Riley's House of Fic

When A Door Closes, 1/1; Highlander, D/M; rated PG-13

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 21:10:05 GMT

And yet another...

Title: When A Door Closes
Author: Riley Cannon
Fandom: Highlander
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Rated: PG-13
Warnings: Angst and sap.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, no money made.

Summary: About a year after To Be/Not to Be Duncan finds himself at loose ends...

~WHEN A DOOR CLOSES~

Duncan looked out the window, taking in the familiar sight of the Seacouver skyline as the plane began its approach to the airport. He couldn’t say this was exactly a joyous homecoming, something he had been looking forward to. Was he going to see Richie’s ghost on every corner? Probably, right along with Tessa’s and so many others he had held dear, only to lose them one by one. But - he couldn’t avoid this forever, not and be true to himself.

Besides, this seemed the season for closing doors, he mused, thinking back to his encounter with Amanda in Paris. It still stung, the memory of her telling him things were different now, that she had found someone to love, someone who needed her and wanted her in his life. Like he didn’t? Duncan had wanted to demand. How many times, though, had she asked him to run away with her, spend sixty years or so keeping house together? And how many times had he turned her down - because of Tessa or his responsibilities; or because he didn’t think what they had, wonderful as it was, could withstand the rigors of daily life?

Duncan wasn’t so disappointed he couldn’t appreciate the irony, however, of that particular shoe being on the other foot: him wanting to be with Amanda, and her telling him, “Sorry, darling, I’ve got someone else.” Besides, he couldn’t say he had been wrong all those times he’d turned away from Amanda’s siren call. What they had together was magical, sizzling with excitement, but almost too ephemeral to ever catch and hold for long.

They would always be best friends, nothing could change that. One day they would be lovers again, but for now that part of their lives was done. He couldn’t help grieving that a little, already missing the light she brought into his life. He wished Amanda nothing but happiness, of course, but a small and lonely part of him couldn’t help wanting to snatch just a little bit for himself.

With a major brood impending because of those feelings - the kind that could lead to an orgiastic wallow of self-castigation for all his misdeeds, real or imagined, illustrating how much he didn’t deserve to be happy - he had gone along to Le Blues Bar to see Joe. Only Joe hadn’t had a lot of time for him, either. He was on his way to Geneva, to take over some classes at the Watcher’s Academy there. No, he wasn’t sure when he’d be back, everything was kind of up in the air that way. If it was something really important, though, Joe guessed he could always catch a later flight. Duncan appreciated the gesture but didn’t have the heart to detain him, especially as he suspected what Joe most wanted to do was get to Geneva to see his daughter.

Besides, it wasn’t like there had been anything the matter with him that a good bottle of Scotch wouldn’t chase away. That, and maybe a warm and willing body. He had given that some serious thought, gaze wandering over the other patrons of the bar, seeing plenty of interest in some of the faces he lingered on. In the end, though, his desire for anonymous sex hadn’t been that great; it might satisfy the body’s momentary urges - but he needed something more than that now. So he had settled for walking the long way home, finding another postcard from Methos waiting for him when he reached the barge.

The older Immortal had blown town shortly after that spectacle with O’Rourke, and aside from these occasional postcards with their cryptic messages - ‘You know what? The rain in Spain doesn’t fall mainly on the plain.’ ‘The girl from Ipanema isn’t what she used to be.’ - Duncan hadn’t heard a peep from him since.

That last postcard had been of a tropical paradise, the message reading, ‘Bora- Bora’s only kind of so-so this time of year, actually.’ Well, Duncan had thought, tucking the card away with the others in his nighstand drawer, at least he knew Methos was alive and well somewhere, and doing fine without him. Somehow that hadn’t really cheered him up a lot.

So he had concluded, a few fingers of Scotch later, that since everyone else was off living their lives maybe it was high time he did the same. Coming back to Seacouver was the first step. He would wrap up any loose ends here, put his ghosts to rest, and truly be free at last to move on and make a new start somewhere. Maybe he’d even try changing his name for once.

***
Duncan parked the T-bird and got out, standing at the water’s edge and looking out toward the island. Pulling his coat collar up against the chill and hefting his bag and a box of groceries into the canoe, he cast a look at the sky - heavy with clouds, the scent of snow mixing with that of wood-smoke in the chilly, late autumn air. He wasn’t worried about getting snowed in, though. There would be plenty of wood at the cabin and he always kept a supply of non-perishable food and other supplies. The promise of a few days on the island was much too appealing to let a little snow keep him away.

It was good to just concentrate on paddling the canoe through the water. So quiet, too, after the sounds of the city. Not silent, though, not with the exuberant honking of an inverted V-formation of geese flying overheard, on their way to a warmer clime. Or the splash of something as it dove in the water - a beaver, maybe, or an otter. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a fat and fuzzy grizzly on the shore, making a last forage for food before settling in for its long winter’s nap. Mostly it was just the water, though, deep and dark, tendrils of misting weaving above it, a few lazy flakes of snow drifting down, and the rhythmic swoosh-swish as the oar dipped in and out of the water.

The peaceful solitude already felt good, soothing. Not thinking was nice, too, if more difficult to achieve.

Returning to Seacouver had been about as difficult as Duncan had anticipated, but also more rewarding than he could have hoped for. If memories of Richie had a bittersweet taint to them it was still so much better to have them and hold them dear, than not to have known the young man at all. With that perfect clarity of hindsight, of course, he couldn’t help but see all the things he might have done differently with Richie, things he should have taught him, words he should have said - somehow never finding time enough for any of it, always supposing there would be time later. Wasn’t that always the way of it with fathers and sons, though? Maybe there had been no blood ties between them, but deep down it was how their relationship had always felt to him, as close to being a father as he - any of them - was likely to get. Duncan could see now that he had so often echoed his own father’s pattern, a little too stern, perhaps, maybe demanding too much of someone so young. Even that realization came as a kind of gift, helping to heal an ancient wound he hadn’t had even known was there. Had Ian MacLeod sometimes regretted his words, his actions? Had he grieved the loss of his son more than anyone had known? Duncan thought he knew the answers now, and that was something else he could be at peace with.

There would always be regrets, that was one of life’s inevitables, but he could with that - and he would, for a long time.

But he wanted some peace, too, and this was always the surest place to find it. In a few days, a couple of weeks, he would figure out where he wanted to go next, what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. For now he just wanted - To know who the hell was at the cabin.

Shielding his eyes from the drifting snow, Duncan looked again to make sure. Yes, smoke was drifting from the cabin’s chimney, the windows glowing with warmth and light in the approaching dusk. Duncan moored the canoe and left his bag and the groceries there for the moment as he started up the path to the cabin. Within a few feet of the porch the buzz of Immortal presence washed over him - but he didn’t reach for his katana. He just opened the door to be greeted by Celtic music, a woman singing about four stone walls, and to find a very familiar form lounging with languid ease before the fire.

“Methos?”

“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the other said, looking him over with warmth and welcome.

“Mi casa es su casa?” Duncan said, a little wry note in his voice, getting a strange sense of déjà vu.

“That was a rhetorical question, right?” Methos returned.

Duncan supposed it was. “Thought you were in Bora-Bora.”

“Yeah,” Methos got to his feet, stretching his long and lanky frame, “tropical sunsets sort of lose their allure when you’re the only one watching them.” He came closer, expression bland except for something dancing in those forest-colored eyes. “You bring anything with you besides your sword?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll get it.” Did that expression really say, ‘Gotcha!’, Duncan wondered - and wondered what it meant if it did.

“I’ll come with you,” Methos offered, shrugging into his coat and falling in step with him.

Duncan wanted to ask how long Methos had been here, had he been waiting for him? How could he have known to wait? “You talk to Joe lately?” was the question he posed instead as he grabbed his bag out of the canoe and let Methos take the box of groceries.

“Yeah.” Methos lifted the box, peering at the contents in the snowy gloom. “Ooh, Mac, you bought brownies.”

Well - so what if he had? He’d just felt like…brownies.

“So I guess you’ve done with rice cakes and tofu, huh?” the older Immortal commented as they started back to the cabin. His voice was as neutral as his expression had been, but Duncan would bet anything that look of gotcha was still in his eyes.

“Guess I have,” Duncan said after a moment, hearing and answering the unspoken question behind Methos’ words. Yes, he was done with fasting. He wanted to savor all the flavors and textures life had to offer, drink of its pleasures again. Funny how much significance could be found in a batch of brownies.

***
Giving into Methos’ prod to live dangerously and let the dirty dishes wait until morning, Duncan left them in the sink and returned to the main room, hesitating a moment before settling on the couch beside Methos. He looked at the other man, complexion warmed by the fire, seemingly in rapt contemplation of the brownie in his hand. “Why did you go?”

Methos shrugged. “Thought you needed some more time to yourself.”

“And now?”

Methos turned to him, one corner of his mouth turned up. “Thought maybe you’d like some company.”

Duncan swallowed, turning his gaze on the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker there. “You can stay awhile, then?”

“Do you want me to?”

Duncan closed his eyes, images of what could be playing through his mind. “Yes,” he looked back at Methos, “I’d like that. I - I’ve had enough of what might have been.”

A solemn look in his eyes, Methos nodded. “Me, too.” Tentative, he reached for Duncan’s hand - Duncan met him halfway, twining their fingers together and didn’t balk as Methos leaned in to press a kiss to his lips.

He slipped a hand around the back of Methos’ head, fingers buried in the soft, dark hair, holding him there for a moment, deepening the kiss enough to taste chocolate and coffee on Methos’ tongue. When they parted, he scooted closer, resting his head on Methos’ shoulder with a sigh, closing his eyes again and savoring the sensation as those long, elegant fingers combed through his hair, the strong arm cradling him close.

They stayed like that for awhile, quiet, listening to the music, watching the fire as the snow blanketed the world outside. Later, snuggled together under the covers in the big bed upstairs, Duncan remembered the rest of that saying about doors closing. How another one always opened up. This one had been there all along, he saw, just waiting for him to find the key.

…the end…

Requiescat En Pace, 1/1; Highlander; gen

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 21:02:21 GMT

Dredging another up old one, also archived nowhere that I know of.

Title: Requiescat En Pace
Author: Riley Cannon
Fandom: Highlander
Pairing: None
Warnings: None I can think of.
Diclaimer: Not mine, never will be, no money made.

Summary made: Methos-as-Adam, learning of the death of Darius.

~Requiescat En Pace~

Methos stood well back in the shadows, his coat drawn tightly around him, the weight of his Ivanhoe a comforting presence. Adam Pierson may have become a careless and complacent twit, but the world’s oldest Immortal had had a rude awakening to its wicked ways. An ironic, bitter smile touched his lips as he considered how his old friend would chastise him for that thought. Chastise him and tell him that even in this seeming senselessness there was pattern and purpose.

He wondered how the Highlander over there, scattering ashes into the Seine, saw it, if he perceived some pattern and purpose -- or if he just wanted to find whoever’d done this and rip their head off with his bare hands. Methos was in no quandary as to where his</>inclinations lay. If he found out who had done this, he just might dig out his oldest journals and refresh his memory as to some of Caspian’s techniques in treating someone to a really, really bad day.

Darius wouldn’t approve of that either, of course. Right now, though, a part of Methos wanted to tell his old friend to go…do something really rude and anatomically impossible. You weren’t supposed to die, you were supposed to keep on being a-a bloody beacon in the darkness for the rest of us. Showing them what was possible by the living example of it, making even a tired old iconoclast believe someone could put their darkest past behind them and start again with a clean slate.

He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, shoulders hunching against the chill. His bitterest recriminations were reserved for himself, for not being there the one time Darius actually needed him. For sitting in the damned bookstore, nattering with Don and Ian, while this travesty was going on right under his nose…

***
“Adam,” Ian Bancroft set his cup and saucer down on the table, amidst the constant clutter of books and magazines, “what’s put this bee in your bonnet?”

Adam could guess what was buzzing in Ian’s brain. Here was this kid, Pierson, buried in research all these years, suddenly being a pest about wanting to get up close and personal to an Immortal -- well, as up close and personal as the rules allowed, of course. Pierson, who up to this moment had made it clear he was very happy buried amongst books and chronicles, and got a trifle anxious at the thought of going out into the field. So, Ian must be thinking, why does he want to tag along to the church now and see Darius? Hmmm?

“It’s just,” Methos put on his most harmless Adam Pierson manner, the shy schoolboy routine that always worked wonders for him, “I’ve gotten curious. I’ve been reading about Immortals for so long now, I would just like to see one. Just for a moment. I mean, it’s holy ground and Darius -- there couldn’t be any harm in that, could there?”

“Well,” Ian looked at Don, who just shrugged and shook his head, “I suppose that would be all right. What do you imagine seeing Darius will do, though?”

Methos shrugged. “Don’t know, really. Make it a bit more real, maybe. Sometimes it’s hard to remember these aren’t just characters in some fantastic story.”

“Believe me, Adam, there are times when it’s a little too real,” Ian said, a note of caution in his voice. “But you’re right that there’s no harm in seeing Darius. Remember, though, you just sit quietly in the back and draw no attention to yourself -- no attempt at contact.”

“Not even just to shake his hand?” Methos asked with wide-eyed innocence. “You must have done that, at least.”

Ian looked a bit huffy now. “No, I have not. Darius doesn’t even know I exist.”

Methos bit back a smile, knowing that wasn’t true -- but Ian would not be amused to learn he had caught the attention of his subject numerous times. For a moment he was tempted to tweak Ian a bit about those rules that dictated Watchers and their subjects never getting involved, but it wasn’t worth it just to see Ian get even huffier.

Besides, other than being a little too obsessed with following the letter of the law, Ian wasn’t a bad guy. He was one of the few Watchers, actually, along with Don and Joe Dawson, maybe a handful of others, who really had an appreciation of what they were doing. Who didn’t regard the Immortals as just some kind of monkey in a zoo, but were fired up with the mystery and wonder of it all. Too many of the current batch of Watchers came across like anal-retentive bureaucrats, without an ounce of imagination in them. Scarier were the few who didn’t even think of Immortals as monkeys in a zoo, but as some bizarre freak of nature that ought to be pinned to a slide, like a bug, and observed through a microscope.

Methos had a feeling that, because of that, Adam Pierson might be leaving the Watchers even sooner than planned. It was inevitable that he’d have to go in the next five years or so anyway. Don was already giving him some odd looks, remarking on his not seeming to have aged a day since he had joined the Watchers as a callow youth of twenty-two.

For now, though, Methos just wanted to pop along to the church and drop in to see his friend, without benefit of sneaking around for once. And he wanted to see how Darius reacted, if it might ruffle him for a nanosecond to sense an unexpected Immortal. Fat chance, of course; Darius probably hadn’t been ruffled since the 8th-century. That didn’t keep Methos from trying to tweak him occasionally, though, for all the good it ever did him.

As he got his coat and followed Ian outside, walking with him to the church, Methos said, “You don’t look in on Darius very often, do you?”

“Often enough,” Ian replied, not seeming to mind this. “He isn’t the most strenuous assignment I’ve ever had, I’ll grant you. There’s been a little more activity since Duncan MacLeod’s arrival, though.”

“So I’ve heard.” And not just from the Watcher grapevine. The Highlander had been one of Darius’ favorite topics for the last two hundred years, but these last months the old general had been making an even more concerted sales pitch, trying to convince Methos he should meet Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Though dragging his heels and not wanting to admit it, Methos suspected his resolve was, if not weakening, then certainly wavering. His curiosity was piqued, for one thing. Yes, this MacLeod was noble and honorable, and sounded like an all around super spiffy fellow -- but there had to be something more to him to have Darius championing him so passionately. Once in awhile, with increasing frequency, Methos had felt tempted to allow Darius to make the introductions so he could see for himself what the big deal was about MacLeod. He thought he’d wait until Darius’d had his little visit with Fitzcairn and Thackeray, though, and maybe after Darius had gotten this mystical phase out of his system.

Prophetic dreams, my ass. Darius’d just had one too many cups of mead, or something. That was all. In five thousand years Methos had never met a prophet who didn’t sound like some kind of huckster -- oh, well, there had been that fellow in the Galilee, but Methos didn’t like to dwell on that too much. Of course it would be welcome to think there was some greater purpose to the Game, that it wasn’t just a bloody and brutal exercise in attrition with no discernible goal. A long, long time ago Methos had bought into that, that it actually mattered in the grand scheme of things, who won and who lost. Now, though… Well, he was going to take a lot of convincing, and more evidence than Darius’ fuzzy dreams.

They were nearing the church now, a few of Darius’ flock collected at the door. Methos took another couple of steps forward, then stopped, frowning in concentration, shaking his head. That was odd... Ian headed for the door and Methos followed, only to halt again, looking around in some confusion, trying to find that familiar buzz that should herald Darius’ presence.

He’s not here. The ludicrous thought popped into his mind and lodged there, despite Methos knowing perfectly well that Darius was always there. Always.

“Adam?” Ian was looking at him, touching his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Umm,” actually no, I’m not, “just feeling dizzy.”

“You look pale.” Ian had a worried look on his face. “Maybe you should sit down?”

Methos shook his head. “I’ll be all right in a moment. You go on in. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Ian gave him another concerned look, but then left him, going into the church, and Methos stood there, biting his lip, scenarios spinning through his mind. Darius was supposed to be meeting Thackeray and Fitzcairn -- so, all right, maybe the three of them had gone somewhere together. Maybe Darius was with MacLeod. Or paying a house call to a parishioner who’d taken ill. Or…something.

Except Ian was coming back now, a strained look on his face. “Adam,” he touched Methos’ shoulder, turning him away from the church, “there’s something…odd, going on. I took the liberty of speaking with Father Beauforte -- he says Darius has disappeared.”

And Father Beauforte wouldn’t say ‘disappeared’ if he didn’t mean it. Methos watched, not wanting to think anymore, as Ian took out a cell phone and began making calls, Ian’s expression turning more bleak by the minute.

Putting the phone away, Ian finally said, “MacLeod’s Watcher says he saw him, with Fitzcairn, enter the church a little while ago. When they came out…when they came out, MacLeod appeared very distraught. He thought MacLeod and Fitzcairn were carrying some…large bundle.”

Methos felt denial click in at once. There was no way in hell Darius was dead. No way one of their kind would ever take a head on holy ground. Kronos had thought about it once, wanting to really know what might happen, but had been dissuaded in the end. For most of them, the prohibition ran so deep that they wouldn’t even kill mortals on sacred ground. That was the power of those tales told round the campfire, even though no Immortal alive had ever witnessed such an occurrence.

“Come on,” Ian tugged Methos along, back towards the bookstore, “we need to get to headquarters. We’ll find out what happened. It… it can’t be what it looks like.”

A few minutes ago Methos might have been amused to see Ian Bancroft so rattled. A few minutes ago he hadn’t this hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, though.

***
They had picked up Don and gone to headquarters, and everyone had worked themselves into a tizzy trying to find out what had become of Darius. In the end, Fitzcairn and MacLeod’s Watchers had reported seeing them at a crematorium; a few bribes later, they had the confirmation that Darius was gone, impossibly beheaded in his own church.

Speculation was ranging all over the place -- someone had even suggested Methos as the perpetrator: ‘Well, he’s the oldest of them, if the holy ground thing’s bogus then he’d know and not think twice about it.’ Methos was waiting for Ian, or someone, to pull their head out of the sand and face reality. No Immoral had done this, and that narrowed the list of suspects pretty dramatically, down to those few mortals who knew these beings walked among them, who knew where they were and how to kill them.

Methos was narrowing the list even further, zeroing in on what appeared a secret little cabal, composed of zealots of one kind or another. Some who might as well be wearing hoods and burning crosses on someone’s lawn, others who seemed to think the Inquisition and witch hunts were the dandiest ideas anyone had ever had.

He didn’t want to go any further with it, didn’t want to risk unleashing that coiled serpent if he pursued some bloody justice. He thought the Highlander over there, finished now and turning to go back into the barge with his friends, might be counted on to take care of things. Darius wouldn’t approve either of them wanting to avenge him. It wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t make him rest any easier.

Methos sighed, gazing at the dark water, pondering the elusiveness of justice, the cosmic unfairness of Darius’ light taken out of this world. Of a one-time Horsemen being left in it. Where was the sense in that?

He turned, walking away, crossing the short distance to the church and pausing there a moment, closing his eyes as he searched for some faint echo of Darius. He’d had this idea for awhile now, that, maybe if you were killed on holy ground, some little essence of your Quickening would remain there, like a ghost.

He couldn’t perceive anything, though, not the faintest whisper of his friend.

He sighed again, turned the collar of his coat up against the chill, and walked on into the night.

…the end…

REPOST: Over the Rainbow, 2/2

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 20:52:44 GMT

More intent on shredding his bread than eating it, Methos watched the Highlander, wondering what was going through his head now. MacLeod couldn't actually want him there, not after everything. But then why hadn't Mac just told him to shove off? It had actually been a relief, earlier, when he'd found the barge empty, as he had really not been looking forward to confronting Mac again, right then. Confront him and have to explain that he was slinking off into the night -- and have to see how welcome that news was, to know Mac couldn't wait for Methos to vanish back into obscurity and never cross his path again.

If he'd just managed to get away without knocking himself senseless... He sighed, and sipped at his tea. That was pretty much the story of his life, wasn't it? If only he'd done this, if only he'd done the other; if only he had met Duncan MacLeod and not Kronos so long ago, he thought, remembering the dream and feeling a wistful longing that it could have been true.

What little appetite he had vanished with those memories, and Methos pushed to his feet, looking around for his coat and shoes. Finding the latter, he reached to gather them up only to have MacLeod snatch them from his grasp.

"Mac," he grabbed for the shoes, "what're you doing? Give me my shoes."

"No." The Highlander clutched the well-worn footwear to his chest in a manner that would have been comical, in another place and time.

"Fine." Methos snagged his coat and put it on. "Going barefoot is not a novelty for me, MacLeod," he informed the other Immortal, wondering what had got into him. "I thought it was me who got clonked on the head," he said, starting for the door -- only to find his way blocked by two hundred pounds of determined Scot. "Mac--"

"Don't go."

"And why the hell not?" Methos demanded, exasperated.

"Because I don't want you to."

Nonplused now, the older man regarded the younger, completely thrown for a loop. "Since when?"

"Since always." Mac let the shoes drop as he came closer. "I want you to stay."

"In Paris?"

"Paris, Seacouver -- wherever we are."

Methos' eyes grew large as he tried to fend off the hope that began to faintly flutter in him. "We meaning...?"

Mac moved closer still. "Meaning -- you, me. Us. Together."

Methos wished someone would pinch him because he had to be dreaming still, Mac couldn't possibly be saying what it sounded like. "Mac -- I don't know what you're saying."

Duncan't smile was warm, wistful. "How many languages do you want me to try it in? Methos, I don't want you to leave. Not Paris, not me. Right now I don't even want you setting one foot off the barge." His smile was a little shy now, a light in his dark eyes that said he couldn't quite believe he was actually saying this -- but he meant every word.

It was what Methos had so dearly wanted to hear, part of it anyway, and yet he was so afraid to believe it, to reach out and accept what was being offered. He had nowhere to seek refuge except in rattiness. "Really?" he said, and donned the persona that always put the Highlander off, the one that mocked everything the Highlander held dear. The one he hadn't used since that day in Seacouver, when he'd flung every horror from his past in Duncan's face, and broken both their hearts. "So I get to bask in your magnamity -- until the next unsavory bit of my past turns up? Then what? I get exiled from the Clan MacLeod again until you decide I've done sufficient penance?" The anger was real now, fueled by all the hurt, by the fear that what Duncan offered would never be enough, never run as deep as he wanted. "Well fuck you! I don't need that!"

Instead of meeting the anger with his own, Mac only watched him with eyes filled with warmth and caring, hurting for both of them. "Then tell me what you do need."

"I--" Methos faltered, and looked back at him helplessly. "I don't know.," he said in a small, lost voice. "I don't know." Furious with the idiot tears that were stinging his eyes, he turned and started to move away, but Duncan stopped him and turned him back, one hand cupping his face so Methos had to look at him. What Methos saw were dark eyes as full and bright as his own, but with a soft smile tugging at the full lips as well. "Mac..." Please don't do this -- not if you don't mean it.

"Shh, shh," Duncan whispered, the deep timbre rumbling through him and soothing him as Methos let himself be drawn near. "Just come here," Duncan murmured, and Methos let himself be taken in, let himself be enfolded in Duncan's arms and warmth. In another moment he had wound his own arms across Mac's broad back, hanging on for dear life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against Duncan's neck. "I'm so damn sorry for everything."

Gentle fingers reached into his hair and moved him so their forehead were pressed together. So close they shared each other's breath, so close they could drown in each other's eyes. "Me too," Duncan told him. "I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me. I'm sorry for judging you for what you were -- and forgetting who you are, here, now, today. I'm the one who needs forgiveness, Methos. Can you give it?"

"There's nothing to forgive, Mac. You had every right to be angry. I never meant to betray you, to...use you like that. Things just...got away from me so fast."

"I know, I know that now," Mac said, pulling him a little closer.

They stood like that another moment, Methos becoming far too aware of Duncan's presence, verging on a sensory overload that was likely to prove embarassing if he didn't put a stop to it. "Yes, well," he pushed himself away from Mac, "that's probably enough histrionics for one evening."

Duncan let him go, saying, "You think so?" in a matching tone. Something lingered in his smile, though, that made Methos a little apprehensive. The kind of look that made Methos feel like he was a lavish banquet, and Mac hadn't eaten in weeks.

