Archive of Our Own ^beta

(A Highlander/Touched by an Angel Crossover)
by Maygra de Rhema

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GENEVA, 1995

The fingers twined in his were lax, but he didn't try to disentangle his fingers from hers, remaining by the bedside as he had for hours now. Days. The steady whine and blip of the monitors the only other sound in the room except for the occasional entry of a nurse or attendant checking on the patient. On him. Coffee brought out of compassion, a gesture of sympathy and understanding when no other help was available.

He had tried reading, attention focused for a few moments on familiar words. He couldn't read anything new, his attention span not that controlled or centered to take in things, words, he hadn't already memorized. His attention too easily diverted to any sound or movement--even imagined.

Because she hadn't made either, not in the two days since his vigil began...or concluded, the vigil beginning weeks ago. But she had been more conscious than not then, slipping in and out of lucidity without warning, the periods growing shorter. Until she finally fell to this...this twilight. Coma sounded to harsh for the lack of pain on her face...too kind for the lack of expression or life.

The machines were not to prolong her life, only to keep her from the pain, whether she was capable of actually feeling it or not. He knew too well that a body could feel pain even if the mind couldn't acknowledge it. The machines were for him, not her. He couldn't watch it and marveled that modern science had found ways to subdue even the traces of agony that could come with a death.

He had surrendered to the grief earlier, knowing there were only two ways to deal with it...let it come in its own time, its own way...or deny and deal with it later, probably when it was least desirable to do so. And it wasn't done with him yet. It had abated, for now. Left him calm in the wee hours between midnight and dawn...staff unwilling to make him adhere to the visiting hours. There had been so little he had been able to offer her but this...his company, his presence. A companion to ease her over the vast bridge she faced at the end of a hard journey.

"It won't be hard," a voice said softly and he looked up to see a familiar face on the opposite side of the bed, faint smile on the flawless mouth, green eyes filled with warmth and sorrow and a near perfect understanding.

"Andrew..." The name was whisper. The man smiled broader, not in humor but in a silent, comforting joy.

"I asked for this one..." he said crouching, laying his arms on the bed and catching the other small hand in his. "Sometimes it's yes...." the green-eyed gaze shifted to Methos, fair hair caught by light having nothing to do with the lamps in the room, or starlight or moonlight. "Reassuring to know you can still love this much, Meli-mateos," Andrew said.

"Don't....don't call me that, please," Methos asked, pulling his eyes from the radiant face to rest them on a less radiant but no less inspiring face.

"Sorry. Methos, then. I'll take care of her..."

Methos closed his eyes and leaned forward to brush Alexa's still warm lips with his own, the grief welling from deep inside again as he heard the sounds in the room change. The blip hesitated, faltered, then drone. The whine ceased, dropping to a hum as the lax body went limper still, collapsing in on itself exactly as if the spirit sustaining the dying body for so long had been lifted. He moved his lips to the limp hair, mouth pressed against the cooling skin as the nurses arrived silently, then the doctor.

He stepped back, releasing the small fingers. There wasn't anything left to hold onto as he pressed himself back against the wall while the doctor checked and rechecked, then marked the time on the chart a nurse held. The tubes and wires were removed, sheet deftly pulled up as the arms were gently laid on the whiteness.

"I am sorry, Monsieur Pierson," the doctor said, quietly, sincerely. Methos summoned a smile from nowhere. Faint, but reassuring, and almost honest.

"It's all right. Thank you...all of you for taking such good care ...." He stopped and the doctor nodded understandingly, ushering the staff out, one or two touching his arm briefly before the door was closed.

He almost wished they had stayed. Almost wished he had taken MacLeod or Amanda up on their offers to come with him. It had been a long time since he had faced this kind of grief. Too long. Sixty-eight wives--companions--in fifty centuries. He did the math in his head as he slid along the wall to crouch down. Unable to move forward, unable to leave. Heedless of the tears on his face. One companion every seventy-five years or so....except the last had been three centuries ago.

He had forgotten how much this hurt, how impossible it was to see past the pain when the loss was this fresh. And to face it alone....

No. Not alone...

There was a waft of air across his face. A feather light brush against his cheek as he closed his eyes and dropped his head back, surrendering tears, sorrow and control to the invisible strength that kept him company.

________________________________________________________________

SEACOUVER, 1996

"DeSalvo's Gym and Dojo, Martial Arts Training," the accented voice read with relish, liking the slide of words over her tongue as she stared up at the three-story brick building at the edge of Seacouver's business district. It hovered in between the more affluent downtown area and the less desirable environs of the warehouse and waterfront area. The building itself gave off an air that someone cared something for it, despite the graffiti laden walls and poor neighborhood. "Is Mr. DeSalvo the man we're here to see, Tess?" She asked her companion, turning to face the older black woman sitting in the driver's seat of the immaculate red Thunderbird.

"No. Charlie DeSalvo already made his journey home," Andrew said from the back, leaning his long frame between the seats.

"The man we're here to see is a friend of Charlie's. Used to be his boss and was a good friend," Tess said and pointed. "That's him..." she said with a grin.

Monica watched a man exit the building, broad shoulders and well toned body hidden by a long coat, the eyes obscured by dark glasses as he fished his keys out of his pocket and climbed into a Thunderbird, the twin of Tess' baby, save it was black and not quite so immaculate.

"His name is Duncan MacLeod," Tess said. "And he's your assignment, Miss Wings. There's a lot of anger stored up in that man, and a lot of grief. It's our job to help him see he doesn't have to carry it alone."

"A Scot. Broody bunch," Monica said, dark eyes already watching the man fondly. "But why are you here, Andrew?" She asked.

Andrew looked troubled, uncommon for the Angel of Death, and Monica felt compelled to lay her hand on her friend's arm and he caught her fingers, smiling faintly. "Because a good portion of what he feels stems from one source--a friend of his. Someone I know very well. Who shouldn't have needed me for a long time yet...."

"But something's happened," Tess said. "Take a good look at him, Monica. With your heart...Duncan MacLeod is one of the few...the special humans..." she said and Monica did as instructed, reaching for the truth about the man who was getting ready to pull out into traffic.

There was something odd about him, not quite immediate as if time stretched around him somehow...and she gasped softly. "He...he's one of the first....the First Children...." she murmured.

Andrew nodded. "A descendent, but yes. A few hopes left that all God's children can regain their physical Immortality."

"But we can't ...We're not supposed to interfere with them!" Monica said, surprised.

"No. Usually we leave them to the care of the Archangels, but this has become a special case," Tess murmured, all of them watching as MacLeod pulled out and Tess put the car into gear to follow him. "Their time is drawing to a close. Not immediately, but soon enough in their life-spans. And that man is one of their brightest hopes. Our job, and yours especially, Miss Wings, is to make sure he knows that he does have choices and that what seems to be true in one case may not be true in another."

"But the truth is always the truth," Monica said confused.

"Yes, baby, but that's not always obvious to humans," Tess said indulgently. "Now, Angel boy," she said as she pulled next to the curb while MacLeod pulled into a parking space in front of a back street bar. "I have to go see the man that runs this place and I don't think he's ready to see you again, yet."

Andrew chuckled. "No. Not yet. Besides, my assignment should be along in a few hours and I don't want to scare him."

"That someone you know?" Monica asked, smiling as he nodded. "But he knows you...why would he be frightened?"

"Not for himself, Monica...for MacLeod," Andrew said quietly as Tess got out of the car, Monica following quickly. When she turned to look, Andrew was gone.

"I've never seen Andrew look so upset," Monica said as they hurried across the street.

"I imagine it's harder to be the Angel of Death when you get called to the side of the same people again and again for centuries," Tess murmured. "Knowing that they are denied over and over...but still have to face all the pain and fear mortals have of dying. We call them Immortals, but..."

"I know," Monica said shuddering and drawing her finger across her throat. "It seems cruel."

"God is not cruel, Miss Wings!" Tess said affronted and then smoothed her black and gray hair around her face. "Now, I have some business with Joe," she said pointing at the neon sign outside the bar that displayed the name as well as the owner.

"Is he a friend of yours?" Monica asked as they got out of the car.

"Oh, yes! Joe and I go way back!" Tess chuckled with real delight as she pulled the door open.

"And what am I supposed to be doing?" Monica asked.

"You, Miss Wings, are going to get a job with Duncan MacLeod teaching self defense," Tess said.

"How am I supposed to do that?

"By applying to Joe for a job as a waitress," Tess said as they entered the darkened bar to the sound of glass breaking.

"But Tess...that doesn't make any sense..." Monica began. Tess had stepped to the side as a man came hurtling toward her, right into Monica. Without really knowing what she was doing, the less experienced Angel caught the man's arm, pulling him forward and then stepping into him, shoving him back the way he came. Right into MacLeod's arms. The Immortal looked at the petite redhead in surprised and then finished the confrontation that had broken out with ease and expertise.

A second man leapt on MacLeod's back and Tess shoved Monica toward the brawl. Monica felt rather foolish but it also piqued her anger that her assignment was being ganged up on by two. There were other fights going on as well, none of it very serious, but there was an awful lot of glass and wood breaking. Monica grabbed the shoulder of the man at MacLeod's back, pulling him away. He swung at her and she ducked, coming underneath his arm and flipping him over her shoulder. He lay on the floor stunned, staring up at her in shock.

"Two to one's not very fair," she said to him gently as she heard sirens. She glanced up to see Tess holding open the door for a half dozen uniformed police officers.

"The two on the floor and those two!" an older man directed from behind the bar. Weathered face scowling in anger as he pointed to the four men MacLeod and Monica had been trying to subdue.

"What started it, Joe?" On of the officers asked, handcuffing the man Monica had put on the floor. "Are you all right, miss?" He asked.

She smiled broadly. "Oh, yes! But thank you kindly for asking," she said sincerely.

"They were playing cards..." Joe was trying to explain. "It was like a bad Western. Somebody accused somebody else of cheating...."

"The officer nodded, pulling back a bit from the strong scent of alcohol on his prisoner's breath. "And a few too many..." he commented glancing sharply at the owner/bartender.

Joe held up two sets of keys, with a wry smile and the officer returned his grin. "It is a bar after all..." the policeman said, shaking his head. "We'll let them sleep it off...but this is your quota for the night, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah!" Joe said waving them out, surveying the wreckage of his bar with dismay. MacLeod was already righting tables and chairs while the rest of the patrons began settling again after the fracas. Monica reached down to help and MacLeod smiled at her.

"Thanks for the assist. You handle yourself very well," he commented as the two of them reset a table.

"You're welcome...just a little knack I have..." Monica murmured.

"You wouldn't happen to be looking for a job?" he asked and reached into his pocket to produce an index card, neatly printed.

HELP WANTED:SELF-DEFENSE INSTRUCTOR
Part Time - Pay Negotiable
Contact: D. MacLeod
DeSalvo's Gym and Dojo
555-6708

"I just lost one of my instructors. I came here to stick this up on Joe's bulletin board."

"Actually, I am," Monica said, resisting the impulse to look back at Tess. "I came here to apply for a job as a waitress, but your job sounds much more....interesting," she said with a smile.

"It's only part-time."

"That's all right."

"Have you ever taught before?"

"Not self-defense. I worked for the secret service briefly, though..." Monica said.

One of the dark eyebrows raised.

"Kind of a short term assignment," she said with a laugh.

"It pays, thirty-five a half hour session. Seventy-five for an hour. You can set your own schedule. Why don't you come by later and we'll see how well you do in a practice session?"

"You have yourself a deal, Mr. MacLeod," she said with a grin, extending her hand.

He took it but she saw the expression change in his face from warm humor to suspicion. "How did you know my name?"

She smiled impishly and pointed at the card still in his hand. "It says Duncan MacLeod right there, and since you've all but offered me the job, you must be him!" She said. "About sixish?"

He nodded, the smile coming back as well as a hint of chagrin as Monica swept past him and back toward Tess. "Nice work, Miss Wings," Tess snickered as the younger looking Angel left the bar. Monica winked as her supervisor let the door close.

"Thanks for the intervention , Mac," Joe said coming around the bar with a broom and dustpan in one hand, his cane held firmly in the other. "But did I hear she was looking to wait tables?"

"Was..." MacLeod said and fought Joe briefly for the broom. The bartender finally relented, letting MacLeod begin sweeping up the glass. "Damn, I need another waitress. She was nice looking..." Joe said, starting as Tess appeared beside him to take the dustpan.

"Well, you've got one, Joe Dawson. Monica and I came looking for a job together," she said, broad grin on her dark face.

"Tess?" Joe said softly and started laughing, a deep full laugh as Tess reached out to give him a long, hard hug. "Why would I want to waste your talents on the floor when I can get you on the stage?" He asked, pulling away, gray eyes sparkling with delight. "I can get you on stage, can't I?"

"And on the floor. I'm only here for a while. Tell you what, when you play, I'll sing. When you tend bar, I'll wait tables. Deal?"

"Any deal I can get," Joe said and glanced at MacLeod who was watching the pair with amusement and curiosity. "Mac, this is Tess. She has the sweetest set of lungs a blues club could ask for...gospels a specialty. Tess. Duncan MacLeod."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. MacLeod," Tess said and MacLeod found himself responding to the big black woman's smile and obvious humor.

"Duncan, please. Monica...that was her name? I didn't ask. What brings the two of you to Seacouver."

"Just a little bird, Duncan. We've some business to take care of here. I knew Joe had bought this club. Thought I'd come to see how he was doing."

"Not too bad, Tess," Joe said, his arm still around her ample waist. "You going to come back tonight, Mac? You can hear her sing."

"I might at that. If her friend doesn't wear me out too much."

"Here, you give me that," Tess said, taking the broom. "I'll finish this, then Joe and I can practice."

MacLeod surrendered gracefully as Tess excused herself. Joe watched her for a moment, with a fond smile. "I met Tess when I got back from Vietnam. She was visiting the VA hospitals, giving concerts. Run into her every ten years or so. Like she just wants to check up on me. Great voice. Great lady."

"She seems nice. You called earlier?" MacLeod commented as Joe walked him to the door.

The smile faded a bit as Joe eyed his friend. "I got a call... Methos is coming into town. Should be here tonight sometime."

MacLeod nodded, his own smile fading. "Just to visit?"

"In part. He's bringing over some reports...stuff the Watchers don't want sent except by hand-courier. Closing the files on Koren and Caspari."

"And Silas?"

"We didn't know about him, Mac. Methos did a little...fixing....much to the surprise of the Watcher assigned to Cassandra...Adam Pierson just happened to be on holiday in Bordeaux....He kept you out of it Mac."

"Nice of him. Is he staying with you?"

"If he wants," Joe said evenly. MacLeod's tone was casual, even diffident. Joe Dawson was not fooled. "You still think he betrayed you."

"I don't know. Or care. Or want to discuss it," the Immortal said calmly. "I think I'll pass on tonight, Joe. Thanks all the same."

"Mac..."

"Don't try to fix this one, Joe. He's not Richie. I don't owe him anything."

"I didn't say you did. But I think you're making a big mistake..."

"Why? Because he's the oldest of us?" MacLeod hissed softly. "Because what he did in the past is so long ago it shouldn't matter anymore? I won't challenge him, Joe. He set me up. That fight could have gone either way and he knew it. He used me to get to Kronos. I don't like killing for other people."

"You were after Koren anyway! For your own reasons and then for Cassandra's. Mac, it was always your fight."

"But I fight by my rules. Not Kronos' and not Methos'. He was willing to let hundreds die with that virus."

"Was he? He stopped it, Mac. He didn't have to tell you about the bomb in the fountain and he didn't have to challenge Silas. Cassandra had already tried to kill him--swore to. And she may still be after him."

"Then I'd say we're even," MacLeod said. "Let it be, Joe," he added more gently. "I'll see you around." Joe watched him go, chewing on the side of his lip, shaking his head as Tess rejoined him.

"That's an angry man," she murmured.

"Being betrayed by a friend has a tendency to piss people off," Joe said harshly.

"But you don't believe that," she said quietly. "I didn't hear all of it, but you seem to be caught in the middle."

"Maybe. They are both friends...I've learned some things about...about both of them I'm none too happy with."

"You know, Joseph. Friends sometimes have to accept the good and the bad about one another. People can and do change."

"Maybe so, Tess. But what do you do when one of them changes so much they might as well be a stranger?"

