Chapter Text
Taking a sip of champagne, Duncan MacLeod leaned on the railing of the second floor balcony and watched the holiday crowd in the ballroom below, wondering, wryly and not for the first time, how he managed to get himself into these things.
When one of his older, dearer, mortal friends, a fellow antiques dealer, had called him up a month or so earlier and sweetly begged for help in setting up her Christmas party, he should have known. "I just want to pick your brain, Duncan, really," Katherine had said, with just the right edge of pleading in her voice. "Rob has got it in his head that he wants to do Jane Austen this year, and you know that's just not my best period. Help? Please?"
To his chagrin, he'd heard himself agreeing. "But only advice, Katherine. I will probably be out of London the week you're having it."
Famous last words.
Ah, well. At least he'd managed to wring the promise from Katherine that she was not, under pain of death, to mention that tonight was only a day off from his birthday. That would draw far more attention to himself than he wanted to deal with, and from a crowd of virtual strangers, no less. Well, at least there were a few people here he knew: acquaintances from the antiques world, a friend of Katherine's he'd once dated. And Joe Dawson, bless him.
Katherine had been quite adamant that Mac invite as many of his own friends as he wanted -- "Really, Duncan, it's the very least I can do," -- and so he'd asked Joe, somewhat hesitantly, knowing the man had responsibilities to his own business during the busy holiday season.
To his surprise, Joe had agreed. "It'll make a interesting change, Mac, thanks. I think I'd like that."
And what had happened but that Joe had run into a fellow performer he'd not seen in a while, so the Watcher was now comfortably ensconced with his friend over by the chamber players, quite happily comparing songs and techniques and whatever else it was musicians talked about.
Which left him wondering about the only other person he'd cared to invite. Methos.
Who hadn't agreed to come. Or rather, hadn't really said one way or the other, in true Methos fashion, when Mac had extended the invitation even more diffidently than he'd done with Joe. "I try not to do trips down memory lane, Mac," and the shadow of their unexpected, painful brush with that period of Methos' past had flashed through Mac's brain with the raw, irritating clarity of perfect memory. "Nor am I much into retro fashion, either. I'd hate to try finding a tailor in this century who could fit the clothes properly. And you are asking me because…?"
"Because then I'll be assured of some intelligent conversation and a deterrent to strangling some vapid airhead." Yes, that had sounded half-way convincing.
Methos had looked almost like he was suppressing a grin. "And what do I get out of this?"
"My undying gratitude." That had not impressed. "And a lot of free, high-priced alcohol."
Methos had eyed him a moment longer with an expression he'd had no chance of deciphering, then smoothly changed the subject.
Mac hadn't found it that hard, really, to find the appropriate clothes; they were in London, after all. Although finding them had reminded him of why he'd not been fond of the fashions: glove-fit breeches and coats so tight he couldn't lift his arms to shoulder-height, never mind fight in them.
But here he was, outfitted in the best of Regency splendor, watching the happy mortals mingling on the ballroom floor just below him, and getting wistful, remembering other parties and happier days.
The prickle started suddenly, a tremor up his spine, and became full-blown Presence, deep and resonant, a complex chord echoing and never quite resolving…only one Immortal had a buzz like that. The only Immortal he'd ever come to be able to recognize by the feel of his Presence alone.
He watched as a new group of party-goers entered through the tall double doors at the far end of the room and -- there, at the back.
Methos.
The oldest Immortal's head was up, clearly looking for him, and their eyes locked. For a moment the rest of the room faded. Then Methos gave him a slight nod and the edge of his quirky smile and turned to survey the room, accepting a glass from one of the uniformed servers, looking utterly calm and collected.
Mac wished he could say the same. He was, at that moment, unutterably glad for the stone railing in front of him as he tried to regain his composure.
Methos was the very picture of sartorial perfection. His usual careless appearance was completely gone, vanished under beautifully tailored clothes and champagne-polish boots. His white cravat held the points of his shirt collar high and close to grace the lines of his neck and chin, the snowy fabric tied in some style that Mac had no trouble believing the man might have taught to Brummell, a pin winking from the folds. A patterned golden-tan waistcoat gleamed between the lapels of his burgundy cutaway as he turned again, and below that, close-fitted trousers of a darker gold showed off his long, long legs in a way that jeans never quite had. Methos was, quite simply, built for the fashions. Even his posture was different, more upright, the tight coat emphasizing his normally hidden breadth of shoulder.