Distance was absolutely required before his fantasy life went completely overboard.

"So," Methos said, "may I have my shoes now?"

"What for?"

"Because...it's late." And he had to get going. Didn't he?

"But maybe not too late," was Duncan's obscure reply, and that fluttering hope suddenly soared as Methos wondered what he was about to let himself in for.

"Not too late for what?" he asked, as nonchalant as possible with his whole world spinning on its axis.

"For us to talk," Mac said, steering him back to the couch.

"About?" Methos prompted, scrunching into his corner as Mac relaxed at the other end.

"Us."

There was that word again. Never had Methos been so alarmed at a simple pronoun. "What do you want from me, Mac?"

"Not much -- just the truth."

Not much was right, Methos thought, making a sour face. "Yeah, well I tried that once -- you didn't seem to like it much."

Duncan sighed, gazing intently at the tips of his boots. "Not the way I learned it, no." He turned to face Methos, one leg tucked under the other. "Did you, ever, want to tell me? Was that a hint?"

Looking where he indicated, Methos saw the book he'd made for Mac, for his birthday, and felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. He didn't know what had possessed him to put that together in the first place, let alone actually give it to him. "What do you mean?"

Duncan reached for the book and leafed through its smooth pages, stopping just about three quarters of the way through. "The Four Riders of Doom," he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a sort of rueful smirk. "Was I supposed to ask about their prototypes?"

Methos shrugged, and truthfully answered, "I don't know. Maybe." It didn't have to mean anything, just like the dream. He sighed and wondered what Sean Burns would have made of it all. "It was just a story, MacLeod."

"Uh-huh," Mac said, his tone and smile making it clear he didn't believe a word of it. "Thank you, by the way. It's beautiful. It must have taken you a long time to do."

"Umm." Methos worried at a loose button on his shirt. "It's not like my social calendar's bursting at the seams." He'd been living in some idiotic dream world, hadn't he, thinking he could indefinitely enjoy the life he'd found in Seacouver. Hang out with MacLeod and Joe, and just generally kill a couple of decades. And never worry that his past would catch up to him. Everything had been going perfectly too -- right up to the moment Kronos stepped out of the shadows and brought everything crashing down.

Apparently the only thing he had absolutely nailed, in the course of five thousand years, was how to be a self-deluding moron.

"Look," he said, "do you want me to apologize for what I did, who I was? Donate all my money to Cassandra's favorite charity? Write, I will not rape, loot, or pillage ten thousand times? What?"

"None of that. I told you, Methos: who you were doesn't matter."

"Mac -- who I am is because of who I was."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Methos searched his eyes, looking for the truth there. "Can you accept it?"

"Yes. I can -- I do." The dark eyes met his straight on. "I just need you to tell me why."

Methos' eyesbrows drew together and he shook his head, not sure where this was headed. "Why what?"

"Why you were with Kronos."

Methos' frowned deepened. "Mac -- I can't, not in any way you'd understand."

"Try," Duncan urged him.

Methos stared back at him, helpless again, not having the words to explain, not really ever having understood it all himself. As with everything, it had been such a gradual progression: years turned to centuries, then millennia, and there was nothing and no one left in the world he knew. Lovers, wives and children gone to dust, their faces grown vague and their names forgotten. And what did it matter? What had anything ever mattered? It all disappeared, everyone died, and left him right back where he'd started. Such a small progression, then, from raging against the ephemeral world of mortals, to wanting to destroy it. What difference did it make? Kronos had always reasoned with him, in the early days. They all died anyway.

"I was already something like two thousand years old when Kronos found me," he began, finding the words at last, some of them at least, and speaking them with no way of gauging if they conveyed any of what was needed. He hoped so. This young one had known pain and loss and disappointment, far more than his share in his young life; the loss of love gone sour, or lost to time and Fate's capricious, cruel whims. Imagine that, he told the Highlander, not over a mere span of centuries, but thousands of years' worth. And then maybe have some idea of what it was like to be so numbed inside that, when a Kronos came along, still exhuberant with life, you got swept along with his joyous mayhem and lost yourself even further for another thousand years, or more. Better some twisted illusion of life, than seeing only an infinity of nothing ahead.

He stopped speaking and dared a look at Duncan, and was taken aback by the expression in the other's face. He had expected judgement, again, distaste and incomprehension. How could he expect Duncan to understand, when he barely grasped it himself? What he found, though, was compassion and regret -- and a wistful sadness he almost took for pity. "For God's sake don't feel sorry for me," he said crossly. "If you'd known me then, pity is the last thing you'd have felt."

"It's the last thing I feel now," Duncan returned, a chiding note in his voice, but no anger. "I wish I had known you then."

Recalling his dream, Methos said wryly, "What -- you would have taken me away from it all?"

"Aye," Duncan said, his voice gone as soft as his gaze, "I would have. Whatever you may have owed Kronos, you did not owe him your soul."

Methos blinked and gave Mac a sharp look. "Why'd you say that? Did I say something while I was unconscious?" he demanded, suspicious of being teased, or something, and not liking it.

"You did," Duncan said, "but I don't know what most of it was." He gave Methos a coy look that bordered on smugness. "You said my name a lot, especially towards the end. So what were you dreaming about?" he asked boldly.

Damn it to fucking hell, Methos thought as he felt a blush burn his cheeks again and surged to his feet, suddenly desperate to be gone.

===

Seeing Methos intent on running away -- again -- Duncan quickly moved to block him, something like tender amusement bubbling up inside him at the flustered, desperate look Methos cast about him as he sought some way out of this. Not a chance, he thought, and said, “For the last time, Methos: you are not going anywhere.”

“You’re going to stop me?”

“Uh-huh. We were going to talk about us, remember?”

The green-gold eyes squinted back at him, the small -- delectable -- mouth pursing. “Yes, and then you wanted the Reader’s Digest version of Methos: The Early Years,” the older Immortal rejoined.

“Yeah, well,” Duncan snagged him by the coat lapels and began reeling him in, “something tells me they’re subjects destined to go hand in hand.” Kind of like them, if he had anything to say about it. “Now, what were you dreaming?”

Methos glared back at him. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. And it’s none of your damn business anyway.”

“It is when you’re dreaming about me.” Duncan tugged him closer. “’Duncan, ohhh, Duncan,’” he mimicked in a low, breathy voice -- and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as another blush suffused Methos’ face, the hazel eyes wide with furious dismay.

“I did not!”

“And how would you know if you don’t remember?” Duncan drew him a millimeter nearer. “Tell me that.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Methos wasn’t making even a token effort to get away, however.

Duncan’s voice grew huskier -- and not with play now. “Were you dreaming of us together, like this?” he said and loosened his hold enough to reach a hand to Methos’ head, stroking his fingers through the dark, soft hair.

“It was just a dream,” Methos quietly insisted, his breath warm against Mac’s throat. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“It might mean everything, Methos.” Duncan pressed his lips to Methos’ temple. “It’s a dream I’ve had too, you know,” he murmured as Methos’ lashes fluttered down to hide his eyes. And the was the simplest truth of all: the hurt had been so bad because the feeling between them ran so deep. “Tell me.” Duncan brought him that little bit closer that let their bodies touch, his arms holding Methos close again, feeling the heat of his body even through the layers of clothes. “Come on,” he breathed against Methos’ ear.

Methos’ breath caught in a gasp for a moment, and then he began telling him, trying to downplay any significance. “It never would have happened like that, Mac,” he finished, pulling back a little, daring to meet his eyes again -- hope and uncertainty warring in his own gaze. “You would have hated me then.”

“Maybe,” Duncan said, knowing that might be true. “And maybe I’d have been a different person then.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We know each other now, and I don’t think hate is any of what’s between us.”

“But--”

Duncan stopped his lips with two fingers pressed against them. “No. We’re none of us perfect, remember?” He felt the lips move in a smile. “I think we’re a whole lot better together than apart, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Duncan held him comfortable, delighted to be doing that, to finally touch this friend as intimately as he desired -- to feel Methos’ arms go around him in turn and see if their bodies could merge just a tiny fraction more. “So, I think you skipped over the best part. What happened after I fought Kronos?”

“Umm,” Methos’ fair skin colored faintly again, “we...you--kissed me,” he confessed, ducking his head.

“Yeah? Like this?” Duncan cupped Methos’ chin and tilted his head just a little, so he could press a soft, tender kiss to Methos’ mouth -- that first, perfect kiss that was so much more than he’d ever dared dream. He almost wanted to open his eyes and see if fireworks were really go off around them.

“I don’t know,” Methos said when his mouth was free. “Maybe if you tried it again?” he added, his eyes bright with hope.

Mac couldn’t possibly disappointment him, and their lips and tongues met and explored each other’s mouths with judicious attention to finding just the right, perfect technique. Somehow the process found them sinking onto the bed at some point, clothing opened and discarded as their hands commenced another journey of discovery.

“Maybe we should think about this?” Methos said, as Mac was unzipping his jeans.

“Nope.” Mac dragged the denim over the other’s slim hips and off, the boxers quickly yanked off and tossed after the jeans. “You go right on thinking if you have to, Methos -- I’m going into man of action mode, though.”

Methos’ head went back as he laughed, any lingering tension and uncertainty released in that one gesture. And Duncan could not resist the temptation of that vulnerable length of throat, running his tongue along it and down to Methos’ chest to taste the salty sweetness of his skin. He felt his lover’s beautiful, elegant hands winding into his hair and lifting him from he suckled a tender nipple.

“You’ve done this before,” Methos said, surprise blending with faint accusation in his voice.

Duncan gave him a smug look. “Did you think I hadn’t?”

“There was nothing in your Chronicles.”

Duncan drew back a little, eyes wide. “You’ve read my Chronicles?”

Methos had the good grace to look moderately sheepish. “I was curious.”

“Ohhh -- you were curious, were you?” Duncan’s dark eyes held a teasing glint that should have warned his bed partner. “You get curious about me and blithely traipse through my Chronicles, is that it? Meanwhile, I get curious about you and get handed some revisionist claptrap -- oh, and a dissertation on how Helen of Troy wasn’t a ten. I think this requires some kind of redress.”

Methos’ eyes were wide -- with delight and anticipation. “What did you have in mind?”

“Hmmm...I think you have to suffer torments the likes of which you’ve never known.”

“Yeah?” Methos looked interested.

“Yeah,” Duncan confirmed, lowering his head to claim Methos’ mouth, his hands buried in the short, silky hair to hold him still as he drank his fill of long, deep kisses that barely began to quench his thirst.

===

A long while later, Methos shifted around, raising up on an elbow to look at the man lying against him, his long, elegant fingers reaching out to brush along the warm skin, half convinced this was just another dream. The hand that came up to capture his felt very real, though, as did the gaze of the dark eyes trained on him.

“We really did it, didn’t we?” he said, marveling that it could be true.

“Yep -- twice,” Duncan confirmed, looking smug and tender all at once. He kissed the back of Methos’ hand. “What are you thinking?”

“That this is, potentially, the stupidest thing either of us will ever do,” Methos admitted.

“Umm hmm. Probably get one or both of killed too,” Duncan conceded, still smiling at him.

Head cocked, Methos said, “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me a lot. But not as much as the idea of never having this, never walking this path with you.” Duncan sat up a little, looking at him intently. “When Tessa died, for a long time all I could think was that if she’d never met me, she’d be alive, somewhere. I was so wrapped up in the what-ifs that I forgot the joy we had found together -- all the things I never would have known, without her.” He touched Methos’ face. “Wherever it ends up, the journey is always worth it. You know that better than anyone.”

“I forget, though, sometimes.” He’d forgotten a lot of things -- until Mac, until Alexa. “’And whatever sky’s above me, a heart for any fate,’” he murmured, half to himself.

“Something like,” Duncan said, taking Methos' face in his hands and leaning close to press feather-light kisses to his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks before seeking his mouth again for a soft, tender kiss that only sought to confirm their connection. Satisfied for now, Duncan settled back down, holding Methos to him. “Isn’t that Byron?”

Methos drew back, giving him a thoughtful look. Thist was probably something they needed to talk about, especially since the poet-turned-rock star was slated to make a concert stop in Paris pretty soon. Feeling inspired, Methos sat up, saying, “Speaking of skies above us -- what would you say to a change of scenery?”

"Well, it is time I was getting back to Seacouver." Duncan gave Methos a searching look. "You will come." It wasn't exactly a question or a statement, but more a tentative assumption.

Methos' mouth twitched. "Oh, I'll come all right -- but I wasn't thinking Seacouver."

"No?" Duncan drew a finger along Methos' face, rubbing light over his lower lip. “Somewhere warm?”

“Umm hmm." Methos caught the finger between his lips, sucking hard, until the color rose in Duncan's cheeks and his eyes grew darker with renewed passion. Methos let the finger go, laying his hand along Duncan's face, treasuring the warmth -- the closeness that he had seldom dared to dream could ever be his. "I was thinking somewhere far, far away from all our cares and woes," he said, his voice low and intimate.

Duncan smiled. “I like the sound of that. When can you be packed and ready to go?”

Methos gave him a *get serious* look. “Mac, I am always packed and ready to go.”

“Sorry, forgot who I was talking to for a moment,” Duncan returned, grinning at him. “’Kay. " He turned his face into Methos' caressing hand, pressing a kiss to the palm. "Pick a spot, and we’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Just like that?” Methos said, welcoming this burst of spontanaiety, even while being skeptical of it.

“Just like that,” Duncan confirmed.

“What about Joe, Amanda, Richie?”

“We’ll send ‘em postcards when we get there."

Methos gave the Highlander a bemused look. "This isn't what I expected, when I came here tonight."

"I gathered that," Duncan said, smoothing his fingers along Methos' brow and up into his hair.

Methos looked at him through lowered lashes. "You really want to do this?" He knew he probably sounded pitiful, but he couldn't help it. He had wanted this for so long, been so certain Kronos' arrival had put it forever out of reach, it was still so hard to believe.

There was nothing but tenderness in Duncan's dark eyes as the Highlander looked at him. "Yes, I really want this. I think we're due a little happily ever aftering, don't you?"

Methos gave him an amused, quizzical look. "Is that a proposal?"

Duncan had that sweetly smug look on his face again. "You could do worse."

Yes, he could -- he had. "You're awfully sure of yourself, Highlander," he said, clasping his hands behind Duncan't neck.

"Maybe because I'm awfully sure of you."

For once, Methos had nothing to say. He could only feel the warmth of that declaration blossom through him, lighting up all the cold, dark places. He wanted to spout nonsense -- poetry, and declarations of eternal love -- but contented himself with pushing closer to Duncan, kissing his mouth, loving him back as much as he possibly could.

~*~

Seacouver, WA - Joe's Place

Joe Dawson sorted through his mail, finding yet another postcard -- this time from Glenfinnan, Scotland -- Mac and Adam updating him on their round the world tour. The gist of every message was pretty much: Having a wonderful time; glad you're not here. Joe didn't hold it against them. He had field agents keeping track of the pair, and knew that sooner or later they would come home. He didn't know what would happen then, but something told him it wouldn't be dull.

-the end-

Author's Note: Just in case anyone wonders, I made up the name 'Nekrotarati; out of two words: nekro, from the Greek - relating to the dead); and tarati from Sanskrit - he overcomes. In other words, "he overcomes death."

REPOST: Over the Rainbow, 1/2; Highlander, D/M; rated R

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 20:49:50 GMT

Okay, I knew something was wonky about what I posted yesterday, that something was missing, and sure enough, when I was able to locate a print out copy of the story, there were indeed some bits and pieces missing. Sorry about that. Also, it had been beta'd, by Ellen and Killa. So, here -- in two parts because the tweaks, small as they were, still added just a squidge too much for one post -- here it is again for briggitt, if no one else... :)

Title: Over The Rainbow
Author: Riley Cannon
Fandom: Highlander
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Warnings: Angst, sap, the usual drill from me.
Diclaimer: Not mine, never will be, zero money made.

Summary: Post-Bordeaux, w/ fantasy dream elements.

~Over the Rainbow~

As he switched off the lights and windshield wipers and got out of the Citroen, pulling the collar of his coat up against the cold rain, Duncan MacLeod approached the barge, his step slowing as he sensed the presence of another Immortal. Great, just what he needed. It had been a long couple of days, off at that estate auction in Brittany to act as a proxy bidder for an old client; he did not need a run-in with another Immortal to cap it all off. As he drew near, however, he couldn't help marking that this particular buzz seemed to be running a little weak at the moment, and that it had a familiar resonance to it. "Methos?" He went on up the ramp, looking around the rain-slicked deck, and then almost fell over the other man where he lay in an untidy heap. A quick examination disclosed no injury, aside from a small, sticky lump on his head, leaving Duncan to conclude Methos had slipped and clonked himself a good one.

With a sigh, Duncan got the door open, then lifted Methos' not-so-inconsiderable dead weight, and carried him inside, depositing him on the sofa. Getting the lights on, he took a closer look at the injury before going for a damp cloth to wipe away the blood. The wound was already healed, but the lump looked tender, and Duncan knew from experience that head injuries always had a longer recovery time, so he didn't expect Methos to be up and about for awhile yet. He got Methos' coat and shoes off, settled a comforter over him, and with his good deed for the day accomplished -- a wry smile graced his features at that thought -- Duncan hung up his own coat and went over to the sideboard to fetch a bottle of Scotch, wondering what had brought Methos here today.

It had been awhile (too long, a voice whispered) since Methos had just dropped by to cadge his beer and tweak his sensibilities. Not since back in Seacouver, just before -- he sighed, and poured himself an extra finger of Scotch -- just before Kronos had come out of the past to turn everything inside out. For a little while there, during the business with Steven Keane, things had almost felt like they were getting back to normal, but when the moment had come, when Methos had been ready to open the way -- "We all have mistakes to forgive." -- Duncan hadn't been able to cross that bridge. He wanted to, he dearly wanted things to be as they had been, but he knew that just was not possible, and he hadn't yet found a way to move on to some new level with Methos.

If only it could be that easy, to just forget Kronos ever happened. To blot out what he now knew of Methos' past. He sighed again, taking slow swallows of the whiskey. Maybe it couldn't be that easy -- you had to deal with reality straight on, no matter how much you hated it. Had he known that before Methos? he wondered, and couldn't be sure. But when Methos came around, maybe they could begin working it through. To let this impasse continue, to let Kronos' ghost drive them apart, was to let that bastard win in the end, and Duncan wasn't prepared to grant him any kind of victory.

Methos stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, at least to Mac's ear. Still no sign of returning consciousness, though, and the Highlander sank back in his chair, thoughtful gaze resting on the other man's features. Even out cold, Methos look tired, drawn, as if his five thousand years suddenly weighed too heavily.

Maybe they did. After Duncan's initial anger and sense of betrayal had faded to something harder to define -- equal parts hurt, disappointment, and an empathy from which he had first shied away -- Duncan had wondered just who Methos had most meant to deceive with his lies of omission. Himself, as much as anyone? Pretend the Horsemen never happened, and hope to God it never came back to haunt him? It didn't sound like Methos, the consummate pragmatist, the realist -- but then when had Duncan ever really bought those claims of cool detachment anyway? Certainly not since Methos had turned up on his doorstep to warn him Kristen was in town.

"Come on, Old Man," he said softly. "Wake up. We have a lot to talk about."

There was no response, of course. Methos only burrowed deeper into the cushions, lost in his dreams. Duncan hoped they were pleasant ones.

~*~

Somewhere in Mesopotamia -- The Bronze Age

He had hovered on the edge of consciousness for a long time: aware of the relentless sun beating down on him as he lay there, tumbled in the hot sand, the pain in his back burning intensely every time he moved. Try as he might, and his muscles ached from the strain, he could not reach the arrow to withdraw it. He couldn't heal, and the sense of frustration and helplessness that engenered was almost worse than the pain. Kronos or Silas should have come looking for him by now -- if they had gotten safely away. He didn't even know that.

Blood flowed freely from the newly reopened wound, and Methos collapsed back onto the sand, his sense of angry desperation ebbing at last as he felt the approach of another Immortal. "Kronos!" He raised his head, trying to locate his brother. "Kronos -- I'm here!"

"Aye, I can see that -- but 'tis not Kronos," answered a completely unfamiliar voice, and Methos' sense of urgency returned and intensified as he scrabbled for some purchase in the loose sand and tried to get to his feet, to his sword. The pain tore through him, though, and he crumpled back, as furious as he was scared, to be caught this way when he couldn't even defend himself.

Instead of the blade of a sword, however, Methos felt a strong hand come to rest on his shoulder, that strangely-accented voice telling him to, "Hold still a bit," followed by a blinding burst of pain as the arrow was finally wrenched from his flesh.

In a few moments even that pain had passed, and he quickly rolled away, springing to his feet, his sword in his hand and he regarded the other Immortal. The other man was about the same height as himself, although with a more solid, substantial look to him; his hair fell almost to his waist in dark, curling waves; he was mostly covered in a curious patterned garment of blues and greens, and other colors, and the skin that was left bare was kissed with gold and bronze hues. He was the most beautiful thing Methos had ever seen -- the thought came irrelevantly, and he immeditately pushed it away. "Who are you?"

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and I dinna want your head."

Quite inexplicably, Methos found he believed him, and after another few moments sheathed his sword -- belatedly noting the other man had never drawn his at all. "I am Methos," he said, then added in wry tones, "of the Horsemen."

"I am pleased to meet you, Methos. Have you been here long?"

"Long enough," Methos said with feeling, and then heard himself adding, "Thank you for your help, Duncan MacLeod." When was the last time he had thanked anyone, for anything? When was the last time there had been cause to?

"Where are your people?" Duncan MacLeod asked, those rich dark eyes sweeping over him with a look of concern.

Somehow Methos couldn't quite think of Kronos, Silas -- let alone Caspian -- as 'his people.' "My brothers should be at our camp."

"I will take you to them."

There were several reasons why that was a really bad idea, and yet short of killing his unexpected benefactor and taking his horse, there seemed few other options just at the moment. His own mount was long since gone, and he was not at all keen to trudge through this harsh landscape on foot. "My brothers may not welcome you."

"Leave me to worry about that," this MacLeod said, leading the way to his horse and mounting, reaching a hand down to Methos to draw him up beside him.

For just a second Methos hesitated, then placed his hand in the other's, an addled part of his mind registering the contrast between his fair skin and MacLeod's darker hues, the palm broader, the fingers not so long -- the strength tremendous. Then he shifted his grip to the well-muscled forearm and climbed atop the horse, his hands coming to rest at MacLeod's waist for balance.

"Which way?"

"What?" Methos blinked, looking about him for his bearings -- feeling all too badly in need of them, with the warmth of the other's body seeping into him, with the man's scent enveloping him as his face seemed unable to avoid those long, silken tresses. "Oh -- that way," he pointed, the traitorous thought creeping in that he didn't really care if it was the right right direction or not.

===

He felt something akin to disappointment as they drew within sight of the camp, closely followed by a jolt of apprehension at the three forms riding out to meet them. He sat up straighter, pulling away from MacLeod. "Let me handle this," he said, as the air fairly sang with the presence of so many powerful Immortals.

"Are ye not among friends, Methos?"

"That always remains to be seen," Methos murmured, and met Kronos' pale eyes as the Horseman drew up beside them, Silas and Caspian holding off a little ways.

Those cool blue eyes raked first Methos, then Duncan MacLeod, and narrowed with wary suspicion. "Where have you been, Methos?"

It was on the tip of Methos' tongue to say, 'Where you left me for dead, Brother,' but for once he bit his tongue and restrained himself to a simple explanation, concluding, "I would be there now, if not for Duncan MacLeod."

"Then I suppose you are owed my gratitude for my brother's safe return." Kronos spoke the words pleasantly enough, but Methos wasn't fooled for a moment. "I was becoming concerned."

Methos just bet he had been. "Duncan will be staying with us."

Kronos' eyes locked with his. "Will he?"

"Yes." Methos' tone was implacable. "It grow late, after all."

"And we are noted for our hospitality," Kronos returned, his smile mocking.

Methos ignored it, to all outward appearance, and said to Duncan, "You will stay, for the night?"

"Aye, for the night," Duncan said, conducting his own appraisal of Kronos and the situation.

But would he get safely away come the morning? Methos wondered, not missing the way Duncan and Kronos were sizing each other up, not liking the look that passed between them, sizzling with animosity and challenge. The glint of resentful jealousy in Kronos' pale eyes set off several alarms, reminding him all too sharply of their conflict over Cassandra. Somehow, though, he didn't see this situation coming out quite the same way. And for the first time the thought crossed his mind that this Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod might just be a match for Kronos -- and maybe more than a match.

What was the matter with him? He and Kronos had ridden together for centuries, they were brothers in everything but blood -- more than brothers. Yet now his mind was full of thoughts of desertion, of seeing Kronos fall to Duncan MacLeod's blade. Because of Cassandra? Or because Kronos had not come back for him?

Because, for the first time in longer than he could remember, someone had treated him with kindness?

It was all too bewildering, and feeling the need for solitude, he escaped into the sanctuary of his tent.

~*~

Duncan sorted through the box he'd found, taking out an assortment of books and CDs, all ones Methos had borrowed from him back in Seacouver. There was also a small envelope containing an assortment of keys, and a note in Methos' neat hand:

MacLeod - These turned up in the stuff I had Joe send over from the States.
Sorry I kept them so long. The other thing's just something I was going to give
you for your birthday, before -- Well, before. It's nothing important; throw it
away, if you want. That's all really. M

Duncan looked over at the pale, still figure, feeling a sudden hollowness in his stomach. That was it, then, just good-bye? Methos didn't even want to try and work things out between them? Or maybe he'd been given suffiecient cause to believe that wouldn't be possible. Duncan knew he had not exactly gone out of his way to make Methos feel welcome, and his conscience tweaked him especially sharply as he recalled their confrontation over Steven Keane's body. Of course it never would have come to swords between them, not over that. He'd just been pissed at Methos' killing him, at his and Amanda's interference in what had been none of their business.