"Is that what's happened?"

"Not exactly. Mac and I just found out our...friend...may not be who we thought he was."

"Because of his past?" She asked, raising her eyebrows when he nodded. "So your...friend...hasn't changed, really. You have. You found out some things you don't like."

Joe nodded again and moved back toward the bar, moving stiffly. "He just doesn't seem the type to have been...so different then."

"I seem to remember another young man who was very different thirty years ago than he is now. He was angry when I first met him. Said some awful things to people--did some awful things in Vietnam that he was ashamed of later....I wonder how many of his friends now would have liked him then?"

"It's not quite the same, Tess. I remember how I was. What I did. But our friend liked being ...bad, violent. So he said."

"And you liked being a good soldier--doing your job. Until you had some time to think about it..." Tess said gently. "And people do change, Joe. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. And sometimes they stop changing."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that change is part of everyone's life. The good and the bad. When the changing stops, so does the living. You think about that, Joseph Dawson," she said archly leaving him to empty the contents of her dustpan.

Joe stared after her in surprise. He had forgotten that aside from a singing voice that sounded in his soul, Tess had a way of cutting to the heart of other things as well. It was not a particularly comfortable feeling.

MacLeod sat in his car for a while before heading home. His conversation with Joe leaving him angry and disquieted and depressed. He thought he had gotten past his disappointment in Methos. Past the anger. Until he was confronted with the very real possibility of seeing the older Immortal again. Or not. He doubted very much Methos would seek him out and there was no reason for MacLeod to run into him as long as he stayed away from Joe's.

Except he didn't feel comfortable with avoiding Joe as well, which is exactly what he would have to do. The break between he and Methos had put a definite strain on his friendship with Joe, and it was already fragile in its own right.

"Dammit," he murmured softly, trying to calm himself enough to drive home. Then his anger was distracted...a whisper/touch along his senses. Another Immortal close by but it was the oddest signature he'd ever felt. Not harsh and jarring as most were but rather soft and subtle. He looked around cautiously, getting out of the car, his hand sliding under his coat to grasp the hilt of the katana as he sought the other presence.

And found him across the street, watching MacLeod passively. He was tall, broad shouldered, rest of his frame hidden by a long tan raincoat. Blonde hair stirring slightly in the faint breeze. He made no move toward MacLeod, nor offered any threat. Nor did he show any wariness whatsoever at MacLeod's presence. Odd in itself. He merely observed. MacLeod glanced anxiously back at the bar, wondering if the Immortal might not be after Joe--after what the Watcher might be able to tell him about others of his kind. He turned back, ready to warn the Immortal off only to find him gone. The street was empty. No sign of where the blonde man might have gone. And he could no longer feel the other either.

He waited a few more minutes but nothing and no one presented itself. Reluctantly, he got out of the car and went back into the bar to warn Joe.

Joe was surprised to see MacLeod return so quickly. He was tuning his guitar, having promised Tess a quick practice.

"Forget something?"

"No. There was an Immortal outside. I didn't recognize him and he disappeared before I could talk to him. I don't think he was after me," MacLeod said softly, so Tess wouldn't hear as she pulled a chair up to the stage. "Just keep an eye out."

"I will," Joe said. "Thanks for the heads up---is that him?" he asked as MacLeod suddenly tensed, the buzz assaulting his senses again only this time it wasn't the subtle presence of the strange blonde man, but a harder, elongated murmur, familiar as well--too familiar. Joe twisted to watch the door open, smile arrested at MacLeod's tense face as a well-known, slender figure entered, blinking a bit in the dimness. It took Methos a moment to adjust his eyes but he went almost as tense as MacLeod. He braved the encounter though, coming forward.

"Adam, good to see you," Joe said, rising to greet the man, although it was awkward.

"Yeah. Hi, Joe. MacLeod," he said flatly, breaking the gaze he held with the Highlander to pull something out of his backpack. He handed Joe a thick package. "Your reports."

"Thanks. You want a beer?"

Methos hesitated, glancing once more at MacLeod who had yet to say anything. "No. Thanks. Actually, I'm kind of beat. Do you mind if I crash at your house for a bit?"

"No. Go ahead. Spare keys under the register." Joe said, not missing the strained silence between the two men.

"Aren't you going to introduce me, Joe?" Tess asked, all smiles.

"Sure! Tess, this is ... Adam Pierson. Adam, you do need to sleep so you can come hear this angel sing," Joe said.

Methos smile was genuine as Tess caught his hand. She studied him for a long moment, noting the fine boned, too thin face and the guarded expression in the hazel eyes, despite his smile. "Sing nothing. What this man needs is somebody to do some cooking for him," she said squeezing his hand.

Her words caught MacLeod's attention and he found himself looking at Methos instead of just staring. The older Immortal was thin. Thinner than MacLeod remembered and Methos had never had much, if any, extra weight to spare.

"I assure you, Tess, I eat plenty. Long flights just don't agree with me I guess. I'll see you later tonight, then. Thanks, Joe," he said with a faint smile and met MacLeod's eyes briefly before retrieving the key and leaving.

"He seems very nice," Tess said.

"Appearances can be deceiving," MacLeod said quietly. "Keep an eye out for our visitor, Joe," he said. "Goodnight, Tess."

He left them although he could have sworn Tess had been about to say something. He blinked as he exited the bar, stopping at the top of the stairs and saw Methos, standing next to the sport utility truck he had obviously rented. He wasn't looking at MacLeod though, his attention was fixed on something else and MacLeod felt the subtle murmur again, spotting the blonde Immortal the moment he did. Despite his feelings about Methos, he approached the older man.

"Do you know him?" He asked.

Methos nodded. "We're ...old acquaintances. But what's he doing here?" he murmured half to himself, barely acknowledging the Highlander's presence.

"I saw him earlier. Just before you got here," MacLeod said and suddenly realized Methos was staring at him, something akin to dismay on the sharp features. "I think he's waiting for Joe."

"You can....you saw him. Earlier?" He repeated, almost gasping.

"Yeah. Who is he?"

"His name is Andrew," Methos murmured and turned back. Shrugging his pack onto his shoulder more firmly before heading across the street.

"What are you doing?" MacLeod asked.

"I'm going to talk to him," Methos said. "I want to know why he's here."

"A friend of yours? How long ago...any other ancient Immortals in your past I should worry about?" MacLeod said flatly.

Methos whirled on him, the hazel eyes glittering in barely checked anger. "There isn't anything about me you should worry about, MacLeod. We're through, remember?" he said softly, urgently. Then turned back and crossed the street leaving MacLeod shocked and uneasy.

________________________________________________________________

Andrew lifted an eyebrow as Methos approached, a half-smile on his face as he settled his coat more securely around his tall frame. Seacouver was a lovely city but a trifle damp for Andrew's tastes, especially at this time of year.

He was not quite prepared for the hostility in Methos' tone when the Immortal reached him.

"Who are you here for, Andrew?" Methos demanded, a flush in his pale cheeks.

"Whoa!! What happened to, 'Hello'?" Andrew asked and studied the thinner man -- noticeably thinner. Methos looked neither well nor happy.

"Hello. Not MacLeod? Or Joe?" Methos said. The first word was harsh and sarcastic but the questions that followed were near desperate.

"I don't know...I was just told to be here and to wait. I do as I am told..."

"And don't question," Methos said and turned away. MacLeod was still watching them.

"I try not to question," Andrew corrected him gently, glancing at the Highlander. "So he can see me? I wasn't sure."

"He thinks you are an Immortal!" Methos muttered.

Andrew grinned and then chuckled. "Well, I am, in a way," he said, suppressing the urge to give MacLeod a cheery wave. "None too happy I'm here, is he?"

"Even less if he knew why. He thinks you are after Joe. Are you?"

Again the desperation and Andrew's smile faded. "I don't know, Methos. Truly. And while I can't be sure, it's not my job to come for you or your people. Not usually. But even if I were..."

"I know. I know," Methos said softly, apologetically. "I shouldn't begrudge anyone your presence. I was glad you were there when Alexa..." he stopped and stared blindly over the bay at Andrew's back.

"She is well loved, Methos," Andrew said gently. "As are you."

Methos chuckled mirthlessly. "So you said....love can be a curse sometimes."

"You don't believe that..."

"Don't I?" Methos said sharply then shook off the impending mix of fear and anger. "I'm sorry. I just don't ..." he stopped again. Even without the other-worldly aura, Andrew made him uncomfortable at times and in the same moment offered him comforts he didn't even realize he needed.

"Don't want to lose any more friends?" Andrew said. "I know that is hard...especially for you." A movement caught his eye and he glanced up. "Ah. Your friend is coming over here," he said. "I think you are supposed to introduce us."

"Introduce you as who?" Methos hissed, turning to see MacLeod wait for a couple of cars to pass before crossing the street to join them.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod," Mac said when he stopped.

The Angel of Death stuck out his hand with a big grin. "Andrew. Nice to meet you," he said, catching MacLeod off guard with his open smile. MacLeod took the hand automatically, noting the warmth of the man's hand despite the chill in the air.

"Andrew. Just visiting...friends?" Mac asked, glancing at Methos.

Andrew dissembled a bit with a chuckle. "Of sorts. Business mostly. Just happened by and...felt you and Methos. Thought I'd say 'hi'," he said uncomfortably but on the verge of laughter.

MacLeod was staring at him in shock, his face going harder. " Methos...you've known Methos for a long time?"

"Well, yeah. I knew him when he was Death...and before...since...What?" Andrew asked when Methos groaned softly.

MacLeod's smile was neither friendly nor attractive. "When he was Death? Four Horseman, Methos? Or were there more?"

"Well, actually, I was Death first," Andrew admitted and Methos laughed. MacLeod's expression was not amused.

"Took your place with your friends, did he?" Mac asked softly, dangerously. "Did you get a conscience and leave or did they kick you out?" he asked, almost a snarl. "You said it was over!" he hissed accusingly at Methos. "And so it will be...here and now or later," MacLeod said reaching inside his coat for his katana

"Hey," Andrew said, throwing both hands up, not entirely sure what was going on except that Methos had paled considerably.

"MacLeod, you cannot challenge him!" Methos said stepping between the two.

"That's the Game, Methos. By the rules," Mac said angrily.

"No, damn you!" Methos said as Mac pulled his sword, the long elegant fingers closing over Mac's wrist. MacLeod jerked away as if the touch burned.

"You canno' interfere," Mac said.

Andrew remained silent, green eyes narrowing slightly at the exchange and...listening. "I'm not armed," he said at last, laying a hand on Methos' shoulder and squeezing gently. "And we have no quarrel, whatsoever," he added easily, soothingly. MacLeod hesitated, meeting the green-eyed gaze and found his anger fading.

"Did you ride with the Horsemen?" he demanded.

"No," Andrew said evenly. "I just cleaned up after them." His hand did not move off Methos' shoulder even when the older Immortal winced at his choice of words.

"Your choice of friends is somewhat lacking," MacLeod said, trying to regain some control over his temper...or his feelings.

"Yours isn't," Andrew replied with a faint smile.

Caught off guard again, MacLeod looked at Methos who looked for all the world like he wished the ground would open and swallow him whole. He also looked shaken and ill and, Mac had to admit with the faintest hint of compassion, oddly vulnerable.

"Andrew knows more about me than you could ever hope too, MacLeod," Methos said softly. "Pray he doesn't come to know you as well."

Those words took MacLeod by surprise as Methos finally slipped from Andrew's comforting grip. "And if you challenge him you cannot win. Never doubt it."

"But since we have no quarrel there's no reason to find out, is there?" Andrew said briskly. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Duncan MacLeod," he said with another smile and Mac was struck by the sincerity in the words, stunned actually, as Andrew moved past him.

"You are going to get me in trouble," Andrew added to Methos. "I need a ride..."

Methos raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip quirking upward. "Then I guess I'm driving," he said and Andrew nodded at MacLeod before accompanying Methos across the street toward his truck.

MacLeod watched them go, his brain turning over the very strange encounter and finally settling on one thought: Methos had been absolutely, irrevocably certain of the outcome of the near-challenge.

And MacLeod believed him.

________________________________________________________________

The interior of DeSalvo's gym and Dojo was no more richly appointed than the exterior, but it still showed the same care. It was clean save for the rather lingering odors of sweat and bodies hard at work and even that was mitigated somewhat by the windows that were opened a crack to allow the air to circulate. The office, set behind a pair of wide glass panels, was neat if slightly small for the amount of books and papers Monica spied on the desk and shelves and floor. But the glass was clean as were the floor and equipment.

None of the equipment was of the fancy kind that she had seen in health clubs and television ads; the pieces that looked as much like art as exercise machines. Here there were weights and ropes and punching bags and thick padded mats on the floor. She paused by a bulletin board hung by the office that listed the classes and smiled. Mr. MacLeod was a very busy man. His name was penciled in for two classes a day, every day but Wednesdays and Sundays. She grinned as she read his name by two classes called "kid defense & junior karate." She had a weak spot in her own heart for the wee ones. It seemed Duncan MacLeod did as well.

There were, perhaps, a half dozen men in the gym, plus one young man who was keeping an eye on things, making sure no one added too many weights to the barbells. He spotted her and waved for her to wait. She smiled back, watching as he corrected another man's stance as he lifted what looked like a considerable amount of weight over his head.

"Hi! Matt Carstairs," the dojo manager said, introducing himself and wiping his hands on a towel. Monica accepted the hand shake and gave him her name. "Are you here to sign up for the women's self-defense class?" he asked, his blue eyes scanning her briefly, taking in the loose red hair and the flowing cloth of her dress.

"Ah, no. Actually, I think I may be teaching it. Mr. MacLeod offered me a position as an instructor this afternoon. He asked me to meet him here around six so he can see how I'll do."

Matt nodded, grinning again. "Okay! Well great. Women's changing rooms are on the far side," he directed her, pointing to the opposite side of the huge open area.

"Thank ye', but I'm fine," she said and Matt stared at her for a moment before biting his lip.

"Mac can be pretty thorough when he tests. I could probably rustle you up some clean sweats," he offered.

She laid a delicate hand on the young man's forearm. "It's very kind of you to offer, Matthew, but I'm quite all right as I am," she assured him.

He still looked skeptical. "Okay. You want to wait in the office?"

"I'm fine, Matt. Go back to what you were doing. I'll just watch for a wee bit."

He shrugged and nodded, heading back to the weight area. Monica watched him for a moment then turned her attention back to the dojo as a whole. It was light and airy, the high ceilings criss-crossed with vents and ducts. She spied an elevator to one side, next to an emergency exit. The locker rooms set into either end of the space.

"Not the fanciest of establishments." She turned with a grin at MacLeod. He returned the smile, though not as fully.

"No. Not a trendy, upscale health club with a juice bar and a sauna. It's relaxed though...and friendly," she added tilting her head toward Matt.

MacLeod nodded. "Matt's been a godsend. He's a great manager and a good instructor as well. So, you want to change and we'll see how you do?"

"I'm fine," she said and MacLeod evinced the same shock Matt had.

"Monica, I need to see how well you handle yourself--" he began.

"Mr. MacLeod...Duncan," she corrected herself. "You want me to teach a self defense class, isn't that right?" she asked with the barest roll of her 'R's.

"Yes, primarily...women's self defense and beginner classes."

"And this is to stop them from becoming victims of potential muggers or others that might hurt them?"

"Yes..." he said, brow furrowing.

"And how many of their potential attackers do you think are going to wait until they change into sweat clothes?" she asked with a glimmer of laughter in her eyes.

MacLeod stared at her for a long moment before an understanding smile eased the harder lines of his face. "Point taken," he nodded and stepped past her to lay his coat down on the bench under the office windows.

"I have no problem with wearing the proper attire when I teach," Monica informed him as she preceded him onto the mat. "But, I thought for thi--" she got not another word out before a heavily muscled arm encircled her throat, an equally strong hand grasping her wrist. As in the bar, the knowledge came to her and she stepped back, not driving her heel into his instep as he anticipated but throwing her weight back with enough force to send them both sprawling, MacLeod flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him as several of his patrons stared at the tangled bodies. Before he could react, Monica had twisted free and gotten to her feet. "Now," she said without even really breathing hard. "At this point I would be runnin' away and' screamin' bloody murder," she informed him, then stuck out her hand. MacLeod took it and she pulled him to his feet, the Scot surprised at the strength in the slender body.

