Chapter Seven

"I don't suppose you'd consider killing the bug I found in your bathtub."

Duncan regarded him with a stony, silent contempt, lip firmly in place and arms crossed against his chest. Methos groaned and lowered his head to the bed. Not a sound came to his ears at that moment but the shower, which was no doubt conducting the harmless insect that had inspired this desperate attempt to its watery grave. So much for Plan H.

There was always the plan of last resort, of course, which consisted of Methos running his sword through the drunken idiot's body and dumping him into the bathtub. He might drown a few times, but Methos hadn't attended a public dunking in centuries, and he could think of no more worthy candidate for one than Sulky MacPout. But killing MacLeod was not likely to make him particularly receptive to anything Methos had to say, and it was imperative that, for once in his absurdly short life, Duncan MacLeod listen to someone.

Methos was running out of options. He had tried everything he could think of over the past two hours, and nothing would budge the Immovable Stench from its perch at the end of the bed. All that remained left to try was...Plan I.

He sighed deeply, thankful that he hadn't had anything to eat for several days, and that Duncan was probably drunk enough that he wouldn't remember this tomorrow. Summoning all his intestinal fortitude, he swallowed hard and uttered a muffled sob and some exquisitely pathetic raspy breaths, pitched at precisely the correct pitch and volume required for maximum effect.

"Methos?" MacLeod's response was uncertain, but immediate.

"Sorry," whispered Methos, not raising his face from the bed. "I'm sorry, Mac. I just can't...can't take seeing you like this."

There was a moment of silence, and Methos swore silently, wondering if he had overplayed it. The hesitant hand on his shoulder reassured him.

"Methos...."

Methos' head shot up at the physical contact and the softness of Duncan's tone. "Mac," he said huskily. "You do care."

"Aye, well, of course," said Duncan with an uncomfortable expression, removing his hand not quite hastily enough to give offense.

"I knew it," breathed Methos, catching the hand in his own before Duncan could reclaim it, startled by its warm strength. "I could feel it from the moment we met. The moment I looked up and saw those beautiful brown eyes, I knew we were meant for each other."

"You...you what?" stammered Duncan.

"Tell me you want me, Mac," murmured Methos, lifting his face and angling his mouth toward Duncan's. "Tell me you want me as much as I want you."

"What are you sayin', man?" squeaked Duncan, eyes wide with a slowly growing horror.

"I'm saying that I want you more than life itself, more than I want to breathe," whispered Methos fiercely, ignoring the small voice's rather tart observation that this was not saying much, since Methos had no desire whatsoever to breathe in this man's presence. With one fluid motion, Methos seized Duncan's other wrist, flung himself on top of him, held his breath, and pressed his mouth to the Scot's with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

And Duncan did nothing.

Methos had fully expected Duncan to fling him aside in the first second, but the first second came and went and Methos was still kissing Duncan MacLeod. Two seconds. Three. Could Duncan possibly like this? Not that the experience was quite as nauseating as Methos had expected. In fact, nauseating wasn't in any way an accurate description. It was warm, soft, gentle ... arousing. And Duncan seemed to agree ... he was beginning to kiss Methos back. Methos' confused, frantic ruminations ended abruptly as Duncan suddenly exploded into action; he grabbed Methos by the shoulders and shoved him roughly away.

Duncan lurched off the bed, tripped, fell onto his backside, and proceeded to back away on hands and feet like a demented crab, shaking his head frantically. "Are you daft, man? Have you lost your mind?"

"Only for you," said Methos huskily as he rose, heart pounding and face peculiarly hot, and grateful beyond words that the remainder of this farce could be played from a relatively safe distance. He made a mental note to go get himself a date at the earliest opportunity.

"Methos, I dinna feel that way. I've never thought--"

"I'll teach you, Mac. Let me teach you. I know I can bring you pleasure, and you can pleasure me," breathed Methos, advancing toward Duncan.

Duncan staggered to his feet and continued to back away, his arms extended in a pitiful attempt to ward Methos off. "No, no, I dinna want--"

"Oh, but you do. I can feel it. I can feel the need pulsing through that magnificently muscled, bronzed body," said Methos rapturously, computing with precision the trajectory necessary for target acquisition. He stepped slightly to the left and continued to advance, backing Duncan slowly but surely toward the open door of the bathroom. "I want to feel you inside me, Mac--"

"No," gasped Duncan, accelerating his retreat.

"And I want you to feel me inside you."

"Christ Jesus!"

"We're soul mates, Mac. I've known it from the start. I can't live without you." Methos pulled the sweatshirt he was wearing over his head and discarded it as he moved forward, noting with sadistic satisfaction the stark terror in Duncan's eyes.

