splinter beneath the blow. With Methos screaming and convulsing in agony, he rams his cock into Methos' ass. This was what he wanted! Pain, punishment, connection ... Blood streams along his arm holding the dagger, and trickles wetly around his balls as they pound against that skinny, muscular ass. So tight! So ... good. How he has wanted this. This triumph, this conquest. His already urgent need sharpens exquisitely and he rides a now limp Methos with brutal force. Stroke ... stroke ... pounding ... pounding. He sneers with pleasure. So good, so tight. He gives the dagger a twist and is rewarded with a new scream and a vise-like clamping of gluteal muscles. Ah! Ah! Yes! He has little hope of holding off the tidal wave, and little interest in doing so. It crashes over him, only a faint echo of the earlier quickening, but delicious in domination, nonetheless. "Ahhh," he grunts and recovers, sweat dripping into his eyes, hair hanging in his face. Hair? Yes, his hair. His long hair. That was right, wasn't it? He shoves Methos from him and gazes in confusion at the bleeding, sobbing man, the dagger still protruding from his shoulder. The blood flows only slowly now. Shock, he thinks. He should be treated for shock. After someone takes that dagger out of his shoulder. He can't heal with that there. Not me, I put it there; I can't take it out. But ... someone needs to remove that dagger. I'm the only one here ...Confused, but feeling a primal imperative to give aid, he reaches out to grasp the dagger. "No!" screams Methos as he inches away, his jeans still at his knees, blood covering his pale, almost translucent skin. Methos' sweatshirt rumples up, showing ribs beneath the skin in high relief. Abruptly weak again, and deeply disoriented, he turns to leave the place. But, the dagger ... Methos' own hands are still bound. He approaches cautiously, trying not to stagger with exhaustion. "Let me ..." But he doesn't know what he wants to say. He wanted this man punished, right? It's no more than he deserves. He sways, very close to fainting. He lowers his head for a moment to restore his own blood flow to the brain. Watching him through pain-filled eyes, Methos allows him to approach the bound hands and remove his belt from them. Relieved, he stumbles toward the exit Cassandra had taken. "Duncan," Methos calls. That's my name, he thinks. He's calling me. He stops. "Don't..." Methos falters, "leave." He doesn't want to, he finds. He wants to stay near this man, make him a part of himself. But he's too confused and exhausted. And ... guilty? Why guilty? He leaves, seeking daylight.* Duncan's entire body in rebellion, he heaved and threw up the power bars and the fish. Grief ripped at him, shredding his world. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing could ever be the same. His floating thoughts returned to the submarine base like a magnet had drawn them there. Remembering his thoughts then, he marveled at Kronos's presence in his own will. How could he have been so weak? He should never have let that happen. He flinched away from those searing memories and cast further back, to Caspian's quickening. It, too, had burned his spirit and hammered his psyche with vile, twisted imagery. He had tumbled in that quickening, as well as in the river. When he had finally climbed out of the river, he had thought it was over, but now he remembered how a deep hate had smoldered in his heart. Was it his own hatred for Kronos? He had believed so, then, but now he doubted. He doubted everything, particularly about himself. He sat, numb, as the night deepened around him. His thoughts moved slowly, weighed down with pain. He had done the unthinkable, and to a man who had been a friend. How could he ever make amends for such a thing? Even if Methos were Duncan's worst enemy, Duncan would never have done that. Never. Disconnected, Duncan lost his sense of the passage of time. At some point he became detached from his deeply chilled body. The floating sensation was a relief, in that it separated him from the soul-deep agony of his memories, but he vaguely recognized that shock had made him more vulnerable to hypothermia. Why shouldn't he freeze to death? What difference could it make, really? But an innate, stubborn reverence for life propelled him to choose not to die. Slowly, Duncan's thoughts cleared, and his miasma of grief lightened. He thought, haltingly, reluctantly, of Methos. Duncan had been furious with the man, disappointed in him, disgusted with him, and had felt betrayed by him. All judgments, he now felt, which could only be rightly made by a good man. He was no longer certain that he qualified. And where did that leave him? He hurt so much; was there anything he could do to lessen the pain? Any redemption? He knew the answer. He had to return to Methos. Gathering his cold-stiffened limbs, he made his way slowly back to where he had left Methos. The dark of the forest around him felt alien, hostile. He had not gone far before he saw the flicker of firelight to guide him, but he faltered, fearing this meeting as he had feared few things in his centuries of life. His last steps forward were like the final steps which took him to Tessa's corpse. His world was about to change forever, because of his failure. He paused just out of Methos' view -- foolish, really, Methos could certainly feel him, but he felt oddly that he needed an invitation. Methos sat by the fire, a blanket tossed over his shoulders like a cloak. For all his complaints about wanting his comforts, he managed to appear as relaxed and at home as he had on Duncan's couch. "Are you coming out, MacLeod?" he asked. Duncan stepped into view, and the two men regarded each other in silence. "You're still here," Duncan said, cautiously. "I wanted to keep an eye on you. I thought I knew why, but now I'm not so sure." Methos shrugged and began to kick dirt onto the fire. "I'm glad you didn't take all night." "You knew I'd come back." "For more than one reason." Methos shook his head. "A double quickening," he said, as if to himself. "Fire or ice, I wonder." He picked up some bound tree boughs, which he had fashioned into a torch, and lit them with the last of the fire. He smothered the embers and held the torch up. "Do you want my head?" he asked. "No!" Duncan exclaimed. "Do you want mine?" "If I said yes, would you give it to me?" "No," Duncan answered, startled. He had only been gauging Methos' resentment, and also testing Cassandra's legend. "Good. I've never wanted your head, MacLeod, not even when you were being an ass." Duncan's shame flushed through him, returning his nausea. Methos seemed to read his thoughts. "That's not what I..." The torchlight showed a look of weary irritation on his face. He looked away. "It's late. I don't know if we'll be able to catch a ride on the road. I was thinking -- this stream probably feeds into the Pique not too far from here. Then we shouldn't have to go far before we find a resort or two. "Or not," Duncan replied, trying to sound normal. Not that there could be much normal about a casual discussion between rapist and victim. "I know a cabin near here. I'm going there." He set off toward the pass and the road, not willing to explain more. If Methos chose a different destination, it would almost be a relief. And it would prove that the two of them *could* part. But Methos followed, bringing the light with him. They traveled in silence. Duncan still felt physically sick from what he had remembered, but he worked dutifully at sorting out memories from fantasies. Both fell into place, and, once the memories were faced, they left behind fantasies which seemed to belong to Duncan only. Fantasies which would make it even more difficult to spend the night with Methos. The world looked very different than it had a day ago; the curtain of clouds had parted to leave a star-filled sky and a gibbous moon, which sent icy light down wherever the roof of trees failed to block it. Duncan had no difficulty locating the place where Cassandra's car should have been, but it was gone. Towed, he guessed. Probably the fate of all three cars. He retraced the path to where he had joined her, and from there, followed his instincts. Where would she build a cabin to retreat to? She would want a view, but want not to be in view. He hoped she hadn't ensorcelled the place and neglected to mention it. Methos saw it first. "Is that it?" He gestured with the torch. Duncan didn't answer, since he couldn't be sure. He headed toward the dark break in the trees, which held a solidly-built pine wood cabin with a steep roof. Cassandra's key worked, to his relief. He stepped inside. Methos jammed the torch into a wedge between some stones outside the door, and joined him. They both waited for their eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. Duncan felt Methos' presence behind his shoulder acutely. The hairs on his neck prickled. As soon as he could see, he stepped away. Looking around, he saw three rooms: the main room, a small bedroom, and an even smaller kitchen. The refrigerator -- door standing open and dark -- told him that the place had electricity. He probably needed to flip the breakers. He crossed the kitchen in three strides and unlocked a back door. From there he circled the outside of the building, using the moonlight to search for the breaker box. He found it and threw all the switches. Lights came on inside, spilling out of doors enough to show Duncan the water pump. He primed it, turned it on, and checked that it was drawing water. Reassuring, mechanical actions, which helped him not think about things. He went back inside, closing the door of the now humming refrigerator. Methos stood before a small fire in the fireplace, which was drawing nicely. He was not watching the fire, however. He stood, head cocked to one side, regarding a spinning wheel, which stood in a corner. He glanced at Duncan. "I take it this is not your place," he said. "I never said it was." Duncan rooted around in the few possible storage areas, and located bedding. He began making up the one full-size bed. Unfortunately, Cassandra had nothing resembling a couch or cot. Duncan brought extra bedding into the main room, intending to make a bed on the large wool rug in front of the fireplace. Methos stood at the large window, silhouetted against the blaze of stars above the clearing beyond. He appeared to be staring at the sky. He dumped the bedding onto the rug and joined Methos at the window. They both looked at the sky. "Have they changed any?" Duncan asked, quietly. "What? The stars? Since when?" "Since 5000 