"I am impressed," he said with a chuckle, his dark eyes glinting and Monica gave a tiny yelp as he rushed at her. She sidestepped him, tucked a foot behind his and caught the arm that reached to grab her, pulling forward and turning again. MacLeod stumbled and went to one knee, Monica holding his arm in a near painful grip up and behind his back.

"Nice move," he said through gritted teeth. Monica thanked him sweetly and released him.

By the time they were done, nearly a half hour later, the rest of the people in the dojo had stopped pretending to be working out and had watched Duncan MacLeod get put on his butt no less than a dozen times. The young woman he was working out with ended up on the floor or crying yield more than once -- and MacLeod would release her and show her whatever move had enabled him to get the upper hand. They were both slightly disheveled at the end of it although Monica seemed much more calm and collected than MacLeod.

When they were done and MacLeod made a formal bow to her, there was a smattering of applause from the observers. Monica blushed but her eyes were lively with humor.

"I am impressed...and pleased," MacLeod said, seemingly far more relaxed than when he had come in. "I need to change," he murmured. "Can I get you something to drink? My apartment is upstairs.

"That would be very welcome," she said and preceded him to the elevator, seemingly oblivious to the bemused look on his face.

"You have very good taste," Monica commented as MacLeod lifted the grate of the elevator and she stepped into his home. "This is lovely."

"Thank you," Mac said. "What would you like? Water, soda, juice?"

"Do ye' have any coffee?" she asked with a wide grin.

Mac stared at her then shook himself out of his bewildered trance. She fascinated him. "Sure. I can start a pot. You sure you want something hot?"

"To be honest, I have a huge weakness for double mocha lattes," she said with a small blush. "But if I can't have that...I do love coffee."

"Coffee it is then," he said with a grin and began pulling out the supplies. "Secret service, you said."

"Aye, for a brief time. Special assignment," Monica answered wandering about the loft with curious interest.

"Did you work for the government then?" he asked

"Not exactly. I was...on loan as it was. I'm actually...a case worker," she supplied.

"Social services?"

"Of a sort," she demurred, returning to the kitchen. "And what about you? How long have you been in Seacouver?"

"About fifteen years," he said, glancing up as she settled on one of the stools in front of the kitchen island.

"That's a long time in one place for you," she commented as he put mugs on the counter as well as cream and sugar.

"Why do you say that?" Mac asked hesitating at her phrasing.

"Well, only that a young man like yerself...folks don't seem to stay in one place for very long any more...and with that burr, ye' weren't born here," she said and MacLeod had to grin again.

"True. Scotland and you are Irish..."

"Or thereabouts," Monica said with a laugh and started to fix her cup. "Please, go on. You said you wanted to wash up. I think I can keep an eye on the coffee."

Mac nodded and agreed without thinking twice...the second thoughts only coming as he gathered up clean clothes and a towel and retreated to the bathroom. Stopping when he realized that for all Monica's attractiveness and her very pleasant personality, he was already treating her like an old friend. He had just given her free run of his home while he showered. Not like him at all...not usually. He hadn't trusted anyone so completely like this since...

Despite the warmth of the water running over him he felt a certain chill. Not since Methos.

He tried to cut off the emotion that accompanied that name. The confusing, uncontrollable mix of anger and betrayal and pain and loss he felt...had felt upon seeing the older Immortal earlier. Rinsing off, he shut off the water and toweled himself dry quickly. He needed to be moving, doing something, talking to someone...anything but thinking.

A clean sweater and dry jeans and he judged himself presentable enough for his guest. Monica greeted him with a smile and he met it...tried to. The coffee was just finishing and he deftly pulled the pot to fill Monica's cup.

"Oh, that smells heavenly," Monica said, taking a deep whiff. "So, are you coming to Joe's tonight to hear Tess sing?" she asked him.

The confusing thoughts swelled up again as he fixed his own coffee. "No, I have things to do. I will listen to her some other time."

"When your friend isn't in town any longer?" Monica asked and Mac started, spilling hot coffee across his hand. He stuck his hand under running water in the sink. "I'm sorry," Monica said. "It's none of my business."

"No, it's not," he said firmly. "And how did you -- never mind," he sighed. "Tess is friends with Joe and you're friends with Tess. The world gets a little smaller every day."

"It does seem that way sometimes," Monica agreed, sipping at her coffee. "Or maybe sometimes it is just too big for us to see everything...to get the whole picture," she offered.

"Monica..." Mac wiped his hands dry. "It really is none of your business."

She smiled and finished her coffee. "Point taken," she said and slid off the stool. "Well, I intend to hear Tess sing and regardless of the reason, it's a rare treat yer missin'. So. Do you still want me teaching the classes?"

He nodded. "Yes. I like your style and you are right, teaching self defense in the real world will do these women more good than learning karate forms. They can take those classes as well if they like, but better safe..." he said and the smile returned. "Day after tomorrow good enough?"

"Perfect," Monica said as Mac walked her to the elevator. "Well then, I'll see you soon."

"If you have gear you want to bring, come by tomorrow and I'll get you a locker," he said.

"I'll do that. And if you change your mind about tonight, I'll save you a seat anyway!" she teased and waved her good-bye as Mac sent the elevator down. He smiled ruefully again and shook his head. He did like her and she meant well.

Gone, her parting shot still lingered. What could it hurt to go? He didn't need to sit or even talk to Methos if he showed. Or he could...they had settled on an uneasy truce although his words this afternoon came back.

MacLeod had to think about that. Methos had stepped between he and Andrew. At the time, Mac had thought Methos was trying to protect the blonde Immortal but Methos' last words had been near desperate. Had Methos been trying to protect Andrew from MacLeod or was it the other way around? The older man had sounded so certain, so absolutely sure that Mac could not win against the blonde.

Why? What did Methos know and who was this guy? Methos did not seem afraid of him for all the implication that Andrew may well have been as ruthless as the old man himself at one time.

Except Mac didn't believe that either. Andrew had seemed so...innocent? Naive? Nice?

He rubbed his face with both hands. His brain kept twisting round and round. Methos had not looked good. He had looked worse today than he had after Alexa's death.

Bad enough for a total stranger to comment on it. If you had just told me, trusted me a little bit. Would it really have made a difference? Mac liked to think it would have, that if he had not been so blind-sided by Methos' past it would somehow have been easier to deal with.

He was lying to himself and he knew it. Nothing in his experience, in his beliefs had prepared him for the evil that had risen from Methos' past. He wasn't sure he could ever accept it or the man himself.

He needed a why or an explanation. Methos seemed unwilling to give him either. Or an apology. An apology for using him ...for tricking him...for...

Betraying his trust and his friendship.

The anger surged upward again and MacLeod was at a loss as to how to resolve it.

"You look worried," Monica said softly, standing beside Andrew as he waited outside MacLeod's home.

"I am," Andrew said. "I can only have faith that there's a reason for all this. How did you do?"

Monica grimaced. "As a self-defense instructor, I am wonderful," she said. "But he doesn't need any help in self-defense. What he needs is to stop protecting his heart so much," she said softly. "How's your friend?"

Andrew sighed. "Bleeding. One with his heart wide open and the other so closed off he can't see what wounds he's causing. They are both good men, Monica. Why can't they see that?"

"Because, angel boy, they aren't looking with their hearts," Tess said.

"Tess! Aren't you supposed to be singing soon?" Monica asked, surprised to see her.

"In a bit. I'm on a break," Tess said with a broad grin, white teeth flashing in her dark face and her eyes sparkling. "So, is he coming to Joe's?"

"He says not," Monica said with a sigh. "He also told me it was none of my business."

"That's not good," Tess said. "We have to bring those two together again, to let them see and there's not much time."

Andrew looked shocked and paled a bit. "Not so soon...not the Gathering so soon?" he asked. "There would be more of us...wouldn't there?"

"Not that Gathering, Andrew, but a gathering of sorts. One man's past broke up a friendship. Another man's past might well make that breach permanent and if it does...well. There's a reason these two children were brought together in the first place if they can just find it in their hearts to see why. If they remain blind there won't be anything for you to do, angel boy. It's not up to you to gather these souls. Not MacLeod's and not Methos'."

"I know," Andrew said, looking very distressed. "And I know there's a reason for it...but," he looked upward at the darkening sky, where the stars were just beginning to appear. "If anyone ever deserved a little peace..."

"Be careful what you pray for, Andrew," Tess said solemnly. "There's more than two lives involved in this."

Andrew looked embarrassed and nodded in agreement, but he could not deny the prayer that nonetheless made its way from his heart to God's ear.

________________________________________________________________

The crowd at Joe's was no larger than usual, enough to keep the books still in the black and enough of his regulars to know that his "special guest" would be well received. He had almost started to worry that Tess had gotten waylaid or lost and was debating calling the police when she returned with Monica in tow.

"I was starting to get worried," he commented and Tess patted his arm, flashing a big grin at him.

"Nice to be cared for, Joe," she said and Joe felt almost embarrassed but he smiled, unable to help himself. Despite her searching ways, something about Tess always calmed him, always made him feel less burdened.

"What can I get for you, Monica?" he asked. "On the house."

Monica peered hopefully behind the bar but there was no sign of any version of her beloved cappuccino machines. She gave a small sigh and smiled. "Just coffee would be lovely, Joe," she said and accepted the cup carrying it with her as Joe and Tess found her a table fairly close to the stage. They had barely gotten settled when Joe looked up and found another smile on his face. He waved and a moment later Methos made his way to the table.

He looked somewhat better, Joe acknowledged having time enough only to get the older Immortal seated and a beer on its way before he made his way to the stage. Either a nap or a shower or both had eased some of the gray pallor from the normally pale face and he looked less bowed by weariness.

"I'm Monica," the redhead said, extending her hand. "I am a friend of Tess'."

"Adam Pierson," he said with a totally disarming grin, shaking her hand. "My pleasure," he murmured almost shyly and then turned to accept the beer the waitress brought him, ordering another almost immediately.

"You haven't even started that one yet!" Monica said with a giggle. Methos gave another wry smile.

"No. But I will...and finish it," he said, then settled back as Joe began playing. Monica listened but she watched as well, sliding her gaze over her companion from time to time. The music seemed to relax him further, a faint smile playing on his lips. Sometimes he almost seemed to sing along, his eyes closing.

Tess got up to sing on the third song and Methos opened his eyes, grinning hugely when she launched into a slightly upbeat version of a Cole Porter song, his foot and fingers tapping in time to the music. Tess was nearing the end of her song when Monica saw Methos tense, body going utterly still between one tap of his fingers and the next, save to turn his head and peer at the door.

Monica followed his gaze and knew, without an Methos' extra sense, that the man who had entered was also an Immortal. The man paused, also sensing another of his kind. With deliberate slowness he scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the dim light until he found the one set of eyes that did not meet his and then slip away.

"Adam, are you all right?" Monica asked, touching his hand lightly.

"Fine," he said distractedly and rose. "Excuse me," he said and rose, taking his coat with him. Monica bit her lip, not sure what to do if anything. Methos made his way through the tables and then to the bar, the other Immortal meeting him there. Monica rose to follow when after a few words the two men headed down the back all toward the rear exit.

A hand on her arm stopped her and she found Andrew sitting next to her, an anxious look in his green eyes. "You can't interfere," he said sadly.

"They are going to fight, aren't they?" she asked and Andrew nodded, his eyes fixed on the back of the club, a little distance in them.

The band was winding up the set, Tess holding the last note. When it faded, the crowd applauded and Joe and Tess grinned at each other. Andrew rose quickly, heading toward the back and then the lights went out. Monica was vaguely aware of glass shattering somewhere and there was an uneasy murmur in the crowd before the emergency lights came on and a collective sigh sounded.

"Settle down folks!!" Joe admonished, rising and coming off the stage. "Probably just popped a breaker!" The crowd settled and Joe made his way along the back hall with Mike, his assistant to the control panel. True enough, every breaker was tripped and resetting them did no good. Behind him he could hear Tess, already getting the crowd to join her in some well-known gospel tune.

"Well, damn," Joe said after they had tried three times. "Must have tripped the main. See if the phones work, Mike and get the power company out here. I'll go check the main in the alley." Mike assented and Joe made his way to the heavy fire door. He hesitated when he found it partly open.

"Adam went that way," Monica commented from behind his shoulder. "Some man came in and Adam went to talk to him and they left out the back."

"Adam?" Joe said, shock on his face before the tension set. "Oh...look, Monica. Could you go have Tess announce to the crowd that we have called the power company and that the next round of drinks is on the house? Nice crowd. Don't want to lose it because of a little power failure," he grinned.

"Sure I will," Monica said and slipped away.

Joe made sure she was gone before slipping into the alley, peering up and down it. He found the main but ignored it...searching. He could smell burnt ozone in the air and a coppery scent that he recalled too well from Vietnam. He could see nothing but he heard it, the sound of a groan, and almost choked sob. The corner of the alley revealed two crumpled forms, one with that peculiar limpness only the dead can achieve and without his head but the other still had his head and was regaining some sense. Methos had ended up against the dumpster, long limbs splayed as he fought to pull the narrow blade that had found a sheath in his hip, too low to kill him but awkward enough to make it hard for him to remove.

"Good thing I'm a Watcher - another Immortal would have your head by now," Joe murmured and reached for the hilt. "This is yours" he said with surprise.

"He was good," Methos gasped. "Not good enough though. Just pull it, Joe," he said and Joe did, trying not to watch as Methos nearly bit through his lip trying not to scream.

"Who the hell was he?" Joe asked when the blade was free.

"Eric Shavaughn?" Methos was already breathing easier as the wound healed. "Young but extremely well trained."

"Monica said you went up to him. Did he challenge you?" Joe asked as Methos began the painful process of hauling himself to his feet.

"Not exactly," Methos murmured leaning heavily against the wall for a few moments, face tightening against some additional unseen pain.

"Don't tell me you challenged him?" Joe said in disbelief.

"Not exactly," Methos dissembled. "I could really use a beer, Joseph." He started unsteadily toward the bar, tucking his sword and the thin blade into his coat.

"You didn't know him. He didn't exactly challenge you. No old scores to settle. Why?" Joe demanded. "Have you suddenly decided to take on the Game in full force?" he hissed.

Methos met his gaze stonily, refusing anymore information as he made his way back toward the door. Joe followed and stopped to reset the main as he passed. There was no change. The light outside the bar remained dark and there was no sound that the lights had come on in the bar.

"Sorry about the set," Methos murmured and stopped, Joe watching him in confusion. "I'm going to get some rest," he said finally. "If I can still stay at your-"

Joe made a sound between a sigh and a curse. "Of course you can still stay! I am not MacLeod-." He stopped, his brain finally registering. "You shit! Shavaughn was looking for Mac, wasn't he?"

"He was just looking, Joe," Methos said wearily. "It's over. Cross Shavaughn off your books and leave it alone. I will see you later," he murmured and headed back toward the front of the club, gaining strength with each step but his shoulders remained hunched.

Joe watched him until he turned the corner before pulling the door open and re-entering his bar. Mike told him the Power Company was on its way but it would be an hour or more. Joe nodded and made a call himself. There was a body in his alley that needed to disappear. Tess was still singing, the crowd having relaxed into a camaraderie of music and free drinks and a power outage.

Tess had just started into another song with an acoustic accompaniment by Jeff. I will not walk this road alone, she sang with all her heart and soul. Thinking of the friend who had just left, Joe though he had never before encountered such an inappropriate choice of music for a situation.

Closing his checkbook and setting the stack of bills aside, MacLeod leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, thoughts unfocused now that his immediate task was over. He was on the edge of a serious brood he could tell and then had to smile faintly. Trust Methos to make him aware of that slim edge he sometimes walked that was not quite depression nor really objective introspection.

You have brooding down to an art form, Mac. He could hear him, that undercurrent of amused, even affectionate, scolding.

If it bothers you, I'll stop, Mac had returned, recognizing for the first time the trait in himself as something that he could stop if he thought about it.