"Keep away!" rasped Duncan backing up into the doorjamb of the bathroom door. "I dinna want to hurt you--"

"Don't you?" purred Methos seductively, angling his approach to shepherd Duncan through the bathroom door. "I thought we'd take turns hurting each other. It will hurt so good, Mac. I want your throbbing manhood pounding into me--"

"No, no, my manhood's not throbbing!" cried Duncan wildly, backing up until his calves were against the bathtub.

"No?" asked Methos, grinning fiendishly, "Let's have a look then." He launched himself into a flying tackle that knocked Duncan backward into the tub and under the falling water with Methos on top of him. They were both drenched instantly. The shower curtain proved to be something of an annoyance, but once Methos wrestled it out of the way, he lay hold of Duncan's wet sweatshirt and pulled it over the half-stunned Scot's head with relatively little difficulty. It wasn't until Methos started yanking on Duncan's sweatpants that the younger man regained enough awareness to struggle, however ineffectually, and he promptly began bellowing like a bull moose in heat.

"Take your hands off me! I'm not throbbing! I dinna want you! Nooooo!"

"Take it like a man, Mac," returned Methos coolly, pulling the pants off with one hand and shoving Duncan's head under the spray with the other.

"No! I dinna want to take it! Get off me, you daft bastard, get off!"

"Am I intruding?"

Methos turned, startled, to see Joe Dawson standing in the doorway with the carefully schooled expression of a man who was enjoying himself entirely too much.

"What the hell are you doing here?" snapped Methos, shoving Duncan's head under the spray again as he tried to catch a glimpse of the new arrival.

"Joe!" bellowed Duncan wildly, sputtering as the water ran into his mouth. "Get him off me, get him off!"

"Just happened to be in the neighborhood," said Joe casually. "How's it going, MacLeod?"

"You were supposed to stay put," growled Methos, feeling the water collecting inside his wet jeans and shifting uncomfortably. "And where's--" He paused as the signature of an Immortal reached him. "Oh. You two just decided to take a little stroll, did you?"

"Well, it got a little boring at my place, so we thought we'd shuffle on over here," drawled Joe.

Methos saw Joe's Watcher eye taking in every detail, and he could just imagine the scene from his perspective: the shower curtain torn from its rings, the water covering every surface, the naked, bellowing man in the tub, and the half-naked man sitting on top of him. It would make a hell of a Chronicle entry, and Methos grinned in pure sadistic pleasure at the thought of this scene being recorded for posterity.

"He wants me!" howled Duncan.

"Come again?" asked Joe politely, every muscle in his face fighting a grin.

"Oh, good for you, Mac," said Joe pleasantly.

"What the hell?" Richie appeared at the door with wide eyes. "Whoa."

"He wants me inside him!" spluttered Duncan from under the spray.

"Ahhh...okay," said Richie faintly.

"Richie," gasped Duncan breathlessly, obviously becoming aware of his former student's presence. "It's not what it looks like...."

"Be useful, Rich, and bring us a cup of coffee," said Methos calmly, squirting some shampoo onto Duncan's head and lathering it roughly. The water was rapidly going cold.

"Coffee. Right," said Richie hastily, disappearing.

Joe cleared his throat, mouth twitching. "Are you sure you're not throbbing, MacLeod?"

Duncan was prevented from answering as Methos shoved his head back under the water and glared at the Watcher balefully. "You are not supposed to be here. What the hell do you think you're doing, Joe? You know what could--"

"I needed to talk to you now," replied Joe quietly, catching his eye.

Methos knew the look, and his stomach dropped. Shit. Something had happened. "Give me a minute."

"Take your time," said Joe, obviously unable to restrain a grin any longer. "I can get a few shots for his file." He pulled a small camera out of his pocket.

"Put it away," growled Methos, fighting exhausted laughter as he rinsed the last of the shampoo from Duncan's hair and shoved more of his body under the falling water.

"Joe," rasped Duncan.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not--"

"I know. You're not throbbing. Do I want to know what brought this on?"

Methos glanced up at his friend with his best innocent expression. "I offered him the ecstasy of my manly love," he said with moving sincerity.

"Yup, that'd do it," said Joe drily.

"Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me." Each word was uttered very distinctly, and Methos looked down into a pair of smoldering but definitely more sober brown eyes.

Richie appeared in the doorway with eyes like saucers and a coffee cup in his hands as Methos released his captive and stood up, dripping. "Oh, gladly, MacLeod. You're quite a disappointment, and don't think I can't do better. I've had a hell of a lot better men than you throb for me."

