"Everywhere"
by Maisie (maisierita@comcast.net)
copyright 2002
(D/M, 1/1, R)

Disclaimer: Duncan and Methos -- not mine, not now, not ever. *sob*

Warning: This is not a lyrics story.  I still don't do those.  There are lyrics scattered throughout to set the tone, mainly because this song was completely inspired by Michelle Branch's Everywhere, but they are not part of the story.  Rated R for language and implied sexual situations.

Feedback: Please! Anything but flames gladly accepted at the above edress.

Acknowledgments:  Tremendous thanks to Monica and Sapphire, without whom this story would still be sitting on my hard drive, justthisclose to being finished.  This one was a tougher beta than usual, but they pulled through brilliantly.  If you like the ending, thank Sapphire ... some of the key paragraphs were hers.  If you don't like the Spanish, don't blame Monica ... she tried her best to set me straight but I was stubborn. :)

Turn it inside out so I can see
The part of you that's drifting over me
And when I wake you're never there
But when I sleep you're everywhere
You're everywhere

It wasn't an erotic dream, exactly, though gods knew he'd had plenty of those in his life. It wasn't better, necessarily, nor necessarily worse. Just different. One of those pseudo-dreams that comes halfway between waking and sleeping, when the impossible seems quite possible, the irrational quite rational.

He would have been hard pressed later to describe any of it in detail, except to say that he'd been there in bed and not alone, the Presence next to him achingly, tantalizingly warm and familiar. It was more than a little depressing, therefore, to gain reluctant consciousness and find the bed empty. As usual.

"Welcome back."

Methos blinked, startled, to find himself staring into deep brown eyes filled with laughter and the barest hint of affection. He tried sitting up, but groaned and sank back down as the headache slammed into his skull.

"Hangover?" The voice that teased him was deep and friendly, the accent vaguely Gaelic and pleasant to Methos's ears. Potentially erotic, but for the infernal pounding in his head. "You should take it a little easier on the beer. "

Methos grunted and sat up carefully, waiting to speak until his head stopped spinning. "How long was I out?"

A shrug, broad shoulders moving infinitesimally up then down. "Fifteen minutes. I borrowed your shower. I hope you don't mind."

"Not if you left me some hot water."

He got a chuckle in response, and watched with mild interest the play of muscles in the other man's back as he sat down carefully on the bed and pulled on his socks. "Some."

"Thanks." He couldn't think of much else to say, so stayed quiet and watched as shoes followed the socks, followed finally by a tight woolen sweater that left very little to the imagination. "Your hair's wet," he offered inanely as water dripped steadily off the shoulder-length hair and left small puddles on the bed.

The comment was caught and returned neatly. "It happens when you take a shower. Just wait until you try it." Brown eyes regarded him reflectively and he flushed lightly under their heat, but the next remark was blandly casual. "I don't suppose you have a hair dryer."

"No." His own hair was as short as it had been in centuries. In truth he found the noise from the small machines to be excessive and irritating. "I have plenty of towels, though."

"It's all right." A man resigned to his fate. "It'll dry pretty quickly once I get outside."

Methos frowned. "You could stay, you know . . . " He fumbled it then, staring at the other man mutely for an instant before remembering. "Keith." He cut off the other man's instinctive interruption before it could begin. "I can afford it."

Keith grinned, glancing around the well-furnished apartment. "You surely can." He cocked his head to the side, staring at Methos speculatively. "You could have anyone you wanted. You don't need to pay for it."

"And you," Methos responded dryly, "could get a real job." He dug through his wallet and handed over a roll of bills.

"I like this job," Keith said without heat, taking the money and tucking it casually into his pocket.

"And maybe I like paying for it."

"Sure," Keith said. "Tell it to Duncan."

Methos had dealt easily with shocks much worse than this one, so it was hardly an effort to keep his face and voice controlled. "Duncan?" he repeated smoothly, raising one eyebrow, delicately quizzical.

A grin quirked the corner of the other man's mouth. "That's what it sounded like to me. Got an eye for the Scots, eh?" He met Methos's neutral gaze easily and gave a rueful shrug, apparently unconcerned at the surface denial. "Don't worry about it. As you can imagine, it happens all the time. Occupational hazard."

"I can see that it would be." His tone was light, but his voice was not quite as even as it should have been. He cursed the beer and the headache, and tried not to flinch as the other man ran sharp, perceptive eyes across his face.

"Oh," Keith said, transparently amused. "So it's like that, is it?" He stood up gracefully and stretched, tossing the towel back to the bed. "Well, if it's any comfort to you, you weren't talking about him in your sleep. I'd imagine your secret's fairly safe unless you fuck him, and if that happens, it won't really matter if you call his name out, will it?"

Methos stared at him mutely, the continuing pounding in his head making it impossible to derive an appropriate response. Chuckling, Keith left the apartment without another word, the door closing and latching behind him. Methos fell back to the messy bed, feeling thoroughly disheveled inside as well as out. He was in dire straits indeed if he was blurting out Duncan's name to casual bed partners. Never mind that Keith looked enough like Duncan to be his long-lost brother. Gods, he'd chosen Keith precisely because of his looks -- a desperate effort to get Duncan out of his system in some way that wouldn't jeopardize their friendship.

It was hopeless, of course, as futile as an attempt to excise his own DNA. Damn it all to hell, anyway. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so utterly helpless, floundering in this morass of jumbled emotions. He couldn't even leave the man; he'd tried it before, several times in fact, with spectacularly unsuccessful results. Despite all his cool and reasoned intentions, he kept coming back for more, kept picking himself up and traveling across continents to wherever the peripatetic Highlander had chosen to make his most recent home. Over and over and over, mercilessly debasing, abasing and abusing himself, and all for nothing more than Duncan's undemanding friendship.