Not on my account! It's one of your most endearing qualities. Methos had gotten up then, sliding out of that boneless sprawl of his with an ease and grace that seemed impossible given his previous near prone position on Mac's sofa. A smirk, another verbal sally and they had been out the door and off to dinner or a movie or a bookstore or just....just out. Hanging together, Richie called it. It had been so easy -- Methos had been so easy to be with, his company -- infuriating as he could be at times -- a balm to Mac's soul. For once he didn't have to be the older or the wiser or the man other people looked to - and Methos assumed none of the sage and ageless wisdom Mac might have expected. He was, is, a little voice chided at MacLeod, just the guy he claimed to be -- fascinated by any variety of odd things, excited as child about this or that until Mac sometimes felt like the elder. That damn contest -- Methos had been so pleased, flattered and embarrassed all in one to be participating in that game show trial, embarrassed for not knowing the more modern references. He had made a total ass out of himself and enjoyed every minute of it -- and MacLeod had been caught up in his silliness -- and enjoyed the hell out of it.

It had all gone so terribly, horribly wrong so quickly. Restless without really knowing why, he got up and poured himself a glass of scotch, just a bit. He let the liquor warm some part of him that had gotten cold and moved again to the window, staring out at the river. If he watched the water long enough if the current might not carry some of his anxiety away.

Movement caught his eye and he looked down to see someone watching him. The tall man made no effort to hide himself, fair hair seeming bright gold under the street lights. Andrew.

There was no doubt in MacLeod's mind that the other man saw him. He moved quickly, grabbing up coat and sword and heading out the side door. Andrew was gone by the time he hit the street and Mac's hurried search provided him nothing, no trace of the Immortal. How does he do that? There was a grudging admiration in his query as he turned back toward the dojo. He did not feel particularly threatened but Andrew made him uneasy for a reason he couldn't define. The other man seemed more curious than anything.

The stair railing was under his had when he first felt it...just a pricking, ...by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes...* The sensation increased until it was an honest pain...not debilitating but obvious and MacLeod moved, setting his back against the wall, alarmed by his own weakness.

The sensation that followed was worse, bad enough to wish the pain back for all that he was not in pain, but his breathing was ragged, his mind fighting to close around images he couldn't identify, of darkness and fear, of regret and anger, weariness and....

It faded as quickly as it had come, leaving MacLeod weak-kneed and confused. Hard on its heels came another sensation, one far more familiar and he struggled to draw his sword, pushing himself upright.

"No challenge, MacLeod," Andrew said, stepping out of the shadows, shadows which seemed to fade around him. "Are you all right?"

Mac stared at him blankly. The concern on the handsome face seemed genuine and Andrew had both hands out in plain sight.

"Yes," Mac replied and he was, the attack, the imagery fading into a special pocket for odd memories within a few moments. "I saw you...earlier. What do you want, Andrew?" He tried to keep the edge out of his voice and failed. Andrew seemed not to notice.

"Nothing in particular at the moment," Andrew said with a smile. "Just in the neighborhood and let my curiosity get the best of me."

"The best way to assuage your curiosity is to ask, not lurk outside a man's home -- especially if that man is another Immortal," MacLeod said and resheathed his sword.

"That's very true. So why didn't you ask Methos about his past?" Andrew's expression didn't change.

"What are you, his personal defender?" Mac snapped.

"No. Just a friend," Andrew said. "Isn't this where we left off last time?" Mac said.

"Pretty much but you were angry then. Are you angry, now?"

"I don't think--"

"Walk with me?" Andrew asked, holding his coat open. If he was carrying a sword, MacLeod couldn't see it.

"Any particular reason?" MacLeod asked but pushed off the wall.

"You have questions. You won't ask Methos. Maybe I can answer them," Andrew offered and tilted his head, smile dancing at his mouth and eyes again.

"Why is it so important that I..." MacLeod began and then stopped, staring at his companion. "Do you know Tess...?"

"And Monica," Andrew said with a grin.

"What is this, a conspiracy?" Mac asked not sure if he should be outraged or amused. "How do they know Methos?"

"They don't. They know Adam...have met him, but they don't know Methos. Neither do you..."

"So I have discovered," Mac said bitterly. "Do they know what you...?"

"They know me. And that's not what I meant about Methos. Are we walking?"

It was on the tip of Mac's tongue to tell the man to take a hike, but instead he found himself falling into step with him. "So, you knew Methos when he rode with the Horsemen."

Andrew nodded. "I did. We met...oh, near the end of their reign. On a battle field...a slaughter," Andrew said unflinchingly.

"That you weren't part of.." Mac said as they crossed the street and began walking along the river.

"I was part of it, I just didn't participate in the killing," Andrew said softly. "I was there to...help the dying."

Mac glanced at him, seeing a bit of sadness mar the open face. "A healer? A priest?" he asked quietly, respecting the man's mood.

"A comfort, I hope," Andrew said. "I found Methos in the center of a circle of bodies. He'd been hurt, mortally, and was healing. Trying to recover. He was very vulnerable had there been anyone left to challenge him. He was hoping I would."

"But you didn't, even though he had slaughtered your people."

"He was as much 'my people' as anyone else, Duncan," Andrew said. "I stayed with him until he was healed, a few minutes, a little while. We talked. When Kronos came back looking for him, I left."

"Kronos didn't challenge you?"

"He never saw me," Andrew said with another faint smile, but this one was bitter.

MacLeod digested this, chewing on his lip. "What was he like? Methos."

Taking a deep breath and thrusting his hands in his pockets Andrew thought for a moment. "He was unfeeling, dispassionate, efficient, the consummate tactician. He had no regard for the lives he was taking. As brutal a murderer as I have ever known."

"Nice to know he was telling the truth about something," Mac spat out.

Andrew stopped and looked at his companion. "You weren't listening. Unfeeling, Duncan. He felt nothing, no anger, no fear, no compassion or pity, no love."

"So what am I not hearing?" MacLeod asked. "He was a monster."

"More than that, he wasn't human," Andrew said quietly. "In his own way, he was worse than Kronos. But Kronos, at least, felt something for what he was doing. He loved it, reveled in the fear, the power. None of that made the slightest impression on Methos. He became Death because he was dead."

Protest sprang to MacLeod's lips and then he fell silent, listening instead of reacting. Listening so hard he missed the small, genuine smile on Andrew's face.

"Nothing?" MacLeod said, trying to get a grip on the concept. To feel nothing, to simply be what he had become?

"Nothing," Andrew confirmed. "Whatever he might once of been, when we first met on that killing field, there was nothing left. He was living, surviving. When he first joined Kronos there was so much there, so much anger, so much rage and a need to destroy, to take back, pay back...he might have been a monster then, but it was a human monster. What I met was nothing but empty."

"But he changed," Mac said half to himself. "What happened?"

"A raid, a village. They killed everyone...everyone except a small child...a boy.A toddler. Methos found him and the child reached up to him. Kronos asked him if he would take the boy to heir. Methos killed him."

MacLeod thought he would vomit right there. "And you can defend him?"

"He doesn't need my defense. It was the first human act he had done in over eight centuries, Duncan."

"Human?" MacLeod snarled.

"He did it out of mercy, not callousness," Andrew said softly, stopping. "It doesn't make it any less a murder, MacLeod. But it was the beginning...he killed that boy so that Kronos would not have the opportunity to raise another like himself. Kronos thought Methos did it just as he had killed the rest of the village, but it wasn't like that. It was the first time Methos took a good look at what he had become...what he was. He could have left the boy to die and he would have with no one to care for him. He could have taken him, raised him as the heir to the Horsemen and bred another generation of ruthless killers. It's not an excuse...but it's what happened."

"And Cassandra?" MacLeod asked after a moment. "Did you know about her as well?"

"Yes. He took her captive for much the same reason. Better he than Kronos."

"You can excuse Methos but not Kronos," MacLeod said.

"I don't excuse either of them," Andrew said with a hint of anger. "Kronos never lost sight of who and what he was, MacLeod. Not then and not now. He was the same man then that you met a hundred years ago and killed a few weeks ago. He knew exactly what he was and he liked being that person. He never changed, never questioned, never had a moment's regret for what he was or what he did."

"And Methos did? Does?"

"More than you will ever know," Andrew said, his anger fading. "But he can't undo it. He can't take it back or make it go away."

"Or atone," MacLeod said flatly.

"Can't he? How many times does he have to die to pay for those lives, MacLeod?" Andrew asked without rancor. "One for one...if that's the payment I can promise you he was on the credit side before he joined the Horsemen. But that's not enough for you, is it?"

"It's not my place to judge him..." MacLeod began and was brought up short by the look on Andrew's face. Vaguely he thought he should reach for his sword but he was held immobile by a pair of green eyes that seemed to reach into his soul and twist it.

"No. It's not. But you are judging him and the worst part of it is, MacLeod, is that he is letting you do it. He may even agree with you. So when you come up with the price of his forgiveness, will you let him know so he can quit trying to destroy himself while he guesses? Because if he keeps it up he may well end up right back where he started -- feeling nothing. And when you face him across a drawn sword, you'll know what dying is all about." Andrew said quietly and abruptly turned away.

MacLeod grabbed at his arm and Andrew turned. For a moment Duncan just stared at the other Immortal, shocked to see tears on the fair face.

"Why? Why is this so important?" Mac asked, bewildered and alarmed when he felt his own eyes begin to burn.

"Why? Because forgiveness is important, Duncan. Because understanding is important and because love is more important than you can possibly know. Because Methos has done things in five thousand years that are both horrible and wonderful. If the worst of what he is can be accepted -- if he can be loved in spite of it -- what hope does that offer for the rest of the world? The nature of what you are defines that death will be your constant companion. But there is life there, too. Every day, every hour, every minute. Being Immortal does not give you the right to waste it," Andrew said, almost gently, laying his hand over MacLeod's. "You understood that once -- don't let a past you can't remember blind you to it now."

He pulled away and MacLeod stared blindly at the river. When he turned back again, Andrew was gone.

Up at dawn, MacLeod opened the dojo before his assistant showed up, catching Matt by surprise when he discovered his usual morning tasks already done.

"You okay, Mac?" Matt asked as his boss finished setting out the clean towels for the dojo's patrons. "Rough night?"

"Just a little extra energy this morning," Mac said with a reassuring smile.. "It's all yours. I'm going for a run."

He had not lied to Matt. He did seem full of energy he didn't quite know what to do with. It had started shortly after Andrew disappeared and while it hadn't kept him from sleeping, it had certainly provided him with some rather vivid dreams. He could not precisely remember them in any sort of context, but certain imagery remained and stark in his memory: A raging river and the firm clasp of hand on his, but he could not recall if he had been in that torrent or water or the one pulling the owner of the other hand free of the flood's pull; the snap and furl of a banner high over head, Green and Blue with a crossed ax and a scythe...no modern flag this but something hand cut and painted, his back to another's as they fought off an enemy whose face MacLeod could not see; the stark and barren coldness of an alley, where steel sounded and then the press of a hand hauling him to his feet.

There were others, always a conflict of some sort, the unerring presence of another person present but Mac could never tell who it was or if he were on the giving or receiving end of the assistance. He had come to no conclusions at all as he made his turn at the far end of the park where he was running, starting back toward home. Frequently a hard run would give him some sort of clarity but in this case he found only a measure of calm.

A calm that was shattered as he felt the indescribable presence of another of his kind close by as he crossed the bridge. He managed an inward curse. Running was one of the few times he did not carry a sword. A foolish habit, he knew, but for an hour or so a day it was nice not to have to think about the method by which he kept the clock on his long life ticking. He did not slow down, but he became more alert, changing his route to avoid any closed or tight paths. He had nearly reached the park gates and the other Immortal had yet to show himself. Three blocks to home and he would in a better position to defend himself if need be.

Faint hope. He was there, leaning indolently against the gate, bright blade twirling like a majorette's baton.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the man said with a grin, disarming, charming, relaxed.

MacLeod slowed, needing a few moments to let his body cool, to assess his options. He had a couple: he knew this man. "Jonathon Stark...giving up the fur trade?"

Stark chuckled and let the point of his sword rest on the ground by his feet. "Forced to, I'm afraid. Not much call for the exotic furs and feathers any longer. The world has become far too politically correct." He was MacLeod's size, a handsome man in the classic sense, opportunistic, thrill-seeking, capable of cruelties only the truly bored could imagine. Mac's run-in with the man over the years had been mercifully short and only once before had they come to blades, a duel interrupted by chance and the laughter of a pretty woman.

"Looking for investment capital or just looking?" Mac asked him, maintaining his distance. He really had no personal grudge against Stark -- only a philosophical one.

"Research of sorts," Stark said, glancing at MacLeod with a raw speculation. "Rumors are rife. Interesting ones and your name just keeps popping up. I thought I might come see if they were true."

"Such as?" Mac asked.

"I understand you might have come into a great deal of...power lately. Inherited something old and nasty...or at least be hunting it. Rumor has it you have a line on the location of the oldest Immortal...went looking for a group of killers and tripped over a myth. Now," Stark grinned at him, lifting his blade to emphasize his point. "I, personally, am far more interested in ancient myths than Scottish legends -- at the moment," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Know where I might indulge my taste for things old and unlikely?'

"I have no idea what you are talking about," MacLeod said flatly. "And if I did, you don't actually think I'd tell you? You're not an idiot, Stark. I challenge, you challenge...I'm not likely to redirect you to someone else."

"Pity," Stark said, his tone indicating he was anything but disappointed. "And you are right. I didn't think you had suddenly turned from defender of the weak to Indiana Jones, hunting out the stuff of bad fantasy. Not your style at all, Mac. But, then again -- I believe there was a damsel in distress somewhere in the tale I heard and that is your style. But while I might be willing -- no, looking forward to seeing if you've gotten any better in the past two centuries -- I won't call you out now." The blue eyes raked along MacLeod's body appraisingly. "You seem to be unarmed -- dangerous, but unarmed. Be warned, though, MacLeod. I came to your little burg to hunt...challenge. I do like a good fight, you may recall. If I can't find the fight I'm looking for, I'll settle for you. And if you truly don't know what I'm talking about -- which I doubt -- be warned that I am not the only one looking for a particularly old Immortal. Your little neighborhood just may get a wee bit crowded, yet. They are looking for Methos, but they'll go through you to get him. At least with me, you know I'll challenge him --not cut him down, if I find him." Stark said evenly and despite his unease and anger, MacLeod knew what Stark said was true. He didn't have to like the man to have some respect for him. Jonathon Stark did have his own code of honor and one that MacLeod might even approve of, if the rest of the man's life weren't such a miasma of opportunistic indulgences. Stark would not involve mortals in his hunt, nor would he attack unannounced.

He was also very, very good with a sword.

Stark saluted him with a grin, sheathed his sword and walked away, climbing into a dark gray sedan a few paces down the street. MacLeod waited for him to drive away before continuing on his way home...no longer running but walking quickly to keep his muscles loose until he could get to a shower.

Wiping his face with the towel he carried, Mac chewed on the encounter and his lip all the way to the dojo. No matter his own confused feelings towards Methos. He had never meant for himself to become a conduit to the older Immortal. He might not want anything more to do with Methos, but his anger and disappointment did not go deep enough to want him dead.

Patrons of the dojo were already working when he returned and Mac could not avoid at least a few words with some of them. He was distracted further by a message from Joe who needed to talk to him immediately. Not willing to discuss whatever his Watcher had on his mind in the office, Mac started for the loft, only to run into Monica.

She held up a gym bag. "You did say I should bring my things to store?" she said with a grin.

Mac met her smile with a tight one of his own and looked around for Matt. His manager was working with a client, spotting the woman for weights. His call to Joe could wait a few more minutes and Mac led her to the office, pulling out a lock and key and having her sign for it quickly before guiding her toward the women's locker room.

"I wish you had come last night...quite exciting," Monica said, as they skirted the main floor and the mats.

"I'm sure it was fun," he said distractedly.

"I met your friend Adam. He seems very nice...but I didn't get to talk to him much before the lights went out. I wanted to but he didn't come back," she said as Mac held the door open for her. "Thank you. I'll just drop these off and be gone..." she began only to have MacLeod lay a hand on her arm as her last words sank in.

"What do you mean, he didn't come back?"

Monica studied MacLeod's face, schooling her own features carefully. "Well, I am not entirely sure -- a man came in and Adam went to talk to him, seemed to know him. They left out the back and then the lights went out. Fuse or something like. Joe went to check the problem...out to the main, he said. But when he came back, Adam wasn't with him. He locked himself in his office until the bar closed. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Mac said but his pallor belied his works. "Get settled, Monica. Matt will help you if you need anything," he said with as false a smile as Monica had ever seen.