Richie put the coffee down on the vanity and exited with a red face and no comment.

Duncan glared up at him, valiantly ignoring the cold water pouring down his face. "Get. Out."

"I suppose I can trust you to wash your armpits?"

"Get out!" roared Duncan in a voice that could be heard in the nave of Notre Dame.

Joe calmly snapped a picture before retreating, and Duncan snarled inarticulately.

Methos climbed out of the tub and grabbed a towel on his way toward the door. "Don't let your coffee get cold, MacLeod."

"The next time you touch me--"

"Don't flatter yourself," retorted Methos with a smirk. "You've got a lot to learn about showing a guy a good time, MacLeod. Just what precisely would be my motivation for touching you?"

Duncan seized the first object at hand, a bar of soap, and flung it at Methos in rage and frustration. "Get the hell out of here!"

Methos caught the soap neatly and tossed it back into the tub. "You need that more than I do," he observed crisply. "Use it." He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

***

Joe sank gratefully into Duncan's sofa next to Richie, leaning back and closing his eyes wearily. God, he could sleep for a week. "Well, that was fun."

"I don't know about you," said Richie dazedly, "but I could've gone my whole life without seeing that."

Joe had no idea where the energy for a laugh came from, but it came nonetheless. He opened his eyes and looked at the young man beside him. "You ought to get out more, Rich. Expand your horizons."

Richie gave him a sour look. "Sometimes I wonder about you, Dawson."

Joe laughed again; it seemed like the only thing he could do. It was either that or have a nervous breakdown. He briefly considered the breakdown, but before he could give the matter any serious thought, he heard the bathroom door close, and Methos entered the room.

Methos' flippant expression faded the instant he laid eyes on his friends, and he sighed, rubbing a towel through his hair and across his chest as he made his way to the bureau beside the bed.

He pulled off his soaked sneakers and socks, muttering under his breath.

"How is he?" asked Richie nervously.

"He's wet," said Methos shortly, yanking open one of the drawers and rooting through the clothes. "And angry. And a lot less pungent than he was a few minutes ago, to say nothing of less drunk. Now you two have some explaining to do. Make it fast."

"It's not my fault," said Richie hastily as Methos' sharp gaze settled on him. "I told him to stay put, but he wouldn't."

"Then you should have knocked him down and sat on him," snapped Methos, stripping off his wringing wet jeans and drying himself.

Richie sighed and pointedly averted his gaze, looking at Joe with a pained expression.

"Don't mind us," said Joe mildly, noting Richie's discomfort with amusement.

Methos snorted and pulled on a pair of Duncan's sweatpants, yanking the drawstring as tight as it would go. The pants barely stayed up. "What? I've got something you don't? Tell me what's happened, Joe. Before Mac gets out here."

Richie opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then shut it again, frowning thoughtfully.

"Nobody knows where Shapiro is," said Joe quietly. "But I'd put real money on his being in Paris. The people closest to him say he's become emotionally unstable and obsessed with Lucius Germanicus."

Methos froze for a moment in the act of struggling into one of Duncan's tee shirts, then continued. "And?" His voice was taut.

"And we can't find Étienne."

Methos nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. "He'll be with Shapiro, then."

"Maybe," said Joe softly. "But why would Étienne stand there all night to talk to me and then leave without even trying?"

"Maybe because he saw he wasn't going to get the chance," put in Richie quickly. "He saw he wasn't going to get you alone. That's probably what he's telling Shapiro right now."

"I hope you're right," said Joe quietly, trying to ignore the long-unused battle instinct that insisted on screaming that they were wrong. "Because if you aren't...."

"There's no reason to think anything else right now," said Methos in a strained voice. "Look, this is not something we should discuss here, so--"

"Why not? Mac could help," said Richie with a puzzled frown.

"Mac could help with what?" came from the direction of the bathroom door.

Joe sighed. Shit. This was not good. "Nothing important, Mac. Just Watcher business."

Duncan approached slowly but steadily, tying the sash of his bathrobe as he moved. His eyes swept the three men suspiciously. "Oh? Has Adam renewed his membership?"

"No," said Methos sharply.

"What about you, Richie? Enlisted yet?"

Richie looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Come on, Mac, relax. We're just trying to help Joe out with a little problem, that's all."

"You both look like you've been up all night," persisted Duncan, eyes raking over both his former student and his Watcher.

"Mac, we need to talk," said Methos firmly.

"I thought so," said Duncan grimly. "What have you dragged them into?"

Joe could almost feel Methos' emotional recoil, saw his eyes narrow and his jaw set, and spoke up quickly. "Nobody's dragged anybody anywhere, MacLeod. This has nothing to do with Methos."