He threw an arm over his eyes and sighed. Duncan MacLeod. His sun, moon and stars, the center of his existence, his blessing, his curse. It was a pathetic situation, and the only thing, the only thing that made it even remotely tolerable, was that Duncan himself was completely unaware of it.

A quick violent jerk on the blankets freed them from where they'd become ensnared at the foot of the bed, and Methos dragged the covers up over his eyes, too exhausted to be bothered with trivialities like turning out the lights. The other side of the bed was cold, Keith's body heat long since evaporated. Methos pulled the covers tighter around himself, shivering slightly. He hated sleeping alone.

Just tell me how I got this far
Just tell me why you're here and who you are
'Cause every time I look
You're never there
And every time I sleep
You're always there

The music was loud. Too loud, really; he was sure the neighbors must be pounding on the walls, but seeing as how the music was so loud, he couldn't hear them. Couldn't hear the television either, which was all right because none of the drivel they were spouting was worth listening to anyway.

He turned the volume up a notch to annoy the neighbors a little more, and hummed along as puttered around in the kitchen. It was his current favorite song, on perpetual replay, and this was the sixth repetition since he'd gotten out of bed, hangover mercifully gone but a godawful taste in his mouth.

A wave of Presence washed along his spine, dueling with the thrumming of the bass for supremacy of his nervous system, but ultimately losing out to the persistent pounding emitting from the stereo. Whichever gods had designed immortals, they'd not counted on high powered woofers. He crossed to the door without bothering to turn the volume down, mainly because he knew it would annoy MacLeod.

And it was certainly MacLeod. Without seeing, without hearing, with no way at all to know . . . he knew.

"Good morning," he mouthed as he opened the door. He moved slightly aside as MacLeod barreled in, frowning, and crossed impudently to the stereo. "Do you mind?" he asked MacLeod's back peevishly as the song shut off suddenly. "I was listening to that."

"The whole building was listening. The whole block was listening."

"It's a good song." Methos shut the door and walked back to the stereo, hitting the power button defiantly, ceding only the volume by turning it down to a somewhat reasonable level. Then, thus fortified, he turned back to his personal devil and ran his eyes lightly over the much-desired form. "You're looking spiffy today."

MacLeod shrugged lightly. "I'm taking Carol to the art gallery this afternoon."

"Ah, the luscious Carol. How is the good Professor Alleyn?" He kept his voice steady and his face calm. It had become much easier with practice. Gods knew he'd had more than enough of that.

Duncan was idly flipping through a paperback and didn't bother looking up, but a warm smile flashed briefly across his face. "Intriguing."

Methos swallowed hard, a short lapse of control, but MacLeod was still looking at the book and so the slip went completely unnoticed. As usual. "That's the third date this week."

That got MacLeod's attention, and he looked up quizzically, though his eyes were filled with humor. "Keeping track?"

"Always," Methos said, injecting more than enough sarcasm to deflect any truth that might have crept in. He was suddenly in urgent need of a beer, and if he brushed against MacLeod as he walked past, it was not intentional. Or so he told himself.

MacLeod waited patiently while Methos popped the cap on the bottle and took a deep draught. "Most people," he said conversationally, "drink coffee or tea in the morning."

"Life's too short to waste time on coffee," Methos shot back. "Did you come here to criticize my breakfast habits, MacLeod?"

"No. It's just hard to pass up the opportunity." MacLeod grinned infectiously. He was in a silly, giddy mood, near to breaking out in song and dance, positively radiating good cheer. If Duncan had been female, Methos would have attributed it to hormones, for surely nothing else could explain the wild mood swings that struck the Scot. Cold and broody one day, dizzily merry the next, and always, damn it, always utterly appealing.

He grabbed the beer bottle in a choke hold and swallowed, the cool liquid quenching the physical thirst if not the emotional one. Gods, he was such a masochist. He should have left town months ago. Years ago. He sighed silently. He should have left millennia ago.

MacLeod had crossed to the couch and sank easily into it. "You weren't at Joe's last night."

Methos nodded sardonically. "Keeping track?"

MacLeod snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. You said you'd be there, remember?"

He did, in fact, remember, but his nerves had failed him at the last minute. He could handle MacLeod and Carol in theory, but wasn't sure he could handle an entire evening in their company. The more he'd thought about it, the less appealing it had seemed, until finally he'd called the number on the bar napkin stashed carefully in the desk drawer. As a solution it was in no respect ideal, but at least it wasn't actually painful.

"Something came up," he said mildly. He tossed the beer bottle into the recycling bin. "You want something to eat?"

"No thanks." Duncan was still sitting on the couch, twisted around to face Methos in the kitchen. "Carol said she's sorry she missed you."

"She'll see me tomorrow at the departmental meeting."

"She thinks you're avoiding her."

Methos forced a laugh that sounded, to his own ears at least, appropriately incredulous. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" MacLeod's voice was still light, but his eyes sought the truth and Methos, afraid that his own eyes might reveal more than they ought, busied himself with making some eggs.

"Of course it is. Why should I avoid her?"

"I don't know." Some of the gaiety was gone from MacLeod's voice. "I told her it was ridiculous, of course."

"Good for you." He splashed some milk into the pan and stirred.

"For what it's worth, I don't think you're avoiding her." MacLeod paused. "I think you're avoiding us."