Mac tried to swallow in a throat gone desert-dry. Methos was elegant and fine; a portrait of masculine beauty.
He was also walking, breathing sex on two legs.
Methos was looking up at him again, eyebrows asking the question. Are you coming down, or shall I come up? Then he was heading toward the stairs. He had reached the first step before Mac succeeded in shaking himself free of the trance engendered by the other man's fluid grace, which also drew the eyes of many of the women present.
And no few number of the men.
Mac met him halfway down the staircase, at the first landing. Methos leaned back against the heavy stone banister and made Mac a small salute with his glass. The older man's expression looked to be equal parts bemusement and chagrin, as though he couldn't quite believe he was where he was. Mac couldn't quite control his grin. "Found a tailor, I see."
"Dry cleaner, actually. It's frightening what one discovers cleaning out the closet."
While Mac wasn't sure he believed that, it would explain the excellent fit. "Adam, I really do appreciate your coming," Mac said, careful to use his friend's 'public' name.
"Yes, well, you'd better, because you owe me big for this. I loathe costume functions, surrounded by people who've absolutely no clue what they're doing. Although I must say, this lot is better than most."
Mac found himself vaguely embarrassed, for some unknown reason. "Well, Katherine asked me for rather detailed descriptions for everything from the period. I tried to oblige." Keeping his eyes on the crowd, he felt his companion watching him. Methos raised his now mostly-empty glass again.
"You succeeded."
Mac felt the slightest tinge of flush, to his own startlement, at the compliment.
Methos seemed not to notice, turned to lean forward against the railing, watching the crowd below. “Ah, Regency England," he commented after some minutes. "Tried to avoid the larger gatherings like this. But I attended a fair number of more—intimate ones, before I had to leave.”
The older man's eyes widened suddenly, his expression one of having said something he hadn't intended and wanted to retract, but it was too late. Mac's breath caught as the picture slammed unbidden into his mind, in brilliant Technicolor complete with soundtrack. “Yes, I know."
Damn.
He swore quietly as he caught Methos’ minute flinch, the hazel eyes squeezing closed for a moment. It'd been out of his mouth before he could stop it; why in the hell had Methos brought that up? Mac certainly had had no intent of raising the ghost of Byron between them, tonight of all nights, or any other night for that matter; judging from Methos's reaction, neither had he. But the sudden image had been blindingly strong, Methos-then overlaid on Methos-now. Longer hair, sideburns. Similar clothes, much smaller party. Intimate? Indeed. And the feelings Byron had had. Oh yes, those were similar as well. “Adam, I didn’t mean to—“
“Mac.” Very soft, but it stopped the words in his throat. “It’s over and done. Let it be. Don’t insult either of us by apologizing for something you don’t regret.” Methos’ voice was harder than it had been, and finely edged.
Mac swallowed. “Not for that. You’re right, I don’t regret my actions. But I very much regret the necessity. And..." he took the plunge, and laid his hand on the other man's arm, "I regret far more that I caused you pain."
Stillness, and an air of surprise; then Methos blinked once, slowly. The muscles under Mac's hand relaxed, and to Mac's relief and delight, the older man laid his own long-fingered hand over Mac's and squeezed once, briefly. Then he extricated himself neatly, in the guise of snagging two more flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, and Mac let him go. His palm tingled, and he resisted the urge to rub it.
Methos turned back and handed him one of the glasses. Mac set his empty down on the waiter's proffered tray. The waiter moved off, and Methos met Mac's eyes and lifted his glass. "L'Chaim," he said, his cultured voice rich, his pronunciation perfect, his eyes never leaving Mac's. To life. Mac felt the hair at his nape rise. So much meaning invested in that one short word.
He raised his own glass and touched it lightly to Methos'. "I'll drink to that."
A moment more their eyes connected, then they both turned to watch the crowd below, as if in mutual agreement. Mac inhaled, drawing in the subtle spice of Methos' aftershave and the subtler tang of the man himself, enjoying the warm feeling that washed over him. Something had just been settled between them. He wasn't sure quite how, but it had. And riding that feeling, he let instinct take over and again laid his hand on Methos' arm. "Have you met our redoubtable hostess yet?"
Methos gave him a small but very genuine smile, green-gold eyes sparkling. "No, but I've a feeling I'm about to. Lay on, MacLeod," he misquoted, his smile widening fractionally at Mac's eye-roll and look of disgust.
