Cast A Cold Eye

Getting to his feet was one of the hardest things Duncan MacLeod had done in his life. Staying on them was harder. Moving forward was the most difficult of all.

He almost couldn't do it. He almost turned, almost let his aching legs and his wretched heart and his confused and confounded anger carry him down the dark and ringing passageway and back towards the light. God knew there was no reason to stay. Cassandra was gone, a half-crippled bird winging painfully towards her freedom; Kronos was gone (or not gone, not exactly; the man's quickening boiled and blazed in MacLeod's blood, setting spine and nerves and brain on fire, washing him over in ice, and nothing about the furious, jagged feel of it made Duncan think it would settle any time soon); and there was nothing left in this place but darkness and blood and death.

And Death.

Methos.

Sobbing quietly in the shadows like a lost soul. The sound of it was desolate, without hope.

I killed ten thousand.

I want him to live.

That monster was me.

Rider on a pale horse, friend and liar and stone cold killer. MacLeod wanted to turn and leave and damn Methos and the hole he had dug for himself and the lost, abandoned sound of his weeping. Wanted to take his bruised pride and the disgusted, hurting part of himself that didn't know if he had been betrayed or not, used or not, and leave Methos to work it out on his own. But it had not been so long ago that this man had come for him when he had been lost in his own darkness, and pulled him back from the void. And whatever he was now, he had been a friend. Once. Maybe still? The voice that whispered that last was very small and faint, but Duncan found he could not quite ignore it. Bracing himself, he walked forward.

The narrow gangway rang underfoot, and the handful of torches that had survived the quickening storm – and what the hell that had been, MacLeod had no idea; no quickening in all his life had ever done that before, ever reached out to join with another even as it was turning his bones to molten glass – flickered as he passed. Some distantly observant part of MacLeod wanted to shake his head at that – fucking fire, as if they were still living in the fucking dark ages: what had Kronos been thinking? – but the rest of him, concerned with more immediate things, didn't care. The rest of him only had eyes for the man huddled even now where he had fallen, rocking on all fours with his head bowed low. His neck was painfully vulnerable, bared and white in the gloom. He hadn't moved since the lightning had stopped. If he had even noticed Cassandra standing over him with the axe, he had done nothing at all.

Nothing, MacLeod thought, except maybe bow his head further, to offer a clean strike.

He didn't look up as MacLeod approached, though he must have heard the footfalls, seen the shadows flicker. If anything he hunched further in on himself, long lean body shuddering in time with his wracking breaths. He let out a low keening noise that Duncan recognised as being beyond grief, a soul-deep pain beyond the capacity of any language to encompass. He had heard men make that sound before, in the burnt-out villages of the highlands after Culloden, when they had lost all they loved and all they knew. Probably, some dark part of himself noted with brutal satisfaction, men had made that same noise of loss and despair thousands of years ago in the wake of the Horsemen's passing. It was, in a way, fit. Now, perhaps, the man who had been Death knew what that had felt like.

No. That was unfair. There was too much darkness in that thought, too much unheeding cruelty. Duncan pulled back from it with an effort; he was not going to give in to that. This was Methos, and MacLeod had cause to know that Methos knew what grief was. He, like all of their kind, was intimately acquainted with loss. Even so, MacLeod found he had no pity in him. Methos and his duplicity, Methos and his secrets, Methos and his fucking agendas – and look where that had brought them. The man had been walking a knife edge since Kronos had shown up, trying to play both sides, ready to jump

(I go with the winner)

either way, hoping for one thing, preparing for another. Even now, at the last, when Methos had made a choice and taken his stand and killed his shieldbrother with a backhand sweep that must have damn near dislocated his shoulder and a flood of finality that had definitely dislocated his heart, MacLeod could not say if this had been what the man had hoped for, or what he had feared.

It didn't matter. Hopes or fears, it was done now, and Methos, who had survived so much before now, would surely survive this too.. That was what he did. He would survive, and he would bear the consequences, regardless of whether it was what he wanted or not. Pity – if there was to be any pity – could come later. For now, there was only the practical. Safety, shelter, someplace to go and lick their wounds; it was all Mac could think of to offer. In any case, it had to be better than staying here.

"Methos. Get up."