It had gone even deeper than that, Duncan knew. The encounter with Keane had profoundly rocked him, raked up so many memories he had tried to put behind him. And it had struck far too close to home. He'd felt as if was looking in a mirror and seeing all his own judgemental righteousness reflected back at him, from Steven Keane's unrelenting eyes. No doubt Methos had appreciated the irony of that, and yet he had never said a word about it, never made more of it than trying to use it as a means of reopening the lines of communication between himself and Mac.

Methos hadn't even gone out of his way to draw comparisons between their actions -- Death on a Horse vs. Duncan MacLeod, Highland Avenger -- when it must have been sorely tempting. No, he had only reminded Duncan that they all made mistakes, that no one was perfect. And underlying it all had been the quiet assertion that neither of them had any business lobbing rocks at each other. 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.' Duncan had always liked that bit, but it had taken him this long to really understand it, much less try to put it into practice. It was something Darius had tried so hard to teach him.

And that had really worked its way under his skin like a burr, as had no doubt been the idea, when Methos had dragged Darius' name into the mix. The worst part had been having to admit, with grudging reluctance, that it was not an unfair comparison.

Ah, but Darius had led an army across Europe, not a band of self-serving marauders. Yes, of course, that made all the difference. The most exasperating thing was that had been precisely the distinction he had been making, until finally recognizing its foolishness. Darius would have never marked it. Innocents had fallen in the path of Darius' army, mortal lives had been destroyed. Grayson had been Darius' closest friend, his trusted right hand -- for how many centuries? What did that say of the man Darius had once been? More than that, what kind of Immortal would strike down another of their kind, unarmed and harmless, as Darius had done at the gates of Paris?

The hardest question of all: In what way, precisely, had Darius -- at that point in his life -- been any different from Methos, from Kronos? It seemed like the worst kind of betrayal to draw any kind of comparison between his old friend and Kronos, and yet Duncan knew Darius would have been the first to do precisely that. To ask the Highlander why he was so at ease with Darius' past, yet so quick to cast out Methos?

The answer was so simple, of course, the truest ones always were: Darius' past had never risen up to smack Duncan MacLeod in the face.

Not that Duncan hadn't tried to reason his way out of that, telling himself it was different because Darius' hadn't hidden his past; Grayson had been a known quantity, not a nasty surprise.

There was more, though. Duncan had never questioned the magical transformation of Darius because the other Immortal had fit the part so well. He had been wise and enlightened, all the things Duncan associated with goodness. Methos, on the other hand -- from the moment they had met, Methos had completely failed to live up to preconceptions of what the legendary, oldest Immortal ought to be. It wasn't something Duncan had ever consciously thought of, until he'd met that other Methos, that strange, anonymous man who had masqueraded as the oldest and wisest, and who had fit the bill so much better, on the surface, than the real thing. That had made Duncan take a second look at Methos and begin to find something lacking, and thereby setting the stage, he supposed, for discovering Methos' feet were indeed made of clay. It hadn't been a conscious reevaluation, but why else would he have been so quick to believe Cassandra, if the first seeds of doubt had not already been planted? If he hadn't already begun to question just who and what this ancient really was?

And Duncan knew it wasn't even fair to insist that Methos was supposed to be better than the rest of them. By virtue of what? The number of years lived, the experience and knowledge he shoudl have acquired in so long a time? He didn't know. All he knew what that -- in the eyes of Duncan MacLeod, at any rate -- Methos wasn't supposed to be 'just a guy,' a jaded cynic with a been there/done that nonchalance toward every damn thing in the world. He, for God's sake, was not supposed to have ever ridden with the likes of Kronos, been Death on a pale horse -- murdered, raped, and enslaved a woman like Cassandra.

His brooding, dark gaze rested on Methos again, as the older Immortal stirred restlessly in his sleep. In his heart, Duncan knew this man was not that Horseman of so long ago. He even, foolishly perhaps, thought that Methos of three thousand years past may not have, entirely, been the monster he'd been made to believe. Why should Methos have told the simple, unadulterated truth about that, any more than he did anything? That was in his heart, though; his head still hadn't quite reconciled the two.

And maybe that was the crux of the dilemma: not the truth he had discovered, but way he'd found out, having it so brutally hurled in his way like that, when it was so hard to sort through it all and make sense of it. No, there would have been no good way to learn about the Horsemen, but Duncan stubbornly insisted to himself that if Methos had simply told him, before everything blew up in their faces, that it would have been different. He didn't doubt he would have still been angry, disturbed, but just not to so extreme a degree. He for certain would not have been hit with such a sense of betrayal, and left wondering if anything Methos had ever told him was the truth.

At least he now knew why Methos' stories of the past had always been strangely impersonal. That had long puzzled, and frustrated him -- hence his professed boredom that day, as they were leaving the television studio. He didn't care how tall Nero was, or what Ceasar's favorite food was; he didn't care if Methos had supervised the construction of the Pyramids -- unless the story revealed something of this elusive man he had welcomed into his life. And that had always been the main ingredient missing. Now he knew why Methos had been so chary of revealing too much about himself, stripping away too many layers.

Methos' words to him at Elysium Church had haunted Duncan ever since, that calm assurance that Duncan MacLeod could never understand the man Methos had been, all the things he had done and experienced in his life. Nor had the Highlander yet determined which smarted more: that confident presumption on Methos' part, or that it had been all-too on target. At least to a qualified degree, because the truth of it was that the Horsemen were not all that hard to grasp. For all Kronos' grandiose proclamations, there was nothing all that unique about the Horsemen. History was littered with their kind; hell, sometimes history made them heroes, depending on the times and circumstances -- look at the Crusades: looting and pillaging in the name of the Holy Church, and none of it having a thing to do with God. No, Duncan could understand the Horsemen. What eluded him was the reason for Methos' participation. He couldn't quite shake a lingering suspicion that, while Methos may have been exaggerating, he may not have been lying when he'd said he liked it.

Honesty compelled Duncan to admit that, but for fortune -- and Methos -- he might have learned to like it too. He still remembered that feeling too well from his own brush with darkness. And what if he hadn't been able to reintegrate himself, after the Dark Quickening? What if that evil inside him had swamped him completely? He could remember being at Darius' church, overwhelmed by what he'd become, what he'd done, and proclaiming that he could not live with it. But what if there had been no choice? No Methos to help him find his way back? Where would he be now, what would he be doing? It chilled him to have to consider that that Duncan MacLeod might have been drawn to someone like Kronos, that he might have cheerfully partaken of all the mayhem.

And what difference that he wasn't quite in his right mind? he wondered.

"Come on, Methos," he spoke softly to the figure lying so still and quiet, "wake up."

~*~

Methos turned a frowning look on Kronos as the other Horseman crowded him, and he tried to shift away, but Kronos' hand clamped on his arm to hold him there. After a moment, Methos stilled and didn't shrug off the arm Kronos heaved about his shoulders -- but he knew his brother would find no yielding in the body he was trying to embrace. Let him have that much, Methos thought; Duncan MacLeod, sitting across him at the campfire, would have his full attention.

There was something so compelling about this stranger, this Highlander, as he called himself. Something not only new under the sun, but refreshingly so, calling to elements in Methos that had for so long been hidden away, until he had nearly forgotten they ever existed. He felt as if he had been asleep for an age, but was now coming awake.

And he knew how dangerous that could be. If Kronos' jealousy could not tolerate Cassandra distracting him, what would be unleashed if Kronos guessed this dark-eyed stranger was subverting him so much more thoroughly -- with nothing but a kind word?

Would the Highlander take up the challenge, if it came to that? Methos wondered, even as another part of him rebelled at the idea of being anyone's spoils of war. And suddenly frustrated by the entire business, he pulled free of Kronos and climbed to his feet, stalking away to his tent. He wasn't surprised to find another presence soon coming after him, and looked up from removing his boots, expecting to find an angry and demanding Kronos there.

Instead he blinked in surprise at the sight of Duncan MacLeod looming in the entrance, and he felt a dangerous thrill of excitement shoot up his spine. "What is it?"

"Where am I to sleep?"

It was such a simple question, but fraught with so many conflicting feelings. Part of Methos wanted to tell the Highlander to go, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Horseman's camp. Another part, though, didn't think he could bear to be parted from his remarkable person, so newly introduced to him.

"You may...sleep here, if you would like to," Methos offered, feeling a ludicrous shyness.

"I would, aye," Duncan agreed, settling onto a pile of furs and tugging at his own boots.

Methos tried not to look, tried to only concentrate on his own undressing, but his gaze kept straying to the Highlander, fascinated by the other's disrobing. In part it was simply that he was intrigued as to how the curious garment -- a kilt, he was told -- came to be fastened. There was more than simple curisosity at play, however, as more and more bronzed flesh was bared in the flickering tallow light. At that moment, Methos would have been hardpressed to name a woman to rival this Highlander's beauty -- much less a man with equal charms.

Nor did his admiring gaze go unnoticed. Duncan gazed back at him as boldly, saying, "What are ye starin' at?" in a soft voice that, far from putting Methos off, seemed to be inviting more.

With an effort, Methos looked away from the beguiling form. "Nothing," he answered as softly, knowing it would be the height of folly to encourage this to go any further. "Go to sleep -- you'll want to make an early start in the morning," he said, trying to put some cold distance into his voice.

He wasn't sure if he was relieved, or disappointed, as the Highlander complied, settling onto his pallet. In his own bed, Methos found sleep very elusive for a long time as he lay there in the darkness, filled with a heightened awareness of the man sleeping just an arm's length away. It would be so easy to move over that little distance, to entwine his body with the Highlander's... With a soft groan of frustration, Methos rolled over, away from Duncan MacLeod and temptation.

~*~

Curiosity having gotten the better of him, Duncan unwrapped Methos' gift to him, and felt a little stunned at what he discovered. How could Methos have thought he would throw this away? he wondered as he examined the book. It was a slim, beautifully bound volume, filled with text and elaborate borders that reminded him of the work he'd seen at Brother Paul's monastery. Even more than the exquisite work, he was touched by the content: The Legend of the Highlander. It was the story Methos had invented to entertain the refugees from Mary Lindsey's daycare center one day last summer. Anne had called urgently, explaining the water had been shut off at the daycare and a lot of the children didn't have anywhere else to go -- and would Duncan mind if they spent the day at the dojo? Methos had arrived while he and Richie were rushing to child-proof the place, and Duncan had anticipated a declaration from Methos that 'he didn't do children,' followed by a prompt and thorough vanishing act for the duration. Instead, aside from a snide comment about how Duncan needed to learn to just say no, Methos had actually deigned to pitch in and lend a hand. And once the munchkins arrived, he had comfortably donned a new persona, that of story, that had fit him amazingly well -- and it had occurred to Duncan, then, that some of those sixty-eight wives might well have had children who had called the world's oldest man Daddy. It had been a startling insight, and something he'd always meant to pursue, but the time had never been right.

He hadn't forgotten that afternoon, though, Methos taking charge of the tribe and holding their attention with one story after another, like a latter-day Scherazade. It had been a bit of shock, though, as he'd realized Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had been cast in the role of a mythic warrior on a magical quest, complete with colorful sidekicks and fair damsels (although he had his doubts about Amanda ever having been a fair damsel), and replete with dastardly villains. He'd spotted Kalas and Kristen easily enough, but at the time no bells had been rung by the appearance of an evil quartet of marauders -- The Four Riders of Doom --and he had only supposed them to be especially vivid figments of Methos' imagination. Now he recognized them all too well, and had to wonder if that had been Methos' way of offering a broad hint; that Methos may have wanted him to ask about the story, and where those marauders came from.

Maybe, he sighed. It was always so hard to know with Methos.

Turning the pages, he found the part where the Highlander met Nekrotarati, the world's oldest -- and wisest, of course -- man, who somehow wound up with most of the best lines, and all of the beer thereafter.

And Methos thought he would want to pitch this in the trash? Duncan shook his head, looking at his friend, pained that they had, in Methos' mind, come to such a place in their relationship. A part of him, hurt and a little angry, wanted to demand how Methos could think he would do anything but treasure a gift like this. Another part of him knew he hadn't given his friend much cause, lately, to think otherwise.

He put the book safely away for now, and leaned forward, beginning to worry at Methos' being out for so long. Gently, he patted Methos' cheek and thought the other Immortal was hovering on the edge of coming back. Those long, thick lashes fluttered as those ancient, ageless, eyes were about to open and fix him with a sardonically amused look. The moment passed, though, and one elegant hand came up to push Duncan's away, the long fingers curling around Duncan's hand after another moment, holding on lightly.

The Highlander didn't attempt to pull free. Instead he found himself drawing a good deal of comfort from that touch. He did, just, resist giving into the impulse to touch Methos' face again, to let his fingers stroke through the soft, dark hair. He did raise Methos' hand to his lips for a moment, somehow not at all taking himself by surprise.

Silently, he urged Methos to come back to him -- now.

~*~

The sudden rain still hadn't eased up as the afternoon began to slide into evening, and Methos found he didn't mind in the least. He was quite content to stay in his tent, going over some scrolls he'd come by, and enjoying the company of Duncan MacLeod. He wasn't even going to pretend which occupation held the most appeal for him. The Highlander's tales of his homeland appealed to his imagination, and sparked something that hovered on the edge of memory. Sometimes he could remember a land like that, green and cool, lush, where everything he knew now was stark and barren. The memory always danced just out of reach at the last moment, though.

There was a simple, forgotten pleasure in such conversation, to speak with someone about matters that weren't concerned with planning the next raid, or dividing the spoils. He enjoyed Silas' company, but in no age would the man be considered a great wit; and the less he had to do with Caspian, the better. Once, Kronos had been good company, possessing a lively mind that had still had room for wonder.

It had been a long time now, he realized, since a gulf had begun to grow between himself and Kronos, the business with Cassandra had only thrown everything into sharper relief. And now this Duncan MacLeod, exotic, and refreshing as the rain, came to exacerbate things further.

Sensing the intrusion of another Immortal, Methos and MacLeod turned in unison to see Kronos draw back the tent flap and come inside. "Methos, we need to speak."

"I'm busy."

"With what?" Kronos demanded, his pale eyes flicking from Methos to MacLeod and back.

Voice cool, remote, Methos said, "That's no concern of yours."

That, of course, was a mistake. In a flash, Kronos' hand shot out, striking Methos hard across the face. "I have had enough of your insolence, Brother!" His hand drew back to strike again, and was seized in MacLeod's larger one, the grip painful to judge by Kronos' expression.

The Highlander used his own advantage in size to great effect, and Kronos found himself dumped on his ass. Another mistake. Furious now, Kronos sprang to his feet, his sword drawn and met by MacLeod's. The fast and furious battle quickly spilled outside and drew the attention of Silas and Caspian, as the combatants slashed and struck at each other, both drawing blood as they slogged away in the mud and the rain. As Methos had thought, they were very evenly matched, and the fight played out to a draw, MacLeod and Kronos on their knees in the mud, breathing hard, glaring murder at each other. Before they could resume, Methos stepped forward, reaching for the Highlander and drawing him to his feet -- Methos' gaze never leaving Kronos' face, both of them knowing what he was stating by his actions.

Even Silas and Caspian grasped it; the latter eyeing him a feral grin that said he looked forward to what lay ahead, while Silas' gaze held a mournful reproach.

Methos turned his back on all of them, pushing Duncan ahead of him into the tent.

===

The Highlander's wounds bathed away, Methos carried the basin of dirty water outside and tossed it away. The rain had stopped and the sky cleared to fill with stars. He looked across the encampment and found Kronos watching him, Silas and Caspian lurking nearby, waiting for the command. Caspian threw an eager look at Kronos, who shook his head after a long moment -- his eyes locked with Methos' -- and withdrew back into his tent.

Releasing a pent up breath, Methos retreated as well, fetching up against the Highlander's solid form. "Ye'll be safe with me," Duncan promised. "I will not let them harm you."

Methos gave him a dubious look. "You'll take on all three of them?"

"If I have to, aye," MacLeod promised softly, his breath warm against Methos' face. "It does not have to come to that," he whispered, his hands coming up to curve around Methos' shoulders. "Come away with me," he urged.

"They'd come after us," Methos countered, beginning to lose himself in those rich, dark eyes.

"They won't." Duncan moved in, his warm lips brushing Methos' cheek with a feather-light touch.

"I can't." Methos leaned into that touch, wanting more. "I owe Kronos my life."

"Do ye owe him your soul?" Duncan murmured against his lips, his tongue darting against them, asking entry -- and Methos gave it, welcoming the warm, eager intrusion into his mouth, meeting it, tangling his fingers in the Highlander's heavy, dark hair as he was lowered to a pallet heaped with furs. Clothing was removed, discarded, and their bodies came together. Methos caressed warm, soft skin stretched taut over hard muscle; he was petted and fondled in return, every inch of him kissed and cherished as their bodies moved together in an ageless dance...

~*~

"Methos?" Duncan patted his fingers against Methos' cheek more firmly as the older Immortal began to twist and writhe on the couch, words and whimpers spilling from his lips, nothing clear except for Duncan's name repeated over and over with increasing urgency. "Methos, I'm here -- I'm right here. Come on, wake up." And, finally, the hazel eyes fluttered open and returned a muzzy look, one hand reaching to Duncan's cheek, those long, slim fingers gently brushing the bronzed skin in a tender caress. In another moment, however, Methos' gaze sharpened, as he took in and fully registered his surroundings, a pink flush warming his angular features.

"Sorry," he murmured, letting his hand drop away and lowering his gaze. "I thought..." He couldn't seem to voice it, though, shaking his head as he made to sit up, pushing the comforter away -- only to fall back against the cushions, one hand going to his head. "Ohhh..."

"Hey!" Duncan reached out to steady him, get him settled back comfortable. "Take it easy," he said, moving to sit beside him and ease an arm around his shoulders. "You had a pretty good knock on the head, give yourself some time."

After a few moments, Methos took a steadier breath and let himself relax into Duncan's hold for a bit. Then he drew away a little to look at Duncan. "I was unconscious?"

"Out cold for about an hour. You must have slipped on deck and hit your head."

"I don't remember that." Methos sighed and shrugged. "I was just stopping by to drop off some things of yours I'd borrowed."

"Yeah, I found the box. I'd forgotten you had them."

A wry smile briefly graced Methos' features. "If I dig around long enough I'll probably find some scrolls overdue at the Library of Alexandria."

Mac smiled. "Spend a lot of time there?"

"A century or two, on and off. Marcus and I tried to save what we could when the fire started, but we didn't get away with much."

"You know Marcus?" Duncan said, wanting to keep the conversation going.

"Yes." The wryness was still there, but colored with some bitterness now. "Not everyone from my past is the scum of the earth." Abruptly, he pulled away from Mac, making it to his feet again and managing to take a couple of unsteady steps, before his knees buckled.

Mac was there in an instant, catching him before he fell, pressing him close to his breast, burying his face in the short, soft hair and breathing in the scent of him. "Methos, just take it easy, will you? You're in no condition to be going anywhere right now."

"I'm fine," Methos said, his voice muffled from his face being pressed into Mac's shoulder. "No Immortal ever died of a concussion."

"Yeah, well let's keep it that way," Duncan said, guiding him back to the sofa. The knock on the head wasn't that serious, except that it had hardly left Methos in optimum condition, should he encounter another Immortal on his way home. Not to mention, of course, that Duncan plain did not want him going anywhere right now, not yet. "Will you eat something?"

Methos looked back at him, eyes narrowing as if he was trying to suss out what this was all about. "I suppose," he said, a note of caution in his voice that wouldn't have been there a few months before.

As he fixed a light supper for them, Duncan wondered how to bring up the subject that had bothered him since reading Methos' good-bye note, and supposed the best way was straight out. There had been enough of dodging issues, on both sides, and one of them had to set a precedent. "Why did you have Joe ship your things over from the States?"

"Gee, let me think -- maybe because it's easier to get to them that way?" was the flip reply, which strangely reassured Duncan. If Methos could be sarcastic and flippant, he had to be feeling better.

He wasn't going to be diverted from the subject, however. "Does that mean you're not going back to Seacouver?"

Methos didn't reply at once, and Duncan looked up from the warm bread he was slicing to see the older Immortal resting his head against the back of the couch, something so lost and careworn in the pose that Duncan felt swamped by a wash of bittersweet tenderness. The regret and loneliness captured in that seemingly casual sprawl so closely mirrored his own feelings right now.

"Methos," he prompted gently, after a moment, "were you planning on going back to Seacouver?"

"No," came the reply, couched in a soft timbre that carried fifty centuries' worth of disappointment and resignation. "I really don't make a habit of going where I'm not wanted, MacLeod."

"You're still in Paris." Duncan hoped that didn't sound as accusatory as he feared; it wasn't how he meant it.

Methos sighed. "Not for much longer," he said. "I have a few things to settle here, then..." He shrugged, a sad, rueful smile touching his mouth. "I won't darken your doorstep again, Highlander."

Damn, Methos had meant it to be good-bye, Duncan realized. Good-bye forever. He brought the hot soup and bread over to the table, wondering what on earth he could say or do at this point that would make him change his mind and stay. Maybe nothing but the simple truth, he considered as Methos sat at the table after a moment's hesitation.

He waited until Methos had gotten some of the soup and bread in him, though -- and gave himself a little more time, too, he admitted, because the next words out of his mouth had the potential of changing everything between them, forever.

Highlander: Over the Rainbow, 1/1, Duncan/Methos, rated R

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 20:24:06 GMT

This is one of the last Highlander fics I wrote, almost exactly ten years ago, before a certain pair of prison inmates proceeded to consume my fannish time. It's one that sort of went missing, though, as it had been on a site separate from my own (now mostly defunct and abandoned) web site -- and somewhere along the line that site disappeared, and this story with it. I think the story must have been posted to some D/M Yahoo groups lists back in the day, but don't ask me which one. I'm also guessing it had been beta'd, but if not -- apologies in advance for any typos and the like.

Title: Over The Rainbow
Author: Riley Cannon
Fandom: Highlander, the series
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Rating: R, I think; I'm not recalling any really explicit content anyway.
Warnings: Angst, sap, the usual drill from me.

Summary: A post-Bordeaux fic, w/ fantasy dream elements.

~OVER THE RAINBOW~

As he approached the barge, Duncan MacLeod's step slowed as he sensed the presence of another Immortal, one he had come to know extrememly well -- although this particular buzz seemed to be running a little weak at the moment. "Methos?" He went on up the ramp, looking around the rain-slicked deck, and then almost fell over the other man where he lay in an untidy heap. A quick examination disclosed no injury, aside from a small, sticky lump on his head, leaving Duncan to conclude Methos had slipped and clonked himself a good one.

With a sigh, Duncan got the door open, then lifted Methos' not-so-inconsiderable dead weight, and carried him inside, depositing him on the sofa. Getting the lights on, he took a closer look at the injury before going for a damp cloth to wipe away the blood. The wound was already healed, but the lump looked tender, and Duncan knew from experience that head injuries always had a longer recovery time, so he didn't expect Methos to be up and about for awhile yet. He got Methos' coat and shoes off, settled a comforter over him, and with his good deed for the day accomplished -- a wry smile graced his features at that thought -- Duncan wondered what had brought Methos here today.

It had been awhile (too long, a voice whispered) since Methos had just dropped by to cadge his beer and tweak his sensibilities. Not since back in Seacouver, just before -- he sighed, and poured himself an extra finger of Scotch -- just before Kronos had come out of the past to turn everything inside out. For a little while there, during the business with Steven Keane, things had almost felt like they were getting back to normal, but when the moment had come, when Methos had been ready to open the way -- "We all have mistakes to forgive." -- Duncan hadn't been able to cross that bridge. He wanted to, he dearly wanted things to be as they had been, but he knew that just was not possible, and he hadn't yet found a way to move on to some new level with Methos.

If only it could be that easy, to just forget Kronos ever happened. To blot out what he now knew of Methos' past. He sighed again, taking slow swallows of the whiskey. Maybe it couldn't be that easy -- you had to deal with reality straight on, no matter how much you hated it. Had he known that before Methos? he wondered, and couldn't be sure. But when Methos came around, maybe they could begin working it through. To let this impasse continue, to let Kronos' ghost drive them apart, was to let that bastard win in the end, and Duncan wasn't prepared to grant him any kind of victory.

Methos stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, at least to Mac's ear. Still no sign of returning consciousness, though, and the Highlander sank back in his chair, thoughtful gaze resting on the other man's features. Even out cold, Methos look tired, drawn, as if his five thousand years suddenly weighed too heavily.

Maybe they did. After his initial anger and sense of betrayal had faded to something harder to define -- equal parts hurt, disappointment, and an empathy he had at first shied away from -- Duncan had wondered just who Methos had most meant to deceive with his lies of omission. Himself, as much as anyone?

"Come on, Old Man," he said softly. "Wake up. We have a lot to talk about."

There was no response, of course. Methos only burrowed deeper into the cushions, lost in his dreams. Duncan hoped they were pleasant ones.