"You're sure of that, are you? What's going on?"

"We need to talk about the dreams, Mac."

Joe could hear the effort required to keep Methos' voice calm and steady, and offered up a brief prayer for a reasoned response from a very unreasonable Duncan MacLeod.

Duncan studied him for a moment, then shrugged and seated himself in a chair across from Joe and Richie. "Well?"

Methos rose from the bed and came closer to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Joe. "You can't drink for a while. That only makes them worse."

"Fine," said Duncan evenly.

Methos leaned forward angrily. "I mean it, MacLeod. No alcohol. I speak from experience, okay? The more you drink, the worse the dreams get. Got it?"

"I get it," replied Duncan coldly.

Joe flinched involuntarily at the sound. If anyone had told him six months ago that MacLeod would ever use that voice to address Methos, a man who had saved his life half a dozen times, he would have told them they were crazy. Damn him! Joe managed to keep his mouth shut, knowing interruptions would only prolong the agony.

Methos drew a quick breath and continued in a strained tone. "They'll become less frequent in time, in a few weeks or months, but you'll have them occasionally from now on. There are meditation techniques that I can teach you to deal with them, if you'll let me." He paused, searching Duncan's face.

Joe's gaze went from Methos' taut, anxious expression to Duncan's cold, closed one. Damn it, you idiot, he's trying to help you!

"Do you have any questions?" asked Methos, after the pause had become painful.

"Yes," replied Duncan in a measured tone.

Joe closed his eyes, fearing the worst, and he was not disappointed.

"How did you do this to me?"

Joe's eyes snapped open in time to see Methos fling himself away from the couch and snatch up his coat, his face devastatingly expressionless.

Duncan sprang out of his chair and grabbed him by the arm. "You're going to answer me! And for once in your life, you're going to tell the truth!"

Joe struggled to his feet to intervene, but Richie rushed past him to grab Duncan's wrist, forcing him to loosen his grip. "Back off, Mac," he said angrily. "You are way outta line on this one. Just back the hell off."

Duncan released Methos' arm, more from surprise at Richie's interference than anything else, if Joe were any judge of the man's expression.

Methos yanked his arm away and took two steps back, breathing hard. "You did this to yourself," he said in quiet fury. "You took another head too soon after the double quickening we shared. I tried to stop you, if you'll recall. But sentence had already been passed." He laughed harshly; it was a painful sound.

Duncan's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "Byron...." Then his expression hardened again. "There was no other way. He killed Mike, and he would have killed again."

"Don't delude yourself, MacLeod," snarled Methos, unleashing the full volume of his wrath. "You didn't kill Byron because of anything he did. You killed him because of who he was. You killed him because he was my friend."

"That's a lie!" shouted Duncan too quickly.

Bulls-eye, thought Joe grimly.

"How many times are you going to execute me by proxy, MacLeod? Who's next? Amanda? Joe? Richie?"

Duncan's face flushed dull red and twisted with rage. He lunged at Methos, only to be blocked by Richie, standing stolidly in front of him with his hands on his shoulders. "Methos, now's not the time," said Richie urgently over his shoulder. "Leave it!"

"Will both of you just knock it the hell off?" demanded Joe in frustration. "Don't we have enough to worry about without this?"

"Oh, yes, the Watcher business," snarled Duncan. "What is it, Methos? Another old friend in town?"

Joe cursed inwardly as Methos went suddenly ashen and silent. He turned away and walked mechanically over to pick up his scattered clothing.

"That's it, isn't it?" Duncan's voice rose to an indignant and strangely triumphant shout. "Another monster from your past has come looking for his old partner, right? So what's the plan, Death on a horse? How many innocent lives are you playing with this time? Or is it just Joe and Richie that you're willing to sacrifice?"

"MacLeod, shut your mouth!" hissed Joe furiously. He knew it was the booze and the nightmares talking, but that didn't mean MacLeod should be allowed to get away with this crap.

"Why? I'm right, aren't I?"

"No!"

"He's trying to manipulate me into tying up another of his nasty little loose ends for him. Why else do you think he's offering me his help?"

"Are you crazy, Mac? He's helping you because he's your friend," said Richie angrily, giving Duncan's shoulders a shake.

"He's not capable of friendship," snarled Duncan. "He doesn't care who he endangers, as long as he saves his own skin. He's just using us. We're nothing to him!"

Methos finished gathering his belongings and left without a word.

Joe forced himself to breathe, watching as Richie pulled his hands away from his former teacher's shoulders and stepped away. The amazement in the young man's face faded into disappointment, and then into something akin to disgust.