years ago." Methos breathed out in what could have been a snort. "You know they have." "But you can remember it." "So? I bet you remember how to set type by hand. Not that it will ever matter again." Duncan frowned. "Why do you do that?" he asked, almost to himself. Methos understood him perfectly. "Not dwell in the past? Three guesses." He threw Duncan a wicked look. "No, four." "Are you ever going to tell me about Kronos?" "He's dead now." "I know that." "So, he's in the past. You tell me, whose cabin is this?" "It's Cassandra's," Duncan said. "Were you planning to tell me that?" "Not if I could avoid it," he admitted. "My thoughts exactly," Methos replied, somewhat cryptically, Duncan thought. "And when can we expect the lady of the house to return?" "I … don't think she's coming," Duncan faltered. He hadn't even considered that possibility. "Why not? Wasn't she intending to meet you here? She won't stay long at the hospital; they'll start wanting to check *her* out. She was on her way here, right?" "What if she does come? It might be for the best." "I don't think so. Don't you try to play peacemaker, MacLeod. I'm leaving." "No," Duncan said, his heart pounding. "Don't go. I thought . . ." he searched desperately for a persuasion. "I thought you needed to keep an eye on me." Methos gave a noncommittal shrug. "At least get warm," Duncan said. Methos looked at him, unreadable. "Stay," Duncan said. "The bed is yours. I'll take the floor." He stopped, uncertain. It was so important that he not make a mistake here. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said. Methos laughed. Not the reaction Duncan had expected. "Duncan, forget it," Methos said. He turned from the window and settled bonelessly onto the hearth rug. He tugged off a wet shoe. Duncan frowned and moved forward, kneeling next to the bedding and fidgeting with the blankets. He wished Methos would move away and let him set up nearer the fire. Methos had a warm bed waiting for him on the other side of the wall. "Forget it?" he asked, incredulously. "It wasn't you. Old quickenings can be hard to assimilate, they say. Kronos died hating me," he said. "Hating me a *lot.*" Duncan thought about that. "I hated you, too," slipped out of his mouth. Methos nodded, his mouth in a tight line. "That probably helped." Shit. So it was still his fault. "It wasn't you," Methos said, stretching his now bare feet toward the fire. "Move past it." "It's not that easy." "It can be." The firelight warmed Methos' face, giving his skin a ruddy glow. His eyes were shadowed, though, because his face was turned toward Duncan. Duncan suddenly thought that he'd like to see what the firelight did to Methos' eyes. But first he had to ask. "Was it easy for you?" Methos looked back at the fire. His voice was tight with annoyance. "You know, Kronos believed that I had lured you away from the hotel room in Bordeaux, expressly so the others could snatch Cassandra. Or so he said." "Was he right?" "He was giving me a chance. He could have killed me for meeting with you." Duncan sorted uncomfortably through this information. Not for the first time, he tried to imagine Methos with Kronos. Was it a joyful reunion of "brothers" or something else? Methos seemed to assume Kronos could easily kill him. And that he would. It didn't sound like fraternal camaraderie. It sounded like a deadly tightrope. Methos was trying to tell him something -- show him something, without apology. But Duncan feared he was too tired and . . . distracted to listen closely enough. "I can't just forget what I did," Duncan said. Methos lay back, stretching his long frame from the hearth to the far edge of the rug. He put his hands behind his neck. "Well, fine," he said. "Beat yourself up over it, then." Duncan swallowed. How could Methos pretend *he'd* forgotten it? Rape, Duncan knew, left huge emotional scars. How could Methos adopt such a relaxed and . . . exposed posture in front of him? "I'd give anything to undo it." And he'd give anything to quell the warm flush spreading through his abdomen. There was no denying, he thought ruefully, that this desire was for Methos, and he knew himself well enough to be confident that it had nothing to do with Kronos. Ironic that he should realize this now, when he had no right to act on it. A second flush met the first, but this one was of shame. Methos regarded him with half-closed eyes. "Anything?" he asked, lazily. Something in Methos' tone put Duncan on guard. There could be danger here. "But there's nothing I can do," he replied, cautiously. "You could make it up to me." He knew what Methos expected him to say, and he knew he could not deny him, no matter how manipulated he felt. "How?" he asked, resigned to any task. "I need a good fuck. With you. What do you say?" Duncan blinked. Had he really said that? His thoughts whirled, looking for a response. His body provided a response, once again making his pants too tight. He must have taken too long to answer. Methos rolled to his feet. "See, Highlander? Now, is it really so hard to just get over it? When the alternative is unthinkable?" _________________________________________________________________ On the road to retirement? Check out MSN Life Events for advice on how to get there! http://lifeevents.msn.com/category.aspx?cid=Retirement