He left her then, moving arrow straight to the elevator even when Matt tried to catch his attention. Biting her lip, Monica entered the locker room and put her things away, securing the locker and turning to find Tess sitting on the bench between the lockers.

"That felt like a lie," Monica said worriedly. "He is worried about Adam."

"He should be," Tess said with a soft smile. "It's not a lie either...but worrying about someone is only a step away from admitting you care, and that's the truth Duncan MacLeod needs to learn, angel-girl."

Monica sighed and sat down next to Tess, leaning against her. "I just don't understand why it is so difficult for humans to admit they care...that they love," she said.

"Well, a lot of it has to do with the idea that they see everything, their lives, their feelings, their capacity or for love, to be a finite thing. As if there has to be an end to everything, since there seems to be a beginning to everything. They don't see living and loving as something that need not ever end. With Immortals, it's even harder...by nature of what they are they think things end, because they frequently have to end lives to continue living. Long life, not endless life...or love."

"But Duncan does know how to love," Monica said with a frustrated flutter of her hands. "So does Adam."

"It's not for us to know all things, sweetie," Tess said soothingly, putting her arm around the younger angel. "But if all things come down to a fight that might decide how the rest of the world will face life...which would you rather have? A winner that knows how to love, or a winner who loves whether he knows how or not?"

"There's a difference?"

"Aye, angel girl. Just as there is a difference between understanding and forgiveness. One sometimes requires the other...but not always."

"So Duncan needs to forgive Adam for something...what? What could be so horrible that Duncan couldn't understand and forgive him?"

"That's the problem, Miss Wings. Duncan does understand -- more than he would like to, what horrible thing Adam has done. It's understanding that makes it so hard to forgive."

"Tess, that makes no sense tae' me at all!" Monica said, exasperated.

"In order for Duncan MacLeod to forgive Adam, he has to forgive himself first...but what he wants forgiveness for in his own soul is buried deep and won't surface. Until he can face that part of himself and find himself worthy of forgiveness, he can't forgive Adam. But if something happens before he reconciles himself with himself...he may never find the strength to forgive anyone ever again. And if he can't forgive, when that battle between love and time comes...the outcome may not be what anyone, including God, wants."

"You sound as if you think we might not find a way."

"I think we may run out of time before we do."

"Why?" Monica asked, not liking the sad look in her friend's eyes.

"Because Andrew is carrying the Sword, now," Tess said softly, then folded her arms around Monica as the younger looking angel cried quiet tears not only for the Immortals but for the Angel of Death.

________________________________________________________________

It was half on Joe's mind to ignore the phone except that he had placed several calls and wanted answers. Actually there were only two calls at the moment that he really wanted to receive. He caught the phone before the second ring.

"Joe, it's Duncan," the familiar voice said and Joe Dawson felt a little knot unwind. "What's happened?"

"Have you seen Methos?" Joe asked, his own question needing an answer before he could even pay attention to MacLeod's.

There was silence for a moment and Joe heard MacLeod's sharp intake of breath. "He wasn't at my house when I got home last night," Joe went on.

"But he was at the club?" Mac said quickly. "You saw him leave."

Joe's brain did a couple of leaps and a twist at the near desperation in Mac's voice. "Wait. Yeah, he was here. Came to listen to Tess sing."

"Monica said he met...a man...and left with him, then you lost power. Joe--"

Oh, Christ, Joe thought, his friend's panicked questions and tone making more sense. Nothing like a few unfinished bits of gossip to stir up a hornets nest. A second thought struck him as he began to reassure MacLeod, a faint smile easing the weathered lines of his face. Mac needed reassurance. That was a good sign. "He left the bar quite alive if a little worse for the wear, Mac. Yes, he met a challenge, a guy named Eric Shavaughn. But it was close," he added, unable to resist giving a little shove to Mac's conscience, then relented because his own anxieties wouldn't rest. "But he didn't go back to my place. His stuff is still there, but no sign of him. I've been checking in with the Watchers all morning trying to see if there were any other reported encounters last night. Nothing so far-- but I seem to have a lot more Watchers to check in with than usual, suddenly."

"They are looking for him, Joe. I met up with Jonathon Stark in the park this morning. He didn't challenge me...but he might yet. He is looking for Methos as well. Either Kronos was talking before we got him or Cassandra is talking still, or someone else knows. Any ideas where he might have gone? He needs to get out of town. My name is linked with his and where I live is no great secret.."

"Oh, great!" Joe snapped. "We find a nice tuck-away for Methos and you face them all down? That's insane, MacLeod. If Immortals are coming here they are looking for a fight. As Stark apparently told you, you will do just as well."

"I can take care of myself, Joe," MacLeod said with a faint chuckle. "I don't want to be the reason five-thousand years goes to waste," he added more softly. "No matter what he's done."

"Nice sentiment, Mac, but it sounds like it is too late. Shavaughn was looking for you. Probably for the same reason Stark is. I wonder if Shavaughn ever realized he found what he was looking for," he mused. "As for where he might go. I have no idea. The only places he stays when he's in town is either with me...or with you," he said the last tentatively.

The silence was a painful one but Joe bore it almost as stoically as the man at the other end of the line. "He...when Kronos and Cassandra showed up he was staying at the Riverwalk...would he go back?" Mac asked after a moment.

"He might but he gave up that efficiency apartment before he left, Mac. I checked. But he might find a hotel. Could. He was here on Watcher business. They would foot the bill. Let me do some checking. What about you?"

"I'll see what I can find out, Joe," MacLeod promised and rang off.

Anxiety and hope warred a little longer in Joe's heart but the hope won and it was with much more energy and affection that he tackled the phone again to start making calls to the mid range limit of Seacouver's Hotel/Motel industry.

________________________________________________________________

"New look for you," Methos commented wryly as Andrew approached him. The oldest Immortal was sitting on a bench facing the bay and watching the sun rise -- the site one of many pocket parks sprinkled throughout Seacouver's coastal vistas. That he had noticed the long length of steel tucked carefully under Andrew's coat was a product of long years of observation-- and Andrew looked particularly distressed and uncomfortable.

"Come to challenge me after all? Get in line," Methos said flatly and wearily.

"No!" Andrew protested, too quickly, Methos thought. Of course he could be wrong. Skills honed over the centuries at reading expression any body language might or might not apply to angels at all, but he thought they did. Applied to Andrew at least who had to be the most human being Methos had ever met. "Not that way, anyway," Andrew murmured and inclined his head. Methos returned the question with a shrug and Andrew sat down beside him, futzing with the sword which would not settle comfortably. In exasperation Andrew pulled it free, studying its length with something akin to disgust. "How do you do that?" he asked his companion, gaze indicating the loose-limbed sprawl Methos had managed to achieve -- sword intact.

"Practice. Aren't angels supposed to be full of light and grace?" he asked, eyes sliding without will to the blade Andrew held.

"Light yes, but the grace comes attached to the body and this one," Andrew reviewed his own form clinically. "Graceful enough and strong but...not to many occasions for the Angel of Death to do classical ballet," he said with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided grin.

Methos laughed. "No, I suppose not. I can't say it, you know..."he added after a moment, eyes shifting back to the sword. It was not particularly remarkable but it drew his eye more completely than the rather spectacular sunrise tinting the skies.

"Say what?" Andrew asked, his own gaze fully appreciative of the painting of light of color the Creator had blessed the morning with.

"Angel of Death," Methos replied softly.

"You just did," Andrew pointed out.

"In front of...I wanted to tell MacLeod. Twice. The words escaped me...the Angel part anyway. Why are you here, Andrew?" Methos asked, one slender hand snaking out to brush his fingers along the sword. The tips of his fingers halted a mere inch from the bright metal, something very like fear coursing through him.

"Saying it doesn't make it true," Andrew reminded him. "When it's true you'll be able to say it -- as I do."

"What is that?" Methos said, eyes still fixed on the blade.

"Which answer do you want first?" Andrew asked quietly, not losing track of the conversation for a second.

"I'm not sure I am going to like either," Methos admitted. He pulled his hand away, forcing his gaze back to the sunrise only to find the best part of the display had faded as the rising sun burned away the mist and rose above the thin haze of pollution across the skyline.

"What answer would you like?"

"Andrew..." Methos began with a sigh. "You only have two -- riddles or the truth. Which in your case are generally the same thing."

"Very well, I will give you both, then," Andrew said with a faint smile, pushing the blonde hair back from his face. "I am here for you, not your friends. And this is," he hefted the blade, the early morning light making it almost too bright to look at. "Is also here for you."

Methos paled a bit then regained his composure. "Well, that was helpful. Do we fight or am I supposed to just kneel in front of you so you can take my head?"

"I don't think I am supposed to use it," Andrew said, touching the blade with none of the trepidation Methos felt. "Someone else is supposed to wield it..."

"Wonderful," Methos murmured, gaze once more caught by the shining metal. If it was metal. He was not entirely sure.

"It bothers you?"

"It scares the hell out of me...sorry," Methos amended and Andrew grinned, slipping the sword under his coat again.

"It's okay and I think it is supposed to," he added with a chuckle.

"Lovely," Methos said, feeling some better with the terrible weapon out of sight. "So what are you doing here -- now, not in general," he added.

"You...you were alone. I thought you might like company," Andrew said softly, green eyes meeting Methos' hazel ones with an open invitation.

"Death has been my companion for so long..." Methos began quietly and dropped his gaze. "Demon and comfort. I should be surprised, but I am not. You are here for me but not as Death, is that it?"

"I don't know, Methos. I was just told to be here for you until..."he faltered and Methos reached out to touch his arm lightly.

"It's okay. Better your death as company than my own," he murmured wearily.

"I kind of like having Death as a companion, too," Andrew said with a ghost of a grin, and studied his companion, noting the fatigue and the sorrow. Without a word he slipped his arm around Methos' shoulders, not surprised when the slender immortal relaxed against him, feeling safe enough to be near sleep even in the warming brightness of the morning.

"People will talk," Methos said sleepily.

"Laugh is more likely," Andrew said with a chuckle. "Such a picture we two Deaths make."

Methos chuckled with him. "Death rides not a pale horse, he sleeps like a hobo on park benches..." he said. "With an Angel as his companion," he added and slid into a doze, leaning against Andrew's shoulder, hands hidden within the pockets of his coat.

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Andrew said softly and turned his gaze back to glory of the new day.

________________________________________________________________

Duncan MacLeod stared stupidly at his new instructor for a long moment, Monica's expectant face not registering at all when he returned, dressed to go out...looking, not hunting he reminded himself.

"Duncan? Are you all right?" Monica asked.

MacLeod reached out automatically to soothe her with a touch on her arm, dragging a smile to his face as both her presence and her reason for being here registered finally. "Fine, just forgot something I need to do," he said. "I seem to be having a little trouble getting my act together this morning. You all settled?"

"I've put m'things away," she said. "Did you want to go over the classes?"

"Actually, I do, but not right now. Monica, I have an errand to run so make yourself at home -- get comfortable, talk to the clients if you like and we can meet early tomorrow before your first class."

"That would be fine," she said. "But I am supposed to meet Tess when I finish here, so perhaps I'll just meet her early. I'm meeting her at Joe's."

It wasn't in Duncan to be less than a gentleman when there was no reason. "I'm on my way there. Why don't I give you a lift and we can talk about the classes on the way?" he suggested. The distraction, even for a short time, would be welcome, he decided.

Monica's grin gave him all the answer he needed and he found himself grinning back, rather foolishly. His hand found the small of her back as she settled her purse on her shoulder. A wave to Matt and they were out the door. Mac opened the passenger door of the T-bird to let her in and then stopped, the murmur/feel of another Immortal impinging on his senses. He closed her door and turned, scanning the alley carefully, both ends and upward. Two Immortals in one morning was not the way he wanted to start any day.

No one showed himself, however, although the presence was as strong as it had been. Damn, he thought as he slid into the driver's seat and started the car. No challenge meant they were watching so it might be Stark, or someone else. After him or after Methos?

It made no difference, really, he thought. He had meant what he said to Joe. He would not, could not interfere in a legitimate challenge made to the oldest Immortal but he wasn't willing to lead others to him. He wanted to find Methos and get him to leave.

Which was the same thing as interfering, a little voice whispered at him.

"I'm sure Adam is all right," Monica said, unable to watch the war on her companion's face any longer.

"Wha--?" MacLeod glanced at her. "Where did that come from?"

"You looked so...distressed when I told you Adam didn't come back last night," Monica said. "If something had happened, someone would have called you, yes?"

Yes. If they knew...I would...I would know... The thought teased MacLeod's mind considerably, comforting him with the certainty of the thought. He smiled. "Yeah. Someone would have called."

"For someone you are so angry with, you seem to worry a great deal about him," Monica said idly, staring out the window.

"Monica--"

"I know, I know. It's none of my business," she said. "It's just that -- well, life is such a fleeting thing. It seems such a waste to let a misunderstanding keep friends apart," she commented.

"Misunderstanding is a bit of an understatement," MacLeod said with a sigh. "You hardly know either of us, Monica. Why is this so important to you?"

Monica bit her lip, thinking for a moment about how to extricate herself from the box she had built. "Because, it's people that make the world so special. Because I like you and I like Adam and Joe. Because your anger is hurting not only them but yourself and it seems to have no point when you obviously...care for your friends."

"All this in two days of us knowing each other. Are you psychic?" he asked trying to turn the conversation but failing miserably -- perhaps because as uncomfortable as he felt with the conversation it was easier to have it with Monica than with Joe. "I wouldn't call Adam and I friends," he said more sourly as he turned onto the long avenue that led to Joe's bar.

"And if not friends, what would you be then?" she asked.

For a moment MacLeod could not speak, unable to explain the harsh lump of emotion that crowded his throat when the word came unbidden to his mind. A word he had thought forever tainted by the darkness that had described Methos' relationship with the Horsemen.

Brothers.

________________________________________________________________

"Never took you for such a broody hen, Joseph," Tess said cheerfully from the doorway. Joe was on a stool, rather slumped over the bar, turning a coffee cup around and around with the tips of his calloused fingers.

He managed a smile for her as she slipped behind the bar and got a fresh cup of coffee for him, swapping it out with the cold one in his hands. "Not broody, Tess. Just thinking."

"'Bout your friends?" she asked, unabashedly prying and Joe nodded, maintaining his smile. "Well, whatever you're thinking doesn't look good!" she said with pursed lips.

"Nothing I can do to help," he returned, sipping the coffee and scowling a bit when it burned his tongue. "They'll have to sort it out themselves."

"Not much of a friend, then are you?" she said evenly. Joe lifted his face to hers in shock at the scolding.

"They are a little big for me to turn over my knee," he pointed out sourly. "Not to mention in better shape."

"Oh, that's right, you are a cripple after all," Tess said with mock sympathy and Joe stared at her. "So much easier to be pitied than take some responsibility and overcome your challenges."

"Tess!" he said. In all the years he had known her, she had never been cruel. She raised an eyebrow and he repeated the thought. "I haven't been that angry young man for a lot of years," he said softly.

"Anymore than you were a cripple then," she said and the warm smile returned to her eyes and mouth. "There isn't any problem or worry you can carry, that God can't help you carry better," she said patting his hand.He caught hers and kissed her knuckles.

"So what are you going to do?" she said with a saucy smile.

The smile that had begun to reline Joe's face faded a bit. "I don't know, Tess. I have talked to them. Tried to make Mac see both sides, tried to get Adam to explain--he won't. Not unless Mac asks."

"Has he explained it to you?" Tessa asked and Joe started to nod only to stop. He and Methos had talked, but not about the issue, not about the Horsemen or Bordeaux except what had been in Methos' doctored chronicle. Joe understood, or at least accepted the fact that Methos was not the same man.

But they hadn't talked about it. "I never asked," he said more to himself than to Tess.

"And Duncan won't either. Did it not occur to you that Adam might need or want to talk about whatever it is as much as you need to hear it, or as Duncan needs to hear it?" she said quietly. "Or are you afraid to hear it?"

He was. God help him he was. It was so much easier to ignore it. It had all happened so long ago, too many lifetime's ago for Dawson to really grasp. "I don't know," he said honestly.