He nearly scrambled the eggs right out of the pan, and cursed silently under his breath. He looked up, forcing patience he didn't feel into his voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

MacLeod rose and walked towards the kitchen. "Exactly what it sounds like. I've been thinking it over, Methos, back when you introduced me to Carol, you -- -- you're making a mess of those eggs, you know."

"Yes, I know. However, they're my eggs, so you needn't concern yourself with them."

MacLeod backed off only slightly, still hovering far too closely for Methos's tastes, whatever he'd been about to say apparently forgotten. "You put too much milk in."

Methos glared at him. "They're my eggs, remember?" He spooned the gloppy mess onto a waiting plate and brushed impatiently past MacLeod to the table. "Don't you have a class to teach in 20 minutes?"

MacLeod glanced at his watch, and stood up straight. "Yes." He cleared his throat uneasily. "So you're fine with everything?"

"I'm fine. I couldn't be any more fine, MacLeod. Trust me. Get to class before you're late."

"Right." He remained, hovering. Methos had to fight to remain within painful proximity, when every nerve was urging him to run screaming into the bedroom. If he hid under the covers long enough, maybe MacLeod would just disappear. Or maybe, if he were really lucky, he would.

"So, about Carol . . ."

Methos set his jaw. "What about her?"

"You weren't interested in her yourself, were you?"

Methos laughed helplessly, barely managing to restrain the hysteria. "No. For god's sake, MacLeod, give me a little credit."

Relief flooded MacLeod's face. "Good." He moved towards the door. "I've got to go or I'll be late."

"You're already going to be late."

"Later. Listen, will you meet us for coffee after the art show?"

"I don't want to intrude on your date, Mac."

"You won't be. I feel like I've barely seen you lately. I worried about you when you didn't show last night." His voice turned silky and cajoling. "Come on. We'll get those biscuits you like."

MacLeod was smiling again, giddy and teasing again. Methos felt his insides twist and forced a smile he didn't feel. "Sure. I've got class until 3:50."

"Then we'll meet you at the Bistro at 4:15." He left, pulling the door shut behind him. Methos stared at the door for a long time before pulling himself together enough to turn up the stereo as loud as he could stand, heedless of the neighbors. Damn it to hell anyway. Let them pound.

'Cause you're everywhere to me
And when I close my eyes it's you I see
You're everything I know
That makes me believe
I'm not alone
I'm not alone

"Adam?"

The voice was light, familiar, and female. He struggled to put a name to it, but failed miserably. There were altogether too many possibilities from too many different centuries to just pick one.

The voice, heedless, continued on. "Adam, are you all right?" A sigh, then a quiet muttering. "You're drunk, that's what you are." Louder, "He's in here, Duncan."

Carol. God damn it, that was Carol. Methos opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the shadowy shape rustling around his bedroom. It took some concentration, but he was finally able to get his tongue and lips working somewhat in tandem. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. Duncan worried when you didn't make it to the gallery after class."

"Right." He moved sluggishly to sit up, somewhat surprised to find himself on the floor. "Gallery. Coffee and biscuits. What time is it?"

"Six o'clock." That voice he didn't need to identify. "What happened?"

Methos stood slowly, holding onto the desk for support, carefully avoiding Duncan's eyes. "My afternoon lecture was cancelled. Some sort of football rally."

"So you came home and got drunk?" MacLeod was appropriately exasperated. "Did it ever occur to you --"

He was interrupted by Carol's horrified gasp. "Adam, did you drink all of this today?" She was holding an empty vodka bottle, staring at him in disbelief.

"No," Methos lied. He grabbed the bottle away. "Not that it's any of your business."

Carol had her hand over her mouth, and her large brown eyes were filled with a sort of dismayed understanding. "My god, Adam, do you drink like this all the time?"

"No." It came out much too defensively. Carol's eyes grew wider.

"I had no idea. Adam . . . oh, god, Adam, if you have a drinking problem, we can help. I know some people . . . "

"I am not," he ground out, "an alcoholic."

"But --"

"He's not an alcoholic," MacLeod said firmly. "He's just an idiot. Carol, would you mind if I spoke to Adam alone for a minute? Please?"

Carol nodded silently and left, sparing one more worried glance at both of them before turning and leaving, shutting the door behind her.

"What's this all about?" Duncan asked grimly, waving to the vodka bottle and the other empties Carol hadn't seen. "You did drink it all today, right?"

Methos shouldered roughly past him to grab a clean shirt from the wardrobe. "Oh, leave it off, MacLeod. You're not my mother."

"Someone has to be. For god's sake, Methos, drinking yourself into a stupor at three in the afternoon? That's not like you."

"And why," Methos answered frostily, "do you suppose you're in any position to judge what is and isn't like me? Take your girlfriend and get out. I'm not good company right now."

Duncan stared at him for a minute before settling back against the wall, arms crossed. "I knew it."

Methos groaned miserably. "Oh, don't tell me we're going to have a conversation now." He ran a shaky hand across his forehead. "I'm not really up to this at the moment. If I ask very nicely, would you leave?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No. I don't trust you not to drink yourself to death again."

"Mac-"

"That's what happened, isn't it?" MacLeod took the sullen silence as the confirmation it was, and his frown grew impossibly deeper. "You're just lucky we didn't get here 30 minutes earlier. Unless you're looking to kill Adam Pierson off? Start fresh somewhere else?"

"I like Pierson," Methos said, affronted. "I wouldn't kill him off on a drunken binge."

"Then what is it?"

Methos was quiet for a long time, back turned. "It's nothing," he said finally, firmly. "There's nothing wrong. Stop worrying."