Mac turned and led the way down the stairs, careful not to let Methos see his own grin. 'He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases.' God, but it was good to have the other man back in his life, even though it had taken the tragedy of Connor MacLeod's death to change things. And having finally gotten you back, I'll not let past or present estrange us again. Not if there's anything at all I can do to stop it.
###
Some fifteen minutes later, Mac watched 'Adam Pierson' move off to chat with Joe, then turned his attention back to his hostess. He was amused to see her also watching Adam's departure with a rather considering look. He leaned down by her ear. "Katherine, you're married," he teased.
"Married, not dead," she tossed back at him, her eyes mischievous. Katherine Dunning was a classic example of the fair Celtic type, with white skin and dark hair, wrapped in a lovely silvery gown that threw a hint of purple into her gray eyes. She was as obviously English as her husband Rob was American, with his bulky frame and features not to be pinned to any particular ancestry.
"Duncan, do I know you well enough to ask a rather personal question?"
"Well, let's see. You knew me before I met Tessa, we've had dinner, we've dated, we more than dated, I was at your wedding…." Mac pretended to consider, then pretended to wince as Katherine smacked him on the arm.
"Wretch," she smiled at him. "So, where did you meet him?"
"Paris, a few years ago." Only a few years, truly. It just seemed as if it had been several lifetimes.
"He's not a dealer, I think?"
"Historical research, actually." Oh, there was a mouthful.
She was quiet for a few moments, and Mac became aware that she was watching him now, not Methos. Watching him watch Methos. Uh oh…
"Duncan." She pulled his arm gently to bring his head down. "Are you and Adam --together?"
Mac stayed carefully still for a moment, consciously resisting the urge to blink. Or sigh.
He met Katherine's eyes and was -- relieved? startled? -- to find nothing but affection and curiosity. "Why do you ask?" he said, pleased with how normal his voice sounded.
"Because you…light up, for lack of a better term, when you look at him."
He did close his eyes then. Dear God, was he that obvious?
"And I don't think you're terribly obvious, it's just that I've seen you that way before. You looked at Tessa that way, but no one else that I remember. Certainly not me."
That popped his eyes open, and he took her arm. "Katherine…"
"Darling, it's all right. You were never in love with me, which is fine, because I was never in love with you, either. But I do love you. And you should be happy, Duncan."
He sighed, giving in. "It's -- complicated."
Katherine smiled, looking wry. "Of course it is. The worthwhile ones always are."
Mac grinned, remembering the wild, merry, painful chase she and Rob had given each other. And how happy he and Tessa had been for them when they finally stopped running and admitted the inevitable. And how Tessa had been sure of them from the beginning.
"Go get him, Duncan."
"I don't know if --"
"He is."
He narrowed his eyes at her; she'd answered a different statement than the one he'd been about to make. "How would you --"
She grinned back in that way that had always made her look about sixteen and very, very naughty; then shrugged, the movement looking rather out of place with her gown. "Women's intuition? I don't know, darling, I can't explain it. But he is interested, I'd bet you a nice dinner on it."
It'd be a sucker bet. Interested? Sure. I'm four hundred years old and have eyes in my head; I can see that he's interested. Or was, anyway, before…. But not the way I am. Not the way I want him, need him to be. God help me, I couldn't just have sex with you, Methos. Casual with you is not an option. It would tear me apart, and then it would destroy what we have left. Or worse yet: somehow, some way you might come to love me -- and then leave. Or die. Like Tessa did; like they all did. No. No. Better the ache of never-having than the agony of had-and-lost….
"Duncan?"
Mac refocused on the slightly puzzled woman in front of him. Taking her hand, he lifted it with a smile and his best Regency flourish, eyes never leaving hers. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your other guests? 'T'would be rude of me to take up more of your time."
Katherine gave him a curtsey and narrowed eyes, clearly recognizing the evasion for what it was. "You could always be infuriating, Duncan MacLeod, and I'd swear you've gotten worse."
I've had a good teacher. "Until later, then."
###
In the chair he'd commandeered next to Joe, Methos sipped at his champagne, watching the room in general and Mac in particular, trying not to be too obvious about it. The champagne was good quality; too good, in fact, to last much longer. It had to be costing the hosts a mint. He wondered absently what his chances might be of getting a decent beer instead, then dismissed the thought. It wasn't that sort of party.
Whatever it was that got served when the champagne ran out, he'd keep drinking it. It would certainly help him get through the evening.