"Wounds left untreated tend to fester," Tess said and Joe could only agree. He had waited for Methos to say something but hadn't wanted to press, hadn't wanted the elder Immortal to think Joe was as judgmental as MacLeod. Flipping it around Joe could see where Methos might have offered an explanation, or even just details and Joe had...not cut him off but told him it didn't matter. But it did. If not to Joe then to Methos.

"You may get a chance to do some healing," she said softly, looking over his shoulder and Joe turned to see Methos enter, at his back was at all, blonde man. Joe rose, recalling MacLeod's description of the strange Immortal. But he was with Methos so Joe's initial instinct that spoke of danger faded as he rose from his seat.

"Adam," he murmured. " I was worried--after last night," he dropped his voice.

"I should have called," Adam said with a tight, apologetic smile. "Just needed time to think. Oh, this is Andrew," he introduced his friend and Andrew leaned forward and gripped Joe's hand firmly.

"Heard a lot about you, Joe. Glad to meet you, finally," he said and then waited, hands still clasped with Joe's.

I know him, Joe was sure of it but he could not remember from where. From the Watcher files? Andrew was a fairly striking looking man, a face that made you just want to smile, green eyes that seemed fresher than new grass. He could not place either name or face and, realizing he was staring, finally dropped the hand he had been holding.

"Sorry. You just look really familiar," Joe said with a shake of his head and a smile and caught Methos tensing, paling slightly. "Hey, Adam. You all right?" he asked, reaching out. Even through Methos' coat, he could tell the man was cold.

"He spent the night on a park bench," Andrew commented dryly.

"No wonder you are cold. Coffee...have you eaten?" Joe asked nudging Adam toward the bar. "Oh. Manners. Tess, this is Andrew."

"My pleasure," Andrew said with a laugh which Tess returned as they shook hands, as if they already had a joke between them. Joe put his own coffee in Methos' hands.

"I'm not a child," Methos said setting the cup down, sounding more tired than irritated. Joe backed off and caught Tess looking at him.

"No. You're tired and you had a bad night. Why didn't you go back to the house?" Joe asked settling on the bar stool next to him as Tess and Andrew made a discreet withdrawal to the end of the bar.

Methos looked a little surprised that Joe would ask, hand creeping toward the hot coffee despite his words. When was the last time anyone cared enough about you to ask, old man? Joe thought. Alexa had. Methos had been like a different person then. Young, excited, in love, devastated and still in love. Alexa had been the same.

What had it done to him to be wrenched out of his isolated world by that love? Joe knew the facts, knew the events that had twisted MacLeod's world and Methos' up into a frenzy of dangerous encounters. Encounters Methos might otherwise have avoided? Had falling in love with Alexa been like Sleeping Beauty in reverse? Something had awakened the eldest Immortal beginning with his first meeting with MacLeod. Joe had seen the change from the mild, quiet graduate student he'd known for ten years into a man with opinions, convictions and a past. Seen it, noticed it, commented on the history Methos had seen, lived through--and never once bothered to ask. He and MacLeod had both been guilty of turning to Methos for some sort of sage wisdom of the ages, then scoffed and teased and discounted what Methos had said when it didn't agree with their own views. As if five thousand years of living could only be measured against what they knew. They valued him, not for himself, but for what he was.

Until the Horsemen. Even then Joe had defended Methos only based on that history. Knowing in his heart that the Methos who had loved Alexa could not be the same man who had killed and raped Cassandra, or butchered thousands.

"It was a bad Quickening, Joe," Methos said softly, not really looking at him. "Not that any of them are good but I just needed time to think, to let it settle."

"I was worried," Joe said, letting his heart instead of his mind do the talking. "So was Mac."

Methos looked up at that a sour and not very pleasant smile on his face. "I'm sure," he said and sipped at the coffee.

"He was. He heard about it this morning and called. Wanted to make sure you were all right. He also suggested you get out of town. Said he ran into another Immortal named Stark who is hunting you."

The hazel eyes widened a bit. "Hunting? Did MacLeod--"

"No. It didn't come to a fight, but it might yet. He's afraid where there is one there will be others. He may be right," Joe said.

"There always are," Methos murmured and Joe listened to tone as well as words. Where was the spark, the instinct that told--had told--Methos to head for safer grounds in the past? He didn't even seem concerned and only vaguely interested.

"Don't you think you might want to disappear?" Joe prodded.

"Would be the smart thing," Methos agreed but there was no enthusiasm in the voice, in fact, it got softer and Joe was suddenly aware that Methos had not been answering his question but saying something else entirely.

"Not necessarily," Joe said and lay his hand on the other man's shoulder, kneading gently. "Disappearing as in finding some safe ground for a bit--not vanishing into the darkness." He knew that feeling, had been reminded of it by Tess, that darkness that seemed to swallow him just after he had returned from 'Nam, when his soul felt like it had been lost to the jungles with his legs, when the joy he'd once known in so many things seemed like some far-fetched dream and there was no one who understood or even tried.

Until Tess showed up with her brusque ways and her angel's voice. She had bullied and cajoled, gotten him involved with patients who were much worse off then he was physically but who still had their souls intact.

"Some people might miss you," Joe said trying for a lighter tone and got a small, indulgent smile. "I would miss you," he said more earnestly, realizing how easy it would be to let this man slip away without getting to know him. He could call it respecting his privacy or maintaining his oath to the Watchers only to look back someday and realize watching the people had become more important than the people he was watching.

Methos met his eyes briefly then dropped them, swallowing more than coffee. "Thanks, Joe. That's nice to hear," he said, in a bare whisper, then seemed to gather himself up, pulling strength from the words, the touch. "I think...I think I will go back to the house and get that sleep."

"Methos," Joe kept his voice low. He rarely ever used the older Immortal's real name. "I would like..." This was harder than it should be. "If you need someone to talk to, about what's happened...or anything. I am a pretty good listener...and I don't have to do it with a pen in my hand."

Methos pushed away from the counter, the movement causing Joe's hand to slip away from his shoulder as he turned. "Thank you... for a great many things. Let me get some rest and then..."

"When you are ready," Joe said and Methos smiled and nodded, still looking tired but at peace too. Joe met the smile with one of his own.

"Andrew, do you need a--" Methos stopped, head turning toward the door and Joe caught Andrew rising as well, Tess looking nervous for some reason. The door opened and a man entered, long coat moving around his tall frame, the auburn hair gleaming near red in the light from outside.

"Well, well...door number one," he murmured, sizing Andrew up before glancing at Methos. "Or door number two?" he said with a broad smile and took the step inside that would allow the door to close. "Jonathon Stark. I came looking for a man named Methos to make the myth real."

Too late.... Joe thought as his friend took a step forward.

Andrew stepped forward as well, the green eyes narrowing and Stark shifted his gaze again, smile tightening. "Now, now...one or the other or neither. Or both but you have to take turns," he added, incredibly confident. "You won't know till you try," Andrew said and shook off Tess' arms with a look of surprise when she slapped at his shoulder.

"Andrew, aren't you supposed to step in after the fight?" Methos said and his voice was like a sliver of ice. "You might not like my bedtime stories, Stark, but I'd be the last one to deny a man his right to an education," Methos said with a smile. "Joe has enough problems keeping this place neat without us adding to the mess. I'm sure I can tell you all sorts of myths...Graham Park in an hour or so? It's just down the block."

"Graham Park, Now. You've a reputation for leaving your lessons unfinished," Stark said and held the door open. Methos hesitated and then moved, never looking at the other three people in the bar.

"Methos, it's not time!" Andrew said sharply.

"I'll keep it in mind," Methos said and followed Stark out.

"Damn," Joe said and grabbed up his coat, hurrying after them, Andrew on his heels.

Tess remained, watching the door, eyes cast heavenward for reinforcements.

______________________________________________________________

Graham Park was almost completely enclosed by the sea wall against the bay. The runner's track meandering over and along the shore. It had begun as a battery, to keep the swells of the bay from flooding the street beyond, a real problem early in Seacouver's history. The stark concrete and stone had seen its share of lovers, children hurling stones, people who needed solitude...and death. The high walls had hosted an accident or two in their time, the straight drop down allowing no purchase for a fallen person to grab onto before the harsh currents dragged the hapless victim deeper out into the bay or slammed them against the stone. The city fathers had tried building higher, topping the stone with iron bars. Years of changes had left the wall as ugly as a prison despite the spectacular view but the number of deaths had dropped significantly.

Stark idly read the historical placard , glancing at his companion, then over his shoulder when Andrew and Joe approached.

"Interference?" he asked.

"Morbid interest," Methos said, with a chuckle at his own joke. He wasn't sure Andrew would get it but Methos thought it was funny. "Don't worry. Andrew isn't into revenge. No need for it," he said and shrugged out of his coat, Stark doing the same.

"Student of yours?"

Methos laughed again. "Hardly. You might say I studied under him, but I never learned his style or grace. Are we done with the interview now? Or do you want more proof of my credentials?"

"And here I thought I was supposed to be learning something," Stark said and sized his opponent up carefully. Eyes lingering on Methos' hands. "Rumor says you invented writing."

"Nope. Just penmanship," Methos said and then jerked back two steps as Stark came at him. He fell back again, swords barely touching as Stark tested reach--they were about evenly matched. Stark was slightly taller but he was long legged for his height, his arms not quite in balance with that extra length. Methos drove in and under his blade with a testing offensive and dropped back again, watching as his opponent rolled his shoulders.

"Very quick," Stark said approvingly then came at him again.

Joe found himself clinging to Andrew's arm, his companion's eyes fully fixed on the fight. Methos seemed to be holding his own and Joe had to catch his breath. He had never seen Methos fight before, heard only reports from MacLeod. He was so fast and all movement and then would go still, body relaxed as if he had not moved at all. Stark, by reputation, had incredible stamina and was known for the power he put behind his blows. His opponents often ended up with broken limbs--not that it mattered since he was the winner.

They closed again, the ring of metal and the blur of movement tangling them for a moment until Methos pushed off, dropping back and into a crouch. There was blood on Stark's pale blue shirt and his eyes narrowed.

"I'm not settling for first blood," he snarled and closed again, Methos twisting to counter and both of them ending up against the wall. Joe caught his breath at the flash of white skin, tinged red under Methos' black sweater. The blood was his, not Stark's.

Stark swept back, slamming the smaller man into the wall, pain tingeing Methos harsh features for a brief moment before the oldest Immortal pushed back, advancing in short hops as he kept Stark's blade occupied.

Then both men went still, as did Andrew, and Joe turned.

"Didn't hide him well enough, MacLeod," Stark called out and took advantage of the distraction. Methos bit off a sharp cry and was retreating, free hand pressed to a deep cut above his knee. His leg almost gave way as Stark pressed, but he rolled, came up under the man and raked his blade across Stark's belly, dropping him to all fours.

"Get up," Joe heard Mac's harsh whisper as the Highlander drew abreast of them, but Methos seemed not to hear. His face was gray and sweating and when he tried to move, the injured leg folded up under him.

Stark was recovering faster, despite the belly wound. He was not quite able to get to his feet either but he could turn.

"Methos!" Mac called it out, talking a half dozen steps forward without thinking, katana held out.

The eldest Immortal pushed back as Stark lunged at him from a kneeling position, almost ending up on his back, twisting from side to side before managing to roll on his belly and come up to his knees, Stark behind him. His blade came under his arm, impaling the other Immortal as he tried for a head swing. Stark's' death didn't arrest the swing however and Methos screamed as the blade bit into his neck, slumping forward, Stark on his back, covering him.

The three observers waited, MacLeod the first to start forward when neither man moved. He pulled Stark off, not removing the sword still erect in his chest, then reached for the still, slender figure beneath him. Blood covered MacLeod's hands as he rolled Methos over gently, the gash in his throat having severed the jugular.

"Mac, you can't--" Joe began.

"I know the rules!" MacLeod snapped back. "They are both dead. I'd say the fight is over." The "for now" went unspoken between the three of them.

" Methos will heal," Joe said soothingly. "And come back before Stark--as long as Stark has that sword in him. He'll win."

"Will he?" Andrew said, staring down at both bodies, face pale, green eyes intense. "What's he win, Joe? Another soul rattling around inside him? A little more power, a little more pain? For what?" He drew a deep breath and reached out, pulling Methos' sword from Stark's body.

"What are you doing?" Mac demanded, gathering Methos up in his arms and cradling the lax body close to his chest.

"Interefereing," Andrew said shortly and handed Joe the bloodied weapon. "You can leave Methos here or you can leave," Andrew said to Mac, crouching beside Stark.

"I thought you were his friend!" Mac snarled.

"Wrong answer," Andrew said harshly. "I thought you were his friend." His expression softened. "Take him home, Duncan MacLeod," he murmured and moved to get Methos' coat, tucking it securely around the pale, still form.

The expression on MacLeod's face was angry and confused but he took the advice and the opportunity, moving heavily with his burden back toward the bar and his car.

"What if someone sees them?" Joe hissed.

"They won't," Andrew said and waited until Stark began to stir, then took Joe's arm and let the confused Watcher lean against him slightly as they made their way back. Joe had questions but they wouldn't come to his tongue as he studied his companion, the events of the last few minutes fading under the sharp and uncomfortable feeling that he did know Andrew.

Ask and ye shall receive. It echoed through Joe's mind as they crossed the street. "I know you," he said as sure of that as anything in his life.

Andrew smiled, open, friendly, even approving. "You do," he agreed.

"But where?" Joe asked as a breeze lifted Andrew's fair hair, the sun slipping out to lighten and warm the strong features.

He was in so much pain, and it was dark and rainy. He could not move, only flail his hands as he waited for help...or to die...either preferable to the pain in his shattered legs. He must have drifted then for a rare glimpse of sunlight washed through the humid jungle, a light breeze cooling his skin, easing his pain for a moment and he wept for that relief. Someone had come. Help... a fair face and green eyes, smiled gently into his. "Not yet, Joseph," the reassuring voice said and Joe held onto that reassurance with all the strength his twenty-year-old soul could summon. Then there were other hands helping him, the blonde stranger gone, but the peace remained, the hope...

"I haven't come for you this time either, Joseph...not for the last time anyway," Andrew said gently with a smile. "Just to help..."

Joe could only nod, knowing it was neither sun nor a trick of the atmosphere that made Andrew seem to issue light from within. The green eyes were laughing with joy not humor, the smile as comforting and terrible as it had been twenty years before.

"Why then?" Joe finally managed to ask.

"I can't tell you...I'm not entirely sure myself, yet," Andrew said and the light seemed to fade a bit but not the warmth. "I wasn't exactly supposed to meet up with you again at all but where Methos goes, I generally am supposed to follow."

"To...take him?" Joe asked, his heart freezing in his chest. Toolate!

"No, Joe. Immortals aren't my...department...usually," Andrew said and sounded almost as confused as Joe felt. "Just trust God, Joe."

"I always have," Joe said softly, knowing it was true but never having said it before . Andrew squeezed his arm lightly and nodded.

"He knows," he said and the look in his eyes was so intense Joe had to look down and realized he still had Methos' sword, the blood still dulling the bright blade.

He looked up and Andrew was gone as was MacLeod's T-bird. He smiled faintly, resettling his grip on the hilt. It didn't surprise him at all that he did not feel in any way alone.

______________________________________________________________

"Och, how can anyone that looks as small as you do weigh so much?" MacLeod complained to his still insensate burden as he carried him up the outside stairs to his loft. Methos had shown no signs of reviving, a fact that Mac did not like at all. The wound in his throat had stopped bleeding but MacLeod couldn't tell under all the drying stains if that was because it was healing or because there wasn't any blood left to drain. Methos was so pale and cold, looking frail without the force of his personality to make him seem larger...larger than life at times, Mac had to admit as he maneuvered himself and his burden inside. Methos went on to the bed, Mac ignoring the damage to his linens as he moved through the loft gathering towels and water and began the messy job of cleaning his friend off.

Methos' sweater was torn beyond repair and Mac removed it, noting the wound on his side was almost gone then began wiping at the slender throat, almost gasping in relief as his efforts revealed a slowly healing gash just above the joint of shoulder and throat. Deep enough to nick the large vein but not enough to do irreparable damage as had been done to Kalas' throat. Kalas who had almost taken Methos' head for the same reason Stark wanted it.