MacLeod shook his head in resignation. "Not going to happen. Christ, Methos, you're my best friend. If there's something wrong, I want to help. If it's Carol-"

Methos swore in violent Aramaic. "For the last time, MacLeod, I am not upset about Carol. I am not interested in her, nor was I ever." He turned back to MacLeod. "Do you like her?"

MacLeod was hesitant, wary of the strange glint in his friend's eyes. "Yes."

"Does she make you happy?"

A wordless nod.

"Then that's it." Methos sank down on the bed, a safe and comfortable distance away. "I just want you to be happy, Duncan." Warm fingers gently covered his own, and Methos hid his shock at the unexpected contact.

"You too, Old Man. You too."

I recognize the way you make me feel
It's hard to think that
You might not be real
I sense it now, the water's getting deep
I try to wash the pain away from me
Away from me

Thirty minutes later, Methos was cleaner, neater and depressingly sober. It was an unfortunate side-effect of drinking oneself to death that, upon reviving, all traces of alcohol were wiped clean from one's system. After all the effort that had gone into his unintentionally fatal binge, he figured he was entitled at least to a decent headache, one that pounded enough to dull the irritating buzz of MacLeod's continued presence.

He had tried everything, short of pulling his sword, to get Duncan and Carol to leave, to no effect. They were maddeningly insistent on staying, though to what end, he had no idea. After 10 minutes of fruitless wheedling, he'd given up and slammed his way into the bathroom for a very long, very hot shower, only to emerge and find Duncan sitting comfortably on his couch, seemingly engrossed in the latest Martha Grimes mystery. Carol had appropriated the desk, and was flipping through one of his linguistics journals, making occasional notes on a scrap of paper.

"Mi casa es su casa," Methos said scathingly, and had stalked off into his bedroom to change. He was still there, defiantly misanthropic, when the doorbell rang promptly at seven o'clock.

"Bloody hell!" he swore, then swore again as he smashed his shin into the night table in his frantic efforts to get out of his room and to the door.

It was too late, of course. He'd locked himself in the room and was now trapped inside it while they were outside; Carol, at his desk, not five feet from the door. Of course she'd answer it. Anybody would.

So his mind was already plotting when he bolted out of his room, panting, to find Carol politely ushering Keith inside the apartment. He skidded to an ungraceful halt besides the couch where Duncan was rising, book discarded on a pillow, looking at the newcomer with mild curiosity.

Keith, for his part, returned the gaze with frank interest, then transferred it smoothly to Methos. "I charge extra for multiples," he said casually, and Methos nearly bit his tongue in two. Damn damn damn, how drunk had he been? He had a blurry recollection of placing the phone call, but the shock of Duncan and Carol's arrival had forced it entirely from his mind.

He forced a laugh and crossed the room in three easy strides, grabbing Keith's arm tight enough to hurt as an inaudible warning. "Duncan, Carol, this is Keith. Keith, this is Duncan and Carol. They were just leaving."

"Don't go on my account," Keith said pleasantly, flashing an easy grin. He tossed a quick glance in Methos's direction, eyes glinting with mischievous humor, and stuck his hand out towards MacLeod. "So you're the famous Duncan."

MacLeod raised an eyebrow. "Famous?"

"Adam's mentioned you once or twice." He grinned again, charmingly. "I imagine you can't say the same."

"No."

Duncan's shake of the head was politely amiable. Keith shrugged. "I'd have been surprised if he had. Considering."

Duncan picked up his cue infallibly. "Considering?"

"Considering nothing," Methos ground out through clenched jaws. "Keith has a weird sense of humor. Ignore him. I do." He gripped Keith's arm a little tighter. "Can I speak to you in the other room for a minute?"

Keith flicked his eyes over Methos's shoulder, and a grin curled up the corner of his mouth. "The bedroom? Gee, Adam, that's pretty forward of you. It's only the second date . . . ow!" He pulled his arm out of the steel of Methos's grip, wincing. "I've got a weird sense of humor," he said apologetically, aiming the comment somewhere in Duncan and Carol's general direction without actually bothering to turn to look at them. His eyes were locked on Methos, full of ersatz regret. "I was just joking."

Methos was keeping hold of his temper with tremendous effort. The words dripped out like acid. "Other. Room."

"Hey, look," Carol interrupted, eyes flashing between the two men, face stained with a light blush. "We didn't realize you had plans tonight, Adam. We can talk tomorrow. All right?"

Methos took a deep breath and released it slowly, willing the tension out with each fractional exhale. Gods be praised, they were actually going to leave. "Sure. That'll be fine."

"We were only staying to make sure you ate something, anyway," she said. "After ... you know ... before. It'll help settle your stomach."

"I'll eat," he promised dutifully, willing them subtly towards the door.

"We could order in," Keith piped in helpfully. "I haven't eaten either."

"Neither have we," Duncan said, with his coat already half on. "We might as well all go out together. If that's all right with you, Keith? I don't want to interfere with your plans for the evening."

"No problem," Keith said agreeably, turning to Methos. "I'm very flexible. Unless," he added thoughtfully, as if the idea had just occurred to him, "it's a problem for you, Adam?" His back to the others, he threw an impudent grin at Methos and waited for the only answer Methos could conceivably give.

Methos stood stock still for a minute, waiting for the pounding in his head to subside enough so he could hear himself talk. "No problem," he said tightly.

'Cause you're everywhere to me
And when I close my eyes it's you I see
You're everything I know
That makes me believe
I'm not alone
I'm not alone

It had been a long time since Methos had felt this off-balance. He stared at himself in the mirror, playing and replaying the events of the evening, wondering exactly how everything had gotten so out of control in such a short period of time.