There was no answer, only the man's shoulders heaving in dry, silent sobs. MacLeod frowned and took a step closer, then stopped as his foot struck something solid and unyielding. He looked down, saw Silas' heavy head rock sickly back and forth in its own stiffening blood. Fuck. Resisting the urge to wipe the toe of his boot on the leg of his trousers to get rid of the taint of something foul, MacLeod pushed down a shudder of revulsion and stepped over the severed head. That brought him to Methos' side, close enough to touch.

"Methos. Come on. Get up."

Methos didn't even raise his eyes. Instead, he folded to the floor, pressing his face against the cold concrete and wrapping his hands over his head as if trying to block out everything that had happened here. It made MacLeod think of a wounded animal trying to hide from its own pain. Methos was like a fox that had been set on by hounds, MacLeod thought; if he'd had a den, he would have dragged himself into it.

Hunted foxes died in their dens. Methos should have known better.

He did not have time for this. Cassandra had a Watcher, and even as hidden away as this place was, the light show sent up by Kronos' and Silas' ancient quickenings could not fail to attract attention. Someone would come, whether the local gendarmarie or the Watchers' bloody clean-up crew, and if Methos was here when they arrived … that would be difficult. For everyone.

"Methos. We have to leave. Or do you want to find a way to explain why Adam Pierson, bloody researcher, is down here with two headless corpses -" – and that won a long shuddering moan that made MacLeod grimace at his own lack of tact, so perhaps there was room for pity after all, of a kind – "- with two bodies, and not a known immortal in sight?" He glanced back up the gangway, half looking for someone already on their way in, wanting to be gone. "I'm not staying for that. Come on." He touched the other man's shoulder.

He shouldn't have. Methos unwound like a coiled spring, lunging away from him with a hiss that might have been words in some long-ago language and scrabbling through the blood and shadows, coming up in a crouch with his sword leveled with lethal accuracy on MacLeod's throat. His eyes were wide and too, too bright in the darkness.

"Go away," he grated. He sounded as if he had swallowed gravel. "Go away. I'm not leaving them to the fucking vultures!"

Vultures? MacLeod, who had raised his own blade half-way in defense, furrowed his brow: was the man as far gone as that? Perhaps there had been vultures on those long ago fields of slaughter, but … "Methos," he said carefully, "this is France. Bordeaux. There are no vultures here."

"The fucking Watchers!" There was an almost hysterical note in Methos' voice now, and the sword in his hand trembled. The blade was still smeared with blood. "The fucking spying, sneaking, grave-robbing Watchers, with their fucking labels and their fucking archives and their dirty fucking artifacts! They won't … they'll take … they …" The sword wavered, then dropped away as his voice dropped too. He looked lost again, impossibly young in the gloom. An ancient child, who looked up at MacLeod over a bloodstained blade and said, in a plaintive, half-angry voice, "They're my brothers!"

Oh, Silas, oh my brother, I killed you I'm sorry I killed you.

Kronos. Oh, no no no. Kronos, Kronos. Dark star.

MacLeod jerked back, eyes narrowing. For a moment, there had been a whisper … but no, it was just the after-effects of that freakish quickening, still making his brain buzz and heating his blood. The energy just would not be still in there. He stared at Methos. Why had he thought he looked young? The man's eyes were unspeakably old.

Old things could be lost too.

"They were your brothers," he said steadily, keeping the distaste he felt for that – how could anyone have loyalty to such destructive forces as those had been? – from his voice. "A long time ago." He took a deep breath. "The world was different, remember?"

And so were you, a very small part of him added, in an almost silent whisper, just coloured with hope. So were you. Please.

"You didn't believe me. You wouldn't listen." Narrow, accusatory. Remote.

It was on the edge of MacLeod's mind to throw his head back and laugh, caught between disbelief and despair, to say, 'But Methos, you lie!', but he did not. Instead he let his katana fall and then, very slowly, so that Methos could see each movement, he slipped the blade into its sheath. Perhaps that would help bring Methos back in from the ledge he seemed to have climbed out on. He didn't move forward, not with Methos armed and in this fragile, brittle mood. Distance was better; distance was not a threat. Besides, MacLeod knew, on an instinctive level that he had never had cause to question, that friend or not, liar or not, scourge of nations or not, right now Methos was simply not safe. Holding out his now-empty sword hand in a gesture somewhere between command and placation, MacLeod willed the man to listen.