Pulling a blanket over Methos, Mac rummaged through his drawers, tossing a clean sweater onto the bed along with a pair of jeans that weren't his. Richie's, he thought, but couldn't be sure. He had juice and...he smiled faintly...beer, pulling out one of the bottles for himself while waiting for his guest to wake up.

It happened quietly, Methos stirring as if he were asleep, fingers reaching for something--probably his sword. When the hazel eyes finally opened they were fully cognizant, fixed unerringly on MacLeod.

"Welcome back," Mac said, pointing his beer bottle at the clothes on the bed. "Yours are a little worse for wear."

"Thanks," Methos said, sitting up and pushing the blanket back. He gathered up the clothes then sat, expression distant.

"You were winning," MacLeod said gently. "We...Andrew and Joe and I just weren't sure how long..."

"I see. Andrew--soft touch, he is," Methos said with a faint smile and rose, then almost fell, going down hard to his knees. Mac slipped off the chair and was at his side in a moment.

"You lost a lot of blood. Give it a few minutes, it'll settle," Mac said catching the other man's hand and elbow to help him up.

Methos nodded but made no move to push off, head hanging down, face pale and skin ice cold. His other hand came up to the now rapidly healing gash in his throat, healing but still raw under his fingers, smearing them slightly with blood. He swallowed heavily. "Mac," his voice was rough. Without the cultured overtones he sounded young and, at the moment, frightened and unsure. "I don't want to die," he said in a whisper.

MacLeod rocked back on his heels. Whatever he had thought Methos might be going through physically and emotionally, it was not this. His hand moved from Methos' elbow to his shoulder, kneading the tense muscle gently. "You didn't..."

"No...I don't want to die...I thought I did. First Kalas...I was tired and it seemed...I hadn't realized..." his words were tumbling over each other, not particularly coherently, not unlike his ramblings about Alexa but without the joy and wonder.

"Methos. You're tired and worn. Get a shower, and some rest," MacLeod said, uncomfortable with this suddenly emotionally vulnerable man. Not at all the hardened killer Mac had built in his mind.

The voice stopped, the slender body stiffening under his hand. "Right. Sorry. You'd think I had taken a Quickening or something," Methos mumbled and got his feet under him.

MacLeod let him go, mind centered on another Quickening...one they had shared, one that had left Methos even more vulnerable. It had taken weeks for Mac to get the sound of Methos out of his mind, out of his nightmares. Days before he realized with shock that Methos had been unwilling or unprepared to protect himself from Cassandra. He had seemed...strong, distant, but all right when they had met at the church later.

And now, months later, he seemed as he had immediately after the Horsemen had been put down--after they had put the Horsemen down. He closed his eyes, resting his lips against his closed hand as he heard the shower start, then was jarred out of his twisting contemplations by a thud, thump and a moan. He was on his feet in a moment, rushing toward the bathroom and pulling the door open without knocking. Steam hit him and a wave of heat but his eyes went to the figure sprawled on the floor. Methos still had his jeans on, one arm hooked over the tub, the scalding water already tuning the pale skin red and angry. He had fainted or fallen, a fresh bruise on the side of his face as Mac pulled him away from the bathtub and turned the water off, turning on colder water in the sink as he swung Methos' legs around and lifted them up onto the commode seat, putting curled towels under the older Immortal's neck before applying a cold cloth to the pale face.

He could only wait, startled and concerned by Methos' collapse but not for the first time seeing the strain the last few months had taken on a man he had started to think was invulnerable. Immortals didn't get sick, not in the normal sense, but they could succumb to forms of neglect. It was what Mac saw now, what Tess had seen. Methos was too thin, pale skin unhealthy looking as if he were in the first stages of starvation, the dark hair was dulled and limp.

MacLeod moved, returning swiftly with a glass of juice just as Methos began stirring again. Pulling him upright carefully, Mac made him drink, examining his arm. Already the angry flush had faded, no hint of the burn on the fair skin.

Methos kept his eyes down, embarrassed and uncertain. Twice now...in front of MacLeod, forcing the man to care for someone he had no care for. Or didn't want to care for, he amended.

"When was the last time you ate?" MacLeod asked him.

"Why is everyone all of sudden worried about my dietary habits?"

"They are...I am more worried about you. Methos..."

"Don't. We are through, Mac, you said it. I understand why. I don't blame you. I should have told you...might have if it had ever come up. Don't make me one of your pet projects."

"What do ye want from me?" Mac asked him. "I should have asked that a long time ago."

"Nothing, MacLeod," Methos said face tightening as he got to his feet. "Let me borrow the clothes and I'll get out of your way."

"Or out of my life?" Duncan asked.

"It's what you want isn't it?" Methos snapped at him.

"I don't know."

The tone of voice stopped Methos more surely than the hand on his arm. "Stay long enough to eat something, at least."

"I'll grab something on the way to Joe's."

"I don't believe you."

"What? That I won't get something to eat?" Methos said, grabbing up the offered sweater and shrugging into it.

"No, that you don't want to die," Mac said. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? That's what taking on these challenges is about, isn't it? Not eating...what are you doing?"

"Not coping very well," Methos said quietly and turned to MacLeod." Is that what you wanted to hear? You wanted Justice for my past, well here it is, MacLeod. I can't sleep without reliving every day of a thousand years of hell you can't even imagine. I can't eat without choking on the food that I stole from every mouth in every village I destroyed. I see faces I barely even looked at when I rode with no conscience, no restraint, no reason other than because..." he stopped, suddenly, unable to look at MacLeod any longer. "No. I don't want to die, MacLeod. But living is not such a great prize either."

"Because why?" Mac asked folding his arms across his chest, willing to listen but not sure he really wanted to.

"Because ...because it was what I knew, what I could do, all I could do. I wasn't just Death, MacLeod. I was dead. As dead as man can be and still see and taste and breathe. I had been dead a long time before I ever met up with Kronos. Two thousand years of fighting and loving and living and losing everything I had, everything I wanted again and again and again and there was nothing, nothing, I could do to stop it. The killing, the stealing, the destruction--I was good at it because I had been watching it happen around me for two thousand years. And I was angry, and helpless, and I prayed to a dozen different gods to stop it, to end it, to show me something different. Not one of them answered. Kronos saw it all so differently," his voice dropped to a whisper and Methos dropped as well, onto the end of the bed to let his hands, usually so expressive, trail listlessly between his knees. "What he could not stop, he took control of, and I rode with him. Willingly, not gladly, but willingly."

MacLeod felt nauseated but the anger didn't accompany it, nor the tearing of his loyalties. He felt sick for Methos. There was more, he knew, Andrew had said as much and MacLeod had no reason to disbelieve him.

It did not show up in his face and before he could speak, Methos was on his feet again and heading out the door. Pushing off the counter MacLeod intercepted him just as he opened the door. Then staggered back as Methos rounded on him, the edge of a very hard fist catching MacLeod on the jaw and sending him to his knees with Methos standing over him, body taut and poised for a fight.

"Well, I guess you are feeling better," Andrew piped up and both men turned to him and the Angel of Death rocked back on his heels with a sheepish look on his face. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked innocently.

"Don't let him, leave," MacLeod mumbled from the floor, rubbing his jaw and eyeing Methos with exasperation before levering himself to his feet.

"Get out of my way, Andrew," Methos hissed and Andrew stepped aside while MacLeod lunged forward.

"He doesn't have a sword!" MacLeod snapped and Methos stopped, foot poised on the steps, looking back slowly. "At least borrow one until you get yours back," Mac growled but it was a poor mask for a plea.

"Here," Andrew offered, pulling his own from his coat and Methos eyed it, his anger vanishing under the renewed trepidation on his face.

"No. I don't want one," he said, all too away he sounded like a child but the bright blade stirred something uncomfortable in his chest. "Where's mine?"

"Joe has it and I think you do want this one," Andrew said gently. "Take it."

MacLeod moved cautiously forward. Methos had paled again, lifting his eyes to Andrew's as he took a step back and down, looking for all the world like he would bolt or faint.

"Methos, for the love of God, take the blade," Mac said and reached for it.

"MacLeod, Don't!" Methos said and moved, trying to push the blade from MacLeod's grasp. Andrew released it, green eyes tearing as he stepped back while the two Immortals' hands closed over the hilt.

"It has a name," Andrew said with both grace and sorrow as the two men went down under the weight of the blade, a weight that had nothing to do with its composition but only its purpose.

"It's called Justice," Andrew murmured, well aware that the two men kneeling on the floor already knew the true nature of the blade that now joined them.

______________________________________________________________

Duncan barely heard Andrew. He had not felt the burn when he first touched the blade. It had only begun when Methos' long fingers closed over his. He wanted to drop it, staring at his own hand as if it were something not part of himself. He and Methos were knee to knee, barely two hand's spans between them, and his companion was staring at their joined hands with outright fear.

His own fear rising, MacLeod wanted nothing more than to comfort and find comfort and his desire guided his free hand to hook around the back of Methos' neck.

A mistake. The sob rose in his throat unchecked as what and who Methos was and had been washed over him. He could focus on no image, no horror, no moment of gentleness as he was barraged with a history too vast to even comprehend. Early years that crept from the very dawn of mankind's first claims to supremacy of this world, to take what was laid before them as a birthright. Respect for the primal forces that ripped the heaven's and earth apart, gave rise to crops, to animals for food and protection, shifting as those other creatures fell before him with more regularity than his brothers and sisters fell under claws and teeth. Winds could be denied to some extent with the erection of structures to keep the howling beasts of air at bay.

Having subdued one enemy, mindless and random, another rose -- a mirror of himself -- other men who might not be as clever or patient, who would rather steal than build, who would rather take than coax food from the reluctant soil. Who saw those that were weaker as only another kind of beast to be subdued, to serve them, grow their food, be the objects of lust and desire and occasionally a little tenderness. There were no faces to hate, to fear; they all blurred into a mix of demands and abuse, of cowardice and dominance, shifting from conqueror to master to enemy to...

Beast. Better then to be on the on the end of the blade or the whip, to watch other beasts like himself toil under the heat while he watched from the semi-coolness of a tent and sipped sweet wine. To drive those would be masters under his heel, or under his sword until the land drank up their blood, and their lives and their hopes. His hopes until the conquest became only what he did, the conqueror what he was. There was no joy in it. It was how the world divided itself. Be the hunter or be the food. Live or die -- only he couldn't die, no interest in goading his Brothers to end his endless life. And every night, in the glimmer of his memory came the whisper of what had been, what might be again, vain hopes that fell silent under the nightmares of a lash to his back, of the blood of a loved one spilling over his hands while he went on and on and on.

Until small hands reached up to him, wanting comfort, not understanding even the bare fact that his world had been shattered around him. He could be your heir. And inherit this emptiness? To become the one of the Soulless? Spare him the pain. And he had while his brothers laughed at his ruthlessness.

There was no one he could lift his hands up to, no quelling sword came to separate him from this nothingness to another, but the memory stirred waking, that there were other things, if not joy than knowledge.

So simple an explanation, so forgivable but it wasn't. The killing did not end, nor the taking. He wanted knowledge and he sought, separated himself from those he had claimed kinship from for a third of his lifetime and went after that knowledge the same way he had gutted a village. Emperors called upon him for what he knew, for how he exercised that knowledge with no more care for the number of lives to be affected than he had when he put them to the sword himself.

And while he learned and advised and put his knowledge to work, the world changed. The goddesses and gods he had abandoned for their perfidy faded under a new one, and he paid little heed to this new one either, for all there was a different murmuring in the back of his mind that kept telling him to look up. He had done so at the height of Rome's glory to see that three thousand years of living had left him so ignorant of understanding the one-time Beast he might have been reborn.

And like a newborn he set out to explore this world, awakening long buried delights in seeing and tasting and sensing, in having someone nearby who saw the world with the wisdom of ancients while his eyes remained as wondering as a child's. Wives, lovers and companions washed in and out of his life like tides and he learned to fight again, for them, for their beliefs, for their lives.

With every loss, he huddled back under his masque of uncaring for a time but the world was too wonderful, it was moving so fast that even his vast age and endless life would never be able to see it all, experience it all, to appreciate it all.

He killed when he had too, hid when he could, avoiding those of his own kind because they wanted to stop him before he could experience and learn and be awed by the imagination and persistence of his short-lived cousins. He hid because his name was known, because they wanted his power when he knew in his heart, carefully protected as it was, that he had no real power to offer them -- the power of his long life, yes, but the real power was in this living.

His long life saw them...the mortals with their short lives and huge hopes...building toward their own destruction, learning and relearning the same lessons from millennia past as some took what was not theirs, beat their kin under their lashes and their hatred as he had done. When their numbers increased the illnesses and sicknesses that would further shorten their lives spread plagues of death and ignorance. No bright hopes then, just more of the same, rushing headlong into the arms of death -- Death no longer had need to ride them down. They went willingly and blindly.

He could not be party to it...it was too sad, too much a waste and he retreated, watching, his despair and solitude growing deeper with each decade. If Immortals could not be taught to use their long lives to end this madness and mortals too short-lived to see their few hopes to fruition then what was the point?

Wait and watch, a voice murmured, the same that had told him to look up, and he did. He heard murmuring of a different hope, a few, here and there, Immortals who had thought and compassion enough to care what happened, who might yet see mankind out of its destructive adolescence and into maturity. Darius who he knew, who had changed so vastly from his time in the legions to being a soft voice of reason. And Darius had a protégé, a warrior, yes, but who knew instinctively that mortals were meant to be cherished to be protected -- but he needed guidance still. Guidance Darius had provided until the teacher was torn from the student.

Too big a task for a man who had compassion but little conscience, knowledge but little caring, who stayed separate while this student was so much a part of the world he lived in, envy was the only emotion that even began to describe his feelings.

So he had to learn again, to extend his friendship, rusty as it was, to others, to find some common ground between he and this promise. The meeting came too quickly though. He was not prepared, he had not expected...he was not ready. Better to give this promise what he could. Fighting was not something he wanted any longer, the killing as abhorrent as it was addictive.

His careful plan fell to pieces under the promise of honesty or loyalty and unable to run away, he tried to meet each gesture in kind, but they were so disparate, one full of laughter and light the other trying not to let the shadows of his long life reclaim him.

Until the shadows of another's life reached out to steal his promise. It was unfair -- but then life had never been designed with fairness intact. Still, it would not stand. He was nothing if not tenacious. Friendship he had offered, and knowledge but trust he had withheld, for fear of betrayal. His last shield, the last guard he had to let down. Not fear of this promise housed in the body and spirit of a man -- but to ask him to trust someone who could barely say trust and live in the same breath.

So he was forced to trust himself, to take that trust and extend it beyond himself, to take his knowledge, his compassion and his care and lay it out before the shadow creature his promise had become. It seemed such a paltry offering, a weak solution, and for a brief moment, for a breathtaking moment of sheer faith, he had thought to offer his head and his strength to MacLeod and then thought again, fearing his own darkness would merge with that MacLeod already carried.

To rely on his own weakness then...to offer only what he could summon from some long forgotten life when he believed that good could occasionally triumph, emerge victorious.

He was not surprised then, when that shadow tempted every tenant of the rules he had learned, to place blade to throat with no care of the consequences. It seemed he was right after all. But there was no joy in being right.

Sheer wonder came when the promise became...almost an oath. You are not alone. Not out here and not in there. A hand pressed across a wildly beating heart that fought for all that had been and he realized the words were not for MacLeod, but for himself.

Everything else had been confusion and uncertainty as MacLeod fought his way back from the shadows, overcame and went on. But that encounter with MacLeod's dark shadow coupled with the love he had for a woman who, in her dying, knew more about living than he -- all of it left him with no anchors, no tried and true methods of making it from day to day much less Decade to decade or century to century. So he stayed and learned. He was not the teacher, he was the student -- come late to his lessons but willing to listen and think and debate. To care and trust and want to be part of something other than his own long history.

______________________________________________________________

Andrew crouched over the two curled bodies, anxiously; watching, waiting. His instinct was to pry the white hands from the hilt but Justice was not his to wield only to bear witness to. The blade rested between them, Duncan's body curled around it, Methos curled around Duncan, the older Immortal's face gray and strained and with grief and pain deeply etched on his face -- an expression of abandonment Andrew had seen only once or twice before in his endless existence.

