Mac watched him cut a path across the grass before he took his first step toward destiny. The double quickening still whirred under his skin, in his veins and he couldn’t forget what he’d known when his life-force had merged with Methos’, as they’d shared the violence of Silas’ and Kronos’ quickenings. He’d known Methos in those moments—the power, the strength, the endless, hurting depth of years that stretched back into nothingness. The ecstasy of full knowledge, a communion deep and terrifying, and it had all been withdrawn almost as soon as it had filled him, retreating like a wave hurtling back into the ocean. But Immortal memory served and he had not forgotten a stray thought, a sharp emotion, an overwhelming sensation, all of what they’d shared, albeit unwillingly, was forged into his cells forever.

There was too much that Mac understood now and, yet, so very much that he’d never know, never understand. His pride struggled to accommodate the information received. Memories slid through his mind like they were his own, whole emotions and sensations still within him to experience. He could feel the enraptured adoration Methos had felt upon meeting Kronos—a man who saved Methos from ongoing torture in the guise of worship and, yes, that was something that MacLeod would give anything to forget. Yet he clung to that memory almost more than any other. He recognized it as the most vulnerable part of Methos, the part that the Old Man would never have let him see willingly.

Memories taunted him. Once upon a time, Kronos had saved Methos, and there was not a little thankfulness left for that. He’d arrived high on a horse with that intoxicating immortal buzz; he’d taken Methos under his wing, loved him, taught him, showed him life without hunger, worshiped his body--abused him, beat him, raped him, murdered him again and again--yes, it was a twisted relationship, one that Mac knew he would never truly understand. But he did know that Methos had loved Kronos, then feared Kronos, then hated Kronos, and eventually killed Kronos to escape him. Even now, even knowing that Kronos was dead, Mac knew that Methos feared his ‘brother’s’ return. Perhaps he feared to see Kronos peering out of Mac’s eyes? It wasn’t as though Mac hadn’t fallen prey to strong darkness in the past, and to take Caspian and Kronos both in one day had been necessary, but perhaps tempting fate.

Methos strode easily, his gait smooth and strong. Mac stalked behind him, just to the side, keeping his distance, measuring his thoughts. He’d have one shot at it. Methos would perhaps not even allow that.

Mac knew that just as he’d seen and known Methos, Methos had seen and known him. He wondered what parts of himself had washed into Methos’ crevices and filled him, then retreated leaving them empty again. Had Methos felt his love for Tessa? Had Methos been invaded by the memory Tessa in sunlight—bright, beautiful, intense? Had he known the fear Duncan felt when cast out by his clan, alone and cursed? Had he tasted the joy Duncan felt in Little Deer’s arms? And the grief that had nearly destroyed his sanity when she had died? Did he feel the hatred that still pounded at the gates of his soul from the Dark Quickening? How much had Methos seen of Duncan’s feelings for him? Did he sense the depth of them as Duncan had sensed the depth of reciprocity in Methos?

They approached the incline to the road. Mac couldn’t wait much longer. Fear be damned—they could pretend it had never happened or they could embrace the experience together.

“Methos!” Duncan called over the distance separating them.

Methos’ feet slowed until he stopped in his tracks, not turning around. His shoulders curved and his hands in his pockets. Methos huddled in on himself.

“What do you want, MacLeod? It’s been a long week. We should get some rest. You especially.” Methos tilted his head up to the sky and Mac observed him take a deep steadying breath. “I know that I could stand to be alone for awhile. Bora Bora calls.”

Duncan caught up to Methos and stopped just behind him, eyes focused on the nape of Methos’ neck. “Methos—”

Methos shrugged. “There is nothing to be done about it, MacLeod. What is done is done. Regrets are useless. I’ve got thousands of them and they do nothing but make me miserable. You must move on from this. I will.”

“Live, grow stronger, fight another day?” Duncan spoke to Methos’ curved back.

Methos flinched. “My motto for many millennia.”

Duncan dropped a heavy hand onto Methos’ shoulder. With strong pressure applied steadily, he turned Methos around, but the intelligent eyes were closed. So little to be found in the drawn lines of Methos’ face where everything was a mystery--his age at first death, his age now, his fears and loves--nothing showed there and yet it reflected everything, every mood and whimsy. It was as much of a mask as the rest Methos’ persona. In the throes of the double quickening Duncan had tasted the real man and he wanted more of that essence.

Methos kept his head turned heavenward and his eyes closed. The spiky lashes splayed under his eyes and the sharp angles of his face invited fingers and hands. Mac ran his palm from Methos’ shoulder, up the back of his neck and curved it against Methos’ cheekbone, thumb caressing the lashes softly. Methos stood completely still and Mac realized that Methos wasn’t breathing.

Duncan moved his hand to clasp the back of Methos head, grasping a handful of the short, soft hair. “I thought I’d lost you, Methos.”

Methos swallowed and only the flutter of eyelashes gave any indication that he heard Duncan’s words.

“To Kronos.”

Methos inclined his chin in acknowledgement of Duncan’s fear and betrayal.

“To Cassandra.”

Methos ducked his chin even further into his coat.