"It's over. Leave them. You can't do anything for them in any case. If it means so damn much to you, you can claim the … claim them back from the Watchers later. Joe will help, if you … if Adam doesn't have the clout. Now put up your sword, and get hold of yourself. We're leaving, and we're doing it quietly. Or," MacLeod couldn't keep himself from adding with a vicious twist, because Methos was not the only one with wounds from what had happened here, "Or you can damned well stay here with your 'friends' and wait for the Watchers to find you, and answer their questions about what you're doing here and see how long Methos stays a myth once they're done." Which would be not long at all, once people started putting two and two together. Even in top form Methos would be hard pressed to talk his way out of two decapitated immortals and a bloodied sword, and he was in far from top form right now. MacLeod's smile was not a pleasant thing.

"I'll kill them." Low, and very hard, over a layer of pain that sounded as if it were already turning to ice. God, the way Methos worked. If that ruthlessness – with himself, with others – was what it took to survive over five millenia, MacLeod wasn't sure he wanted to do it. Or perhaps, he realised with a sudden lurch, that was what surviving five millenia did to you, and maybe Methos hadn't had much say in it. Duncan nodded, and said what he had to.

"Then I'll kill you."

"You can try."

"Don't force me, old man." MacLeod could not give his voice the arctic edge that Methos managed, but he came close. He let his hand go, very deliberately, to his katana's hilt. "Put up your sword."

Methos' lips curled in a silent snarl, but he had started to tremble again, and his breath was coming hard as if he were struggling for control. After a moment he let his head drop, and he turned his broadsword in his hand as if it were suddenly heavier than all his years, fumbling at the hilt.

"I don't … I haven't …"

His coat, MacLeod realised. The old broadsword's scabbard would be with it, wherever it was. Hopefully it was not far away. Methos could hardly conceal a sword under what he was wearing, damp and faded jeans and a pullover now finely spattered with blood. MacLeod considered, very briefly, telling Methos to hand the weapon over, that he would carry it until they were clear, but he knew how likely the man was to agree to that. Methos had made his opinion very clear when it came to idiots who relinquished their swords, even to a friend.

Dragging himself upright, Methos held the plain grey blade down low, curling his fingers under the cross guard and letting it dangle loose under its own weight. Held that way, the weapon might as well have been sheathed; there was no way Methos could swing it without shifting his grip, and that would give MacLeod time enough and more. Even so, he would have prefered the sword out of sight. Watchers were trained to observe, and there was no telling who was out there.

MacLeod said, "They'll see -"

"Fuck the Watchers." Methos glittering stare was very direct. "And fuck you too, Mac."

Moving towards the gangway, Methos stopped at Silas' body and looked down for a dozen heartbeats. His lips didn't move; his face was utterly blank. Suddenly, startling MacLeod into reaching for his sword again as if he thought there might be a need to use it, Methos kicked the corpse with all the savagery of his pain and frustration, driving his booted foot into the ribs once, and then again. It sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a splitting maul. The heavy body rocked, but did not protest. Methos' words were choked.

"Damn you, Silas, I bloody well liked you. Why did you make me do that? I liked you!"

At the top of the gangway and off to one side, Kronos' body lay in shadows. This time Methos did not pause at all. MacLeod heard a sharp and shuddering intake of breath, and then Methos strode forward and hammered a single, brutal kick into the dead man's side, spitting what could only be a curse in a voice that did not want to work properly at all. And then he stopped, going to his knees by the man's head where it had fallen next to his body, and he kissed the cooling brow, whispered something secret and true against the dead skin, very gently closed the light, disbelieving eyes. He stayed there a moment, very still, before getting to his feet. When he rose, he had Kronos' heavy sword in his left hand.

He could wield a blade with his left hand if he wanted to. MacLeod knew that. Matter of course. But that was not the reason he paused, eyes going from Methos' face to Kronos' sword and back again. Methos met his gaze in a cool, wordless challenge.

Duncan understood what was being said. He knew the rules as well as any. This had been his fight, after all. His kill. If there were prizes to be taken, by rights they should be his.

They wouldn't be. Not this time, not with this man. Not yours, Methos was telling him. This one is not yours.

He got that.