Dinner had gone less than smoothly. Methos had been irritated to begin with, and his disposition had not been improved in the slightest by Keith's continued cheery and carefree dissembling. He'd had not the least bit of success convincing Keith that it would be to his advantage to tone it down, and that failure just served to fuel his irritation further.

Admittedly, he hadn't been at his best, having died and revived just a few hours previously. It was always a bit disorienting coming back from the dead, and finding himself confronted with his current set of personal demons made it particularly tough on his nerves. So he forgave himself the fact that he'd somehow gotten maneuvered into having dinner with the university's latest and greatest couple -- after all, it was bound to have happened at some point -- but he hadn't quite worked out how he'd come to take Keith along.

Keith, on the other hand, had apparently developed a devilish sense of humor when Methos wasn't looking, and had not been at all put out at the change of plans for the evening. In fact, he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in pushing Methos closer and closer to the edge. Keith was not, Methos decided irritably and in retrospect, quite as immune to occupational hazards as he'd earlier professed.

Plan A -- treating Keith simply as an acquaintance -- had proved futile very early on. Keith made it a point to brush up against Methos as often as possible and filled every other comment with sexual innuendo. The more Methos had resisted, the worse Keith had gotten, until he'd gone so far as to blatantly feel Methos up when the Immortal had reached down to pick up a stray napkin.

The expression on Carol's face would almost have been funny, if only Methos had been on the other end of the joke. As it was, he'd gritted his teeth and gone on with dinner, resisting the urge to kill Keith with his own salad fork, all the while wishing desperately that he could come up with a suitable Plan B.

Inspiration had stubbornly refused to strike, and the evening had only gotten worse. There was the waiter, for instance, who had insisted that Duncan and Keith must be brothers, or, "At least cousins, surely?" Duncan had demurred automatically, bewilderment flashing briefly across his face until suddenly his eyes had widened and he'd stared hard for a minute at Keith before turning that intent gaze upon Methos for even longer. MacLeod had been confused then, but not unduly suspicious nor even aware of Methos's real relationship with Keith. Somehow, through providential or deliberate blindness, he hadn't put two and two together to come damningly to four.

No, Duncan's flair for mathematics hadn't kicked in until later, after Carol, with painful awkwardness, had asked Methos how long he'd been seeing Keith. It was all over then; as Methos had stumbled through an answer he'd seen the horrified comprehension flash scarlet across Duncan's face. Well, some kind of comprehension, at any rate. Methos didn't trust himself to accurately ascribe emotions to anyone at the moment, not to himself, not to Keith, certainly not to Duncan.

That Socratic instant of pure mortification had happened just after they'd been served their main courses, and it had been a full hour and a half longer until they'd finished dessert. Ninety brutal minutes that ranked up with some of the worst minutes of Methos's long life.

Home now, completely humiliated, Methos considered seriously just picking up and leaving, getting out of town for a few weeks or decades until he could show his face again. He stared at his reflection, still flushed with remembered embarrassment, and sank to the floor and buried his head in his knees. Who was he kidding? He'd never be able to show his face again. Not to Duncan, at any rate.

Gods.

He let himself wallow for a few more minutes before rising to his feet with grim determination. If there was one thing he'd learned in his 50 centuries, it was that sometimes the best thing to do was simply to cut his losses and run. Beyond a doubt, this was one of those times. Nothing remained for him here now except for a lot of humiliation and quite possibly more than his fair share of pain. He'd had enough pain.

It didn't take long to pack. Most of his things were disposable, deliberately so, and he had more than enough money to replace those few items that weren't. Passport, laptop, journals, a few changes of clothing and various toiletries … he rescued a few cans of beer for the trip. Everything else in the refrigerator he tossed out. It was a shame to lose the Pierson identity, but such was life. There were plenty of new identities to be had.

He was rummaging through the desk, pulling out his spare passports and emergency cash, when he felt an unwelcome but not entirely unexpected rush of Presence. He cursed fluently under his breath, dropped everything he was holding haphazardly into the desk drawer, and slammed it shut. A quick glance around the apartment revealed nothing particularly out of the ordinary; Methos felt reasonably sure his imminent departure would stay secret so long as Duncan stayed out of the bedroom and didn't start poking through the kitchen trash bin.

He stalked across the room as the doorbell rang, wondering if he could keep the Highland brat out of the apartment through sheer force of body language alone. He only needed another 30 minutes, 45 at the most, and he'd be done with this apartment, done with this crisis, done with this life.

"What?" he snarled, flinging open the door and standing belligerently on the threshold. "It's very late, MacLeod. Surely it can wait?"

"No," Duncan answered firmly. "It can't."

Methos stood there for another minute, radiating as much hostility as he could synthesize, but it was useless. MacLeod simply stood there, firm and implacable, until Methos finally ceded the battle (if not the war) by moving aside just enough to let MacLeod shoulder his way past him and into the apartment.

MacLeod stopped near the couch and turned to face him, annoyance stamped on his face. Methos felt a sudden desperate urge for a beer, but remembered with irritation that he'd already packed it all in his carry-on. He could hardly go rummaging through his luggage for beer without some sort of reason for it. Under the circumstances, it was an explanation he preferred not to offer. "Well? What's so urgent?" He injected aggression into his voice in the faint hope that he could deter MacLeod with a good offense.

Unfortunately, MacLeod was not to be deterred, good offense notwithstanding. He shot an irritated glare at Methos, and when he spoke, it was with an obvious effort to keep his voice and temper under control. "I'll admit," he said slowly, with teeth-grinding precision, "that we shouldn't have stayed this afternoon. You made it clear you'd prefer it if we left. " He paused and swallowed in another obvious attempt to stay calm. "But we were worried about you; Carol was very worried -- she nearly had me call Campus Crisis Intervention. So we stayed to make sure you'd be all right." He paused again. Swallowed again. "We should have left."