It took him a moment to realize there was movement between the two men but all of it was MacLeod's; the muscular frame shaking and trembling under the force of sobs so tight and silent he might well have been dying rather than weeping. If he was aware of the body curled around his, he gave no sign, not even when Methos slipped away to fall senseless to the floor, arm twisted awkwardly where MacLeod's hand trapped his against the hilt.

"Duncan, let go," Andrew said softly, almost reaching out to touch the man then drawing back, never feeling the limitations of his own gifts quite so acutely.

"He can't," Methos' voice was a rough sound, the oldest Immortal's lips barely moving, his eyes still closed. He had to be in some discomfort from the twist of his arm but he remained still. "My justice. It was supposed to be my justice," he whispered.

Then moved, coiling his strength and his will in one sudden burst of energy. Andrew heard the bones in his wrist snap and Methos did not so much as twitch as he came to his knees and laid his other hand along the blade and pulled.

"Methos!" Andrew's alarm grew, winging a prayer heavenward for what appeared to be a pronouncement gone horribly wrong.

Blood flowed over the older Immortal's hands, staining his skin, his shirt, and the floor as he kicked out and wrenched the blade free, shoving Duncan back with his foot, loosening the death grip. The blade clattered to the floor, but before Andrew could reach for it, Methos had it in his hand again, bloodied fingers closing over the hilt. The older Immortal swallowed and got to his knees, holding the blade in front of him, point up, staring at the scarlet smears on the bright metal, his broken wrist laying uselessly against his thigh.

"What happens if I take a head with this, Andrew?" he asked dispassionately, voice hollow. "What happens if someone takes my head with this?" .

"It's not meant for killing," Andrew said rising as Methos did and then backing away as the Immortal moved, pressing the point to his throat.

"No? But it can, can't it? It can kill a soul." .

"It is Justice only. Accept it and move on," Andrew said evenly.

"There is no Justice for what I've been, what I've done. There isn't even redemption," Methos hissed. "That's what I was supposed to know, right? To let Justice work through MacLeod? Let him...as...good a man as I have ever known...let him be the judge. And to think I was so arrogant in my disdain for his Judgment, for his values. Who was he to judge me?" .

"That's not what was meant. You are confusing Justice with Judgment, Forgiveness with Mercy. They aren't the same. One has to temper the other. Justice is the balance between Judgment and Mercy. You have that, Methos. God gave it to you in a form you could understand," Andrew pleaded.

"God...God gave me a life that can't end, that can only replay joy and pain until it all becomes the same!" Methos snapped out on a harsh intake of air.

"You have never believed that..." Andrew said a little desperately.

"There isn't anything left to believe in! I kept hoping and praying that if I lived long enough I would find a reason, some answer. That living was the only way I could ever know...anything...to find a point to any of this. I thought I had," Methos murmured, his gaze dropping to the still crouched form of Duncan MacLeod. For long moments he said nothing and Andrew had no arguments for him, his inspiration stubbornly, willfully silent. What Methos needed to learn he had to learn on his own.

Shreds of strength were gathered from nowhere. "Well, then, if I can't find a reason, perhaps I can find some peace. Don't leave him, please," Methos said and Andrew could not say if Methos were asking him or God. Nor did he move to follow Methos as the oldest Immortal moved past him and fled out into the darkness.

______________________________________________________________

Darkness could come in so many forms. There was the rich darkness of the night, star-spotted and endless. The darkness of a heart touched by nothing and empty. The quiet shadows when life and light glimmer just out of reach.

And the darkness that comes when one looks deeply into one's own soul and sees not darkness but the mirror of everything one sees around them. The reflection of faith and desire and anger and hate and sorrow.

Duncan MacLeod had looked into the darkness and seen the reflection of his own face. Justice had no right or wrong attached to it: it was what it was.

"What have I done?" his bewildered murmur was met by song and by a light so bright he could not bear to look upon it, yet he lifted his face to it as a growing thing seeks the sun.

"Seen the truth," Monica said quietly. She stood before him, looking as she had every time he had seen her, smiling, expression open and inviting, the rich reddish hair a-shine with light. But she was more than he had thought.

His eyes dropped, not willing to face her as she was, eyes closing as he saw the blood on his hands, on the floor. Not his blood, Methos'.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, you have never run away from the truth in your whole long life," Monica said gently. "I'd really rather you dinnae' start now."

"I never knew...how could I know?" he whispered, closing his fingers around the stains on his palms. "He doesn't need my forgiveness, I need his."

"He doesn't need your forgiveness at all, Duncan. Just your friendship and your love," Monica said.

"What can I do? What have I done...he's gone," MacLeod said raising his face to Monica's again, as if she had the answer. "He saw my horror and ran from it."

"Not yours, Duncan. His own. Just as you have seen your own Darkness and turned away from it again and again. God gave Immortals a gift and a task, Duncan. The gift was a life long enough to fulfill the task."

"And the task?"

"That I can't tell you, I don't know. But I do know that wherever God is, love is also."

"You..." he hesitated, getting his knees beneath him. "What are you? Am I dreaming this?"

Monica smiled. "No. You aren't dreaming. I am an Angel, sent by God. You and Methos...there is more at stake here than a friendship between two Immortals. But you will need each other to face it. I was sent here to show you the truth," her smile wavered a little. "But it seems in this case the truth is not enough."

"What do you want from me?"

"God wants nothing from you but that which you already give him, your love. But he does ask that you share that love with others -- not just those who are easy to love, but the ones...those that are harder to love but need it all the more for being away from it for so long."

MacLeod closed his eyes again. "Methos. The justice..."

"Was given to Methos long ago...it's part of the reason he has lived so long," Andrew murmured and Duncan saw him differently as well. Gone was the slightly shy, awkward Immortal and stood before him was a confident being with a bright glorious shine in his eyes and the touch of the stars around his presence.

"You are his friend. How could you--"

"I am the Angel of Death, Duncan. A death it isn't my task lead any Immortal through. And yes, I am his friend, even as humans judge such things." Andrew crouched in front of the dazed Scot. "I was told to bring him Justice, so he could recognize it, to know that there is no payment be extracted from him, that Justice has been meted out."

"Then...then why did he run..."

"Because he feels unworthy of Justice, only of judgment. When you have waited for something for so long and it is not what you expected, it can be frightening. And he expected that Judgment from you...but you can't judge him, can you, Duncan? Not knowing as you do that good men can, occasionally, do great evil."

Andrew's tone was not accusatory but Duncan flushed anyway. "I have to find him," he said, getting to his feet. "Where has he gone?"

Monica's eyes were filled with tears and she shook her head. "He has gone seeking what he could not gain from you."

"Andrew you have to help me--" Duncan breathed and turned...but Andrew was gone and when he looked back again, he was alone in the loft with only the darkness closing around him and the sharp, coppery scent of Methos' blood on his hands.

______________________________________________________________

It is not true that rain means the angels are crying, nor does thunder mean that God is angry. But there are times when the rain falls just so, with such a soft patter and a warmth that soaks the skin without chilling that one might think it tears or that in hearing thunder, and feeling guilt, one might think that God's anger is justified. It is not true, but not all truth is plain or easy to see.

Had he told that to some child during his long life? Some child, feeling badly about some minor transgression and frightened by the storms, thought the deluge to be her fault? Elspeth. Yes, Elspeth. Seven years old and having let loose the ponies in the barn so that they ran free and one had stumbled and broken a leg and had to be put down. She had come to him tear streaked and racked with guilt, thinking the pony's death her fault. Her sin to expiate. She had gone to confession, she had done her penance and still the weight of that sadness would not be relieved.

How long had her young heart borne that guilt, unexpiated by father or Father?

She had been dead at ten and he did not know if she ever forgave herself for the pony's death. He had moved on with his wife and her three dear children dead and while he had not forgotten them, he had not brought them to conscious memory for more years than all the length of their lives combined.

He could ask Andrew, he thought, turning his face upward to let the rain fall across his face. Not warm but chilling and for once he welcomed the cold, letting it numb him, hoping it would numb him down to the very core that now burned with every breath.

Sharing one's sins did not spread the burden it merely made it twice as heavy for each to bear. Culloden was a mistake, MacLeod. That burden he had not known lay so heavy on his friend's soul. Culloden was no more than a border skirmish. Take out every farming community east of Ur and count the bodies then.

It wasn't even his time with the Horsemen. He could almost convince himself to chalk that up to madness...Andrew claimed him dead. Perhaps he had been and was now living his life in reverse. He stared at the blade in his hands. It held no horror for him now. It had surrendered that, given it over. For himself he could have stood it but he had hoped that his Justice would never taint another. As if he had the right to hope for anything.

"Are you going to sit here until Stark comes?" Andrew asked and Methos did not even bother to wonder or try to catch the angel out on his sudden appearance.

"Stark...whoever. Nice sword," Methos commented, his fingers white-knuckled on the hilt. He could not let go. He had tried. He glanced up, unreasonably glad that Andrew's blonde hair was as plastered to his head as Methos' was to his own. He had the opinion that Andrew looked more like a drowned rat than he did at the moment.

"What if it's Duncan? He's looking for you."

"Now that, my friend would be almost justice in itself. The Boy Scout faces Death. Think there's a special merit badge in it for him?" Methos let the point fall to the muddy earth, wincing as the recently broken wrist snapped, not healing. "Handicap for experience," he said softly. "You lied to me," he whispered.

"No...I don't think so."

"You told me once that in death there is life. For you, perhaps. All my version of Death brings is chaos and confusion. My own primarily. And I am tired of it, Andrew. I am tired of this life that offers such hope but not to the hopeless."

"No one needs be hopeless, Mateos," Andrew said. "You know that better than anyone."

"Maybe once. I cannot believe..." his voice trailed away. "The hope your God seeks is in the noble heart of a half-grown Highlander. Not in the broken and weary spirit of a former slave. Go away, Andrew." Methos rose and faced toward the path leading to the bay and Andrew rose with him. "I think it time Death parted company from Life."

He moved away, silent as a ghost, seeing another shadow and Andrew almost went after him only to find Tess' hand on his arm and her umbrella shielding him from the soft rain. "We have to stop him. He'll fight to lose," Andrew murmured.

"First he has to fight, Angel boy," Tess said solemnly. "But not Stark."

"But that is Stark."

Tess looked at him impatiently. "I know that. I brought him here."

"You ...what?" Andrew said, face flushing as he moved forward after Methos.

Tess cast her eyes heavenward and went after him.

"Do you always bring an audience?" Stark demanded as Methos neared, all but dragging his sword.

"If they paid for their tickets, who am I to say no?" Methos countered and waited while Stark hesitated, looking up at the rain.

"I don't suppose you would like to move this indoors?" Stark asked and Methos smiled faintly and shook his head. "Well, I suppose there is the convenient cover of the storm to cover your Quickening. Should be fairly spectacular. Five thousand years."

"Give or take a few centuries," Methos offered. "Be careful what you wish for though, Stark. It might hurt like hell. It hasn't exactly been a bed of roses for me."

"I'll keep that in mind," Stark said, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it over a nearby bush. "That sword looks a little heavy for you," he commented as Methos raised the blade awkwardly.

"I'm rather attached," Methos murmured and waited. So did Stark until it was obvious Methos was not going to start.

Stark swung and Methos blocked. Again and the oldest Immortal fell back. Half a dozen more parries with Methos losing ground the whole way and Stark stopped, studying him, watching his arms, seeing the tight strain in the thin face. He came at him again, harder and frowned even as Methos made a clumsy block and went down to one knee, blood scoring his side.

"You fought better the other day," Stark observed as Methos blocked what could have been a killing blow.

"Bad day. Sorry," Methos said, getting to his feet.

"I expected more of a challenge. Pity," Stark said and began again, this time not letting up. They came close and Stark crossed their blades and wrenched downward, watching Methos' face go white as the wrist snapped again under the pressure

Stark smiled and inclined his head -- a token of respect as he thrust downward, shoving Methos to his knees. "Rest well, old one. No doubt you've earned it."

"STARK!"

"You can't interfere, MacLeod!!" Stark snapped laying his blade along the back of Methos' neck.

"No...but I can damn well make sure you don't enjoy the victory!" MacLeod snarled.

"Let it be done, MacLeod," Methos said, not looking up and so missed the look the Highlander gave him.

"It will be, but you gave Justice into my hands, Methos. Do you take it back?"

Methos looked up then, saw the hard implacable expression on the Scot's face and felt the last of the blood drain from his own. "No. I do not withdraw it."

"Your call, Stark," MacLeod said. "You can walk away now and live or..." he inclined his head toward Methos. "His Justice is mine to mete out. I will either give it to him through my own hand or through you."

Stark hesitated, knowing MacLeod was not bluffing. His blade still rested on Methos' neck, that thrum of power almost palpable.

As was MacLeod's.

"You and I will meet again, MacLeod," Stark said, backing away.

Not until Stark had gathered his coat and moved out of sight did Duncan come forward to kneel next to Methos, pulling him up right from his hands and knees.

The Highlander's large hand closed over Methos' fingers and pried them from the blade hilt, aware of the shudder that ran through the oldest Immortal's body and the wince of pain (or was it relief?) that washed over the tight features.

"Your hands, Duncan," Methos murmured. "If you won't let me have Stark's peace, then give me yours. You promised Justice."

"No, God promised Justice," Tess said quietly and both men looked up at her, Methos leaning heavily against MacLeod's shoulder. " Methos seems unwilling to accept it from Him, so perhaps he will accept it from you. Pick up the sword, Duncan," Tess said gently.

"No!" MacLeod said, arms coming protectively around Methos.

"You promised him Justice. Pick up the sword and keep your word. Trust in God, and give Methos the peace he craves."

"Mac, please," Methos said softly, raising his good arm up. "What you have done for other friends who can be redeemed no other way. Remember Brian Cullen -- I am no less lost than he and I am tired of fighting."

"Trust God, and pick up the sword," Monica said, suddenly before them and smiling. "There is truth in Justice as well, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Methos hand closed over the sword and placed it in Duncan's hand, then pulled away, coming to his knees and bowing his head. With reverent care, Duncan set the katana aside and picked up Justice.

"If you get all guilty about this, Mac...I will haunt you," Methos said softly.

Lifting the blade, Mac closed his eyes, and lifted his head, staring upward and praying. The rain stopped, the clouds parting and the sun broke out, shining along the bright blade. With a faint smile, Mac swung.

A caress across his neck and cheek, the warmth of the sun on his exposed neck and Methos saw justice strike the earth just below him, jerking as he felt the coldness pass through him, a shock like cold water and he cried out.

Then MacLeod was beside him, Justice buried in the dirt, shining white and solid as the earth below.

"Justice for your past sins, Methos," he said, pulling his friend upright. "Is that you live with them and go on."

Methos heard him, felt that truth sear through him and was, for one despairing moment, unsure if he could bear this unexpected and not wholly welcome truth. "I...I can't..." he managed, then had to fall silent or embarrass himself completely. This was it? Andrew had been right, God had given his soul justice when his mind cried out for Judgment. This was too much to bear...to face more lifetimes...to go on...he couldn't do this and found himself clinging to MacLeod's forearm like a ship anchored in a storm.

"No, you can't. Not alone," Andrew said, squatting down in front of them and pulling Methos' injured wrist into his large hands. "But then, you aren't alone, Methos. You haven't been for a long time. You just need to be reminded from time to time." He waited, glancing at MacLeod as he said the last, letting the Highlander know that the same truth belonged to him as well. "I think it's time Death took a holiday," he added with a grin which broadened as Methos let loose a laugh that was half sob.

Between them Duncan and Andrew got the eldest Immortal to his feet, Monica coming forward to present the katana to MacLeod, properly, hilt extended over her bent arm. He inclined his head, dark eyes bright as he guided his friend back along the path, toward Joe's where warmth and friendship would begin the healing of an ancient soul.

"You have very good friends, Andrew," Monica commented with a grin, watching as Methos seemed to find his balance but not resist the steadying arm MacLeod laid across his shoulder.

Andrew rocked back on his heels. "I do. Best in the world," he grinned at his two companions then leaned forward to pull Justice from the dirt and held it up. "I love my job," he said and flung the blade high and out over the bay, laughing with sheer joy as the blade shimmered and fluttered and became a pure white dove, winging toward heaven.

(c) A Gathering of Angels - MdR - 5/1997