Not that he was going to get drunk tonight, not at this rate and certainly not with his Immortal metabolism cleaning up behind him. But perhaps he'd get mellow enough to blunt the impact of the man standing some feet away, chatting politely with the hostess.
The sight of Mac tonight had been like a blow to the stomach, sudden and sharp, leaving Methos feeling like an axis somewhere had shifted. Mac had been standing on the second landing, looking for all the world like the manor lord. A crisp white shirt and black breeches hugged his muscular body like a glove, the stark contrast highlighted by a waistcoat of dark, subtle green. His white cravat was touched with the same green and expertly tied, throwing his golden skin into warm relief. Over it all was a cutaway coat in a deep, warm sable, almost the exact color of Mac's hair in the sunlight. He was utterly magnificent.
Methos was fairly certain that he'd been able to hide his reaction from the Scot. Now if only he could hide it from himself. Mac looked, to put it bluntly, edible. And Methos wanted, with an ache so sharp it was nearly physical pain, to grab him and take a bite.
Or maybe a lick.
Make that several hundred licks.
He ruthlessly throttled the line of thought before his body could react further. The tight breeches he wore, while more comfortable than they looked, hid absolutely nothing. And while he'd ceased being discomforted millennia ago by what were, after all, perfectly natural reactions, he just didn't feel like dealing with a raised eyebrow and sly comment from either Mac or Joe. Not tonight.
No, tonight he just wanted to relax and enjoy the vision of the Scot in those obscenely flattering clothes. A small, wry smile quirked his mouth -- so much for not thinking about it. From the corner of his eye he saw Joe notice. Then decide not to notice, which only made Methos smile again. He'd always given the Watcher high marks for intelligence. Besides, he was pretty sure Joe had figured it out years ago, anyway. It wasn't as though Methos had made a great secret of it, after all, in those first years. Before Alexa. Slowly again, after Alexa. Before Kronos' arrival, and Methos' own right-on-the-edge-of-duplicity, had ripped great holes in his and Mac's friendship. That they'd been able to reweave it, slowly, gradually, into something with a stronger, truer fit qualified as rather a miracle, considering who and what Mac was. What Methos was.
Mac's apology tonight had settled something for him in a way that he hadn't realized he'd needed. Not for Byron's death, no; Methos had known for years that his former student was headed for a date with a sword. What he'd needed was Mac's acknowledgement of his loss, his grief, that they meant something. That what he felt actually mattered to Mac; that he, Methos, mattered. He snorted softly. Five millennia and you let your self-worth be affected by the opinions of a four-hundred year old child. How very mature of you, old man. It shouldn't matter, it really shouldn't. But it did.
Is that why I brought up Byron like that? He'd realized a second too late what was coming out of his mouth, but even so he hadn't been quite ready for Mac's response. Some Quickenings integrated more fully than others, he'd found, the memories more accessible. Judging by Mac's expression at that moment, the integration was total: the Highlander could see, and feel, everything Byron had experienced.
Which would include the sight of Methos naked on white sheets, arched up in passion.
Hell of a vision to have to be carried by a man who could barely stand to touch him.
When Mac had called those months ago to ask if he might stop by, Methos had known, realistically, that odds were the Scot had needed information of some sort from him. Still, the fact that he had called was progress, and cause enough for a celebratory glass of wine.
And in the aftermath of Connor MacLeod and Jacob Kell, Mac had come to him again. And stayed this time, at his cautious invitation, Mac's acceptance of which had shocked Methos nearly speechless. Why exactly he had stayed Mac never said, but stay he had.
The Highlander had been little more than a dark, silent presence at first, occupying his guest room and a big corner of the library. Brooding. Meditating. Exercising. Brooding some more. The same pattern he'd evinced again and again in times of loss and heartache.
But normally Mac would retreat and do it alone. The fact that Mac had chosen to do it in Methos' space this time was a good sign as far as Methos was concerned.
And Mac had come out of it far more quickly than Methos had expected. One month later Mac, and Methos and Joe, had gone to Scotland to lay Connor MacLeod to final rest, next to the remains of his first, beloved, mortal wife.
From there they had gone to the small house Mac had rented, not coincidentally on holy ground, and proceeded to get roaring drunk. Or at least Mac and Joe had; Methos had settled for relaxed. Somebody had to stay alert, after all, even there, or so he told himself. And Duncan had told Connor stories, long and sometimes loud, and late into the night. Methos had been deeply moved to be part of it, and if Joe was there too, well, he could live with that. It wasn't as though Duncan would have cried in Methos's arms, after all. Never mind that there was a tiny, treacherous part of Methos that wanted badly to be that close.