Methos nodded slowly, guardedly. "Yes, you should have."

"I would have, if I'd known ..." He clenched his jaw. "Where'd you find him, Methos? An acting agency? I have to admit, the ponytail was a nice touch. What did you do, fax them my picture?"

Methos was only mildly defensive. "No."

MacLeod burst into angry speech. "I should have known you were up to something when you stayed in the bedroom all that time … but it honestly didn't occur to me you'd stoop to something like this."

The need for beer grew even stronger. "I can explain."

"Don't bother. I've already figured it out." MacLeod's gaze, hot and angry and accusatory, swept over him. "You only had half an hour after your shower, so I assume you had his number already. Planning this little bit of humiliation for a while?"

Methos stared at him, dumbfounded. "You think I planned this?"

"Of course. That's what you do best, isn't it?"

"Obviously not," Methos muttered. "Look, MacLeod, you can't seriously believe I intended -- I didn't expect you to be here tonight! How could I possibly have planned it?"

"It's what you do," Duncan repeated bitingly. "I don't pretend to understand how. Or why."

Methos was floundering uncomfortably. "It's not what you think."

MacLeod turned away, face tight. "I don't know what to think." He paused to take a deep breath, then turned back, expression carefully blank. "For God's sake, Methos, he looks just like me. He even sounds like me. What the hell is that about?"

"I -- I don't --" Gods, he was actually stuttering. He could not with any clarity whatsoever recall the last time he'd been reduced to stuttering. It was not a feeling he'd missed.

MacLeod was continuing without any acknowledgment of the stammered attempt at explanation. "You've been acting strangely for weeks, you drink yourself to death this afternoon, then you pull this stunt with some actor-"

"He's not an actor, MacLeod," Methos interrupted violently, losing all his remaining patience in a sudden blaze of irritation. "He's a gigolo."

MacLeod stopped in mid-tirade and stared at Methos, eyes wide and uncomprehending. "A gigolo?"

"A male prostitute," Methos said, deliberate and icy clarity in his voice.

"I know what a gigolo is." MacLeod blinked, then blinked again and shook his head slightly, obviously trying to assimilate the knowledge into his view of the world. "I don't understand. Why would you pay a gigolo to impersonate me?"

"I wouldn't," Methos said tightly. "I paid him to have sex with me."

"You -- you -- you what?"

"Paid him," Methos said. "To have sex with me. It's what one typically does with prostitutes, Mac. Though I don't suppose you've ever had to resort to it."

MacLeod flushed hotly and ducked his head for an instant. When he looked back up all his anger had disappeared, replaced by an edgy discomfort. "Why?"

Methos sighed. "Why what?"

"Why did you pay him to -- to -- "

"To fuck me. You're 400 years old, Duncan, surely you permit yourself the occasional obscenity."

MacLeod flushed again, and clenched his jaw. "Why did you pay him to fuck you?"

"Why not?" He raised an eyebrow at MacLeod and kept his gaze steady for as long as he could, then turned away when it became too much. God, he was in no shape to handle MacLeod's intensity right now. It was a trial even at the best of times, and this night certainly didn't qualify.

MacLeod grabbed his arm and turned him roughly around. "That's no answer."

"Of course it is." He jerked his arm out of MacLeod's iron grip. "There's nothing complicated about it. I was horny, he was available -"

"He looks just like me," MacLeod repeated, dangerously intent.

"Coincidence."

"Bullshit."

Methos crossed his arms loosely across his chest. "What do you want me to say, MacLeod?"

"The truth for a change." MacLeod frowned. "There are at least five women on the faculty who wouldn't turn you down if you asked them out, and a couple of men. And don't tell me you haven't noticed because I know damn well you have. And you wouldn't have had to pay any of them to sleep with you."

"Maybe I like paying."

"Maybe you're full of shit. Methos," MacLeod said deliberately, "he looks just like me."

Methos turned away with a fierce twist of his body and sat down on the couch, burying his face in his hands. "Why are you here, Duncan?"

He didn't have to look up to hear the confusion in MacLeod's voice. "To talk. To figure it out--"

"No. Why are you always here? You're always around, always wanting to go for dinner, for a drink, to a concert. Do you know I had to rearrange my class schedule so we couldn't carpool?" He lifted his head and stared dully at MacLeod, who was staring back at him in befuddlement. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to have you here all the time? To want you all the time? And when you touch me ... gods, Mac, you touch me all the time, and it flays me alive."

MacLeod was still staring at him, dismay growing rapidly in his eyes, and Methos found he couldn't meet the other man's gaze. He stared down at his fingers instead, twisting them around each other until he thought they'd break.

"I tried everything, you know. Tried dating other people, tried leaving, more than once--"

"Set me up with Carol," MacLeod said flatly.

Methos nodded once, quickly, still looking at his hands. "Set you up with Carol." He looked up, searching. "You do like her."

MacLeod was quiet, obscurely guilty, anger utterly dissipated. "Aye."

Methos swallowed. "I knew you would ... hoped you would. I thought maybe if you simply weren't available that I'd ... or maybe you'd just stop coming around so much, stop telling me how lonely you were ... " He laughed once, bitterly. "God, MacLeod, do you have any idea?"

"No." MacLeod brushed his fingers roughly though his hair and sank down on the opposite end of the couch, too close for Methos's comfort. "I don't. Or didn't. Why didn't you tell me? You never said anything-"

Methos shrugged. "What should I have said?"