"You goddamned son of a bitch." Joe heard the words, and realized only then that it was he who had spoken them.

Duncan turned to him with a shocked expression. "What?"

Joe moved to stand close to the man, moving awkwardly; for some reason he had put his cane in his left hand. He was dimly aware that he was shaking, but it wasn't from exhaustion this time. "Where the hell do you get off saying that shit to him?"

"Joe, he's--"

"He's a man who's risked his life to save yours, more than once! He's your friend! And he's my friend."

Duncan's face twisted with contempt. "He's nobody's friend, Joe. If he saved my life, it's because there was something in it for him."

"You ungrateful bastard--"

"He's up to something, can't you see that? He's not your friend. He's using you, Joe!"

Complete silence fell. Joe studied the man before him, once a hero, then a friend, and now a stranger, with the detachment that springs to life to protect a man whose emotions burn too intensely for his own good. He knew that Duncan wasn't entirely sober, and that two weeks of these nightmares had left him emotionally unstable. He didn't care. The man had crossed the line. Joe spoke into the silence softly and menacingly.

"You know, pal, you have gotten to be one hell of an asshole."

Duncan's jaw dropped in astonishment, and before it could move again, Joe smashed his fist into it with a force that toppled Duncan to the floor with enough impact to knock the Scot almost senseless.

Joe very nearly fell on top of him, but managed to get his balance in the nick of time, leaning heavily on his cane. Oh. That's why I put it in my left hand. Made sense. He'd never been able to get much power out of his left cross.

Joe watched in grim satisfaction as Duncan struggled to sit up, staring up at Joe in disbelief. Joe leaned down slightly and spoke two words, slowly, distinctly, and with a dark pleasure that shocked him even as he indulged in it. "We're. Through."

Duncan's eyes widened; he wiped the blood from his mouth. "Joe, you don't--"

"I used to think you were the finest man I'd ever known. I used to pray you'd be the one left standing at the end. I don't know what's happened to you, and at this point I am past caring. So long, MacLeod."

Joe turned and made his way toward the door, passing Richie with an inquiring look. The younger man had stood by, arms crossed over his chest, during the entire argument, and had not moved at the blow.

Richie met his gaze evenly, with a somber expression. "I'll be right with you, Joe."

Joe nodded and continued toward the door.

"Richie," said Duncan, now sounding genuinely shaken, "You have to trust me. He's not your--"

"Give me a call when you're tired of being an asshole, Mac," said Richie in as cutting a tone as Joe had ever heard from him. "And if you ever run into the Duncan MacLeod that took me in off the streets and taught me what a decent man was, tell him I'd be glad to hear from him. It's been a while."

"Rich...." Duncan's voice was so faint with shock that Joe could barely hear it.

At the next moment Richie was at Joe's side, offering his shoulder to help him up the stairs. At any other time, Joe would have waved off the offer of assistance impatiently, but just then Joe felt he could use all the support he could get. God, he was tired. He was so...damned...tired. He leaned on Richie more heavily, cursing the necessity of doing so.

As they emerged onto the deck, Joe's thoughts turned suddenly and anxiously to Methos. God only knows where the man might have gotten to. Damn! He should have sent Richie after him, but he hadn't been thinking straight. Wonder why. Too much whiskey, too much coffee, no sleep, bogeymen, drunken Scotsmen, and his first knock-out right hook in thirty years. What a night. Hell, what a morning. Where would that delinquent relic have gone?

"It's okay," said Richie with a grin as he helped Joe down the gangplank. "He's in the car."

Joe sighed in relief, then did a double-take. "How the hell- Are you reading minds now?"

"Nope. You just had that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The nanny look," said Richie with overstated seriousness and teasing eyes.

"Great," said Joe in disgust. "I'm beginning to understand Methos' problem with this."

***

Methos leaned back in the front passenger seat of Joe's car with his eyes closed as he sensed Richie's approach. Joe's voice reached him a couple of seconds later, and he found himself tensing involuntarily.

Joe. The thought that his friend might believe the things MacLeod had said was a soul-killing one--all the more because Methos suspected that some of them were true. MacLeod had called it, at least so far as he was concerned. Methos knew perfectly well that the possibility of Mac's assistance in dealing with Lucius had been a factor in his decision to help him. Maybe MacLeod was right. Methos was no one's friend but his own; maybe he wasn't capable of anything else.

Methos drew a ragged breath at the thought of Joe's reaction when he realized the truth of MacLeod's accusations. Damn him. Damn Duncan MacLeod to hell.

Two of the car doors opened, and Methos heard Joe climb into the driver's seat beside him. Richie slid into the back seat. The doors shut, and there were several moments of silence.