Okay, so that part wasn't so tiny.
Not then, and not now.
Because that was the other thing that had happened tonight to tip his world off-kilter again: Mac had touched him.
Twice.
Which was something that hadn’t happened since the O’Rourke dust-up, how many years ago? The shock then had been nearly as bad, too. When Mac had grabbed his elbow in the tunnel, Methos had started and looked down, to be sure it was truly Mac's hand on him, then looked up at Mac’s face, a wild and treacherous hope rising unbidden. There had been almost no physical contact between them since the Horsemen debacle, so even though the touch seemed almost unconscious on Mac’s part, Methos was encouraged by it. And later, on the barge, Mac had leaned in next to him, close enough to share body heat, as he’d delivered his little speech, one of the more oddly-worded olive branches of Methos’ experience, but an olive branch just the same. Methos had been shamefully glad of the bottle in his hands, something to focus on as his body cajoled him that if he’d just lean a little that way, they would touch…. But he hadn’t; he had only managed to murmur something appropriate to the moment and finish with the cork.
On-again, off-again; edge closer, back away: that was the dance Mac had trod since Bordeaux. That he seemed to want to save what was left of their friendship despite his obvious distaste of Methos' person was what Methos had clung to, desperately, in the bleak months after the demise of the Horsemen.
That night on the barge had been his last sight of MacLeod for five years. Five long years. Mac had gone walk-about. But he’d kept in touch, oddly enough, sending a series of postcards and the occasional email, sometimes to Adam Pierson but more usually through Joe Dawson. In time the communications began coming from London more frequently than any other location. When Mac mentioned that he'd taken on a renovation project there, Methos knew that the Highlander had settled again for a while. Shortly afterwards, Joe had bought a bar in London. And shortly after that, Adam Pierson had inherited a good bit of money and an old pile of a house, also in London.
Joe mercifully hadn't said a word, but the look in his eyes had been quite enough.
Still, it had been nearly another year before Mac had finally sought Methos out, to ask him the questions which had ultimately led the Highlander to the truth of Connor MacLeod's fate.
And in the aftermath, Mac had come to Methos again.
Methos hadn't known if perhaps he should be thanking the elder MacLeod's spirit in any part for that, but he had lit a candle one night, just the same.
Now, watching Mac chat with the lovely hostess, Methos decided it was time. Mac had given him an opening, just maybe, with his invitation to this party.
If that was the case, then Methos would take it.
Joe was not-watching him again, he noticed.
"Joe," he said, deliberately casual, "how are you getting home tonight? Did you come with Mac?"
Joe stilled, then half-turned in his chair and eyed Methos thoughtfully. "I did, actually, but my old acquaintance there…" he nodded his head toward the chamber players, "had asked if I'd be interested in coffee when they're done. Perhaps I'll take him up on it." The eyes beneath the grizzled hair were bright and sharp.
Methos nodded inwardly in approval -- Joe rarely missed much. "Capital idea, Joe."
"But you'll call me in the next day or two, no later. So we can catch up on anything I might miss."
"Of course." Methos took another sip of champagne. Not that there will be much to tell, I think, just a quiet "happy birthday" and perhaps a game of chess …but that will be enough.
###
It had turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant evening, all things considered. Methos could be delightful company when he chose to be, and he had chosen to that night. His wit had been a sparkling complement to Katherine's when Mac had gotten the two of them, himself, and Joe involved in conversation. He had even deigned to dance, both with Katherine and several other women present. After the first few turns Mac had had to look away, though, as the older man's lithe movements threatened to derail his own coordination.
But the party was winding down now, and he and Methos had taken leave of their hosts, and of Joe and his musician friends, and were making their way out to Methos' Rover, parked some blocks away.
They reached the sturdy dark-green vehicle, which was to Mac's eyes the probable twin to the one Methos had owned in Paris. Methos unlocked the front door and tossed his overcoat, with its concealed weaponry, into the passenger seat, then looked at Mac. "Thank you for a surprisingly pleasant evening, Highlander," he said with a small smile, sliding into the car.
Warmth crept through Mac at the unlooked-for compliment, along with a small thread of something that made him strangely uneasy, as though someone, somewhere, was holding their breath. "The pleasure was mine, Adam; thank you. Good night."