Methos did not look away.

MacLeod cleared his throat, finding his voice oddly rough. "I don't want it. I don't take trophies."

Methos still did not speak, but his eyes flickered. He hefted the dead man's sword, let it lie cradled in his arms, his own broadsword along with it. Then he gave MacLeod a single abrupt nod and walked away. He did not look back.

MacLeod glanced down at the body at his feet, at the closed eyes, considering the fury and ferocity of Methos' boot slamming into the dead chest, and the tenderness and truth in his hands and lips on his fallen brother's face. He supposed he should not be surprised. Methos was a complex and contradictory creature; it made sense that his goodbyes would be complex and contradictory too.

I liked you, damn you. I liked you.

I loved you.

Fuck you, you're destroying me.

I love you.

Inside MacLeod, the fierce, writhing energy of Kronos' quickening pulsed like a fist tightening in his skull. Duncan blinked hard and shook the sensation away. His hair, loose still from the fight that had ended in Kronos' death, fell over his face; he shoved it back to look thoughtfully after Methos' retreating form. Then, without a word, he followed him towards the light.

Swinging the rental smoothly into the private parking bay at the rear of the hotel, MacLeod glanced sidelong at the man sitting in the passenger seat next to him. Methos did not look back. His face was turned away, his eyes fixed on a point in the dark about a thousand miles off the wingmirror … and, MacLeod was willing to wager, about three thousand years in the past. Exhaustion marked him, leaving his face drawn and shadowed in the flat, sick glow of the sodium arc lamps that lit the carpark. He had neither moved nor spoken since he had got in the car. Instead he had wedged himself against the door, as far from MacLeod as he could get, his long limbs, usually given to lying any which way in casual abandon, drawn in tight and neatly squared away. He was very careful not to touch. Everything about him was contained, still, rigidly controlled … and as raw as a heart cut still bleeding from a body barely dead.

And wasn't that just a charming image? Bloody quickenings. MacLeod shuddered and growled under his breath, shoving the thought down, and yanked savagely on the handbrake as he cut the engine. Methos turned his head, and gave him a slow, disinterested look before turning away again. Duncan spoke to the dashboard.

"I'll get you a room. You took a …" God no, don't say that, you idiot! Do you think the man doesn't bloody know what he's done? You can smell the blood and ozone on him from here! He tried again. "It's been a hard week. You look like hell. A bed, a shower. That's all."

"I can get my own room. In my own hotel." Methos didn't bother to look at him at all, this time. His voice was flat and distant, as if it came from a long way off. "Thanks for the lift."

"Don't be stupid." It was interesting, MacLeod thought, how tightly he was gripping the wheel. He told his hands to relax. They did, a piece at a time. He wished the rest of him could relax too. He felt like he needed to run ten miles and then work a punching bag until it split its seams, just to settle the hostile clash of energy inside him; he felt like he needed to sleep for a week. "It's the middle of the night. Where are you going to go? We're here. I've got a room."

"Offering to share, are you, Highlander?" Oh, cold, cold enough to cut. "With Death? Didn't think you were a fan of my work."

"Cut it out, Methos."

That earned him a shrug that fairly screamed 'Suit yourself'. Methos' hand went to the door. Duncan felt his fingers tighten on the wheel again. His words came sharper than he meant them to; he couldn't help it.

"Stop it. You want to beat yourself up over this, fine. You do it on your own time. God knows, you probably deserve it -"

A harsh laugh sounded at that, but MacLeod rode over it. "Hell, if you really want, I'll even help you. But not now. After we get inside, after we bloody sleep. Because we are going to damn well talk about this, Methos. I mean it. I need to know -"

"You already know."

MacLeod gave him a hard look, holding his anger back. "I don't. I don't think I know you at all. You're not the man I thought you were."

"I know!" Methos' shout was stunning after all his stillness. His fist crashed into the panel of the passenger door, staving in the lining, and he swung in the small confines of the car, all angles and menace. His teeth, snarling in MacLeod's face, were white and very sharp. "Took you long enough."

"You were supposed to be better!" MacLeod heard the words leave his lips before he even knew that he had thought them, torn from somewhere inside him that felt like it was bleeding. He rounded on the other man, locking his fist into a death grip on his collar, thrusting him away. "I trusted you, Methos; I bloody looked up to you! How could you do that – be that?"