"You could have told me."

"To what end? You clearly weren't interested."

Duncan frowned and looked away. "But if I had known-"

"It wouldn't have made a difference. You can't manufacture an attraction that doesn't exist."

Duncan turned his head back sharply. "No. But maybe I could have made it easier on you."

"How?" He fixed MacLeod with a sharp, penetrating glance. "Would you have slept with me, Duncan?"

MacLeod blinked, taken aback. He took a little while to answer, thinking it over. When he finally spoke, the words came out slowly and uncomfortably. "I don't know."

"I do." Methos shifted uneasily on the plush sofa, fighting the urge to rise out of this excruciating proximity. "You would have, if I'd asked. Not because you wanted it, but because I did. Because you're my friend, and you'd have wanted to make it all right."

"But it wouldn't have," Duncan said, half a question in his voice.

"No. I wanted -- want -- more than sex, Duncan, and that's all you'd have been able to offer."

Duncan sat quietly for a minute, thinking. "What about Keith?"

Methos shrugged, flushing slightly. "I thought maybe I could burn it out of my system."

"But you just said you wanted more than sex."

"So I'm occasionally irrational. Sue me."

MacLeod snorted. "As if you'd ever pay up." The grin that flashed across his face lasted only an instant. "How long?"

"Have I been fucking Keith, you mean? Long enough to know it's not going to work any better than anything else I've tried."

MacLeod winced and shook his head. "That's not what I meant." He swallowed, flustered. "How long have you felt this way?"

"God, I don't know." Methos leaned his head back and rubbed his hands tiredly across his eyes. "Forever, probably. Feels that way sometimes." He dropped his hands but left his eyes closed, suddenly completely drained. "I honestly wasn't paying attention, Duncan. It's not like I had some big epiphany one day and realized I was in love with you. It just sort of crept up on me." He opened his eyes and looked wearily at the other man. "I wouldn't have chosen it to be this way."

Duncan spoke softly, uncharacteristically tentative. "Has it been difficult?"

"Reasonably."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. None of it is your fault." He chuckled listlessly. "Except for the constant traipsing back and forth between Paris and Seacouver. That's your fault."

Duncan flushed, slightly defensive. "You didn't have to follow me."

"No, I suppose I didn't." But of course he had. Hadn't really felt it to be a choice, in the end.

Silence fell between them, heavy and awkward. Methos sank a bit deeper into the couch and let his eyes fall shut, finding it difficult to watch MacLeod's self-conscious fidgeting. "I'm leaving, you know," he heard himself say, and felt an instant's amazement at the unexpected admission. Strange that after all this time he still managed to surprise himself so frequently.

"Where will you go?"

Methos cracked open one eye, squinting irritably at the other man. "Where will I go? That's all you have to say about it?"

MacLeod shrugged, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. "What should I have said?"

"You could have asked me to stay. Or told me good riddance." Methos frowned peevishly. "You could at least have offered to help me pack."

"But you already have," MacLeod said gently, gaze sweeping across the room. "Haven't you?"

Methos rose to his feet, disconcerted. "That's not the point. You still could have offered." He crossed to the window and watched the traffic for a minute. "I think I'll look for a place with fewer cars."

"Bora Bora?" The barest hint of laughter tinged MacLeod's voice.

"Maybe. It would be nice to get away from the rain and snow." Methos watched the traffic for a little while longer. "I can feel you staring at me. Stop it."

"Sorry," said MacLeod, sounding not sorry in the least. "I'm not sure when I'll have the chance again."

"I'm not leaving forever, Duncan. I don't suppose I'll ever manage that."

A sudden indrawn breath behind him. "How do you manage this?"

Methos kept his position at the window, staring blindly at the cars. He could just make out Duncan's reflection in the window, expression thankfully indistinct, features blurred by imperfections in the glass. "I survive." He shrugged fractionally. "Some days it's not so bad. I can see you and not ache."

"Christ, Methos." Duncan's reflection wavered in the window as he rose, turned and paced.

It was easier not to turn, not to look. "It's not your fault, Duncan." Not his fault he was everything Methos ever wanted and never dared hope to find.

"I just wish I'd known."

"I didn't want you to." He drew in breath carefully around the dull pain growing steadily in his chest. "I'd rather you didn't know now."

"Is that why you're leaving?"

"Bright boy." He finally turned to face MacLeod. It was, after all, the last time he was likely to face him for a while. "It was ... tolerable before, Duncan. Barely."

"Because I didn't know?"

"Because you didn't know. Because I could look sometimes and you wouldn't see it. Because I could touch sometimes and you wouldn't feel it." He swallowed. "And on the bad days, I could stay away, and you wouldn't ask why."

MacLeod frowned and looked away, sadness flitting across his features. He reached out a hand to stroke Methos's gently, almost a caress. "I can't ask you to stay here for me, Methos."

Methos nodded, swallowing. MacLeod's touch was a burning physical presence on his body and in his mind. "I know."

"And yet I don't want you to go."

"I know that, too." He mustered a genuine smile at the forlorn expression on MacLeod's face. "Don't look so glum, Highlander. Remember, I have spies everywhere. If the time comes I need to find you, I will."

"What if the time comes when I need to find you?"

Another smile, sunnier this time. Maybe it wasn't going to be a total loss after all. "I have faith in you, MacLeod. When it's time, you'll find me."