Without moving a muscle, Methos drew a shaky breath and spoke very quietly. "Did I hear a thud?"

"Oh, yeah," came Richie's voice. Methos was astonished at its jubilant tone. "You heard a major thud."

Methos opened his eyes and raised his head to look at Joe. The Watcher met his gaze with a rueful expression. He looked bloody awful; he was obviously exhausted and in pain. But there was an air of long-delayed satisfaction about him that made Methos sit up. "What did you do?" he demanded.

Joe cleared his throat and shrugged. "Irish temper. My dad had it, too. You can't fight the genes."

"Is the right hook genetic, too?" asked Richie, grinning ear to ear.

"You hit him," said Methos in soft amazement. He couldn't quite believe it. He had assumed that the thud was something being thrown--probably by MacLeod in the last throes of his tantrum.

"He decked him," said Richie with a satisfaction that made Methos do a double take. "Landed him right on his ass. Did the boat rock?"

"Joe," said Methos in a subdued tone. "You shouldn't have--"

"He had it coming," growled Joe, eyes sharpening as they swept Methos' face.

"Maybe not," said Methos quietly. "He was right."

The brief silence that reigned after those words warned Methos that Joe Dawson might be mustering his resources, and his suspicions were almost immediately confirmed. When Joe spoke, it was in his most dangerous tone. "About what?"

"About me."

Joe leaned forward with a fierce expression, forcing eye contact. "He was not right about you," he said flatly, not a trace of doubt in his face or his voice.

Methos swallowed hard at the faith he saw there, and his gaze darted to Richie, who was staring at him as if he had two heads. It dawned on Methos that the possibility that MacLeod might be right about him had never even occurred to these two. He drew a breath and tried again. "Joe, he was right. I was thinking that we would need his help if Lucius showed up. I was."

"Of course you were! What the hell's wrong with that?" snapped Joe impatiently.

"It's possible I'm not capable of friendship," continued Methos in a remote, analytical tone. There was too much at stake for Joe not to understand this. "It's possible my survival instincts preclude that at this point. Maybe I just form attachments to people I can use to keep myself alive. MacLeod was right, Joe."

Joe stared at him with a shocked expression for a moment, then slammed his fist onto the dashboard. "Screw MacLeod! You listen to me. You are not incapable of friendship. Look, I know I've told you to your face that you're a calculating son of a bitch, and I don't doubt you could manipulate the moon out of the sky if you set your mind to it. But if you think I'm going to buy the idea that you don't see us as anything but an insurance policy, then you do not know me--or yourself."

"Have you considered the possibility that I just might know myself a little better than you do?" asked Methos harshly, hating the pain in Joe's face, hating himself for having caused it. But the man had to know. His life might depend on it. "I've had a long time to become familiar with my little quirks. I've done things to survive that are a hell of a lot more ugly than manipulation."

Joe opened his mouth to respond, but was prevented by an explosion of laughter from the back seat. Methos, startled, turned around to glare at Richie, who laughed even harder as he did so.

"What the hell is so funny?" growled Methos, disconcerted. This was the last reaction he had expected.

"You," chortled Richie. "Oooooh, I'm Mr. Death. I'm sooo big and bad."

"Shut up," snapped Methos.

Joe started laughing helplessly, letting his head sink forward to rest on the steering wheel. "Oh, God. It's like having kids."

Richie leaned forward to nudge Methos, still laughing. "You really think we're going to buy this crap?"

"Look, Junior--"

"So how am I keeping you alive, huh?"

Methos snorted. "And when did I say anything about forming an attachment to you?"

"How is Joe keeping you alive?" pursued Richie, ignoring the remark.

Methos fell silent for a moment, determined to find an answer that would shut Richie up...and instead found himself struggling to find any answer at all.

"How is Amanda keeping you alive?"

Methos groped for a response. This was ridiculous. The kid was doing it to him again.

"And how has Mac kept you alive?" Richie's voice was very soft now, his laughter gone. "Seems to me that you've spent the past three years trying to keep him alive, and nearly getting whacked in the process. So how do you explain that, Mr. Survival Instinct? Huh?"

"Poor judgment," muttered Methos, then thought of an answer. He cleared his throat and raised his voice slightly. "Or maybe I'm just lulling him into a false sense of security so that at some critical point in the Game I can take his head. Maybe you and Amanda will be next. Maybe I keep Joe around because he has inside information. Ever think of that?"

"Nope," retorted Richie flippantly. "And neither did you."

"You're sure of that, are you?" said Methos harshly.

"Yes," said Joe softly, no longer laughing. "We are." His eyes met Methos' for a moment; then Methos looked away.