"Be what? Flawed? Me?" Methos made a sound like laughter, if laughter could have come in a slide of broken glass. "Did I disappoint you? What did you want me to be?"

The sharp, brittle sound of Methos' voice stung nerves already raw, like salt on an open wound. MacLeod shuddered, growled in frustration, made himself let go of the other man's collar. His hand slammed back to the wheel with desperate emphasis, clenching tight. It made his knuckles hurt, but it was better than hauling off and punching Methos in the face. God, he couldn't have this conversation now, with his head still churning and cross-grained from the power of the quickenings he had taken. He couldn't even think straight. He said, in a low, warning tone; "Leave it be."

"No." That word came like a flung stone, hard and quick. Methos glared at him, his chin lifted in defiance, almost as if he was daring him to throw that punch. Almost, MacLeod thought, as if he wanted him to. "You tell me. What did you want? What did you bloody expect?"

Expect? God. MacLeod made his jaw unlock, forced the words past gritted teeth. "Better. You're supposed to be better."

"I'm supposed to be me!" Methos' eyes flashed; he flung himself back in his seat, fangs bared. "Don't like it? Well fuck you, Mac. Fuck you. This is how I come. You can't fucking order me out of a catalogue, made to bloody well measure. This is me. Deal with it."

It was a good performance. It was very nearly convincing. So it should have been, MacLeod thought; the man had had long enough to work on it. The Great Untouchable Methos. The answer is yes. Oh, yes.

It would have been more convincing if his eyes hadn't been too bright again, holding back tears.

They had been too bright when Duncan had pinned him against his SUV too, on the day that Methos had tried to flay them both to rags with his merciless words, only Duncan hadn't seen it then. He'd been too concerned with his own pain. Too concerned with passing judgement.

Fuck. Fuck. Duncan, you idiot.

The steering wheel gave an ominous creak. MacLeod grimaced. Hands. Release. Breath. Let go. There. Better. Even his voice was calmer.

"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

No answer. Methos had gone still again, staring at his own fists clenched on his thighs. His knuckles were white, and very clear. He might have been thinking about hitting something again. MacLeod supposed it wouldn't matter if he did; he already wasn't getting his bond back on this car. He sighed, feeling suddenly very weary.

"It's only that I'm -" What? Full to overflowing with your twisted, vicious shieldbrothers' quickenings – and oh, sweet God above, what was wrong with Caspian? – and they're clawing at me from the inside trying to get out and driving me mad? No, can't say that. "It's only that I'm tired, and I don't understand -"

"Nothing new there."

MacLeod let his lips twitch just a little at the low, half-muttered jibe: at least that was the Methos he knew. He went on. "I don't understand what happened back there. Did you … whose side were you on, Methos?"

"My own, obviously." An odd expression flickered over Methos' face, gone before MacLeod could place it. "Nobody else seemed to have my best interests at heart."

The man's tone was deliberately arch, almost a challenge. Duncan, though, heard something more real under that – a certain ache, perhaps? – and didn't rise to it. He frowned, persisting. There had to be some answers here.

"All right then. Tell me this. That quickening, the way it … jumped to you. That's never happened before. Not to me. What was that, do you know?"

Silence. Nothing. Then an infinitesimal shrug. "No."

Lying again. MacLeod didn't bother to ask himself how he knew that. He let his shoulders slump and opened the door. "Please. It's late. Come in. Take the room. We can sort out in the morning whether we hate each other or not."

It was meant as half a joke, if a bleak one. Methos, whose mood was bleak enough to suit, recognised that and replied in kind.

"Yes. All right. In the morning. Unless we kill each other during the night."

Their swords were in the back of the car, bundled under Methos' reclaimed longcoat. It might have been safer to leave them there.

They did not.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the lift and onto his floor that MacLeod remembered Cassandra, and felt his gut tighten in apprehension. They had been sharing a room; if she had come back here and he walked in with Methos, she would try for the old man's head again, and Duncan didn't think she would listen to him

(I want him to live)

twice. Nor did he think that Methos was in any mood to fend off a challenge; he would, MacLeod thought, either bend his neck to her blade, or rip her head off with his bare hands. Probably the latter, but after seeing Methos on his knees, so blinded by anguish that he had seemed either unaware or uncaring of the axe above him, MacLeod wasn't ruling anything out. Even apocalyptic Horsemen could break, he understood now with a clarity that was almost frightening. Even the consummate survivor could have a bad day.