~*~

Somewhere in Mesopotamia -- The Bronze Age

He had hovered on the edge of consciousness for a long time: aware of the relentless sun beating down on him as he lay there, tumbled in the hot sand, the pain in his back burning intensely every time he moved. Try as he might, and his muscles ached from the strain, he could not reach the arrow to withdraw it. He couldn't heal, and the sense of frustration and helplessness that engenered was almost worse than the pain. Kronos or Silas should have come looking for him by now -- if they had gotten safely away. He didn't even know that.

Blood flowed freely from the newly reopened wound, and Methos collapsed back onto the sand, his sense of angry desperation ebbing at last as he felt the approach of another Immortal. "Kronos!" He raised his head, trying to locate his brother. "Kronos -- I'm here!"

"Aye, I can see that -- but 'tis not Kronos," answered a completely unfamiliar voice, and Methos' sense of urgency returned and intensified as he scrabbled for some purchase in the loose sand and tried to get to his feet, to his sword. The pain tore through him, though, and he crumpled back, as furious as he was scared, to be caught this way when he couldn't even defend himself.

Instead of the blade of a sword, however, Methos felt a strong hand come to rest on his shoulder, that strangely-accented voice telling him to, "Hold still a bit," followed by a blinding burst of pain as the arrow was finally wrenched from his flesh.

In a few moments even that had passed, and he quickly rolled away, springing to his feet, his sword in his hand and he regarded the other Immortal. The other man was about the same height as himself, although with a more solid, substantial look to him; his hair fell almost to his waist in dark, curling waves; he was mostly covered in a curious patterned garment of blues and greens, and other colors, and the skin that was left bare was kissed with gold and bronze hues. He was the most beautiful thing Methos had ever seen -- the thought came irrelevantly, and he immeditately pushed it away. "Who are you?"

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and I dinna want your head."

Quite inexplicably, Methos found he believed him, and after another few moments sheathed his sword -- belatedly noting the other man had never drawn his at all. "I am Methos," he said, then added in wry tones, "of the Horsemen."

"I am pleased to meet you, Methos. Have you been here long?"

"Long enough," Methos said with feeling, and then heard himself adding, "Thank you for your help, Duncan MacLeod." When was the last time he had thanked anyone, for anything? When was the last time there had been cause to?

"Where are your people?" Duncan MacLeod asked, those rich dark eyes sweeping over him with a look of concern.

Somehow Methos couldn't quite think of Kronos, Silas -- let alone Caspian -- as 'his people.' "My brothers should be at our camp."

"I will take you to them."

There were several reasons why that was a really bad idea, and yet short of killing his unexpected benefactor and taking his horse, there seemed few other options just at the moment. His own mount was long since gone, and he was not at all keen to trudge through this harsh landscape on foot. "My brothers may not welcome you."

"Leave me to worry about that," this MacLeod said, leading the way to his horse and mounting, reaching a hand down to Methos to draw him up beside him.

For just a second Methos hesitated, then placed his hand in the other's, an addled part of his mind registering the contrast between his fair skin and MacLeod's darker hues, the palm broader, the fingers not so long -- the strength tremendous. Then he shifted his grip to the well-muscled forearm and climbed atop the horse, his hands coming to rest at MacLeod's waist for balance.

"Which way?"

"What?" Methos blinked, looking about him for his bearings -- feeling all too badly in need of them, with the warmth of the other's body seeping into him, with the man's scent enveloping him as his face seemed unable to avoid those long, silken tresses. "Oh -- that way," he pointed, the traitorous thought creeping in that he didn't really care if it was the right right direction or not.

===

He felt something akin to disappointment as they drew within sight of the camp, closely followed by a jolt of apprehension at the three forms riding out to meet them. He sat up straighter, pulling away from MacLeod. "Let me handle this," he said, as the air fairly sang with the presence of so many powerful Immortals.

"Are ye not among friends, Methos?"

"That always remains to be seen," Methos murmured, and met Kronos' pale eyes as the Horseman drew up beside them, Silas and Caspian holding off a little ways.

Those cool blue eyes raked first Methos, then Duncan MacLeod, and narrowed with wary suspicion. "Where have you been, Methos?"

It was on the tip of Methos' tongue to say, 'Where you left me for dead, Brother,' but for once he bit his tongue and restrained himself to a simple explanation, concluding, "I would be there now, if not for Duncan MacLeod."

"Then I suppose you are owed my gratitude for my brother's safe return." Kronos spoke the words pleasantly enough, but Methos wasn't fooled for a moment. "I was becoming concerned."

Methos just bet he had been. "Duncan will be staying with us."

Kronos' eyes locked with his. "Will he?"

"Yes." Methos' tone was implacable. "It grow late, after all."

"And we are noted for our hospitality," Kronos returned, his smile mocking.

Methos ignored it, to all outward appearance, and said to Duncan, "You will stay, for the night?"

"Aye, for the night," Duncan said, conducting his own appraisal of Kronos and the situation.

But would he get safely away come the morning? Methos wondered, not missing the way Duncan and Kronos were sizing each other up, not liking the look that passed between them, sizzling with animosity and challenge. The glint of resentful jealousy in Kronos' pale eyes set off several alarms, reminding him all too sharply of their conflict over Cassandra. Somehow, though, he didn't see this situation coming out quite the same way. And for the first time the thought crossed his mind that this Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod might just be a match for Kronos -- and maybe more than a match.

What was the matter with him? He and Kronos had ridden together for centuries, they were brothers in everything but blood -- more than brothers. Yet now his mind was full of thoughts of desertion, of seeing Kronos fall to Duncan MacLeod's blade. Because of Cassandra? Or because Kronos had not come back for him?

Because, for the first time in longer than he could remember, someone had treated him with kindness?

It was all too bewildering, and feeling the need for solitude, he escaped into the sanctuary of his tent.

~*~

Duncan sorted through the box he'd found, taking out an assortment of books and CDs, all ones Methos had borrowed from him back in Seacouver. There was also a small envelope containing an assortment of keys, and a note in Methos' neat hand:

MacLeod - These turned up in the stuff I had Joe send over from the States.
Sorry I kept them so long. The other thing's just something I was going to give
you for your birthday, before -- Well, before. It's nothing important; throw it
away, if you want. That's all really. M

Duncan looked over at the pale, still figure, feeling a sudden hollowness in his stomach. That was it, then, just good-bye? Methos didn't even want to try and work things out between them? Or maybe he'd been given suffiecient cause to believe that wouldn't be possible. Duncan knew he had not exactly gone out of his way to make Methos feel welcome, and his conscience tweaked him especially sharply as he recalled their confrontation over Steven Keane's body. Of course it never would have come to swords between them, not over that. He'd just been pissed at Methos' killing him, at his and Amanda's interference in what had been none of their business.

It had gone even deeper than that, Duncan knew. The encounter with Keane had profoundly rocked him, raked up so many memories he had tried to put behind him. And it had struck far too close to home. He'd felt as if was looking in a mirror and seeing all his own judgemental righteousness reflected back at him, from Steven Keane's unrelenting eyes. No doubt Methos had appreciated the irony of that, and yet he had never said a word about it, never made more of it than trying to use it as a means of reopening the lines of communication between himself and Mac.

Methos hadn't even gone out of his way to draw comparisons between their actions -- Death on a Horse vs.Duncan MacLeod, Highland Avenger -- when it must have been sorely tempting. No, he had only reminded Duncan that they all made mistakes, that no one was perfect. And underlying it all had been the quiet assertion that neither of them had any business lobbing rocks at each other. 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.' Duncan had always liked that bit, but it had taken him this long to really understand it, much less try to put it into practice. It was something Darius had tried so hard to teach him.

And that had really worked its way under his skin like a burr, as had no doubt been the idea, when Methos had dragged Darius' name into the mix.

The worst part had been having to admit, with grudging reluctance, that it was not an unfair comparison. Oh, but Darius had led an army across Europe, not a band of self-serving marauders. Yes, of course, that made all the difference. The most exasperating thing was that had been precisely the distinction he had been making, until finally recognizing its foolishness. Darius would have never marked it. Innocents had fallen in the path of Darius' army, mortal lives had been destroyed. Grayson had been Darius' closest friend, his trusted right hand -- for how many centuries? What did that say of the man Darius had once been? More than that, what kind of Immortal would strike down another of their kind, unarmed and harmless, as Darius had done at the gates of Paris?

The hardest question of all: In what way, precisely, had Darius -- at that point in his life -- been any different from Methos, from Kronos? It seemed like the worst kind of betrayal to draw any kind of comparison between his old friend and Kronos, and yet Duncan knew Darius would have been the first to do precisely that. To ask the Highlander why he was so at ease with Darius' past, yet so quick to cast out Methos?

The answer was so simple, of course, the truest ones always were: Darius' past had never rised up to smack Duncan MacLeod in the face.

Not that Duncan hadn't tried to reason his way out of that, telling himself it was different because Darius' hadn't hidden his past; Grayson had been a known quantity, not a nasty surprise.

There was more, though. Duncan had never questioned the magical transformation of Darius because the other Immortal had fit the part so well. He had been wise and enlightened, all the things Duncan associated with goodness. Methos, on the other hand -- from the moment they had met, Methos had completely failed to live up to preconceptions of what the legendary, oldest Immortal ought to be. It wasn't something Duncan had ever consciously thought of, until he'd met that other Methos, that strange, anonymous man who had masqueraded as the oldest and wisest, and who had fit the bill so much better, on the surface, than the real thing. Methos was supposed to be better than the rest of them. By virtue of what, precisely, Duncan couldn't say; maybe only the number of years lived, the experience and knowledge he shoudl have acquired in so long a time. He wasn't supposed to be 'just a guy,' a jaded cynic with a been there/done that nonchalance toward every damn thing in the world. He, for God's sake, was not supposed to have ever ridden with the likes of Kronos, been Death on a pale horse -- murdered, raped, and enslaved a woman like Cassandra.

His brooding, dark gaze rested on Methos again, as the older Immortal stirred restlessly in his sleep. In his heart, Duncan knew this man was not that Horseman of so long ago. He even, foolishly perhaps, thought that Methos of three thousand years past may not have, entirely, been the monster he'd been made to believe. Why should Methos have told the simple, unadulterated truth about that, any more than he did anything? That was in his heart, though; his head still hadn't quite reconciled the two.

And maybe that was the crux of the dilemma: not the truth he had discovered, but way he'd found out, having it so brutally hurled in his way like that, when it was so hard to sort through it all and make sense of it. No, there would have been no good way to learn about the Horsemen, but Duncan stubbornly insisted to himself that if Methos had simply told him, before everything blew up in their faces, that it would have been different. He didn't doubt he would have still been angry, disturbed, but just not to so extreme a degree. He for certain would not have been hit with such a sense of betrayal, and left wondering if anything Methos had ever told him was the truth.

At least he now knew why Methos' stories of the past had always been strangely impersonal. That had long puzzled, and frustrated him -- hence his professed boredom that day, as they were leaving the television studio. He didn't care how tall Nero was, or what Ceasar's favorite food was; he didn't care if Methos had supervised the construction of the Pyramids -- unless the story revealed something of this elusive man he had welcomed into his life. And that had always been the main ingredient missing. Now he knew why Methos had been so chary of revealing too much about himself, stripping away too many layers.

Methos' words to him at Elysium Church had haunted Mac ever since, that calm assurance that Duncan MacLeod could never understand the man Methos had been, all the things he had done and experienced in his life. Nor had the Highlander yet determined which smarted more: that confident presumption on Methos' part, or that it had been all-too on target. At least to a qualified degree, because the truth of it was that the Horsemen were not all that hard to grasp. For all Kronos' grandiose proclamations, there was nothing all that unique about the Horsemen. History was littered with their kind; hell, sometimes history made them heroes, depending on the times and circumstances. No, Duncan could understand the Horsemen. What eluded him was the reason for Methos' participation. He couldn't quite shake a lingering suspicion that, while Methos may have been exaggerating, he may not have been lying when he'd said he liked it.

Even then, Duncan couldn't quite shy away from another question: What if he hadn't been able to reintegrate himself, after the Dark Quickening? What if that evil inside him had swamped him completely? He could remember being at Darius' church, overwhelmed by what he'd become, what he'd done, and proclaiming that he could not live with it. But what if there had been no choice? No Methos to help him find his way back? Where would he be now, what would he be doing? It chilled him to have to consider that that Duncan MacLeod might have been drawn to someone like Kronos, that he might have cheerfully partaken of all the mayhem.

And what difference that he wasn't quite in his right mind? he wondered.

"Come on, Methos," he spoke softly to the figure lying so still and quiet, "wake up."

~*~

Methos turned a frowning look on Kronos as the other Horseman crowded him, and he tried to shift away, but Kronos' hand clamped on his arm to hold him there. After a moment, Methos stilled and didn't shrug off the arm Kronos heaved about his shoulders -- but he knew his brother would find no yielding in the body he was trying to embrace. Let him have that much, Methos thought; Duncan MacLeod, sitting across him at the campfire, would have his full attention.

There was something so compelling about this stranger, this Highlander, as he called himself. Something not only new under the sun, but refreshingly so, calling to elements in Methos that had for so long been hidden away, until he had nearly forgotten they ever existed. He felt as if he had been asleep for an age, but was now coming awake.

And he knew how dangerous that could be. If Kronos' jealousy could not tolerate Cassandra distracting him, what would be unleashed if Kronos guessed this dark-eyed stranger was subverting him so much more thoroughly -- with nothing but a kind word?

Would the Highlander take up the challenge, if it came to that? Methos wondered, even as another part of him rebelled at the idea of being anyone's spoils of war. And suddenly frustrated by the entire business, he pulled free of Kronos and climbed to his feet, stalking away to his tent. He wasn't surprised to find another presence soon coming after him, and looked up from removing his boots, expecting to find an angry and demanding Kronos there.

Instead he blinked in surprise at the sight of Duncan MacLeod looming in the entrance, and he felt a dangerous thrill of excitement shoot up his spine. "What is it?"

"Where am I to sleep?"

It was such a simple question, but fraught with so many conflicting feelings. Part of Methos wanted to tell the Highlander to go, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Horseman's camp. Another part, though, didn't think he could bear to be parted from his remarkable person, so newly introduced to him.

"You may...sleep here, if you would like to," Methos offered, feeling a ludicrous shyness.

"I would, aye," Duncan agreed, settling onto a pile of furs and tugging at his own boots.

Methos tried not to look, tried to only concentrate on his own undressing, but his gaze kept straying to the Highlander, fascinated by the other's disrobing. In part it was simply that he was intrigued as to how the curious garment -- a kilt, he was told -- came to be fastened. There was more than simple curisosity at play, however, as more and more bronzed flesh was bared in the flickering tallow light. At that moment, Methos would have been hardpressed to name a woman to rival this Highlander's beauty -- much less a man with equal charms.

Nor did his admiring gaze go unnoticed. Duncan gazed back at him as boldly, saying, "What are ye starin' at?" in a soft voice that, far from putting Methos off, seemed to be inviting more.

With an effort, Methos looked away from the beguiling form. "Nothing," he answered as softly, knowing it would be the height of folly to encourage this to go any further. "Go to sleep -- you'll want to make an early start in the morning," he said, trying to put some cold distance into his voice.

He wasn't sure if he was relieved, or disappointed, as the Highlander complied, settling onto his pallet. In his own bed, Methos found sleep very elusive for a long time as he lay there in the darkness, filled with a heightened awareness of the man sleeping just an arm's length away. It would be so easy to move over that little distance, to entwine his body with the Highlander's... With a soft groan of frustration, Methos rolled over, away from Duncan MacLeod and temptation.

~*~

Curiosity having gotten the better of him, Duncan unwrapped Methos' gift to him, and felt a little stunned at what he discovered. How could Methos have thought he would throw this away? he wondered as he examined the book. It was a slim, beautifully bound volume, filled with text and elaborate borders that reminded him of the work he'd seen at Brother Paul's monastery. Even more than the exquisite work, he was touched by the content: The Legend of the Highlander. It was the story Methos had invented to entertain Joe's youngest relatives, when the Dawson Clan had descended on Seacouver last summer for a family reunion. Duncan had anticipated a declaration from Methos that he 'didn't do children,' followed by a prompt and thorough vanishing act for the duration. Instead, arriving at the bar one afternoon to find it swarming with Dawson munchkins, Methos had comfortably donned a new persona that had fit him amazingly well -- and it had occurred to Duncan, then, that some of those sixty-eight wives might well have had children who had called the world's oldest man Daddy. It had been a startling insight, and something he'd always meant to pursue, but the time had never been right.

He hadn't forgotten that afternoon, though, Methos taking charge of the tribe and holding their attention with one story after another, like a latter-day Scherazade. It had been a bit of shock, though, as he'd realized Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had been cast in the role of a mythic warrior on a magical quest, complete with colorful sidekicks and fair damsels (although he had his doubts about Amanda ever having been a fair damsel), and replete with dastardly villains. He'd spotted Kalas and Kristen easily enough, but at the time no bells had been rung by the appearance of an evil quartet of marauders -- The Four Riders of Doom --and he had only supposed them to be especially vivid figments of Methos' imagination. Now he recognized them all too well, and had to wonder if that had been Methos' way of offering a broad hint; that Methos may have wanted him to ask about the story, and where those marauders came from.

Maybe, he sighed. It was always so hard to know with Methos.

Turning the pages, he found the part where the Highlander met Nekrotarati, the world's oldest -- and wisest, of course -- man, who somehow wound up with most of the best lines, and all of the beer thereafter.

And Methos thought he would want to pitch this in the trash? Duncan shook his head, looking at his friend, pained that they had, in Methos' mind, come to such a place in their relationship. A part of him, hurt and a little angry, wanted to demand how Methos could think he would do anything but treasure a gift like this. Another part of him knew he hadn't given his friend much cause, lately, to think otherwise.

He put the book safely away for now, and leaned forward, beginning to worry at Methos' being out for so long. Gently, he patted Methos' cheek and thought the other Immortal was hovering on the edge of coming back. Those long, thick lashes fluttered as those ancient, ageless, eyes were about to open and fix him with a sardonically amused look. The moment passed, though, and one elegant hand came up to push Duncan's away, the long fingers curling around Duncan's hand after another moment, holding on lightly.

The Highlander didn't attempt to pull free. Instead he found himself drawing a good deal of comfort from that touch. He did, just, resist giving into the impulse to touch Methos' face again, to let his fingers stroke through the soft, dark hair. He did raise Methos' hand to his lips for a moment, somehow not at all taking himself by surprise.

Silently, he urged Methos to come back to him -- now.

~*~

The sudden rain still hadn't eased up as the afternoon began to slide into evening, and Methos found he didn't mind in the least. He was quite content to stay in his tent, going over some scrolls he'd come by, and enjoying the company of Duncan MacLeod. He wasn't even going to pretend which occupation held the most appeal for him. The Highlander's tales of his homeland appealed to his imagination, and sparked something that hovered on the edge of memory. Sometimes he could remember a land like that, green and cool, lush, where everything he knew now was stark and barren. The memory always danced just out of reach at the last moment, though.

There was a simple, forgotten pleasure in such conversation, to speak with someone about matters that weren't concerned with planning the next raid, or dividing the spoils. He enjoyed Silas' company, but in no age would the man be considered a great wit; and the less he had to do with Caspian, the better. Once, Kronos had been good company, possessing a lively mind that had still had room for wonder.

It had been a long time now, he realized, since a gulf had begun to grow between himself and Kronos, the business with Cassandra had only thrown everything into sharper relief. And now this Duncan MacLeod, exotic, and refreshing as the rain, came to exacerbate things further.

Sensing the intrusion of another Immortal, Methos and MacLeod turned in unison to see Kronos draw back the tent flap and come inside. "Methos, we need to speak."

"I'm busy."

"With what?" Kronos demanded, his pale eyes flicking from Methos to MacLeod and back.

Voice cool, remote, Methos said, "That's no concern of yours."

That, of course, was a mistake. In a flash, Kronos' hand shot out, striking Methos hard across the face. "I have had enough of your insolence, Brother!" His hand drew back to strike again, and was seized in MacLeod's larger one, the grip painful to judge by Kronos' expression.

The Highlander used his own advantage in size to great effect, and Kronos found himself dumped on his ass. Another mistake. Furious now, Kronos sprang to his feet, his sword drawn and met by MacLeod's. The fast and furious battle quickly spilled outside and drew the attention of Silas and Caspian, as the combatants slashed and struck at each other, both drawing blood as they slogged away in the mud and the rain. As Methos had thought, they were very evenly matched, and the fight played out to a draw, MacLeod and Kronos on their knees in the mud, breathing hard, glaring murder at each other. Before they could resume, Methos stepped forward, reaching for the Highlander and drawing him to his feet -- Methos' gaze never leaving Kronos' face, both of them knowing what he was stating by his actions.

Even Silas and Caspian grasped it; the latter eyeing him a feral grin that said he looked forward to what lay ahead, while Silas' gaze held a mournful reproach.

Methos turned his back on all of them, pushing Duncan ahead of him into the tent.

===

The Highlander's wounds bathed away, Methos carried the basin of dirty water outside and tossed it away. The rain had stopped and the sky cleared to fill with stars. He looked across the encampment and found Kronos watching him, Silas and Caspian lurking nearby, waiting for the command. Caspian threw an eager look at Kronos, who shook his head after a long moment -- his eyes locked with Methos' -- and withdrew back into his tent.

Releasing a pent up breath, Methos retreated as well, fetching up against the Highlander's solid form. "Ye'll be safe with me," Duncan promised. "I will not let them harm you."

Methos gave him a dubious look. "You'll take on all three of them?"

"If I have to, aye," MacLeod promised softly, his breath warm against Methos' face. "It does not have to come to that," he whispered, his hands coming up to curve around Methos' shoulders. "Come away with me," he urged.

"They'd come after us," Methos countered, beginning to lose himself in those rich, dark eyes.

"They won't." Duncan moved in, his warm lips brushing Methos' cheek with a feather-light touch.

"I can't." Methos leaned into that touch, wanting more. "I owe Kronos my life."

"Do ye owe him your soul?" Duncan murmured against his lips, his tongue darting against them, asking entry -- and Methos gave it, welcoming the warm, eager intrusion into his mouth, meeting it, tangling his fingers in the Highlander's heavy, dark hair as he was lowered to a pallet heaped with furs. Clothing was removed, discarded, and their bodies came together. Methos caressed warm, soft skin stretched taut over hard muscle; he was petted and fondled in return, every inch of him kissed and cherished as their bodies moved together in an ageless dance...

~*~

"Methos?" Duncan patted his fingers against Methos' cheek more firmly as the older Immortal began to twist and writhe on the couch, words and whimpers spilling from his lips, nothing clear except for Duncan's name repeated over and over with increasing urgency. "Methos, I'm here -- I'm right here. Come on, wake up." And, finally, the hazel eyes fluttered open and returned a muzzy look, one hand reaching to Duncan's cheek, those long, slim fingers gently brushing the bronzed skin in a tender caress. In another moment, however, Methos' gaze sharpened, as he took in and fully registered his surroundings, a pink flush warming his angular features.

"Sorry," he murmured, letting his hand drop away and lowering his gaze. "I thought..." He couldn't seem to voice it, though, shaking his head as he made to sit up, pushing the comforter away -- only to fall back against the cushions, one hand going to his head. "Ohhh..."

"Hey!" Duncan reached out to steady him, get him settled back comfortable. "Take it easy," he said, moving to sit beside him and ease an arm around his shoulders. "You had a pretty good knock on the head, give yourself some time."

After a few moments, Methos took a steadier breath and let himself relax into Duncan's hold for a bit. Then he drew away a little to look at Duncan. "I was unconscious?"

"Out cold for about an hour. You must have slipped on deck and hit your head."

"I don't remember that." Methos sighed and shrugged. "I was just stopping by to drop off some things of yours I'd borrowed."

"Yeah, I found the box. I'd forgotten you had them."

A wry smile briefly graced Methos' features. "If I dig around long enough I'll probably find some scrolls overdue at the Library of Alexandria."

Mac smiled. "Spend a lot of time there?"

"A century or two, on and off. Marcus and I tried to save what we could when the fire started, but we didn't get away with much."

"You know Marcus?" Duncan said, wanting to keep the conversation going.

"Yes." The wryness was still there, but colored with some bitterness now. "Not everyone from my past is the scum of the earth." Abruptly, he pulled away from Mac, making it to his feet again and managing to take a couple of unsteady steps, before his knees buckled.

Mac was there in an instant, catching him before he fell, pressing him close to his breast, burying his face in the short, soft hair and breathing in the scent of him. "Methos, just take it easy, will you? You're in no condition to be going anywhere right now."

"I'm fine," Methos said, his voice muffled from his face being pressed into Mac's shoulder. "No Immortal ever died of a concussion."

"Yeah, well let's keep it that way," Duncan said, guiding him back to the sofa. The knock on the head wasn't that serious, except that it had hardly left Methos in optimum condition, should he encounter another Immortal on his way home. Not to mention, of course, that Duncan plain did not want him going anywhere right now, not yet. "Will you eat something?"

Methos looked back at him, eyes narrowing as if he was trying to suss out what this was all about. "I suppose," he said, a note of caution in his voice that wouldn't have been there a few months before.

As he fixed a light supper for them, Duncan wondered how to bring up the subject that had bothered him since reading Methos' good-bye note, and supposed the best way was straight out. There had been enough of dodging issues, on both sides, and one of them had to set a precedent. "Why did you have Joe ship your things over from the States?"

"Gee, let me think -- maybe because it's easier to get to them that way?" was the flip reply, which strangely reassured Duncan. If Methos could be sarcastic and flippant, he had to be feeling better.