He was unable to face the trust he saw there, or the trust he knew he would see in Richie's face. He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back, realizing as he did so that he was trembling. He felt Joe lay a hand on his arm, and Methos laid his hand on top of Joe's, not opening his eyes. The three men sat in silence for several seconds.

"God, you're both pains in the ass," said Methos finally, in a barely audible tone.

"It's part of my charm," protested Richie mildly.

Joe chuckled softly, withdrawing his hand as Methos did.

"Right," growled Methos, forcing his eyes open and steadying his voice. "It's getting so a man can't wallow in his own angst anymore without being cheered up. Suffering is good for the soul."

"Bullshit," said Joe with a grin, starting the car. "Never did a damn thing for me. How about breakfast?"

"You buying?"

"Nah. Let the kid buy."

"The kid spent all his money on beer last night," retorted Richie, leaning back in his seat. "Let Methuselah buy. And make it a real breakfast, geezer, not one of these coffee-and-a-roll jobs. I want real food."

"Meaning he wants to go to McDonald's," said Methos, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "The finest food in the world at his fingertips, and he wants an Egg McMuffin."

"Actually, that doesn't sound half bad," returned Joe with a teasing grin.

"Oh, fine," growled Methos, struggling to keep up the pretense. At that moment, he would have had caviar flown in from Russia for them if that's what they'd wanted. "Grease on a bun it is. On one condition."

"Yeah?" Joe looked at him expectantly, pausing before he put the car in gear.

"Hand over the film."

Joe's face spread into his most infectious grin, and Methos found himself laughing before he could stop himself.

Richie leaned forward again with a giggle, laying his hand on Methos' shoulder. "Don't give it to him, Joe. You could live on the blackmail for years."

"You really want the film?" Joe started to laugh softly.

"Yes, I really want the film!" said Methos in a reasonable facsimile of his most acerbic tone. "You're not putting those pictures of me in MacLeod's file. I have a reputation to think of, and I don't want future generations of Watchers to think that Adam Pierson had such nauseating taste in bathing partners. Hand it over."

Joe fished the camera out of his pocket and handed it to him, still laughing. Methos popped open the back. It was empty.

Richie exploded into laughter again. "Oh, man. Oh, man, Joe."

Methos eyed Joe appreciatively, unable to wipe off the silly grin he knew was on his face. "You are a very sick man, Joseph."

"Thank you."

"He'll be stewing about those pictures for weeks," said Richie, still laughing helplessly.

"Months," said Methos, letting his laughter go.

"Years," said Joe with an immense satisfaction not entirely unsullied by sadistic glee. "Let's go eat."

***

Duncan sat on the floor with his hand to his jaw for a minute after the door closed, unable to think clearly or move, hurting. The pain in his jaw had started to fade almost instantly, but...Richie. And Joe. Why? They didn't understand. He was trying to protect them. They had to listen....

He struggled to his feet and staggered up the stairs and out the door onto the deck. He caught sight of Joe's car as it started to roll away; caught sight of the three men inside.

They were laughing.

Richie was looking at Joe with the undisguised affection that Duncan remembered all too clearly had once been his alone, and his hand was resting on Methos' shoulder. Duncan turned away from the disappearing car and into the cool wind, breathing hard. He'd lost them. He'd lost them all. Richie, Joe, Amanda...Methos. How? Why?

He sank to sit cross-legged on the deck, his face buried in his hands, and let the sun beat down on him as he tried to clear the remaining fog of alcohol from his mind. Methos had been right. The drink was not helping. He hadn't been able to think straight in two weeks. He hadn't been able to manage a thought or a feeling that wasn't bound up in those damned dreams or in the drink it took to forget them. It was the drink that had made him raise his sword to Amanda; he'd have cut his own hand off before he'd have done that sober. What the hell had he been doing to himself...and to them?

His words to Methos and Joe came back to him and he cursed helplessly. Damn! Damn! Why hadn't he kept his mouth shut until he was fully sober? The conclusions he had jumped to appalled him. Sure, Methos might be up to something--but despite all his mistrust, Duncan couldn't quite believe that Methos would actually harm Joe or Richie. The truth was that Duncan hadn't a clue what Joe's "Watcher business" was, or if Methos was involved or not. Of course, they might have told him about it if he hadn't come on like some paranoid lunatic and attacked Methos like that.

God! He had been so certain, a few minutes ago, that Methos had been responsible for the dreams. How? How could Methos have given him nightmares, for God's sake? He must have been out of his mind. Methos' explanation had made sense; it explained everything he had been experiencing. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why? Because his brains had been pickled for the past two weeks, that's why.