Or a bad millenia. And pay for it.

There was no hum of immortal presence though, save for the shiver under his skin that was Methos at his shoulder. The man hadn't spoken at all while he checked in, letting Duncan arrange things and signing the chit the girl at the counter gave him with mechanical detachment, not responding at all to her friendly welcome. A week ago he would have given her an Adam Pierson smile, at once open and shy, said something both charming and gawky, made her laugh. Methos – this Methos – did not seem made for either charm or laughter. He carried the swords, his and Kronos', still wrapped in his coat, clasped against his chest to hide the worst of his blood-spotted clothes. The swords, MacLeod knew, he was made for. They fit him like a glove.

All in all, he thought he prefered the other Methos, the old one. The one he had met in that Paris apartment, the one who liked music and books and beer and who sauntered about wearing Adam Pierson's harmless grad student life like a favourite pair of boots. The one who fussed over fragile documents penned in old languages no one could read, and who crashed on his couch without asking and yelled answers at tv game shows and occasionally fought dirty to keep

(your head on your ungrateful bloody shoulders, Highlander?)

the things he cared for from harm. That Methos. After all, Duncan considered, Methos-as-Adam had not burned and pillaged his way across continents, and had far less reason to resent him. That Methos had not endured the deaths of two of his brothers at MacLeod's hands, and the death of a third at his own. That Methos was before.

Before MacLeod had judged the man without seeing his pain, or knowing what it meant. Before MacLeod had understood that Methos could not live up to everything.

Duncan scowled inwardly at himself. He really could be a blind, bullgoose fool at times.

Except … this was not his fault. This mess was all Methos. Methos, who had lied to him, who had kept this terrible thing in his past a secret and let Mac damn well like him and never mind that he had no right to do that, no right to MacLeod's friendship when he came to it steeped in murder and rape and centuries of brutality that he had never yet been called to answer for.

Or had he? Over all the years, had he? Duncan didn't know. Thinking about it was making his head ache. His brows lowered in frustration; he pushed those thoughts aside. Later. He would deal with that later. For now, all he wanted was to get inside, get out of these clothes, get clean.

Shoving the key card in the slot with more force than was strictly necessary, MacLeod watched the little light turn from red to green and opened the door to his room. Cassandra's things were still there – a small tote of clothes, a little purse of incomprehensible feminine accessories – but already they had the look of things cast aside and forgotten. She hadn't been here, and MacLeod knew without thinking that she wouldn't be back. He wished her well, hoped that now she could start to heal. He did not think she would find her peace in the places where she was looking – her wounds were too deep to be mended by anything outside of herself – but she could set at least some of the nightmare of her past behind her, now. The man she had hunted was dead –

Oh, do you think so?

Yes. Shut up. You're dead. I killed you.

– and Methos had fallen at her feet, sounding as if his soul was dying too. Cassandra would have to be content with that.

Methos came in behind him, standing silently with the closed door at his back. At any other time, the Methos that Duncan had thought he knew would have prowled the room like a tomcat in a new place, poking at the fixtures, opening wardrobes, checking out the mini-bar and sniping about the hotel's taste in beer. Now, he didn't move at all. He seemed to take up less space than he should, and MacLeod knew what that was; he had drawn himself in tight again, putting wards of ice and steel between him and the world.

MacLeod wasn't sure how he felt about that. A part of him wanted to care, to acknowledge a friend's grief and offer comfort, though he could not begin to understand what he was grieving for: Caspian's memories in his head were apalling, and Kronos … oh, not an inch of give in Kronos. How could anyone grieve for what those men had been? The rest of him, less sure that Methos was a friend at all, let alone deserving of comfort, just wanted a shower and a hot meal and Methos to … to what? To pay? To suffer what he owed? To not have this darkness in his past, inside him? Och, bones of his fathers, he didn't bloody know.