He wasn't going to be diverted from the subject, however. "Does that mean you're not going back to Seacouver?"

Methos didn't reply at once, and Duncan looked up from the warm bread he was slicing to see the older Immortal resting his head against the back of the couch, something so lost and careworn in the pose that Duncan felt swamped by a wash of bittersweet tenderness. The regret and loneliness captured in that seemingly casual sprawl so closely mirrored his own feelings right now.

"Methos," he prompted gently, after a moment, "were you planning on going back to Seacouver?"

"No," came the reply, couched in a soft timbre that carried fifty centuries' worth of disappointment and resignation. "I really don't make a habit of going where I'm not wanted, MacLeod."

"You're still in Paris." Duncan hoped that didn't sound as accusatory as he feared; it wasn't how he meant it.

Methos sighed. "Not for much longer," he said. "I have a few things to settle here, then..." He shrugged, a sad, rueful smile touching his mouth. "I won't darken your doorstep again, Highlander."

Damn, Methos had meant it to be good-bye, Duncan realized. Good-bye forever. He brought the hot soup and bread over to the table, wondering what on earth he could say or do at this point that would make him change his mind and stay. Maybe nothing but the simple truth, he considered as Methos sat at the table after a moment's hesitation.

He waited until Methos had gotten some of the soup and bread in him, though -- and gave himself a little more time, too, he admitted, because the next words out of his mouth had the potential of changing everything between them, forever.

===

More intent on shredding his bread than eating it, Methos watched the Highlander, wondering what was going through his head now. MacLeod couldn't actually want him there, not after everything. But then why hadn't Mac just told him to shove off? It had actually been a relief, earlier, when he'd found the barge empty, as he had really not been looking forward to confronting Mac again, right then. Confront him and have to explain that he was slinking off into the night -- and have to see how welcome that news was, to know Mac couldn't wait for Methos to vanish back into obscurity and never cross his path again.

If he'd just managed to get away without knocking himself senseless... He sighed, and sipped at his tea. That was pretty much the story of his life, wasn't it? If only he'd done this, if only he'd done the other; if only he had met Duncan MacLeod and not Kronos so long ago, he thought, remembering the dream and feeling a wistful longing that it could have been true.

What little appetite he had vanished with those memories, and Methos pushed to his feet, looking around for his coat and shoes. Finding the latter, he reached to gather them up only to have MacLeod snatch them from his grasp.

"Mac," he grabbed for the shoes, "what're you doing? Give me my shoes."

"No." The Highlander clutched the well-worn footwear to his chest in a manner that would have been comical, in another place and time.

"Fine." Methos snagged his coat and put it on. "Going barefoot is not a novelty for me, MacLeod," he informed the other Immortal, wondering what had got into him. "I thought it was me who got clonked on the head," he said, starting for the door -- only to find his way blocked by two hundred pounds of determined Scot. "Mac--"

"Don't go."

"And why the hell not?" Methos demanded, exasperated.

"Because I don't want you to."

Nonplused now, the older man regarded the younger, completely thrown for a loop. "Since when?"

"Since always." Mac let the shoes drop as he came closer. "I want you to stay."

"In Paris?"

"Paris, Seacouver -- wherever we are."

Methos' eyes grew large as he tried to fend off the hope that began to faintly flutter in him. "We meaning...?"

Mac moved closer still. "Meaning -- you, me. Us. Together."

Methos wished someone would pinch him because he had to be dreaming still, Mac couldn't possibly be saying what it sounded like. "Mac -- I don't know what you're saying."

Duncan't smile was warm, wistful. "How many languages do you want me to try it in? Methos, I don't want you to leave. Not Paris, not me. Right now I don't even want you setting one foot off the barge." His smile was a little shy now, a light in his dark eyes that said he couldn't quite believe he was actually saying this -- but he meant every word.

It was what Methos had so dearly wanted to hear, part of it anyway, and yet he was so afraid to believe it, to reach out and accept what was being offered. He had nowhere to seek refuge except in rattiness. "Really?" he said, and donned the persona that always put the Highlander off, the one that mocked everything the Highlander held dear. The one he hadn't used since that day in Seacouver, when he'd flung every horror from his past in Duncan's face, and broken both their hearts. "So I get to bask in your magnamity -- until the next unsavory bit of my past turns up? Then what? I get exiled from the Clan MacLeod again until you decide I've done sufficient penance?" The anger was real now, fueled by all the hurt, by the fear that what Duncan offered would never be enough, never run as deep as he wanted. "Well fuck you! I don't need that!"

Instead of meeting the anger with his own, Mac only watched him with eyes filled with warmth and caring, hurting for both of them. "Then tell me what you do need."

"I--" Methos faltered, and looked back at him helplessly. "I don't know.," he said in a small, lost voice. "I don't know." Furious with the idiot tears that were stinging his eyes, he turned and started to move away, but Duncan stopped him and turned him back, one hand cupping his face so Methos had to look at him. What Methos saw were dark eyes as full and bright as his own, but with a soft smile tugging at the full lips as well. "Mac..." Please don't do this -- not if you don't mean it.

"Shh, shh," Duncan whispered, the deep timbre rumbling through him and soothing him as Methos let himself be drawn near. "Just come here," Duncan murmured, and Methos let himself be taken in, let himself be enfolded in Duncan's arms and warmth. In another moment he had wound his own arms across Mac's broad back, hanging on for dear life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against Duncan's neck. "I'm so damn sorry for everything."

Gentle fingers reached into his hair and moved him so their forehead were pressed together. So close they shared each other's breath, so close they could drown in each other's eyes. "Me too," Duncan told him. "I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me. I'm sorry for judging you for what you were -- and forgetting who you are, here, now, today. I'm the one who needs forgiveness, Methos. Can you give it?"

"There's nothing to forgive, Mac. You had every right to be angry. I never meant to betray you, to...use you like that. Things just...got away from me so fast."

"I know, I know that now," Mac said, pulling him a little closer.

They stood like that another moment, Methos becoming far too aware of Duncan's presence, verging on a sensory overload that was likely to prove embarassing if he didn't put a stop to it. "Yes, well," he pushed himself away from Mac, "that's probably enough histrionics for one evening."

Duncan let him go, saying, "You think so?" in a matching tone. Something lingered in his smile, though, that made Methos a little apprehensive. The kind of look that made Methos feel like he was a lavish banquet, and Mac hadn't eaten in weeks.

Distance was absolutely required before his fantasy life went completely overboard.

"So," Methos said, "may I have my shoes now?"

"What for?"

"Because...it's late." And he had to get going. Didn't he?

"But maybe not too late," was Duncan's obscure reply, and that fluttering hope suddenly soared as Methos wondered what he was about to let himself in for.

"Not too late for what?" he asked, as nonchalant as possible with his whole world spinning on its axis.

"For us to talk," Mac said, steering him back to the couch.

"About?" Methos prompted, scrunching into his corner as Mac relaxed at the other end.

"Us."

There was that word again. Never had Methos been so alarmed at a simple pronoun. "What do you want from me, Mac?"

"Not much -- just the truth."

Not much was right, Methos thought, making a sour face. "Yeah, well I tried that once -- you didn't seem to like it much."

Duncan sighed, gazing intently at the tips of his boots. "Not the way I learned it, no." He turned to face Methos, one leg tucked under the other. "Did you, ever, want to tell me? Was that a hint?"

Looking where he indicated, Methos saw the book he'd made for Mac, for his birthday, and felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. He didn't know what had possessed him to put that together in the first place, let alone actually give it to him. "What do you mean?"

Duncan reached for the book and leafed through its smooth pages, stopping just about three quarters of the way through. "The Four Riders of Doom," he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a sort of rueful smirk. "Was I supposed to ask about their prototypes?"

Methos shrugged, and truthfully answered, "I don't know. Maybe." It didn't have to mean anything, just like the dream. He sighed and wondered what Sean Burns would have made of it all. "It was just a story, MacLeod."

"Uh-huh," Mac said, his tone and smile making it clear he didn't believe a word of it. "Thank you, by the way. It's beautiful. It must have taken you a long time to do."

"Umm." Methos worried at a loose button on his shirt. "It's not like my social calendar's bursting at the seams." He'd been living in some idiotic dream world, hadn't he, thinking he could indefinitely enjoy the life he'd found in Seacouver. Hang out with MacLeod and Joe, and just generally kill a couple of decades. And never worry that his past would catch up to him. Everything had been going perfectly too -- right up to the moment Kronos stepped out of the shadows and brought everything crashing down.

Apparently the only thing he had absolutely nailed, in the course of five thousand years, was how to be a self-deluding moron.

"Look," he said, "do you want me to apologize for what I did, who I was? Donate all my money to Cassandra's favorite charity? Write, I will not rape, loot, or pillage ten thousand times? What?"

"None of that. I told you, Methos: who you were doesn't matter."

"Mac -- who I am is because of who I was."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Methos searched his eyes, looking for the truth there. "Can you accept it?"

"Yes. I can -- I do." The dark eyes met his straight on. "I just need you to tell me why."

Methos' eyesbrows drew together and he shook his head, not sure where this was headed. "Why what?"

"Why you were with Kronos."

Methos' frowned deepened. "Mac -- I can't, not in any way you'd understand."

"Try," Duncan urged him.

Methos stared back at him, helpless again, not having the words to explain, not really ever having understood it all himself. As with everything, it had been such a gradual progression: years turned to centuries, then millennia, and there was nothing and no one left in the world he knew. Lovers, wives and children gone to dust, their faces grown vague and their names forgotten. And what did it matter? What had anything ever mattered? It all disappeared, everyone died, and left him right back where he'd started. Such a small progression, then, from raging against the ephemeral world of mortals, to wanting to destroy it. What difference did it make? Kronos had always reasoned with him, in the early days. They all died anyway.

"I was already something like two thousand years old when Kronos found me," he began, finding the words at last, some of them at least, and speaking them with no way of gauging if they conveyed any of what was needed. He hoped so. This young one had known pain and loss and disappointment, far more than his share in his young life; the loss of love gone sour, or lost to time and Fate's capricious, cruel whims. Imagine that, he told the Highlander, not over a mere span of centuries, but thousands of years' worth. And then maybe have some idea of what it was like to be so numbed inside that, when a Kronos came along, still exhuberant with life, you got swept along with his joyous mayhem and lost yourself even further for another thousand years, or more. Better some twisted illusion of life, than seeing only an infinity of nothing ahead.

He stopped speaking and dared a look at Duncan, and was taken aback by the expression in the other's face. He had expected judgement, again, distaste and incomprehension. How could he expect Duncan to understand, when he barely grasped it himself? What he found, though, was compassion and regret -- and a wistful sadness he almost took for pity. "For God's sake don't feel sorry for me," he said crossly. "If you'd known me then, pity is the last thing you'd have felt."

"It's the last thing I feel now," Duncan returned, a chiding note in his voice, but no anger. "I wish I had known you then."

Recalling his dream, Methos said wryly, "What -- you would have taken me away from it all?"

"Aye," Duncan said, his voice gone as soft as his gaze, "I would have. Whatever you may have owed Kronos, you did not owe him your soul."

Methos blinked and gave Mac a sharp look. "Why'd you say that? Did I say something while I was unconscious?" he demanded, suspicious of being teased, or something, and not liking it.

"You did," Duncan said, "but I don't know what most of it was." He gave Methos a coy look that bordered on smugness. "You said my name a lot, especially towards the end. So what were you dreaming about?" he asked boldly.

Dammittohell, Methos thought as he felt a blush burn his cheeks again and surged to his feet, suddenly desperate to be gone.

===

Seeing Methos intent on running away -- again -- Duncan quickly moved to block him, something like tender amusement bubbling up inside him at the flustered, desperate look Methos cast about him as he sought some way out of this. Not a chance, he thought, and said, “For the last time, Methos: you are not going anywhere.”

“You’re going to stop me?”

“Uh-huh. We were going to talk about us, remember?”

The green-gold eyes squinted back at him, the small -- delectable -- mouth pursing. “Yes, and then you wanted the Reader’s Digest version of Methos: The Early Years,” the older Immortal rejoined.

“Yeah, well,” Duncan snagged him by the coat lapels and began reeling him in, “something tells me they’re subjects destined to go hand in hand.” Kind of like them, if he had anything to say about it. “Now, what were you dreaming?”

Methos glared back at him. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. And it’s none of your damn business anyway.”

“It is when you’re dreaming about me.” Duncan tugged him closer. “’Duncan, ohhh, Duncan,’” he mimicked in a low, breathy voice -- and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as another blush suffused Methos’ face, the hazel eyes wide with furious dismay.

“I did not!”

“And how would you know if you don’t remember?” Duncan drew him a millimeter nearer. “Tell me that.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Methos wasn’t making even a token effort to get away, however.

Duncan’s voice grew huskier -- and not with play now. “Were you dreaming of us together, like this?” he said and loosened his hold enough to reach a hand to Methos’ head, stroking his fingers through the dark, soft hair.

“It was just a dream,” Methos quietly insisted, his breath warm against Mac’s throat. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“It might mean everything, Methos.” Duncan pressed his lips to Methos’ temple. “It’s a dream I’ve had too, you know,” he murmured as Methos’ lashes fluttered down to hide his eyes. And the was the simplest truth of all: the hurt had been so bad because the feeling between them ran so deep. “Tell me.” Duncan brought him that little bit closer that let their bodies touch, his arms holding Methos close again, feeling the heat of his body even through the layers of clothes. “Come on,” he breathed against Methos’ ear.

Methos’ breath caught in a gasp for a moment, and then he began telling him, trying to downplay any significance. “It never would have happened like that, Mac,” he finished, pulling back a little, daring to meet his eyes again -- hope and uncertainty warring in his own gaze. “You would have hated me then.”

“Maybe,” Duncan said, knowing that might be true. “And maybe I’d have been a different person then.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We know each other now, and I don’t think hate is any of what’s between us.”

“But--”

Duncan stopped his lips with two fingers pressed against them. “No. We’re none of us perfect, remember?” He felt the lips move in a smile. “I think we’re a whole lot better together than apart, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Duncan held him comfortable, delighted to be doing that, to finally touch this friend as intimately as he desired -- to feel Methos’ arms go around him in turn and see if their bodies could merge just a tiny fraction more. “So, I think you skipped over the best part. What happened after I fought Kronos?”

“Umm,” Methos’ fair skin colored faintly again, “we...you--kissed me,” he confessed, ducking his head.

“Yeah? Like this?” Duncan cupped Methos’ chin and tilted his head just a little, so he could press a soft, tender kiss to Methos’ mouth -- that first, perfect kiss that was so much more than he’d ever dared dream. He almost wanted to open his eyes and see if fireworks were really go off around them.

“I don’t know,” Methos said when his mouth was free. “Maybe if you tried it again?” he added, his eyes bright with hope.

Mac couldn’t possibly disappointment him, and their lips and tongues met and explored each other’s mouths with judicious attention to finding just the right, perfect technique. Somehow the process found them sinking onto the bed at some point, clothing opened and discarded as their hands commenced another journey of discovery.

“Maybe we should think about this?” Methos said, as Mac was unzipping his jeans.

“Nope.” Mac dragged the denim over the other’s slim hips and off, the boxers quickly yanked off and tossed after the jeans. “You go right on thinking if you have to, Methos -- I’m going into man of action mode, though.”

Methos’ head went back as he laughed, any lingering tension and uncertainty released in that one gesture. And Duncan could not resist the temptation of that vulnerable length of throat, running his tongue along it and down to Methos’ chest to taste the salty sweetness of his skin. He felt his lover’s beautiful, elegant hands winding into his hair and lifting him from he suckled a tender nipple.

“You’ve done this before,” Methos said, surprise blending with faint accusation in his voice.

Duncan gave him a smug look. “Did you think I hadn’t?”

“There was nothing in your Chronicles.”

Duncan drew back a little, eyes wide. “You’ve read my Chronicles?”

Methos had the good grace to look moderately sheepish. “I was curious.”

“Ohhh -- you were curious, were you?” Duncan’s dark eyes held a teasing glint that should have warned his bed partner. “You get curious about me and blithely traipse through my Chronicles, is that it? Meanwhile, I get curious about you and get handed some revisionist claptrap -- oh, and a dissertation on how Helen of Troy wasn’t a ten. I think this requires some kind of redress.”

Methos’ eyes were wide -- with delight and anticipation. “What did you have in mind?”

“Hmmm...I think you have to suffer torments the likes of which you’ve never known.”

“Yeah?” Methos looked interested.

“Yeah,” Duncan confirmed, lowering his head to claim Methos’ mouth, his hands buried in the short, silky hair to hold him still as he drank his fill of long, deep kisses that barely began to quench his thirst.

===

A long while later, Methos shifted around, raising up on an elbow to look at the man lying against him, his long, elegant fingers reaching out to brush along the warm skin, half convinced this was just another dream. The hand that came up to capture his felt very real, though, as did the gaze of the dark eyes trained on him.

“We really did it, didn’t we?” he said, marveling that it could be true.

“Yep -- twice,” Duncan confirmed, looking smug and tender all at once. He kissed the back of Methos’ hand. “What are you thinking?”

“That this is, potentially, the stupidest thing either of us will ever do,” Methos admitted.

“Umm hmm. Probably get one or both of killed too,” Duncan conceded, still smiling at him.

Head cocked, Methos said, “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me a lot. But not as much as the idea of never having this, never walking this path with you.” Duncan sat up a little, looking at him intently. “When Tessa died, for a long time all I could think was that if she’d never met me, she’d be alive, somewhere. I was so wrapped up in the what-ifs that I forgot the joy we had found together -- all the things I never would have known, without her.” He touched Methos’ face. “Wherever it ends up, the journey is always worth it. You know that better than anyone.”

“I forget, though, sometimes.” He’d forgotten a lot of things -- until Mac, until Alexa. “’And whatever sky’s above me, a heart for any fate,’” he murmured, half to himself.

“Something like,” Duncan said. “Isn’t that Byron?”

Methos drew back, giving him a thoughtful look. That was probably something they needed to talk about, especially since the poet-turned-rock star was slated to make a concert stop in Paris pretty soon. Feeling inspired, Methos sat up, saying, “Speaking of skies above us -- what would you say to a change of scenery?”

“Somewhere warm?”

“Umm hmm. Far, far away from all our cares and woes.”

“I like the sound of that. When can you be packed and ready to go?”

Methos gave him a *get serious* look. “Mac, I am always packed and ready to go.”

“Sorry, forgot who I was talking to for a moment,” Duncan returned, grinning at him. “’Kay. Pick a spot, and we’ll be gone by morning.”

“Just like that?” Methos said, welcoming this burst of spontanaiety, even while being skeptical of it.

“Just like that,” Duncan confirmed.

“What about Joe, Amanda, Richie?”

“We’ll send ‘em postcards when we get there. Come on,” Duncan was already out of bed, tugging him to his feet, “time’s a-wasting.”

Methos stared at him in delighted, bemused amazement. “What’s got into you?”

It was Mac’s turn to give him a *get serious* look that sparked joyful laughter in the older Immortal that lasted all the while he was mandhandled into the shower -- and the joy didn’t stop until much, much later, as they lazed under the blazing sun of a far off clime.

-the end-

In case anyone else is wondering...

Tue, 29 Jan 2008 22:22:22 GMT

Everything's okay. I've only temporarily deleted my LJ as an experiement, to see if that will clear up the problems I've been having with it. I've tried everything else. Fixing my preferences so that any image or vid posted on my flist is replaced with a placeholder; using filters; briefly upgrading to a free plus acct. but dumping that because the ads were only making it all worse... *sigh*

I don't know what the problem is, but it's definitely related directly to LJ, because as messed up as this computer is, it works fine until I come over, then it all goes wonky and grinds to a literal halt about the instant I get logged in and check my flist.

Maybe this is LJ's sinister way of "encouraging" us to have paid accounts? (I'm kidding -- I think -- because there were plenty of problems even when it was a paid account.)

Anyway, I will reactivate the account in a couple of days and see if that helped any. Probably not, but it seemed worth a shot, and I honestly didn't think anyone would even notice. My apologies to anyone who may have been concerned.

ETA: Hmm, and apparently this account is okay. A little slow, but nothing on the wanting-to-pull-my-hair-out-and-break-something scale of my main LJ.

Doing Time, 1/1; PG-13

Fri, 18 Jan 2008 19:38:18 GMT

Well, it's not like I haven't written anything at all in the past year or so, and possibly there exists evidence to contradict me, but it does feel like a very long time since I was able to post something with any real substance, anything that ran longer than two or three pages and didn't read like just a snippet of fic. To be honest, I wasn't expecting that to change anytime soon, and heaven knows when it might happen again ... but for now ... WHEEEE!!!! (I'd insert my Snoopy Dance of Joy icon here, but do not have access to it.)

Huge, tremendous, ginormous thanks must go out to callmerizzo who not only rescued this from oblivion, but encouraged me to just go ahead and post both endings, and then proceeded to deliver one of the most kickass wonderful beta experiences of my fannish life. There are times when proofreading is enough, but this was one of those moments when it took the eyes, and experience, of another writer to get me through it all, and I cannot express my gratitude enough. {{hugs}} Any reamining mistakes are entirely mine.

Anyway, that's enough about me, here's the story...

Title: Doing Time
Subject: Oz, canon-based
Disclaimer: Tom Fontana created them, saw the magic, two amazing actors brought them to life; I just can't stop wondering what if and playing in the sandbox. The only profit made is the (sometimes hair-pulling) pleasure of writing them, and knowing others enjoy it all too.

Warning: Umm, there's some angst. There's no smut. That's about it.

~Doing Time~

Running to catch his bus, Tobias Beecher made it to the curb just in time to watch it pull away without him -- splashing him with dirty rainwater, just to make it extra special. He let out a frustrated huff, staring after the retreating taillights as the cold rain continued to pelt down.

Could there be a more appropriate finale to the day? he thought, just as thunder rumbled and lightning cracked the sky, and the freezing drops of rain turned into icy pellets of hail, hitting the pavement and piling up in the gutter like snow, putting dents in cars and cracking windshields, and driving him back to huddle in the scant shelter of the buildings to keep from getting battered.

Yep, it was one of those days.

There had been a lot of those lately.

Six months out of prison, and yet he still didn’t feel free. Six months, and the only time he had truly felt alive had been when he had given into a crazy impulse and gone out to look at Oz.

Those last couple of years at Lardner had barely touched him. He hadn’t let them. He had kept to himself, minded his own business, and walked out with nothing but beige-colored memories of the place. It had made no impact on him.

Oz, though -- his memories of Oz would always be in shades of red.

He had stood a long time on the roadside just looking at it, dark and abandoned. Everything had looked rusted and worn, the yard filled with weeds, windows broken out and left that way. Because who was left to escape? No one walked those dark corridors anymore, no one alive -- but he’d had to struggle mightily not to give into the urge to climb the fence, go inside and see. If he had, would he have heard the ghostly echoes of long-gone voices? Would he have caught a glimpse of shadowy figures out of the corner of his eye? Or would it just be an empty shell, nothing left to mark all the men who had passed through its hallways, all the lives that had been so brutally, suddenly cut short there?

Would he have seen Chris, leaning back against the wall, that cocky smirk on his handsome face, mocking him and loving him all at the same time?

He hadn’t dared to risk it, and couldn’t say now if he had been more afraid of finding ghosts, or discovering everything there had come and gone and left not a single trace behind.

Shivering, hugging himself against it, Toby scanned up and down the street, spotting the soft neon glow of a bar and feeling a powerful tug toward it. It was just the offer of shelter, that was all. He could duck in there out of the storm, wait for the next bus to come along, no harm done. It wasn’t like bottles of booze were going to fling themselves at him, demanding, “Drink me! Drink me!”

There weren’t many other options, after all, he decided, starting towards the sign, ducking back for a moment as a volley of hail seemed to be aimed straight at him, the pellets of frozen rain stinging hard enough to bruise. Most of the stores along here were closed for the night, the temperature was dropping to hypothermic levels -- and he stumbled and slipped on the icy sidewalk, reaching out to catch himself against a door that gave under his weight.

Sprawling out on clean, shiny linoleum, the bell above the door jangling loud enough to wake the dead, Toby raised himself up on knees and elbows just in time to see the door swoosh shut again -- and to catch its name, painted onto the glass: Timekeepers.

Hmm. Had this place always been here? He had been walking past here, twice a day for the past three months, and couldn’t recall ever having noticed it. Of course, his mind had mostly been on getting to his job on time, with no inclination to dawdle and drink in the just-scraping-by, its-best-days-were-long-behind-it part of town.

Expecting some irate shop owner to come along any moment and demand to know what the hell he was doing there, Toby got back on his feet and looked around at the vast array of timepieces -- antique grandfather clocks to digital alarm clocks and everything in between, right down to hourglasses and sundials to stick in your garden, and watches displayed in jewelry cases -- and guessed this was one of those specialty niche shops, catering to all of your timekeeping needs. He wouldn’t have thought there was a lot of money to be made in that, which could explain why the store was here, in the ass end of town, and not up on Main Street or over at the mall.

He peered out the window, saw no sign of another bus coming along, and no indication the storm would be letting up soon, and supposed this was as a good a place to wait it out as any. There wasn’t a Closed sign hung up, and the door had been open; he had every right to be here. And yes, he was likely being paranoid. Nine and a half years in a prison would do that.

The last thing he wanted on his mind was memories of Oz and Lardner, though, and he started looking around the shop as a means of distraction. It was a cozy, cluttered little place, no particular rhyme or reason to how most items were displayed, and he wondered if the somewhat dim lighting was to keep electric bills low or discourage a too-close inspection of “antique” items.