///////

And when I touch your hand
It's then I understand
The beauty that's within
It's now that we begin
You always light my way
I hope there never comes a day
No matter where I go
I always feel you so

Epilogue

Duncan MacLeod walked slowly through the small village. The sounds of daily life floated around him. In the distance, he could see the masts of the beached fishing boats. If he squinted, he could just make out the islanders scrambling up and down the masts, cleaning and repairing the sails.

It was nearly noon and very hot. Duncan ducked into a tiny almacen for a beer, making casual conversation in heavily accented Spanish.

"¿Señor Nicholson?" The man flashed a grin that showed several teeth missing. "A los muelles, por supesto. ¿Hace mucho sol, sí?"

Duncan nodded his agreement. It was certainly very sunny. Señor Nicholson was at the docks, por supesto -- "of course!". He handed over a crumpled bill and headed out, savoring the cool beer in the midday heat. He was in no particular rush, and so he meandered down some picturesque side streets on the way to the wharf. It had been almost ten years, after all. This meeting could wait a few more minutes.

There were very few cars on the island. He'd noticed that right away. There were also very few tourists. Nobody came here to sightsee. They came to snorkel or scuba, and if they needed lessons, they took them from Matthew Nicholson.

Duncan grinned. Methos had chosen a MacLeod clan name. Hard to tell what that meant. He was utterly out of practice at interpreting the old man. No matter. He was fairly confident he'd get back in the swing of it with a little practice.

He crossed the road and stepped onto the sandy beach. The docks were just ahead, a few small excursion boats floating close by. He felt a low buzz of Presence and smiled in anticipation, quickening his step. Now he couldn't imagine why he'd thought this reunion could wait for even a few more minutes. He hurried forward with a sudden desperate eagerness.

He stepped onto the docks, scanning the boats for Methos. The older Immortal was nowhere in sight, so Duncan called out to a small boy who sat nearby fishing. "¿Señor Nicholson está aquí?"

"Allí, allí," the boy said, pointing out into the water. In the distance, a snorkel glinted from the water for an instant before it disappeared again beneath the waves.

Duncan grinned again. He knew damn well Methos sensed him. The son of a bitch was playing coy. Fine. He'd wait. "Cuál es su barco?"

"Éste," the boy said, pointing to the nearest boat. Duncan laughed out loud when he saw the name painted neatly on the side. La Cerveza. Well, it was certainly the right boat. Only Methos would have named it Beer. He climbed into the boat and tossed the boy a few coins, settling comfortably on the deck to wait.

The sun was very hot. Duncan let his eyes fall shut, enjoying the heat on his face. It had been snowing and miserable when he'd left Seacouver. Maybe Methos had the right idea after all. It was certainly very pleasant to lie here in the sun.

A sudden surge of Presence heralded a subdued splash, and Duncan sat up just as Methos popped his head over the side of the boat. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he said with a grin. As if it had been a week since they'd seen each other, not a decade. "Mi barco es su barco."

Duncan grinned back as Methos swung smoothly into the boat and dropped his snorkel on the deck. His hair was very short, spiky from the water, and bleached a slightly lighter brown from the sun. Methos unzipped the half wetsuit down to his waist, and Duncan gazed appreciatively as the other man quickly toweled off. "Nice boat."

"Thanks. It's small, but it gets the job done." He grabbed a beer from a small cooler and tossed it to MacLeod, then grabbed another for himself and swallowed half the bottle in one smooth gulp. "Joe told me about Carol. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too. But still, it was coming for a while."

"She knew you were Immortal?"

"I told her soon after you left. She'd convinced herself you'd committed suicide in a fit of depression because you couldn't have me -- don't laugh! You did drink yourself to death that time."

"Yes, but I knew it wouldn't keep." Methos was still chuckling. "Don't let me interrupt your narrative. Please go on."

MacLeod shrugged. "Not much to tell, really. It was very good for a long time, then less and less so, until it wasn't good at all. And with the Gathering mania dying down--"

"Told you so."

"Shut up. Anyway, it seemed safe to travel again. Get out and around a bit, but Carol didn't want to leave Seacouver. She was settled. Happy. Had a good career, friends, family ... she didn't really need me anymore, it seems. So I left."

"And came running down here to find me?"

Methos was jesting, but MacLeod was suddenly serious. "Aye. I thought a lot about what you said, the way you said you felt." He leaned forward, cutting in half the distance between them. "Methos-"

"Duncan." Methos's abrupt interruption caused a moment of silence, during which Methos stared out over the ocean at the distant horizon, unable or unwilling to meet MacLeod's intense gaze. He turned back slowly, expression guarded. "If you tell me you've suddenly realized you're in love with me, I won't believe you."

"Then I won't tell you that." Duncan gazed at him seriously for an instant before an affectionate smile quirked his lips. "Because there was nothing sudden about it. It kind of ... crept up on me."

Methos stared at him blankly for a minute, then relaxed as a slow grin spread across his face. "No big epiphanies?"

"A few small ones over the years."

Methos cocked his head skeptically to one side. "But I wasn't even there."

"Oddly," MacLeod murmured, leaning closer still, "your presence wasn't required."

Methos backed away fractionally. "It's been a long time since we've seen each other, MacLeod. For all you know, my feelings have changed."

"Have they?"

"They might have."

MacLeod inched closer, insistent. "Have they?"

Methos flushed under the scrutiny and looked down at the deck. "No."

"I didn't think so." MacLeod's voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you remember what you told me when you left? That I'd find you when it was time?"

Methos looked up slowly, a wry grin turning up one corner of his mouth. "Yes."

Duncan looked at him, eyes glinting with anticipation. "It's time."

'Cause you're everywhere to me
And when I close my eyes it's you I see
You're everything I know
That makes me believe
I'm not alone

The End

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