Duncan didn’t move his hand, gripping the dark hair even more tightly as he remembered the terror he’d felt when he realized that Cassandra might not listen to him, might not care what his wishes were with regards to Methos, bent solely on her own revenge. He could still see the glint of the ax hanging over Methos’ vulnerable neck and feel the burn in his throat as he’d barked in terror, “Cassandra! I want him to live!”

“She might have killed you.”

Methos shrugged minutely. “Death at her hand would have been poetic justice. I could think of worse ways to die.”

Duncan tugged Methos to him, forcing him into a hug. He tucked Methos’ face against his neck and cradled the stiff body, whispered, “I know you didn’t want to die.”

Methos’ breath was hot on Duncan’s neck as he replied, “I don’t know what I wanted. I only knew that I’d lost as much as I’d won.”

Duncan noted that Methos didn’t struggle against him although his body remained rigid.

“I know that you loved him.”

“I despised him.”

“No. Well, yes.”

Methos chuckled and Duncan felt him relax a little.

“Methos, you loved him. You loved them all.”

“Not Caspian. Never Caspian.”

Duncan shuddered and stroked his hand down Methos’ back. “No. Not Caspian.”

“I don’t know how many times I almost took Caspian’s head, myself.”

MacLeod held Methos tighter and murmured, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Methos’ arms finally came up around Duncan’s back. “I’m not going anywhere, MacLeod.”

“Bora Bora?”

Methos sighed. “I do need some time.”

Mac pulled back and used his grip in Methos’ hair to tilt his head up and force a meeting of their eyes. “And I need you.”

“Mac—”

Duncan didn’t allow him to voice whatever denial he was going to pronounce. He lowered his lips and took Methos’ mouth in a kiss. Holding Methos tightly against him, he felt all of the tension drain from the lean body and felt Methos’ knees buckle.

Against the base of an angel statue, in a graveyard, during broad daylight wasn’t the way he’d imagined this, but Methos was in his mouth and it was sweet. So sweet and so good.

Methos’ gripped Duncan’s hair, pulling it free of the clip and wrapping thick locks around and over his hands. “Holy fucking Christ,” he whimpered as he thrust his cock in and out of Duncan’s mouth.

Duncan let him pump a few times before grasping his hips and pulling back to suck and lick.

“Don’t tease me, Mac. Jesus, I’ve waited so long for this.” Methos’ voice cracked and grated.

Duncan pulled back, ignoring the whimper as cool air touched Methos’ cock. “I wouldn’t tease you, Methos. I want you. I want you to come in my mouth and then I want to fuck you until you come again.”

Methos flung his head back against the stone base of the statue and babbled, “I never thought--Gods--I thought--fuck.”

Duncan hummed as he sucked Methos back down, swallowed around him again and again. Methos bucked and twisted, trying to get further into Duncan’s throat, but then he stilled. A tight, fierce, tension that swelled in Duncan’s mouth and then Methos was jerking and moaning, his cock jetting hard streams of come onto Duncan’s tongue.

Duncan swallowed and sucked until Methos twitched in his need to escape the sensation. Duncan turned his attention briefly to Methos’ balls, sucking them into his mouth and then kissing the sweet, hairless spot on the inside of Methos thigh. ’

He dared to look up and Methos stared down at him open mouthed and wide eyed. Stunned was good look on him; Duncan wanted to keep it there.

“Methos,” Duncan said as he rose from his crouch. He nuzzled Methos’ neck as he put Methos’ jeans straight again, tucking him in, zipping and buttoning. “Methos?”

Duncan sighed in relief as Methos turned to capture Duncan’s mouth in a hard kiss, whispering, “I need you.”

Whatever that admission cost Methos, Duncan didn’t want to know, he could only give in return. “And, I need you. Now.” He thrust against Methos’ hip.

Methos groaned and let his head fall to Duncan’s shoulder.

Duncan held Methos tight, whispered, “Right now, I want you at the hotel, in a bed, naked.”

“I can do naked,” Methos chuckled a little hysterically.

“Luckily, I can do the hotel. Come on.” Mac held Methos steady against his side as they left the cemetery.

It had to be enough. Mac had to keep him close.

This close. So close that he could feel his quickening merging with Methos’ again, so close that Mac could feel Methos’ pulse beating against his cock, so close that the tight heat held him frozen in ecstasy, cock pulsing, muscles shaking and Methos holding him as he came.

Sweaty limbs twined and long breathless kisses brought them down until they settled together, spooned on their sides. A soft noise in Methos’ chest moved Duncan to roll over and touch Methos’ face.

“What are you thinking about?”

Methos’ smile grew soft and sad. Serious. Duncan felt fear tighten in his stomach. He could already imagine the words that Methos would use to break it to him gently that this had been a mistake. That he was going to leave after all.

Duncan spoke softly, “This isn’t going to be another one of your thousand regrets is it?”

Methos pulled Duncan’s head down to his chest and murmured against his ear, “I hope not, MacLeod. I hope it will be the first of a thousand beautiful things between us.”

Duncan smiled, relief flooding his body.

Only a thousand? He thought that Methos might be underestimating their potential and their longevity. Personally, he hoped to make it a million.

The End