He also wondered how long it took before the constant tick-tock drove you batty. Or maybe that was something you simply got used to in time. It was amazing how adaptable people could be, to the point where things one would have never previously accepted could seem utterly commonplace. He could write a book about that.

Pausing before one particularly fine grandfather clock, he reached out to touch it, fingers caressing the warm wood as its pendulum swung back and forth. Leaning closer to study the carvings that surrounded the clock face, he had to smile at the depiction of a mouse scurrying as if frantic to make some appointment, and then a vague horror struck him as he heard himself speaking aloud:

“Hickory dickory dock
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one--”

Jesus.

The child’s rhyme had popped into his head out of nowhere, and he looked around to see if anyone had noticed, feeling all the more ridiculous because of course there was no one else there, no one to take note of the slip and go, “Uh-oh -- watch out! Crazy Rhyming Beecher’s on the loose again!”

Who the fuck else in the world would ever freak out over reciting a children’s nursery rhyme?

He shook his head in comical despair, grateful he could find at least a scintilla of humor in that. That had to be a good sign, right? And God knew he could use one.

That was bumping dangerously close to all those things he didn’t let himself think about, and he searched around for a distraction, leaning over a jewelry case to check out a selection of pocket watches on display, nearly jumping out of his skin as a chorus of strident cuckoo-cuckoo, cuckoo-cuckoo broke out all around him.

Christ.

He straightened up, looking around at all the cuckoo clocks set up high, all popping in out and noisily informing him it was eight o’clock.

Oh fuck, no, it couldn’t be that late.

He checked his own watch to confirm it, only to find its battery must have conked out because the hands were stopped at a half past five.

A perplexed look out a plate-glass window could only confirm that the street outside was entirely dark and deserted, not a soul, not a vehicle in sight, and hail -- or was it sleet now? -- still coming down like the end of the world.

“Oh!” a surprised voice cried out, and he looked over to see a storeroom door open, and a man coming out, startled to see there was a potential customer at this hour but coming over with a friendly smile and welcoming manner. “I didn’t realize anyone had come in,” he said, bustling about as if afraid the shop needed some tidying up.

“I can see you have discerning taste,” he went on, behind the jewelry case now and lifting out the tray of pocket watches Toby had been looking at. “These are some particularly fine instruments. Would you like a closer examination?”

Adding embarrassment to his growing sense of bemusement seemed a small thing, and Toby said, “Well, actually, I was just getting out of the weather.”

“Ah, yes,” the man smiled and spared a glance outside. “The elements are certainly lively tonight, aren’t they?”

“That’s…one way to put it,” Toby said. And an odd one, at that.

He couldn’t quite determine the man’s age, but anywhere between seventy and a thousand seemed about reasonable. The guy was a good half a head shorter than him, with a mop of white hair and rather ferociously bushy eyebrows above twinkling blue eyes. Those eyebrows were the only ferocious aspect to the man who mostly put Toby in mind of a Keebler elf. Although he couldn’t tell if the guy’s ears were pointed. Even his costume of baggy gray pants, loose vest, and ill-fitting coat went towards an otherworldly air, as if he’d ransacked some ancient closet from a hundred years ago.

“Perhaps this?” the man held out a particularly ornate silver watch. “There’s a bit of tarnish,” he smiled apologetically and scrubbed at the dark spot on the cover with a threadbare handkerchief, “but that’s easily put right. Have a look, please.”

Not knowing what else to do, Toby took it from him, balancing the weight of it in the palm of his hand. “How old?” he asked.

“Oh, that one’s been around awhile. Knocked about a bit -- you can see the nicks and scratches here and there,” he obligingly pointed them out, “but I always think that sort of thing adds a bit of character. Don’t you agree?”

“I…suppose.” If it did, he was fucking overflowing with captivating qualities. “How much?” he asked, knowing he needed this beat-up old watch like he needed to break parole and go back to prison, but the old shopkeeper’s salesmanship was hard to resist.

“Live with it a bit; we can negotiate a price later,” the shopkeeper said, and Toby bet this was about when a warning ding-ding-ding bell should have been going off in his head. “There’s no hurry, is there?”

Toby sighed, looking at the watch, admiring the way it caught the light and gleamed with an echo of its lost grandeur. “No, no hurry,” he said softly, all too aware there was no one waiting for him.

He had an apartment that was only slightly less cramped and non-descript than his last cell at Lardner, and just as impersonal. He told himself that was only because it was temporary; he wouldn’t be staying there long, so where was the sense in making it comfortable. He had a job answering the phone and keeping files in order for a lowlife shyster who had probably gotten his law degree through the mail. But like the bastard told him, maybe he hadn’t gone to Harvard, but he’d also never ploughed his car into a little girl and gone to prison. Who could dispute his superiority?

With every day that dragged by, Toby skirted closer to accepting a bitter truth: that those four dour walls, this life of just getting one more day behind him, was all there would ever be.

He hated looking in mirrors because that truth stared bleakly back at him every time, the truth that he felt as defeated as he ever had, devoid of the smallest spark of hope.

True, there was plenty of money in the bank, if he wanted it. But for what? To live somewhere nicer, but just as barren?

All those years in prison, he had always believed that once he walked free of those walls everything would automatically revert to how it had been. He would have his life back, a better life because of what he had endured to earn it.

Only it hadn’t been there waiting for him, kept pristinely under glass until he could claim it again.

It had been shattered and trampled and there wasn’t any of it left. Even his kids -- Harry didn’t know him, and Holly didn’t want to. He could have fought Gen’s parents to keep them, but even his own brother hadn’t supported him. Could he guarantee he would not fuck up again? That’s what Angus, everyone, had asked him, and not a soul had believed his promises to try.

He gave the shopkeeper a bleak smile and asked him, “I don’t suppose you have anything in here that back the hands of the clock?”

Head cocked to one side, the shopkeeper studied him thoughtfully. “If you could go back and change one moment in time, what would it be?”

Toby sighed, mind racing through so many images -- taking his first drink, killing Kathy Rockwell … Chris … and he shook his head. “It’s hopeless, there’s too many.” And what the hell did it say about him that, if he could simply relive one moment in time, it would be that New Year’s Eve so long ago, when he let himself love Chris?

“You know,” the shopkeeper said, “I once read a story -- what was it now? Oh well, it’ll come to me,” he muttered as if to himself. “It was about this man who discovered that this world we live in is only one of many, and there are all these other alternate, parallel worlds existing side by side, with alternate versions of you and I going on about our lives, the lives we don’t get to experience because we went one way down a path and could never find our way back to the turning point. Anyway, this man in the story, he learned that, every now and then, when a wrong turn occurred in one of these worlds and an alternate self died, that another self could cross over and take up that life. Of course, there would be no going back. Once you leave one world, you can never return.”

Toby nodded, understanding; it was sort of like Billy Pilgrim, in Slaughterhouse Five, he supposed, popping in and out of time. “Did he cross over?”

“Ah, well, I’m afraid it ended a bit like The Lady or the Tiger, and the reader had to determine the ending for themselves. It’s an intriguing notion, though, don’t you think? Not quite changing time, but sort of stepping through a doorway into a time that might have been.”

“Too bad that only happens in stories.”

“Yes,” the shopkeeper said, something enigmatic in his voice and smile. “We’re far too wise to believe in things like that,” he went on, an even more curious note of amusement in his manner now.

Yes, much too wise, Toby mused. But wouldn’t it be tempting? To have a chance at another life, one where you hadn’t fucked it all up. His mind whirled with the possibilities, all of them appealing. Because, you know, what could possibly go wrong? he wryly thought to himself.

“Now, though,” the shopkeeper shifted back into salesman mode, drawing his attention back from alluring visions of what if, “do please wind that old thing up so we can see if its mechanism still works.”

Suspecting he was going to wind up buying this old watch whether he wanted it or not, Toby grasped the stem and turned it, or tried to. “It’s stuck.”

“Try harder.”

“I break it, I buy it?”

“You won’t break it.”

Toby sighed again, rolled his eyes, and got a firmer grasp on the stem, exerting more effort, and finally getting it to move. The shopkeeper gave him an encouraging nod, so Toby kept turning, hearing the steady tick tick tick start up, the watch vibrating just a bit in his hand. “Should it be doing that?”

A gleam of satisfaction in the old blue eyes, the shopkeeper nodded, “Oh yes, everything’s working as it should.” He smiled more broadly. “A bit like clockwork, I suppose you could say.”

“Uh-huh.” Why did the crazy stuff always happen to him? Was he some kind of magnet for it? “Well, I really should be going,” he said. “Looks like the weather’s clearing.”

“Yes, it is just about time,” the shopkeeper agreed, closing Toby’s fingers over the watch. “Have a good life,” he told him, something solemn and grave in his manner now.

Before Toby could even wonder why a complete stranger would wish him that, a gust of wind blew the door open, bringing a rush of icy pellets that struck the surfaces of the shop with a silvery, tinkling sound -- that made him raise an arm to shield his eyes, the world seeming to spin dizzily around him for a moment, and he felt himself falling, plummeting out of control down some abyss--

--and then he was stretched out on his back in the street, the sun was beating down on him now instead of cold rain and hail, and people were clustered around. Sounds of traffic and a murmured chorus of questions and comments from the bystanders reached his ears, and he could just make out someone saying, “I’m not finding a pulse, think he’s a goner,” and with a tremendous force of will Toby struggled to sit up, breathing hard and looking around at astonished faces surrounding him.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, not sure exactly who he was reassuring.

“You sure as hell shouldn’t be,” said the man who’d been about to pronounce him dead. “Car smacked right into you,” he explained, illustrating by punching his fist into the palm of his hand.

Toby looked around. “What car?”

“Son of a bitch took off, didn’t get the plate. But man, it hit you. I saw. We all did,” the man waved at the onlookers and got a confirmation of nods and murmured comments.

“It missed at the last second.”

“Man, you was dead. I couldn’t find a pulse.”

“Do I look dead?”

“Well…”

“I fainted, that’s all.” Sure, that was it.

“Well…” the guy said again, not satisfied, but apparently unable to come up with a counter position that would hold up. “You better be more careful crossing the street,” he added, being so gracious as to give Toby a hand up, something clattering on the pavement. “That yours?” the Good Samaritan asked, stooping to retrieve the pocket watch.

“It’s mine, actually,” said one of the bystanders, an elfin-looking gentleman with fierce eye brows, who snatched the watch up before anyone else could claim it and disappeared back into the crowd with no further explanation.

Toby shouted, “Hey! You!” and stumbled after him, but the man simply wasn’t there anymore. Toby would have sworn he sort of shimmered out of existence, there one moment and gone the next, but that was probably a trick of the light.

~*~
His name was Tobias Beecher. He was forty-two years old. He practiced law. He lived at 27 Bryant Park. He still required corrective lenses, although thankfully his taste in eyewear seemed to have improved. He was single -- at least, he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring -- and bet he’d checked off the organ donation box on his driver’s licence. His wallet could probably divulge a lot more information, but he was afraid to look. What if there were pictures, for instance? Or … what if there weren’t?

He had been sitting a long time at the bar in the local watering hole he had taken refuge in, an assortment of keys and other items laid out on the dark, polished wood, studying them and thinking, and then thinking some more.

The cops had turned up and taken statements, but with Toby clearly demonstrating that he had come to no harm, the incident clearly was not going to be a high priority, and the bystanders had finally cleared off, the Good Samaritan still shaking his head and muttering, “Man, you was dead.”

Quite to the contrary, however, Toby couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alive.

He reached for his glass -- club soda, because why play with fire? -- and thought about the story the old shopkeeper had told him, about the guy who stepped from his world into another, into a life he could have lived but missed out on because somewhere, sometime, he’d turned left when he should have gone right.

Pretty wild. Pretty fucking wow.

If it was true, if it was real, if it wasn’t just that his last few marbles had finally deserted him.

His memories were his own, and yet there were other ones too, jumbled in amongst them. Quiet and distant, not obtrusive; sort of lingering in an old cardboard box shoved to the back of his mind, there if he wanted to claim any of them.

It scared the shit out of him.

So many possibilities were flooding his mind -- wonderful, terrifying, overwhelming possibilities that made him want to run around and scream and whoop, it was so much to contain.

There was, of course, one constructive course of action he could take, and he pondered those keys laid out against the wood once more.

They were his keys, that was his Harvard keychain. His fingers brushed over the car keys and he felt a combination of exhilaration and terror at that thought, that he could drive again. And here were his house keys, he realized, holding them so the metal glinted in the eyes.

What had the shopkeeper said, about the story being like The Lady or the Tiger, where you didn’t know for certain what waited behind a certain door, and could only take your best chance and cross your fingers?

An iffy proposition, true enough, and ordinarily he would advise against it. But what the fuck did he have to lose? How could anything be worse than the life he’d lived so far? And the best that it could it be … he hardly dared think on that. The thoughts tumbled through his brain anyway. His children could be alive and whole and healthy. If he had married Genevieve in this world, they could have gone their separate ways with nothing worse between them than divorce. His parents could be expecting him to dinner tomorrow night. Chris … But he shied away from that one, afraid of asking for the moon.

Oh, man.

He leaned his elbows on the bar, head lowered into his hands for a moment as he let it all wash over him and through him, finding a calm spot of resolution in the midst of all the chaos in his mind.

He could do this. He wouldn’t get his hopes up, wouldn’t let them soar too high, but suddenly he had to know, had to discover what was and what could be.

Pushing back from the bar, Toby scooped up the items on the counter and slipped them back in his pocket, left the bartender a generous tip, and stepped out into the sunlight, eager to start opening doors.

And if some cosmic force out there had really decided to smile on him, maybe -- just maybe -- there wouldn’t be a tiger on the other side.

*****

original ending

alternate ending

Doing Time, original ending

Fri, 18 Jan 2008 19:26:13 GMT

Here's the original ending, that nearly derailed the entire story until Rizzo convinced me everything was all right and made me see the light. *g*

*****

Hmm. Of course, for that door-opening thing to work, it would probably help if he knew what car he drove these days.

Standing on the sidewalk, Toby looked at the row of cars parked at the curb, wishing one of them would beep to let him know it was his. After a moment, though, some instinct did push him over toward one -- and wouldn’t you know it, a cop was standing there, writing out a ticket.

Still, if bad luck for Tobias Beecher now amounted to getting a parking ticket, he would take it and be happy.

“Ah,” he got that much out as he started over there, as the police officer turned to look at him, and then he froze in place, unable to process anything but, “Oh my God…”

The police officer was tall, and built like a brick house; the amazing body shown off to advantage in the dark blue, snug-fitting uniform. A gun belt rode his hips and accentuated his ass. The short-sleeved shirt displayed muscular arms, and the lower part of a tattoo peeked out from underneath. A hat was pushed back on a handsome head, blue eyes sparkling with so many emotions as a knockout smile finally won out. “Hey, Beech,” he said, sounding like his throat might have been a little tight.

“Chris…?” His own voice was choked, and he had to blink to clear his vision. “Are you real?” he asked, afraid to ask, but more terrified of it not being true.

The brilliance of the smile dimmed a bit, and Toby could have sworn there was a shimmer of moisture in the dark blue eyes. “Oh yeah, babe, I’m real.”

Yes, oh fuck yes! He was real, he was there, and Toby ran trembling hands along the broad shoulders and down his chest, closing his eyes and feeling a fresh burn of tears as he felt the strong heart beating against his palm. “You’re alive. Chris, you’re alive,” he whispered, wanting to wrap his arms around him, wanting to kiss him, wanting to climb him like a tree and never come down.

“Yeah,” was all Chris could get out, skimming his knuckles along Toby’s cheek with the same sense of wonder. “And you’re really here,” he added, like he was scared to believe it all too. Like he’d been waiting a long time, and hope had been running low? “I heard a call on the radio, about some guy named Beecher who’d gotten up and walked away from being hit by a car, and…” He stopped, the sentence unfinished as if his throat had clogged, and could only brush his fingers through Toby’s hair.

Toby backed up to look him over again, not losing tactile contact, though, his senses dazzled with the touch and sound and smell and sight of him. “You’re a cop?” he said at last, because that was easiest to put into words.

Kissable lips twitched with a sardonic smile. “What can I say? Fate loves irony.”

Yes, and maybe Fate was a crazy old coot who also loved clocks.

Toby hmphed with a put-out air that he knew Chris didn’t buy for a minute. “You get to be a cop, but I’m still a lawyer?”

“Gotta be some constants, Beecher.”

“Like us?”

Chris cupped a hand around his neck, fingers kneading lightly and making Toby feel like sparklers were going off all through his body. “Kinda lookin’ that way, yeah.”

Toby nodded, liking the sound of that, remembering what Chris had told him in another time and place--

“I’ll see you,” Chris said, practically glowing with love.

“Where?” he had demanded, bruised and battered, but hurting from so much more than that.

Smile cocky as ever, Chris said, “Back here, or heaven.”

“You really think we’re getting into heaven?”

“Ah, you and me together? God doesn’t have the balls to keep us out.”

As if reading his thoughts, or maybe remembering too, Chris cocked his head in a familiar manner and winked. “Hey, bet you never pegged me for a prophet, huh?”

“Well,” Toby smiled back at him, at the knowledge of him being here and what that meant, “I have to say, this doesn’t exactly look like heaven, Chris.”

“Near enough for me.”

Yes, near enough. “For me, too.”

Him and Chris forever.

He liked the sound of that.

“So, want to show me around heaven, Officer Keller?” he asked, and wondered when that would stop making him smile.

“Yeah, laugh it up, Beech. Can you imagine how I felt?”

He did laugh, picturing Keller’s dismay all too easily. “But you’re good with it?” he asked, serious now.

Solemn as well, Chris nodded. “Yeah, I…” He paused, cleared his throat. “I’m not so stupid I’d piss on a second chance, Toby.”

Looking at him, drinking in the glorious sight of him, Toby felt another of those hard-to-contain moments coming on. “Chris,” he stroked wondering fingers over the shiny badge, let them slip down his arm to clasp his hand, “what would happen if I kissed you right here?”

Chris squeezed his fingers. “Don’t know. That something you might do?”

Toby nodded.

Chris smiled and leaned in closer, close enough Toby could smell lingering traces of his aftershave and the cinnamon gum he’d been chewing. Near enough his lips grazed Toby’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. “I get off duty at six,” he whispered.

Toby stepped back with a huff. “You have got to be kidding me, Keller.”

Smiling at him, loving him like everything bad was long forgotten, Chris said, “Hey, you want me to be a stand up guy or not?”

He sighed dramatically. “Six o’clock?”

“It’s only a couple of hours.”

Toby nodded again, but with a trace of worry. “A lot can happen in two hours.”

Looking him over thoughtfully, Chris asked, “Would it make you feel better if I didn’t get out of your sight for the next two hours?”

“Like you wouldn’t follow me home and find a reason to hang around anyway?”

Handsome face lit with another smile, Chris said, “Yeah, well, I think something can be arranged.”

“Good. Arrange it. Because, Chris,” Toby stepped close again, curving a hand along Chris's face, “I am never letting you go again,” he finished, and watched Chris absorb that promise like it was what he’d waited for all his life.

There were a thousand things he wanted to know, questions zooming through his mind and tumbling over each other -- but that was okay, because there was going to be time enough for that, for everything, at last.

Well, there was just one thing… “Chris, is Schillinger here?”

Looking at him with understanding, Chris shook his head, smiling. “Nah, not a sign of him. Second thing I checked for.”

Toby started to ask what had been the first, realized that was fairly obvious, and nodded back, satisfied all was right with the world. This one, anyway, and that was enough for him.

...the end...

Doing Time, alternate ending

Fri, 18 Jan 2008 19:23:55 GMT

And here's the alternative ending, which is the same but different. ;)

*****

Toby took his time driving home, not because the route was strange and unfamiliar, but because it wasn’t. He even detoured to go by the family law firm, and gave himself a downright warm and fuzzy feeling when he saw it. Which was nuts because of course the building would be there. It was there … back where he came from; it was only that no one named Beecher practiced law there anymore.

If compelled to tell the truth, however, he also took his time because of the sheer physical pleasure of driving, of being behind the wheel again after not enjoying that privilege for so long. It felt good, and there was a part of him that really wanted to rev ‘er up and go. That impulse was restrained, however, and he proceeded at a pace sedate enough to earn a few irately honked horns along the way.

Before long, though, he was pulling into the exclusive, gated community of Bryant Park and cruising along through the well-maintained streets where no pothole ever dared to appear. Past manicured lawns and expensive homes, only a few of them of the gaudy and overblown McMansion type.

He pulled into his driveway and simply sat there for awhile, soaking it all it up, a few twinges of guilt finally creeping up to nag him.

Was this right? To step into this guy’s life, take it over like a hermit crab moving into a shiny, abandoned shell he’d found? What if someone noticed he was different? Was that Tobias even really gone, or had he also stepped sideways into another life? Were there a million Tobias Beechers sitting in their driveways this very minute, pondering these very matters?

Jesus, he thought, and whapped his head against the steering wheel a couple of times.

Could he over-think something, or what?

Okay. All right. It was done. He was here. There was no going back. There was nothing to do except keep going forward and opening those doors.

He climbed out of the car and looked up and down the street, and did something he had rarely allowed himself the luxury of, back in the day: drinking in the sights and sounds and aromas of a summer evening. Somewhere nearby, a neighbor was grilling sausages, and the delicious smell of it carried on the breeze made his mouth water. Children’s voices and laughter rang out from the playground nearby. Lights were coming on and a few more cars coasting down the street as folks got home.

Toby knew this place. He hadn’t seen it in ten years, and hadn’t appreciated any of it much back then, but everything was sliding into a familiar and welcome place for him, and he smiled and waved at Mrs. Clancy out walking her dog who was either the oldest Jack Russell in history, or a pup of the one he remembered. She smiled and waved back, as if she saw him like this every day and this little ritual was as much a part of the daily routine as the postman coming around with the mail.

The dog lifted his leg and peed against the lamppost, but Toby chose not to view that as any kind of commentary.

Inside the house, he quickly discovered everything was the same yet different. Where before everything had been fussy and frou-frou, with a lot of clunky antiques, now the lines were clean and modern, and he could really picture himself at home here. The absence of children’s toys scattered around gave him a pang -- but he didn’t want to go there, not yet, and instead focused on getting to know himself better.

The books on the shelves included familiar favorites, alongside ones that sounded like they would be something he’d like. The stack of CDs by the stereo looked about right, too. Ditto the DVDs -- wait, he liked Titanic? He slipped it out, looking it over for some indication it was supposed to go back to Blockbusters, or a sticky note saying: Toby, yumkins, I hope u love this 2. OXOX. No such evidence came to light, and he filed it away as a slightly disturbing aberration, and proceeded with a bit more caution as he explored the rest of the house, glad no one was there to observe him casing his own house.

No other surprises popped right out at him, however, and he thought he might be ready to dig a little deeper and find out more about who Tobias Beecher was here -- and what he wasn’t -- when a noise from his study brought him up short.

Now what the fuck? he wondered, opening the door to see, abruptly coming face to ski mask with a burglar. Before he could do more than yell, “Shit!” the burglar swung at him, fist cracking into his face and sending him stumbling as the intruder scrambled past him. Toby reached out to grab him, got kicked in the stomach for his trouble and went down with a gasp, the wind knocked out of him. Another crashing sound from the direction of the kitchen, and then silence, as he sat there, thinking this was a less than auspicious omen, before dragging himself over to the phone and punching in 9-1-1.

~*~
Slumped down on the couch, holding an icepack to his face, Toby watched the cops prowling around and gathering evidence, talking on their radios, and casting him suspicious looks like they knew he wasn’t telling them everything. If they only knew…

They’d cart him away to the funny farm.

The best part of it all was approaching him again, tall and with a body that even a well-cut suit couldn’t entirely disguise: Detective Christopher Keller, looking pissed off and wary.

Toby hadn’t taken his eyes off him from the moment he’d walked in the door.

He supposed he hadn’t made the best first impression, gawping at him and then cackling with ironic glee. He wanted to shout a huge fucking thank you to the universe. He wanted to grab this Chris and kiss him and make him remember and explain why it was so fucking hilarious that he was a cop here. And he couldn’t do any of that, because this Chris didn’t know him yet, and he couldn’t run the risk of screwing things up before they even got the chance to start.

“So, you think you might reconsider that protective detail?” Det. Chris Keller asked him.

“Because some hoodlum broke in and tried to steal the stereo?”

Chris cleared his throat impatiently, and sat down beside him on the couch, and it was all Toby could do not scoot closer, not to wrap his arms around him and hold on tight and breathe him in… The throat cleared again, and he refocused his attention, meeting a pair of very exasperated blue eyes. “Number one,” and he ticked off his points on long, slim fingers that Toby wanted to feel stroking his skin, “the perp didn’t go after your stereo, he went for your laptop. Number two, I read your case file on the way over and wouldn’t call death threats a minor incident. And number three,” Chris leaned close enough Toby could smell the cinnamon gum he’d been chewing, growling the last words, “somebody fucking tried to run you down in the street today. Or did you think no one was going to find out about that?”

Toby blinked, stared at him. “You think somebody’s trying to kill me?”

Chris gave him a hard look that very clearly said duh.

“No, no, no, that wasn’t part of the deal.”

Blue eyes narrowed with misgivings now, Chris asked, “What deal are we talking about?”

The one where I get a new life that’s all sunshine and roses.

Christ, he should have known better.

“Look, Detective Keller,” he said, stumbling over the name, “it’s been a really long day. Could we maybe go over all this in the morning?”