He turned away from the car, took a step—
“Mac?”
Turning to see that Methos had powered down the Rover’s passenger window, Mac stepped back in close, eyebrows up.
“Would … you care to stop by for a nightcap? I believe you’ve a personal occasion to celebrate now, since sundown if I’m not mistaken.”
Trust Methos to know the intricacies of Celtic timekeeping. “Not tired yet?”
“From that lot? Not a bit. Besides, I need a good beer to chase down all that champagne, and I’m sure I’ve got some decent whisky laid up somewhere….”
Mac had to laugh; the tone of intimate conspiracy in Methos’ voice was entirely too inviting to resist, beckoning him into where he wanted so much to be.
Oh, dangerous, Duncan MacLeod, to do this, feeling like you do right now. Will you be tempting Fate then, tonight?
What the hell.
He grinned, heated clear through by Methos’ half-smile and warm eyes. “Well, never let it be said that a MacLeod turned down a good –"
He froze as Presence washed over him. Who --? He straightened and swirled around, heard the small noises of Methos coming equally alert, shifting inside the car, looking for the intruder --
There.
“Well, well. Go for a walk on a snowy night, and one never knows who one might run into.” The voice was cultured and cold, and fit the unfamiliar face of its owner well as he moved into the meager light.
“I’ve no quarrel with you, nor do I want one,” Mac said as he sized the other man up, hoping. This was not how he had wanted to end his night.
“Nor I with you, but then that’s hardly the point, is it?” The stranger’s smile got nowhere near his eyes. “Challenge.”
Fuck.
“My name in this life is Richard Wiley. And you are?”
“Really not wanting to get into this tonight,” Mac snapped. “It’s the holiday, for God’s sake, can’t we give it a rest?”
“That is one of the reasons why we cannot. It is the Solstice, the longest night. A night for sacrifice.”
Behind him he heard Methos hiss something low and harsh, probably a curse in some long-dead language. He’d have to get the older man to teach it to him, he thought absently, it sounded suitably vicious. "And for some reason you've decided I'd make a good one, is that it?"
His challenger gave him a small, mocking incline of his head. "As you say. Your name, sir."
Fuck. No help for it now. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and you'll have your fight, but not here. The old Hollington yards, half an hour."
Wiley's smile widened. "And of course, one can trust the word of the MacLeods, whose reputation precedes them." He swept Mac a mocking bow and disappeared into the night.
The MacLeods. As in plural. God, that hurt.
"Get in, Mac, I'll drive."
He turned back to look through the open window again. "Methos, you don't --"
Methos' eyes glittered with … Mac wasn't sure what. "MacLeod, you just promised me a nightcap and I intend to collect. Get. In."
"I promised you? Wait a minute…."
But he tossed Methos' coat into the back seat and got in, and Methos hit the gas, harder than necessary in Mac's opinion.
The older Immortal was silent as he maneuvered the car out onto the main road, but there was tension in the set of his jaw. It was some minutes before he spoke again.
"I don't suppose there's any chance we could just continue on to my place and forget about this latest bit of macho posturing?"
Mac gave him a sour look.
"Right. Didn't think so."
###
The abandoned derelict yards were dark and silent when they arrived. Methos parked in the shadows on the outside of the tattered gates, which were chained closed but with more than enough gap to slip through. Duncan got out of the Rover and shrugged out of his long coat, tossing it onto the car seat. He needed to get out of his cutaway, which was far too snug to fight in. Then Methos was behind him, peeling the tight fabric down his arms and off. He tossed it into the car, then presented his back to Duncan, clearly requesting the same favor. Duncan did, filling his hands with fabric warm from the other man's body, and time seemed to slow as he slipped the coat down, his fingers brushing the hidden whipcord strength of Methos's shoulders and arms. Sensation rippled along his nerves. We could slip a few more things off, if you'd like….
Then the moment was gone as Methos turned and took the cutaway from him. He tossed it into the car and passed Duncan his greatcoat in exchange, then retrieved his own from the car hood. Thus again armed, they turned to the gates.
Duncan slipped through and took a few steps, scanning the area. Methos was a beat or so behind him, a silent shadow. A disapproving shadow, but here nonetheless. It warmed him, and annoyed him. But mostly it warmed him.
Methos' silence continued as they moved deeper into the yards, but his presence was a palpable thing at Mac's back, his Presence a low susurration in the back of his head.