Comfort, he decided, was beyond him. He'd got the man to safety, away from nosy Watchers and opportunistic headhunters, and that was enough. At the very least, it was a debt discharged; if Methos had aided him in the past, this would go some way to making them even. Besides, even if he had wanted to offer it, MacLeod didn't think that Methos would be particularly receptive to sympathy, just now. Or ever. The Methos he had liked to drink with at Joe's might smile Adam's smile at a kind word and lower his eyes in gratitude, or he might smirk and make a quick, flippant remark to turn those feelings aside, but MacLeod had seen that predator's gaze in its truer form and this Methos was nothing so gentle. Trying to comfort Methos now would be like offering to stroke an unmuzzled wolf. In his head, he heard the echo of Methos's voice, effortlessly dry, saying "Really, MacLeod – do the words 'self-preservation' mean nothing to you?" and almost laughed at the irony. He was glad he didn't; it would not have been a happy sound. Ah, well, it wouldn't be the first time Methos had warned him away. But it might be the first time he had listened.

There was only one bed. MacLeod saw Methos look at it, and then at him. Once, a week ago even, that ancient soul in that permanently young body would have made some sly, flirtatious comment, or simply sprawled himself across the bed and dared MacLeod with a laughing glance and a bold lift of the chin to do something about it, but now he only gave a single disparaging grunt. His clever eyes, so full of shadows now, went to Cassandra's abandoned purse, and his lips twisted in a way that was both knowing and bitter, but he said nothing. Only stood. Only waited.

Duncan's jaw tightened. Perhaps he should have let Methos go his own way, after all; the man was making him uncomfortable with his stillness and his sharp edges. Suddenly determined to make the old bastard damn well move, he detached a key from the hotel's electronic card and flicked it to Methos in a quick, precise throw. Methos plucked it out of the air with a thoughtless, automatic grace, glanced at it, then looked at MacLeod. The highlander grunted and waved a hand to the door in the wall by the kit-set looking wardrobe.

"Adjoining rooms. Yours is through there."

Methos gave the barest nod. "Friends close, enemies closer, is it?"

MacLeod didn't answer that. Was the man being deliberately provocative? He said, "I'm going to shower. I smell like a carnal house. You're not much better."

"Thank you, Mac. You say the sweetest things." Wry, and not up to his usual acerbic standards, but at least he was taking the shot. It was, MacLeod told himself, probably a good sign.

"If you're hungry, order whatever. I'll get -"

"Not hungry."

"Suit yourself." MacLeod shrugged, turned away. He heard Methos move to the door, heard the key scrape and turn in the lock. There was a pause.

"Mac?"

"What?"

Nothing. Silence. MacLeod studiously didn't turn, did not look around, didn't say a thing. Then, very soft, in a voice MacLeod did not think he had heard Methos use before, so layered it nearly broke under its own weight, "Thank you."

MacLeod pulled in a deep breath. "For what?"

Another long pause. At last Methos said, "Not leaving me there."

That sounded like truth and lie at the same time, as if it were real but not all, as if there was something more

(for coming for trying for not letting me die for a chance just a chance for all of the above for everything)

he wanted to say and wasn't. MacLeod felt his fingers start to tighten again, curling into fists. God. Why couldn't Methos just bloody say one thing and mean it? Why was everything so damned convoluted, with him? And why – dear God, why? – why would he even think that MacLeod had had an option? He wouldn't have left anyone in that place. Not anyone at all.

Ah, but Methos would have. That was the difference. And because he would have, he assumed others would as well. MacLeod swallowed hard, and made his voice civil. He still did not turn. It was much easier if he didn't look at the other man, just now.

"It's all right, Methos. You don't have to thank me for that."

The silence stretched, and then MacLeod heard the harsh exhalation of a sigh. He could imagine how Methos would look, eyes narrowed and calculating, lips ambiguously quirked, hair disarmingly tousled, a pair of swords bundled in his arms. After a long moment, Methos said, "All right then."

There was the click of the door opening.

"Mac?"

"What?" Impatient, demanding. If the man wasn't going to say anything that mattered, anything that was real, why didn't he just go away?

"Lock the door from this side, will you? I don't trust myself, right now."

The door shut behind him. MacLeod let out a long sigh and sank to sit on the side of the bed. He swore under his breath, dropping his head into his hands. Then he got up, crossed the room, and flicked the bolt into place.

Right now, he did not trust Methos either.