And maybe he’d wake up, back where he’d come from, with all of this nothing but a dream.

There wasn’t a lot of comfort in that idea.

“You gonna be all right?” Chris asked, something softer and warmer in his face now, touching his arm in support as if he'd seen a flicker of fear in Toby's face -- and getting a startled look in his own eyes for a moment, as if being close to Toby, touching him, wasn’t the worst thing he’d done all day.

Toby nodded. “Whatever it was, they won’t come back tonight.”

“Yeah,” Chris sighed, rubbing his shoulder lightly now, “probably not. I’m leaving a patrol car outside, though, just to be on the safe side.”

Yes, because Kellers everywhere always looked after their Beechers.

Toby snorted another laugh and shook his head, suspecting he was getting punchy and that getting some sack time might really be a good idea.

He looked at Chris again, searching for something he knew, finding it in the tilt of the head, the wary gaze that couldn’t quite fathom what he was up to. It wasn’t a lot, but it could be a start. “So, you’re working this case, then?”

“Yep.”

“That probably means we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” he mused, dropping his gaze to Chris’s left hand and making note of there being no wedding ring. “Spending a lot of time together.”

Chris looked back at him, something speculative in his eyes, something … not entirely displeased with that prospect? “That a problem, Mr. Beecher?

“Not if you call me, Toby.”

Chris blinked, nodded after another moment. “Guess I could do that.” He got up then, shooting him another curious look, but only asking, “What time do you get up in the morning?”

“Because…?”

Chris shrugged. “Though I could bring you some coffee, maybe we could go over the details some more.”

“Seven o’clock?”

Chris nodded. “Sounds good.”

Yes, it did.

Toby doubted he’d get much sleep, though.

And if this was all a dream, he didn’t want to ever wake up.

...the end, again...