Abruptly a new, harsher tingle skittered up his spine. Mac stopped, looking around, and caught the gleam of light off a sword blade as his challenger stepped into view across the clearing.
At his shoulder, Methos gave a soft sigh. "Right on time."
Mac looked over at the older Immortal, who met his eyes but apparently had said all he was going to say. Nor did he follow when Mac took the final few steps to enter the clearing, but moved some feet sideways, staying just under the shadows.
"Duncan MacLeod," the cold voice greeted Mac, carrying clearly over the space between them. Wiley moved toward him as he continued. "You are here, as you said. How commendable."
Mac wanted to growl. "I know how the Game is played, Wiley. And I am, as you said, an honorable man."
Wiley stopped some feet from him, eyes narrowing, focusing on the darkness to Mac's left. "And your friend behind you there, in the shadows? Does he also know?"
Interesting. The Presence of one Immortal would usually mask that of a second -- how had he known Methos was there? "Believe me, Wiley, my friend is as well-versed as anyone you'll ever meet."
Wiley smiled, not a pretty sight. But whatever he would have said in response was lost as he visibly started, his expression going from smug to shocked to something that looked for a moment like terror. And settled almost as quickly into rage. "You!"
Mac pulled his katana and looked to his left. Methos had taken the last few steps necessary to bring himself into the light, and it was upon his face that Wiley was focused.
"So sorry, but I don't believe we've met." Methos' voice was cool, giving nothing away, but his eyebrows were down, his expression telling Mac that he was a little bemused by the reaction he was getting.
"Met? No, I guess we haven't been formally introduced, have we?" Wiley snarled. "But then you never gave introductions, did you? And you'd have no reason to remember one small boy, staring at you from the wreckage as you nearly rode him down, one little face in the sea of carnage you'd made of our village, you butcher."
Mac's stomach dropped three floors as his enraged challenger spat out another word in some language he didn't know. But a glance to his left confirmed that Methos understood it.
The oldest Immortal's face had paled, eyes wide, lips parted. Then the look was gone, buried under the bland air that Mac had once taken for indifference. He now knew that it masked pain and regret so deep that Mac could only barely begin to fathom the depths. But Methos said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Mac ached for him.
Wiley started for Methos, sword up. Fast as thought, Mac intercepted, katana flashing out. Wiley halted with an almost startled look, as if he'd forgotten Mac was there. Methos' expression was undecipherable.
Mac smiled humorlessly. "I've got a prior claim on your head, Wiley."
Wiley snorted. "MacLeod. You can't know what this -- man -- has done, what kind of snake you've taken to your bosom if you call him friend. He --"
"I know." Mac cut him off before he could announce any more to the possible, probable Watcher lurking about somewhere. "Who he was, what he did. And I know who he is, now. You want his head, you'll have to go through me."
"Agreed," Wiley snarled.
The battle commenced with the ring of steel, blades flashing and feinting, gauging weaknesses and seeking openings. In and out, around, step and parry … time slipped away, became meaningless in the flow of the fight.
So Mac had no idea how long they'd been at it when he realized he was in trouble. Every swordsman used and developed a style, or several; every style had its weak points. Or every swordsman had a style with the exception of Methos, anyway; the old man had mastered so many that he never seemed to have any holes in his defense. Mac knew damn well that Methos had let him win, that first time they'd "played" in the dojo…. Dear God.
This man fought like Methos.
It was at that moment, the realization shocking almost like fear up his spine, that his foot slipped in something, old oil perhaps, throwing him off balance, and Wiley's sword scored deeply across his thigh, cutting tendon and muscle.
Pain shrieked along his nerves as his leg nearly folded under him, but it was nothing compared to the howling in his head, tones of doom he hadn't heard since his father had cast him out. You cannot beat this man.
Everything in his spirit rose up, screaming protest, sounding uncannily like a certain ancient, contrary, annoying son-of-a-bitch: Live, Highlander. Grow stronger, fight another day.
God damn it to hell, I'll not let Methos watch me die!
Then, past the pant of his own breathing, he heard Connor's voice.
The best swordsman in the world fears not so much the second best swordsman, but the second worst. Why? Because the second worst does not know enough, and may do something stupid, something you cannot predict.
Steel rang as Mac blocked Wiley's thrust, struggling to keep his footing, willing his injury to heal.
Something stupid.
Sweet Jesus, this had better work. Because he'd only get one chance.
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