Duncan groaned aloud. No wonder Joe had punched him in the face. Joe believed in his friendship with Methos. He should have anticipated his friend's reaction; after all, it hadn't been that long since Duncan had believed in Methos, too. And Duncan knew, now that his mental haze was receding, that he had had no right to question that friendship. Whatever doubts Duncan had about who Methos really was, or whether or not he could be trusted, were between Methos and himself.

And who was Methos, really?

That's how Joe saw him. And in all fairness, that was how Duncan had seen him once. But when Duncan looked at him now, all he could see was the man who had spent a thousand years as murderer and rapist; a man who had taken pleasure in inflicting pain and death.

Images from the dreams passed before Duncan's closed eyes, and he shuddered involuntarily. Methos was also a man who had had pain and death inflicted upon him. The sadistic pleasures of his life with the Horsemen had carried a price; Methos had paid dearly for his crimes even before he had left Kronos. How often had he paid since? Only Methos knew, and he was unlikely to tell Duncan MacLeod.

Duncan forced his thoughts away from the dreams. They didn't matter; whether or not Methos had paid didn't matter. This was about the betrayal of trust. Methos had deceived a friend who had trusted him implicitly. He had refused to stand openly against this monster from his past, and had lied to both friend and monster in a game of manipulation to save his own skin. Everything this man now said or did had to be construed in that context.

Didn't it?

Was he seeing Methos clearly? Was he even able to see Methos clearly at this point? Joe certainly didn't seem to think so. And Richie....

Richie thought he had changed, for the worse, and so did Joe; changed enough for them to walk out on him...and it was his treatment of Methos that had been the last straw. Could they be seeing something in Methos that he couldn't? Or wouldn't?

Duncan raised his face from his hands and drew a ragged breath, feeling the wind sting the tears on his face. It didn't matter now. They were gone, and as Methos had said, he had no one to blame but himself.

***

Footsteps made virtually silent by centuries in the pursuit of the art of unobtrusive service reached him only moments after Nathan's signature touched him, and Lucius raised his eyes from his book inquiringly.

"The photographs you ordered, Master," murmured Nathan, laying several black and white images on the desk before him.

Lucius nodded, pleased. "How fares our guest?"

Nathan's well-schooled expression would have revealed nothing to anyone who had not known him for almost a millennium. To someone who had, his contempt was palpable. "He is but poor sport, Master. He lost consciousness minutes after you left and has not yet revived. I believe he will not live long enough to bring you any pleasure."

"I suspected as much. Only the weak-minded and the weak-willed follow dogs, and they are easily broken." Lucius examined each photograph carefully, studying the faces. "Ah. Here is our Mr. Dawson with...Mr. Ryan?"

He leaned over the photograph, scrutinizing it carefully. There was no mistake. He had spent fifteen hundred years developing his memory for faces. "They would appear to know each other very well indeed. Interesting. A Watcher who consorts with Immortals. And perhaps an Immortal who consorts with Watchers."

Lucius' gaze slid across the photograph to study the others, dismissing those whose faces he did not recognize, until he reached the last image. He froze for a moment, unable, for one moment, to believe what his eyes told him. He felt his breath come more quickly and his heart race as he pored over the image before him: a young man, tall and slender, with angular features and short dark hair standing beside an attractive young woman. He recognized the woman, of course, an Immortal who called herself Amanda. But the man....

"Nathan, do you recognize this man?" He was pleased that his voice remained calm. He nodded toward the photograph.

Nathan's eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed in hatred. The expression vanished; it had been no more than a flicker. "Yes, Master. I recognize him."

"The elusive Marcus Gaius," Lucius murmured, as pleased by Nathan's control as he had been by his own. "And once more in the company of a Watcher."

"Your orders, Master?"

At that moment an agonized shriek pierced the air, followed by a high-pitched babble of semi-inarticulate, screamed pleas; the words "stop," and "please" were the only distinguishable words.

"Kill it," said Lucius in cold contempt. "It bores me. And have its remains sent to Watcher headquarters in the usual manner."

"At once, Master."

"As soon as night falls, take as many men as you need and go back to the address where these photographs were taken." Lucius indicated two of the photographs. "And bring these people to me."

"Yes, Master," said Nathan with quiet satisfaction. He picked up the photographs and left the room silently.

Lucius returned to his book.

The shrieking babble became a series of long, deep-throated screams that continued without any sign of cessation for several minutes--and then abruptly stopped.

Lucius nodded his approbation. He did at times appreciate the silence. It was simply impossible to give Shakespeare's sonnets the attention they deserved if one was constantly distracted by such compelling diversions.

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