B/K Canon Fic, 1/1; rated R

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 18:27:09 GMT

This was inspired by the current hardtime100 challenge, #129 - Oz Ink. It contains loving sensuality between two adult males.

~~~~~~~~~~

Chris bit his lip, trying not to squirm as Toby’s industrious fingers stroked along the inside of his thigh. Not that he minded, of course, but… “You plan on doing anything while you’re down there?”

“Mmm.” Toby turned his head, hair tickling across Chris’ groin, and planted a warm, wet kiss right smack dab on the butterfly.

Barely given a chance to absorb that sensation, Chris gasped, stomach muscles contracting and fluttering as he felt Toby tracing the outline of the butterfly with his tongue. “Christ…”

His shoulders had come up off the thin mattress, and he reached down to stroke Toby’s head, fingers threading through golden hair. He shuddered again, setting back into the bunk, a deep sigh easing out of him, fingers still stroking Toby’s head as it rested on his stomach now.

“Tell me about this?” Toby asked, exploring the tat again. “Why did you get it?”

Not sure what to say, or how to say it, Chris went for flippant. “’Cause I thought it’d look pretty and get me laid.”

Toby snorted, and kissed his belly. “Try again, Keller.”

“Beech…” He sighed. “Why’s it have to mean anything, Toby?”

“Why do you have to make a production out of every question I ask you?”

“You calling me a drama queen? That’s rich.”

“If the tiara fits…”

Chris sighed again, shifting around in a futile attempt to get more comfortable. It wasn’t a secret or anything, just sort of embarrassing. Maybe Toby wouldn’t laugh, though? he wondered, thinking how he’d really like to risk it.

“It’s the,” he hesitated, whispered it, “the metamorphosis,” and waited for Toby to call him out on knowing a high-falutin’ word like that..

When no mockery came, he let out the breath he’d been holding and stretched out some more.

“I thought…maybe having that on my body, part of me, could give me some of its power,” he went on after another moment. Saying it out loud like that, it did sound kind of stupid, but Toby wasn’t laughing, so it was okay.

“That would be a good power,” Toby said, slowly scooting up his body, planting kisses along the way, “to be reborn.”

It was more than good. It was fucking out of this world, Chris thought, feeling transformed for the hundredth and one time as Toby’s head lowered to kiss his mouth again.

Medium newsletter drabble, 1/1, rated G

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 18:22:46 GMT

~Have a Holly, Gloomy Christmas~

…so now Bridget’s only wearing her Bat Girl costume on the weekends, and please don’t let Janine take that spring break trip to Cancun because her hotel’s going to get slammed by a tropical storm, and wait until I tell you what Joe and I are doing for New Year’s Eve…

Allison Dubois shook her and heaved another sigh as she read back through the letter she’d written inside the Christmas card to Cousin Paula, and set in the pile with all the other cards where, amid catching everyone up on the adventure of the family Dubois, she had also slipped in dire warnings of disasters to come, like a spirit from A Christmas Carol. Because didn’t that just make for an extra special merry Christmas, knowing Uncle Mike was going to have a heart attack, and little Kimmie Ann’s appendix would burst, and Cousin Ruth’s plane would crash?

Who said she wasn’t the life of the party?

***
Starting to open the fridge to put the milk away, Joe Dubois paused to pick up the torn half of a Christmas card on the floor. He went to throw it in with the rest of the trash, but then paused again, staring in bemusement at all the other torn apart cards and envelopes jammed in there.

“Allison,” he turned to look at her, unloading shopping back at the kitchen table.

“Don’t ask,” she told him, coming over to put a brand new box of cards in his hand, “but you do them from now on, okay?”

He looked at her, looked at the cards, looked at the trash, thinking maybe he was getting a teeny tiny psychic impression of his own. “Okay.”

Beecher/Keller: Six Vignettes in Search of a Happy Ending; complete

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:13:24 GMT

Originally posted July 29, 2007

Title: Six Vignettes in Search of a Happy Ending
Subject: Canon based, with a hint of AU.
Disclaimer: Tom created them, I just play in the sandbox.
Warning: Angst. And my usual spin.

~Six Vignettes in Search of a Happy Ending~

One

Tobias thinks maybe he’ll stay crazy. It’s the first thing that’s worked for him since he got here, after all.

It’s less work than he’d thought it would be. Go a little apeshit now and then, bite a few dicks off, babble a nursery rhyme, and people start to leave you alone.

It worries his family. Every visit he can see the concern gouging deeper as they struggle to understand the strange creature he’s morphing into. They think Oz alone has done this. That guilt and booze and being brutalized have made him don this eccentric persona like a suit of armor, and that when he’s out of here and everything’s back to normal, this will all melt away like a snowball on the 4th of July.

Tobias doesn’t have the heart to tell them they couldn’t be more wrong.

There is no going back to normal. He will never live that life again. It’s as dead and buried as Kathy Rockwell and far beyond any resurrecting.

He doesn't mourn that as much he knows he should.

He think he might grieve for the madness when he does finally have to let it go. It’s comfortable here, and safe, where he touches and is touched by nothing. It would be good to stay here forever.

Standing in line at the cafeteria, he’s jostled against Schillinger, who turns to glare at him from one pale, baleful eye.

Tobias grins, and burbles back a rhyme, and thinks, Just another day in paradise.

***
Two

Chris has his hands full of Toby, and it pisses him off how much he likes it.

He doesn’t know how the crazy motherfucker’s gotten under his skin. Wrestling him around and getting him sprawled out on the mat, all hairy and sweaty and soft as the Pillsbury Dough Boy, Chris thinks that it’s sure not Toby’s looks that keep making him want to wade on out into deeper and deeper water.

Only … Chris keeps wondering about that. Keeps picturing how Toby’d look, all spruced up and shaved. He can almost see it sometimes, see him all fresh faced and bright-eyed, not a screw loose anywhere … and no rope of lies drawing tight as a noose around them.

Angry as his illusion flits away like a butterfly he’d caught hold of for an instant, Chris wrestles Toby around some more, gets him in a tight hold from behind and thinks he could do it now. Snap his neck, clean and quick, and have it done and over.

He could. He wants to. He wants Toby gone before anymore damage is done. Before he starts wanting things he can never have. Worse, before he reaches out for them, believing they can be his, only to turn to dust in his hands.

He’s holding Toby so tight he can feel his heart beating, and he skims a hand up his chest, wraps it around his neck … and all the while Toby’s resting against him. Believing in him. Trusting Chris not to hurt him.

Fuck!

He pushes Toby away and hunches over, head in hands.

“Chris?”

A square, practical hand rests on his knee and he watches it rub around in gentle circles.

“Are you okay?”

Chris looks at him, seeing past the crazy -- seeing how he’s warm and bright as the first day of spring, after a cold, dark winter -- and he wants to kiss him. Wants to taste that and touch it and keep it forever.

But it’s already too late. There’s no turning off this path, and somewhere he can hear Fate laughing her ass off.

***
Three

This … is different.

It seems a lifetime ago that Toby spoke those words to Sister Pete, gingerly picking his way through the minefield of falling in love with Chris Keller. They still apply, but their scope has broadened.

He’s watching Chris take a shower. Something he’s done a hundred times before. But something’s changed. The current has shifted somehow. And it’s not just because, as he watches the water cascade over that mouth-watering physique this time, he doesn’t duck away from what he’s feeling, he doesn’t hate himself for wanting him.

When he catches Chris’ eye, for instance, instead of flashing him a cocksure grin and blatantly flaunting that body, Chris shoots an uncertain look his way and is the first to avert his gaze. A pensive look lingers on the handsome face, its profile belonging on an ancient Roman coin, and all his concentration is directed to lathering himself up and rinsing the soap away -- washing with a sense of ritual to the cleansing, as though so much more than sweat and grime is being swirled away down the drain.

That’s when it hits Toby, the thing that is different: Keller is starting fresh. Come hither displays and sensuous seduction belong to the past. He has confessed his sins and done his penance, and believes he has been absolved.

Only … Toby’s not so sure.

He wants it to be that easy. He wants to look at Chris and only see the man he loves. But he’s still catching shadowy glimpses of the past out of the corner of his eye.

Tonight, Chris will touch him. Touch him the way they both have wanted for so long. Toby can already feel those hands caressing along his body. Beautiful hands that belong to a painter or pianist -- hands that comforted him … and broke his bones. Those sensual, kissable lips will kiss his mouth, his body; they will worship him and bestow erotic pleasures he’s never known … just as they whispered lies and hurt and betrayed him.

He hates remembering all that, but he doesn’t know how to forget.

Soaping up his body and rinsing it off, Toby thinks that if he still wants revenge, tonight will be the perfect time to exact it. Tonight, when he’s the one cloaked in secrets, when he has all the power. Keller’s never been this vulnerable before, every tender spot exposed.

Looking up, his eyes meet Keller’s, and there is such a look of yearning in that deep, vivid blue gaze -- a lifetime of shattered hopes and broken promises -- that Toby knows there are no secrets here. Chris knows it all. And still he will come to Toby tonight, a condemned man kneeling at the executioner’s block and waiting for the axe to fall -- or to be granted a last minute reprieve.

And Toby turns his face up into the lukewarm spray of the shower and wonders how it will all turn out.

***
Four

It’s a long bus ride from Oz to Cedar Junction.

The scenery past his window is a slushy gray landscape where winter’s hanging on with a greedy grasp, and spring is still a mist-shrouded destination that seems impossibly far out of reach.

Like Toby. Like the life Chris dreams about having with Toby. Dreams so secret, so sacred, he barley acknowledges them to himself.

Dreams that don’t come true are all he will ever have now.

Chris doesn’t know why that hits him like a revelation.

The first time he touched Toby, really touched him -- kissed his mouth and tasted him, exploring every inch and crevice with fingers and tongue, and feeling like a fucking virgin because sex had never been like this before -- Chris had known the moment was only on loan to him.

He had hoped there would be more time, though. He would have liked to hold Toby in his arms once more, make love to him one last time before being locked away from him forever. And he’s still having trouble believing that last embrace, where he couldn’t he couldn’t even hug him back, is all there will ever be.

He’s so afraid Toby won’t remember him.

But what if he’s the one who forgets? Forgets the taste of Toby’s mouth, and the slippery damp feel of his skin as they hung onto each other in that narrow bunk, the look in Toby’s eyes as he comes. Or the way Toby would keep him there close, all tangled up together, hot and sticky and for a few breaths feeling as free as the wind.

Chris closes his eyes to remember, and the bus rumbles on down the road, carrying him away from the only wish that ever came true.

***
Five

He never should have loved Chris. It would have
been kinder.

Toby can taste that knowledge in the desperation of
the kiss, the pressure of Chris’ hand against his
back, fingers digging into his flesh as if he would
never let him go.

That awareness is a moot point at such a moment, he
grants that, but still, these are the sort of thoughts
that are always working their way through his
mind no matter how hard he tries to shut them off.

He’s never been able to simply be in the moment. He
wants to. This one time at least, he would like to
simply give Chris everything he needs, everything he
wants. No past, no tomorrow, just the here and now of
Chris’ mouth and the vitality he can feel, reaching
through the bars to touch him, run a hand along his
back.

Impossible, in that moment, to believe such a
lifeforce could ever be extinguished. “They shoot
me, they stab me, I ain’t goin’ down.”

Yet … Toby remembers more. Remembers Chris trembling
in his arms, feeling the singe of hellfire in his
dreams.

He did that, Toby thinks. He’s the kryptonite, the
Achilles heel that’s made Chris vulnerable. Not loving
him would have spared him that, Toby thinks, even as
he kisses him more some more.

As he draws back at last and looks at him, however,
Toby knows Chris would not have it any other way. And
that knowledge of how much Chris loves him -- that’s
the deepest cut of all.

Toby touches his face and looks at him, and wonders
if, had Chris known the price to be exacted, would he
still have loved him anyway?

He tastes the yes of his answer in the
heartrending joy of a kiss.

***
Six

This is strange.

The sun’s too bright in his eyes and he raises a hand
to shade them, bemused gaze taking in the vista
before him. He thinks it must be like something he dreamed
once, this wide open expanse that’s so lush and cool
and green, the air washed so clean and fresh it was
like the world had started over.

He doesn’t remember such a dream. In fact, now he
thinks of it, it’s like everything has fogged over,
images showing only indistinct and gauzy as he
searches them out in his memory.

The bike beside him feels solid enough, though, and he
walks it along the trail, up to a grassy hill shaded
by elms and apple trees, looking out over the sea. He
parks the bike there and eases down in the grass, back
resting against the rough bark of a tree as he waits.

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, but -- shading
his eyes again and looking out over the water,
gleaming like silver in the sun -- he bets it’s that
boat that’s coming closer and closer, finally pitching
ashore on the rocky beach. He watches the man at the
oars climb out and look around, finally tilting his
golden head to look up and see him.

Throat constricted, something clenched in his belly,
Chris watches him hike up the path from the beach,
anticipation almost unbearable, his hands tearing up
fistfuls of grass as he watched him draw near.

“Toby?” He whispers it like something sacred, and
feels a benediction in the lips that touch his. Feels
the muscles of his face aching because he’s smiling so
huge.

“Toby.” He sighs the name now and feels himself
enfolded in a warmth he’s never known -- but once upon
a time.

This could be heaven, or it might be hell. He doesn’t
care. He was always ready to take either one, so long
as it came with Toby.

~the end~

Beecher/Keller: No Way But This; complete

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:12:22 GMT

Originally posted June 11, 2007.

This time, with Chris and Toby, as requested by foxxcub. Alas, she wanted it to be canon, the laundry room kiss, so you know that can only mean...

~No Way But This~

Chris looks at him sitting over there on the washer, all fresh faced and shiny, beaming with sunshine -- because he got to hold his babies … because he thinks he’s found a love to last the ages.

Idiot.

He wants to scream at him, tell him it’s a goddamn lie wrapped in a fairy tale, and he should smarten up and realize the world doesn’t fucking work that way.

He doesn’t know what makes him hold his tongue.

He doesn’t know why he wants to chase him away.

He only knows -- as Toby comes close and touches him and looks into his face -- that when Toby smiles at him it’s like he can feel the sun coming out and warming him right down to his bones. He only knows that when Toby whispers those words … I love you. … that he would sell his soul for them to be true.

When their lips meet, it’s like tasting heaven.

He wants it to last forever. For the world to freeze right there and never tick another second off the clock.

But paradise turns to brimstone on his tongue and he can already feel the blazing heat from the pit that awaits him for all that he’s done … for all that he’s about to betray with this kiss.

And he thinks, So who’s the idiot?

I kissed thee ere I killed thee: no way but this,
Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

- Othello, William Shakespeare

Holmes/Watson: Never Realized; complete

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:11:31 GMT

Originally posted June 5, 2007, for fanfromfla's birthday.

And you should thank callmerizzo too, as she put the idea in my head when she asked for that House/Wilson first kiss.

I hope you enjoy this. There's a visit with the B/K boys coming too, but that may be delayed until tomorrow.

~Never Realized~

“Watson,” Sherlock Holmes was hunched over his chemical table, engaged in some abstruse experiment, “I suppose we must look upon you as our resident Lothario.”

Startled, Watson lowered his newspaper. “I would hardly say that, Holmes.”

Holmes turned to regard him with thoughtful curiosity. “Well, your experience over three continents--”

“Was neither as profligate or as expansive as you may have been imagining.” What chain of observation and deduction may have led his friend to this line of conversation, Watson could not fathom. Romantic dalliances of the past could not have been further from his thoughts.

“No? Well, perhaps not,” Holmes said, and Watson knew he must be imagining the nervous quiver in his voice. “Still,” Holmes stood and walked over to the fireplace, “one must allow you are not inexperienced in the art of courtship.”

Watson set his paper aside and uncrossed his legs, moved to go over and join him but some inner sense telling him to bide where he was for the moment. “I suppose that’s true,” he said. “Holmes, I…” The only explanation he could think of for this topic seemed to beggar credulity. Yet what else could it be? “Holmes,” he cleared his throat delicately, “do you require … tutoring in the matter?”

With a look somewhere between relief and embarrassment, Sherlock Holmes shot him a quick smile. “Yes, a … a syllabus of sorts.”

Caught entirely unawares by such a request, Watson hit upon the only plausible explanation. “This is regarding a case?”

As if eagerly seizing upon that explanation, Holmes gave him an affirming nod. “Yes, of course that’s it. My dear, Watson,” he added with a charming smile, “do forgive me. I’ve quite got into your habit of telling a story the wrong way ‘round.”

And if that explanation carried something disingenuous about it, John Watson was prepared to patiently await a fuller explanation. “Pray, start again then,” he commanded, in playful imitation of Holmes’ usual imperious manner.

Holmes scored him a touch with a twitch of an eyebrow. Then, taking his usual seat opposite, long fingers steepled before him, he said, “A matter of some delicacy presented itself while you were on holiday--”

“Did it? When I asked this morning if you had had any cases, you replied in the negative.”

It was Holmes’ turn to be startled. “Yes, well,” he began, and only an intimate companion would have marked any fumbling for words, “as I said, it is a matter requiring discretion.”

“A situation which has changed in the twelve hours since breakfast?”

Holmes gave him a long and pensive look, grey eyes full of mysteries. “Twelve hours can be a great deal of time, Watson.”

Indeed it could, Watson thought, holding that gaze. He had lately found that twelve days could seem an eternity.

“I find I need to assume a role, Watson,” Holmes continued, picking his words with care and watching to see their effect, “for which I find myself ill-equipped.”

“That of a wooing lover?”

Holmes replied with a quick nod. “You have it, Watson.”

Struck momentarily speechless, Watson could not determine which concept was the more astonishing: the idea of Holmes assaying such a part, or his confessed lack of experience in love matters. “My dear fellow,” he said at last, when he could see his friend growing uncomfortable, “surely you exaggerate the meagerness of your knowledge?”

Coloring a bit and averting his gaze, Holmes said, “I quite assure you, my dear Watson, that I neither overstate nor diminish my areas of expertise.”

“But how--” Watson sat back, needing more time to digest this. Here was a man of thirty, in the prime of life, strikingly attractive in so many ways, and possessed of no inconsiderable charm, and yet he had never--? “Holmes…” He leaned forward again, trying to capture those grey eyes. “No experience, at all?”

Preferring the view of the fire blazing in the grate, Holmes said, “No, Watson, none whatever.” His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Such matters never seemed of any importance to me before.”

“But now that’s changed?”

“With regard to this case, yes.”

“Of course, the case. Well,” it hurt him to see what this was costing his friend, and he certainly would not let him down now, “I am certainly at your disposal, Holmes. How may I help?”

Holmes gave him a look of gratitude to be past this part. “Thank you. So, how … does one begin?”

Exhaling a deep breath, Watson said, “Well, if an acquaintance has been established, one makes conversation.”

“About what?” Holmes asked, watching him intently.

“About,” Watson shrugged, “ephemeral matters, to start with at least. Fashions and the minor scandals overheard at garden parties, that sort of thing,” he said, not missing the look of distaste that crossed Holmes’ face. He hastened to add, “There are some young ladies with whom one may discuss more substantial matters, but it’s generally best to wait until one discovers that for certain.” Watson gave him a searching look. “Can you gauge the level of,” he hesitated but an instant, “intimacy that may exist at present?”

Holmes looked back at him, startlingly exposed for an flash. “I … believe there is a degree of understanding established.” He swallowed, looked away again, glanced back. “And from conversing one may proceed onward to…?”

Watson glanced down at his boots, noticing for the first time that he had scuffed the left toe rather badly at some point in the day. “One could hold hands,” he said.

“Hold hands?”

He looked up to meet those inquisitive eyes. “Yes. To … clasp the hand of one you hold dear is reckoned very agreeable. Rather stimulating, actually,” he added, breaking off with am embarrassed cough.

“Truly?”

“Indeed.”

After a moment’s contemplation, Holmes got up from his chair and came to sit beside Watson on the sofa. “And how does one accomplish this?”

Watson gave him another probing look. “Like this, perhaps,” he said, laying his own hand atop Holmes’ where it rested on a sofa cushion.

Adam’s apple bobbing with an unguarded gulp, Holmes asked, “It wouldn’t be considered too forward?”

“Not where there is a,” Watson stroked his fingers slowly across the knuckles, “a degree of understanding.”

“And,” Holmes licked his lips as Watson turned his hand palm upright and lightly brushed the tips of his fingers, “what else might be,” his breath caught as Watson tickled his palm, “might be … achieved?”

“The usual thing,” Watson stumbled over the words, a thrill shooting up his spine as his friend, emboldened by knowledge, twined their fingers together, “the usual thing,” he tried once more, “would be to … kiss.”

“To kiss?”

“Yes.”

“And … are there secrets to that as well?”

Watson smiled. “There are indeed,” he said. “Secrets, and mysteries revealed,” he added, encouraged to go so far as to reach with his other hand and touch that thin, ascetic face.

A quick flinch of shock, grey eyes growing wide as Watson conquered that alarm, stroking a thumb along a high cheekbone. “Revelations?” he whispered.

“Revelations and wonders,” Watson said softly. He tasted both as, his hand slipping around to cradle the back of Holmes’ head, dark strands of hair slipping between his fingers, he leaned close to touch thin lips with his own.

“Oh…”

The word, the sound, filled with wonder and agony and exultation, was moaned against his mouth, and Watson drew back. “Holmes--”

Wrenching away from him, Sherlock Holmes crossed quickly to the fireplace, arms braced against the mantle as though desperately needing its support. “Watson, forgive me. I owe you a thousand apologies.”

Hesitating hardly a trice, Watson got up from the sofa and approached him. “For what?” he asked.

“Deceiving you just now.”

Watson smiled. “And where was there deception?”

Holmes bowed his head, his words almost too soft to hear. “There is no case, Watson.”

“I deduced as much.” Watson touched his back, felt him start … felt him calm and gentle as he gently massaged tautly strung muscle, his caress slowly drifting upward, fingers sliding into the black silk of his hair once more.

“You … deduced?”

“About the time you asked me to hold your hand.” Or, possibly, somewhat earlier.

“I see.”

“Do you?” Watson moved him so they faced each other, keeping none of his feelings hidden as Holmes’ searching gaze roamed his features.

“Perhaps … only a glimmer as yet,” Holmes admitted, lowering his eyes.

Watson cupped his chin, raising him up. “Then allow me to shed further illumination,” he said, and pulled him into a longer, deeper kiss, that he trusted would leave no room for doubt.

~*~
“Do you really have no experience?” With the evidence in his arms of a very responsive and passionate lover, Watson could hardly credit that.

“Until this evening, John, no, none at all.”

They were on the sofa, only somewhat disheveled, the only light coming from the blazing fire. Resting back against the cushions and holding Holmes to him, Watson stroked his hair, nuzzled his temple. “I suppose I must revise that paper I drew up then, describing the limits of your knowledge,” he said, gently teasing.

“I rather think not,” Holmes said with a definitive air.

“No,” Watson agreed, “especially as those gaps in your knowledge will shortly be addressed.”

“Yes,” Holmes sat up, facing him, reaching for him, “and I do expect you to make a very thorough job of it, my dearest Watson,” he said, and claimed another kiss.

~all~

I never realized what a kiss could be
This could only happen to me...

- "I Should Have Known Better," Lennon & McCartney

Highlander: Duncan/Methos; First Kiss

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:10:33 GMT

Originally posted June 1, 2007.

OK, this one was requested by kitestringer, who knows that once upon a time -- before discovering the wonder and the glory, and the canon slash of Beecher/Keller -- I was quite taken with these two guys, the Highlander & the 5,000-year-old-man, and wrote a bunch of fics about them. One of those fics even won an award. If it hadn't been for Chris and Toby, I might still be writing about Mac and the old guy, and it was fun to briefly revisit them.

One thing I never got around to writing was a post-Quickening snog, so that's what this is. (Quick primer in Immortals: the only way they can die is by getting their heads lopped off. If another Immortal does this, they take the Quickening, the life force of the other Immortal which includes all the Quickenings they took in their life.) In this instance, I went back to Chivalry, S4, when Methos comes to Seacouver, WA to warn the Highlander that a skanky evil bitch named Kristin is in town and that she's going to come for Duncan's head, using his protege, Richie Ryan, as bait. Methos also knows that, when push comes to shove, the honorable and chivalrous MacLeod will never be able to whack Kristin, so on a dark and lonely stretch of beach, when Duncan does indeed turn his back on her and walk away, Methos steps out of the shadows to finish the job. This snippet picks up immediately after that...

Waiting at the T-Bird, Duncan MacLeod tensed up, that automatic reflex to sensing another of his kind nearby. Usually, when he recognized a friend, the sensation ebbed and muted. Not this time. As he watched Methos step out of the night and approach the car, even at a distance he felt a powerful, thrumming vibration in the ancient Immortal that set every nerve on edge and kept it there.

Methos climbed into the passenger seat and settled back with a gusty sigh. “Highlander.”

“How do you feel?” What would it be like, to take a Quickening after sitting out the Game for decades, centuries?

“Alive.” Methos said it with relish, as if savoring every scintilla of Kristin’s Quickening as it continued to resonate inside him.

Hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, Duncan said, “Guess it’s been a while.”

“Just a bit.” Methos shifted restlessly in the seat. “A lot’s coming back to me.”

“I’ll bet.” The climax of the Quickening left you spent, but then the second charge would kick in, like you were on fire, the need to quench it, bleed it off, almost unbearable.

“Drive, Highlander,” Methos said, a dangerous amusement shimmering through his voice that sent a thrill up Duncan’s spine.

He drove, thinking of earlier, at the dojo, going one on one with Methos and finding himself at his mercy. He’d felt like a simple minded, wee mousie being toyed with by a sleek and underhanded cat -- for a moment. As Methos had moved in, the blade of his sword almost caressing Duncan’s throat, what he had felt most profoundly was an electric spark igniting every sense. If he hadn’t as swiftly turned the tables, if Richie hadn’t walked in on them…

Long fingers stroked the nape of his neck, pulled his hair tie loose, snarled themselves in his hair.

“Methos…”

“Keep driving.”

He kept driving, concentrating on the road, on the streetlights, on the traffic, as Methos … just stroked his head. Coveting it? The thought was less disturbing than it should have been.

~*~
“Now, where were we?” Methos purred, the *snick* of his sword being drawn the only warning as they crossed the floor of the dojo.

Pivoting, his own katana out in an instant to block Methos’, Duncan held nothing back this time, and the clang and clash of their blades echoed throughout the room, both breathing hard, eyes glittering with the thrill of the fight, bodies slick with the sweat of it until Duncan had him pressed against the wall again, razor sharp blade kissing his neck.

“Yield?”

“Make me.”

He did; sword clattering to the floor, Duncan gripped that ancient head and drew Methos to him, tasting fire as he kissed him.

The body pressed against him, lean and honed as any blade, did yield … minutely, by fractions, that first flare of desire slaked and made bearable.

“Maybe,” Methos nuzzled into his long, dark hair, “we could take this somewhere more private, Mac?”

“Yeah, I think that can be arranged.” Duncan cupped his chin, feeling a sense of wonder as he gazed at this oldest of them all -- who, when all was said and done, truly was just a guy.

He kissed him again, softer this time though hunger still gnawed at him, and wondered if he had a Do Not Disturb sign anywhere around here because he had a feeling this was going to be a very long night.

House/Wilson: First Kiss

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:09:36 GMT

Originally posted May 29, 2007.

So, callmerizzo asked me to write a House/Wilson first kiss, and this is the result. Please keep in mind that I have not read any House/Wilson fic (recs would be welcome, though), and strongly suspect my bent towards romantic slash probably isn't a good fit with these guys, but for whatever it's worth, and at 500 words...

As he stood gazing into the refrigerator, no trace left of his salad, Wilson didn’t even know why he was surprised.

“Was it good?”

“Umm,” over on the couch, House dabbed his mouth with a napkin, “delicious.”

“I made enough for two.”

“I got the munchies.”

Wilson sighed, shut the fridge, and joined House on the couch. “Even wolves wouldn’t raise you.” He looked at the television. “What are we watching?”

“Sherlock Holmes. He’s telling Watson why he ran away and hid for three years.”

“Because he was keeping out of the way of Moriarty’s henchmen.”

House shook his head. “That was just a cover. He was running away from the love that dare not speak its name.”

Wilson gave him an incredulous look. “He was not.”

But House only continued with absolute conviction. “They were totally doing it.”

“Watson had a wife!”

“Beard.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “What’s your evidence?”

“Two bachelors, living together, people start talking--”

“We’re two bachelors living together.”

House waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Wilson sighed, settled back more comfortably, too tired to even consider what lay at the heart of this conversation. House wanted something, because House always wanted something: information to be used at a critical time; an extra ball to toss in the air and go ‘aha!’ just when Wilson thought he finally had him cornered. Who the hell knew?

“Picture it,” House was going on, “the gaslight flickering in the foggy street as a hansom cab pulls up and Holmes and Watson get out, back home after chasing the Hound of the Baskervilles across the moor, and needing to wind down--”

“So Holmes reaches for his syringe of cocaine.”

“Only if Watson wasn’t putting out.”

Oh.

Wilson skewed around on the couch, taking a longer look at him now, not so tired now. He was probably wrong. And even if he was right, House would find some way to use it. On the other hand, it would give him a trump card to play as well.

“House?”

“What?”

Wilson slid a hand around the back of House’s neck, tugging him closer, pleased to see an expression of utter astonishment in those blue eyes just before their lips met.

“Wil--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Wilson said, both hands cradling his head, making the kiss deeper.

When House opened his mouth, Wilson slipped his tongue inside before any caustic, cutting words could be uttered. When House put an arm around him, and kissed him back, Wilson pushed him down on the couch.

“This doesn’t change anything,” House said, breath catching as Wilson refocused his attention on House’s neck.

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

Wilson looked at him and smiled. “Because I can,” he said, pressing a softer kiss to the corner of his mouth.

One hand caught in his hair, House studied his face, his own features hardly giving anything away. “I guess you can,” he said at last, lips parting easily this time as Wilson moved in for another kiss.

Holmes/Watson: He Plays the Violin; complete

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:08:44 GMT

Originally posted May 27, 2007.

Title: He Plays The Violin
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13 (lots of UST, though, I hope)
Disclaimer: Sir Arthur had the brilliance to create them, I've just loved them since forever and can't resist dabbling my toe in the pool just a bit.

Canon source: The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse... - from The Five Orange Pips, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

Huge, ginormous thank you to fanfromfla for, (1) gifting me with a lovely two-volume set of the Holmes stories to read, because they are ever so much easier to handle than The Annotated Sherlock Holmes volumes that all I've had on hand for ages; (2) for encouraging me to keep going with this; and (3) for doing an amazing beta job. *mwah* Any remaining goofs are, as always, entirely mine.

Dedicated to her, and to kitestringer, and callmerizzo, and anyone else around these parts who loves these characters.

~He Plays The Violin~

Hesitating at the corner, Dr. John Watson gazed down the street where a young violinist, clearly experiencing a downward turn in his fortunes, was having some success charming the odd coin or two from passersby.

The figure presented exactly the right degree of a certain genteel shabbiness so as to invoke feelings of pity and sympathy. His threadbare clothes, battered old bowler and scuffed boots had clearly once been of the finest quality. Also, one could easily see that, given a decent shave and haircut, the impecunious young gentleman would not disgrace the city’s most elegant drawing rooms.

As he coaxed a diversity of tunes from his violin -- a dazzling sonata of Paganini’s, an Irish folk tune that bypassed maudlin sentimentality for a deeper poignancy that resonated long after the final notes had faded -- a stranger might wonder at the circumstances that had brought the violinist to such a lowly state.

Watson, however, as he drew closer, found himself more inclined to wonder how many times the man had performed in this fashion to display such a natural conviction in the role. He’d known him six years now, and there were just as many mysteries as at the beginning. Twenty years, Watson suspected, would find him still uncovering riddles.

Far more troubling, though, was having to confront his own blindness. In the face of such music, how could he have ever thought that the nature of this man was cold and machine-line? He had wanted to believe the impromptu concerts in their sitting room -- played for him alone -- were a revelation of what lay beneath a surface so controlled and precise, but he had dismissed such thoughts, suspecting himself of overindulging a romantic imagination.

As his friend had told him often enough, he had seen but he had not observed.

Most singularly unsettling of all was the minuscule twinge of jealousy he found himself experiencing, that all these strangers shared in what should have been for hime alone. Nor was Watson entirely certain miniscule was the correct word.

Standing directly before the violinist now, Watson waited until grey eyes lifted to meet his, glittering with curiosity -- and not a little uncertainty. Sherlock Holmes was surprised. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t entirely certain.

Unable to deny that he experienced a degree of satisfaction in that achievement, Watson tipped his hat and dropped a half crown into the shabby bowler.

Sherlock Holmes looked at the offering, looked back at Watson, and cocked a dark eyebrow that conveyed amusement, challenge, and pique.

Barely allowing himself a smile, Watson acquiesced and dug a sovereign from his pocket to add to his friend’s ill-gotten gains.

With an air of satisfaction now, Holmes tucked the violin under his chin once more, beginning to play a particular favorite of Watson’s. For a few moments, under the spell of the music -- and those grey eyes that remained locked upon his own -- he felt they might have been all alone there in the midst of London.

Then someone jostled against him and the spell was broken. But although it was masked in an instant, Watson glimpsed a flash of shared disappointment in Holmes’ eyes that made his step lighter as he turned for home.

~*~
Resigned to dining alone, Watson was just lifting the cover off a dish of potatoes when he heard rapid footsteps coming up the stairs and, seconds later, Sherlock Holmes burst into their sitting room.

“Starting without me, Watson?” he asked, tossing the beat-up old bowler, now dotted with spots of rain, on a chair.

“It was looking unlikely for your return, Holmes. Any success?”

“Considerable, before the weather turned,” Holmes said. To illustrate, he removed his coat and emptied the contents of the pockets onto their table, heedless of their clinking against Mrs. Hudson’s china. A generous assortment of coins, and even a few pound notes as well, was indeed revealed.

“Yes, well, I meant with the case,” Watson said, getting up from the table to go to poke up the fire.

“Ah, yes, there has been some progress on that front as well.” Holmes plucked one sovereign from the tumble of coins and extended it across the table to Watson. “I believe this is yours, dear fellow.”

Watson waved it away. “It was offered in true appreciation, Holmes. It's yours to keep.”

Holmes gave him a thoughtful look, then nodded and set his violin case down on the sofa, extracting his precious Stradivarius. “You know, Watson,” long, white fingers stroked the satiny wood, “I do believe this fiddle is one of the two best investments I ever made.”

“Yes? And what is the other?” Watson asked, but his only reply was an enigmatic look accompanied by a smile that would not have shamed the Mona Lisa.

“Don’t let me keep you from supper,” Holmes said. “Just let me change out of these disreputable clothes and I shall join you shortly.” He left the door of his bedroom ajar, however, as he bustled about getting changed, continuing their conversation. “As for the case, I still know nothing of the whereabouts of the Hon. Jocelyn Rawlings, but I believe I have made contact with a member of this Amateur Mendicant Society.”

“So the rumors Lady Westabrook reported to us have some foundation?”

“It appears they do,” Holmes said, reappearing and looking considerably more like himself, grey dressing gown thrown on over his clothes, and some attempt made to tidy his hair. “At least, I -- or my artistic alter ego, rather -- have been invited to a meeting tomorrow evening where I anticipate some illumination will be cast. Really, Watson, you’re not eating. Perhaps you caught a chill in your solitary rambles about the city today?”

“I am quite well, Holmes,” he said, helping himself to Mrs. Hudson’s excellent roast beef. “And I was not engaged in any idle ramble.”

“No?” Holmes lit a cigarette, “You came with intent, then?”

Confident his hesitation was too slight for notice, let alone that it gave anything away, Watson said, “I had some curiosity as to how your investigation was going, and as I was in the neighborhood--”

“In that neighborhood, doing what? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Watson met his eyes briefly. “Perhaps I do mind.” After all, the only thing truly confirmed for him was Holmes’s appearance of cool detachment was, in part at least, only another disguise.

“Ah.” Holmes leaned back in his chair, puffing on the cigarette. “You’ll forgive me, but this seems an odd time to start keeping secrets from me.”

On ground so uncertain he scarcely knew where to take a step, Watson kept his eyes on his dinner plate, replying with a slight lift of his shoulders -- not quite concealing a wince at the dull ache in the left one. “Perhaps I have all along.”

Tone thoughtful, Sherlock Holmes said, “Perhaps we both have, my dear Watson.”

Chancing a look then, Watson could only discern that his friend’s steps were just as wary and undecided as his own. The realization was rather less heartening that he might have expected.

~*~
“Are you in much pain?”

Watson shook his head, settled more comfortably against the sofa cushions. “It’s a familiar ache by now.”

Holmes nodded. “So it is,” he murmured, as if to himself. Taking his usual chair and gazing into the fire, their curtains drawn against the cold and rainy night, he continued in the same manner. “There is, at least, a degree of comfort in the familiar.”

Fairly certain they weren’t talking about his wound, Watson said, “I suppose that’s true. It is a reminder of what we have, and how much we risk losing, when change beckons.”

Holmes shot him a quick look, a wistful longing showing so nakedly on his features that, for a flash, Watson felt his breath catch in his throat. “And if the price should seem too steep?”

His own heart soaring even as it hurt him to see his friend struggling so hard, Watson said, “Perhaps one would find his burden lessened by sharing it.”

Grey eyes still troubled, Holmes nodded. “You may have the right of it, my dear Watson,” he said, resting his violin across his knees.

As much as Watson wished to help him find a surer footing along this path, he knew there was little more he could do but wait.

He picked up his novel, but found the tale far less engrossing than Holmes’s scraping on the violin. At first, it was scarcely a tune at all, but rather those abstract and formless notes of his own devising. After a few minutes, however, those sounds began to take on a more definitive structure -- as if the player’s thoughts had cleared and a straight course of action was at last fully perceived.

All pretense of reading abandoned, Watson let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes drifting shut the better to absorb the beauty of the sound. He had felt envy at all those strangers made privy to this music, to this side of Sherlock Holmes? He could but marvel at his foolishness now. None but he would ever know this music. The warmth of it, a passion and tender, yearning intimacy woven throughout, would fall on no ears but his own.

Eyes still closed, he heard Holmes moving, felt him very near, right behind him. So terribly afraid to startle him and frighten him away, Watson held himself absolutely still as the last note trailed away -- and he felt trembling fingers stroke his hair, come to rest on his shoulder and curl there as if to cradle long-ago injured flesh. Unable to remain motionless any longer, Watson reached up to cover that hand, press it firmly to him.

“John…” His name was whispered as though it were a treasured secret of incalculable worth.

Watson turned his head, brushed his lips against the tender inside of Holmes’ wrist, feeling the pulse beating rapidly. Desire curled even more profoundly through him at the sharp, stunned gasp of pleasure his delicate caress provoked.

He kissed the palm, the slender fingers as the hand was slowly withdrawn, and though Sherlock Holmes resumed his violin in the next few moments, John Watson felt certain the night would yet reveal even more singular developments.

~the end~

==========================
He plays the violin
He tucks it right under his chin
And he bows, oh he bows
For he knows, yes he knows
That it's hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle
It's my heart, ~~Tom~~ Holmes and his fiddle
My strings are unstrung
Hi-hi-hi-hi
I am undone

I hear his violin
And I get that feeling within
And I sigh, oh I sigh
He draws near, very near
And it's hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle
Goodbye to the fiddle
My strings are unstrung
Hi-hi-hi-hi
I'm always undone

For it was hi-hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle
'Twixt my heart, ~~Tom~~ Holmes, and his fiddle
And ever 'twill be
Hi-hi-hi-hi
Through eternity

He plays the violin.

- from 1776, by Peter Stone & Sherman Edwards

Beecher/Keller: On the Scent; WIP

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 18:07:25 GMT

Originally posted May 15, 2007, for the Kink & Cliche Challenge.

Author: Riley Cannon
Title: On the Scent
Fandom, pairing(s), rating: Oz; B/K; PG-13
Your prompt: temporary blindness -> hijinks ensue

~On the Scent~

“And that’s all you can tell us, Mr. Beecher?” asked Detective Sean Murphy, manner and expression so neutral Toby knew the man suspected him of withholding crucial information.

Bruised and beat up, though, only wanting to go home, and not even up to pretending anything was ever going to feel safe again, Toby said, “I don’t know what else you expect me to tell you, Detective.” He wanted to shout hey, asshole, I’m the victim here, but suspected that would not score him points. This was so fucked, though. All he’d done was get kidnapped. How the hell could he help it if his escape was inexplicable?

“Just go through it one more time,” Murphy said.

Before his father could protest, Toby held up a hand, said, “It’s okay, Dad,” and went over it one more time. He’d been about to get in his car in the law firm’s parking garage when someone had come up behind him, pinned him against the Lexus as another guy got a blindfold on him and stuffed a greasy rag in his mouth -- he’d spat it out first chance he got but could still taste it, vile, on his tongue. He’d heard a vehicle pull up, been shoved into the back of a delivery van and taken somewhere that turned out to be an abandoned warehouse where he’d been shoved into a chair, hands and legs tied. He still couldn’t believe it had only been three days; those times a gun had been held to his head, the cold steel of the barrel digging into his cheek or knocking against his skull, it had felt like eternity was spinning out breath by precious breath.

“And then some good Samaritan just happened to wander by and let you go?” Murphy asked, pen tapping against the notebook open on the table between them.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Toby said, and instantly knew the detective was going to pounce on that qualification.

Eyebrows raised minutely, Murphy prodded, “Pretty much?”

Toby shrugged. “Look, all I know is, one minute I’m seeing my life flash before me, expecting some goon to come back and blow my brains out,” he saw his father wince at that, “and the next, somebody’s untied me and let me go.”

Fortunately, being the victim here, he wasn’t hooked up to a polygraph machine. If he had been, bells and whistles might have been going off now.

“And you have no idea who it was?”

He shook his head.

“No way you could ID him?”

If he hesitated then, it was only by an infinitesimal fraction. And really, from a practical viewpoint, his answer was utter truth. “No, I couldn’t.” What were the chances, after all, that the details he might supply would lead anywhere? Hours later, it had already taken on a surreal element that made him uncertain it had even happened like that…

***
Clammy, sticky sweat breaking out all over and making his shirt, already rank with perspirtion, cling to his back; fingers slippery with it, Toby made one last desperate attempt to loosen the ropes that bound his wrists. It wouldn’t work this time, either, but he had to try, just in case.

He strained, twisted, until the ropes felt like they were burning him, cutting him. Exhausted with the effort, mouth dry, heart hammering so hard and loud in his chest he would have sworn he couldn’t hear anything else … but then he did, footsteps grinding through the greasy grit of the concrete floor. Blindly, he searched for the sound, holding his breath, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. Like it mattered. Like his brains weren’t about to be splattered all over the place.

The footsteps were closer now; he sensed whoever it was standing right beside him, and braced himself for the explosion of the gun, for the impact of the shot. How much would he feel? Just that momentary bam, or would there be time enough to feel the bullet shattering bone, tearing through his brain? Would he have time enough to know he was dead? Would--

“Shhh.”

The caution was breathed against his ear, stopping his frantic thoughts in their tracks. Almost stopping his heart with the unexpectedness of it. “What--”

The voice rumbled that warning -- reassurance? -- again, reinforced it with two fingers laid against his lips.

Frozen there, breath coming fast and harsh, and hardly calming as those fingers rubbed along his bottom lip as if wiping blood away. He wanted to ask who it was, which of his captors was fucking with him now, but suspected the only response would be that hushed and rough shhh once more. And besides, as the other man leaned closer and Toby could breathe in the scent of him, he had the craziest idea that this was someone different … only not, exactly.

The men who’d been holding them, though, had reeked of unwashed bodies, stale cigarette smoke, and booze. This one -- he smelled of soap and aftershave, clean and sharp, spice and citrus … And spearmint gum?

“Who are you?” He got the words out this time. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“That right?” That voice was right against his ear once more, some imagined echo of familiarity in its purr. “Got it all figured out?”

He’d thought so. His scenario hadn’t included feeling the ropes around his ankles being cut away, the same thing happening to the ones cutting into his wrists a moment later -- the injured wrists being cradled, gently chafed … And he sucked in a sharp gasp as lips brushed the bruised and abraded flesh.

“What are you--”

At his ear once more, murmuring that, “Shhh,” Toby would have sworn he heard a smile in that voice. “Don’t you ever shut up?” it sighed then, and despite the oppressive heat, Toby shivered, feeling as if that voice caressed him.

Feeling helpless, his head insisting he was being set up in the cruelest way, and warring with an instinct he didn’t know how to trust, he could only demand, “Why are you doing this?”

A thumb caressed his cheek, lips followed, lingering at the corner of his mouth. “Someday,” that maddening, indefinable voice murmured again, “it’ll be fairly obvious.”

Impatient now, bordering on infuriated, Toby reached to yank the blindfold off, wanting -- needing -- to look his fate straight in the face. Hands caught his wrists, gripped like iron now where their touch had been so tender.

“No. Not yet.”

Fury ready to break out, Toby growled back, “Fuck you,” and would have testified he heard a smirk.

The only audible reply, however, was, “Come on,” as he was hauled to feet and dragged along -- unceremoniously shoved along when he tried to resist and put up a fight. “For your information,” the man said as the creak of metal heralded the opening of a door, and a blast of air, cool and wet with rain, hit him, “I’m saving your goddamn life. Now,” he was pushed again, stumbling for his balance, “get the hell out of here and flag down the first cop you see.”

Grabbing onto a metal railing, Toby steadied himself, yanked the blindfold off and looked wildly around at his surroundings: the hulking bulk of a dark and empty warehouse, a weed-and-gravel strewn parking area, street lights gleaming through the rain -- and not a sign of his anonymous benefactor, as if the man had melted back into the shadows from which he’d stepped...

***
He’d run toward the street, no idea how he was going to get help, find a cop out here in the boondocks, but he hadn’t had to look hard. Even as he’d scrambled his way through the rock and brush to reach the road, he’d heard the sound of sirens screeching through the night, blue-and-red lights illuminating the darkness as half a dozen radio cars and an ambulance had converged upon him, his father piling out of one of them and wrapping him up in a bear hug like he was five-years-old again.

He had told Detective Murphy his story then, the gist at least, and wearily pondered how many more times he would have to repeat it before the detective believed what happened.

“And you had the idea he wasn’t one of the men holding you?” Detective Murphy asked.

So fucking tired he could have laid his head down on the interrogation and gone to sleep right there, Toby managed a shrug. “I don’t know who he was. I don’t know how many ways to tell you that,” he said, hearing an edge creep into his voice.

Harrison heard it, too, and stepped forward, his own patience clearly having worn thin. “I’m taking my son home, Detective. If he remembers anything else, I can assure he will let you know.”

And if Detective Murphy had an urge to object, he quelled it smoothly, and Toby scored one for his dad.

“Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?” Harrison asked him, giving him an anxious once over as they made their way out of Detective Murphy’s squad room.

Toby shook his head. “I need a shower and twelve hours sleep, that’s all. They,” he hesitated, bit lip, felt the soreness from before, “scared me more than anything.”

Harrison nodded, patted him on the back, left his hand their to guide him along.

Toby appreciated that support all the more as some hullabaloo started up, uniformed cops dragging in a guy who was evidently intent on making them earn their pay as he fought them, trying to twist loose, lashing out with hands and feet, spewing obscene speculation of their sex habits with furious glee, demanding to see Murphy. One of the cops, bellowing at the guy to shut his yap, belted him a good one and sent him staggering into the Beechers. Harrison, looking beyond aggravated, fastidiously disentangled and pulled Toby away -- but not before Toby’s eyes locked with the other man’s, their vivid blue standing out in the squad room’s dim lights … distinctive even in the dim-wattage of a shabby hotel room, gazing up at him from a tangle of damp sheets; even then, smelling clean and sharp, some intangible mix of spice and citrus and sex -- and spearmint gum.

Before Toby could form a question, before he could pin down the certainty of what he saw in those eyes, the guy was hauled away, any sliver of uncertainty instantly cloaked in a criminal swagger, a cocky grin, and a shouted, “Motherfuckers!” at the cops as he was handed over to the waiting Murphy.

“Toby,” Harrison tugged at his arm, “what is it?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s…” He glanced at his father, pulled up a wry smile. “It’s just been a long couple of days, Dad.”

With an expressive sigh, Harrison nodded in agreement. “Tell me about it.”

***
Sean Murphy shoved the cup of coffee across the interrogation table, gave his partner a considering look. “Beecher see you?”

Taking a drink of the coffee, making a face at it, Chris Keller nodded. “Oh yeah.”

“He said there’s no way he can ID you.”

Chris blew out a sigh, scratched his shoulder. “Not from the warehouse, maybe.”

Murphy sat down, almost too tired to be exasperated. “There something you’re not telling me?”

Chris slouched down some more, hooked one leg up on the table and repeated, “Oh yeah,” with feeling.

There's supposed to be more, but it's too hot and I'm out of steam, and this is already 24 hours late...