Methos heard the bolt slide shut behind him, and stopped where he was, head hanging, eyes closed. Shit. Shitshitshit. How had it all gone so horribly wrong? Kronos, Silas, Caspian, MacLeod … fuck. Oh, and Cassandra too, can't forget her, screwing with his life again, making things so fucking hard. Bitch. No, poor girl. God, what a mess. His head was, thank that poxed whore Fortuna for her twisted favour, still attached to his neck, but this … oh, this might kill him a dozen times and never stop hurting.

Gone. His brothers were gone. Silas, with his rumbling laugh, as simple and brutish as one of the animals he nurtured, who had been so glad to see him. Caspian, so damaged and so curious and missing something inside; Caspian who had sworn never to starve again, and who had made damn sure he didn't. And Kronos, first and best. Methos felt his jaw tighten, and clamped down on the howl that wanted to rise. He wouldn't have thought that he would care so much; God knows, he hadn't been that glad to have them back. Or he hadn't thought he had been, but it had been so damned easy to get used to, so like coming home. They fit together, the four of them – in twisted, unhealthy ways, yes, but they fit. Methos had long known that. What he hadn't known was how much of himself – how much of his history – the others would take with them when they died.

Oh, Silas. Caspian. Kronos, Kronos, Kronos. Setting his back to the door, Methos slid down to his haunches and buried his face in the folds of his coat, feeling the crosshilt of one of the blades wrapped therein press against his brow. It wasn't a blessing. Oh, gods below, Kronos. He shook his head in mute, helpless denial. It shouldn't have happened. He shouldn't have died.

Methos should have taken the sociopathic bastard's head himself.

As if you could, brother.

No. No more than you could take mine.

Low laughter under the furs, shield at his back, blade at his throat. Kronos. Still the same. Even the man's scent hadn't changed: leather and iron, burned spices and smoke. For so long Methos had locked those memories away, letting them out only a piece at a time where no one else could see. And then Kronos had greeted him with a knife out of the dark, and his heart had leapt even as it stuttered and died, and oh, gods above and below, he had wanted to say yes.

Come with me, Methos. Race you.

Yes. Yes. Oh, yes.

No.

Fuck Kronos. Methos let his hands become fists, twisting in the layers of his coat, then, with a convulsive surge, he flung the coat and its bundled swords away from him so that they fell on the floor with a hard metallic clatter – the same clatter, Methos thought distantly, that his heart would make, if anyone struck it right now; ringing and broken and cold. He took a deep and painful breath. Fuck Kronos, fuck him and his lunatic plans and his little-boy smile and his dark, intoxicating passions that Methos had never been able to resist. The man should have stayed away. He should not have come here, should not have let those old bonds get the better of them both, should have stayed the fuck away. And he should not – most surely should not – have given him as much as he had.

We share everything, brother.

Lightning shivered under Methos' skin at that thought, and he shuddered and swore in a language no man still living would know. He knew exactly what that flare of energy was, in spite of what he had told MacLeod. It probably shouldn't even have been possible – ah, but then, Kronos had always had a way of getting what he wanted one way or another, and possible didn't come into it. Methos supposed he shouldn't be surprised. The two of them had been tied to one another for so long in so many ways, trading pieces of themselves back and forth for millenia. What was one more thing? He wasn't going to explain that to Mac, though. Let the idiot Scot work it out for himself. If he could work out anything at all.

In the other room, Methos heard a door snick shut, the shower go on. Mac, washing away the night's ugliness. Methos' lip curled. Good luck with that, Mac. MacLeod would have a head full of Kronos' memories to contend with by now, to go with his fierce, unsettled energy. That made Methos hiss down low, a sound both bleak and vicious. Good luck dealing with that too, he thought bitterly. Wouldn't want your dreams for the next month or so.

Idiot. He fucking had those dreams, had lived them. But MacLeod … oh, MacLeod shouldn't have those things inside him. For more reasons than only one.

It's mine, Mac. Give it back.

Fuck. Look at him, he was a fucking mess. Dragging a hand over his face, Methos was disgusted at the way it trembled, and at the dampness on his cheeks. He was going to have to get himself together, deal with this, get through it. This was pathetic. This was dangerous. This was tearing him apart.

He braced himself in the dark, forcing his breathing to settle and his heart to ease and slow. His voice, when he found it, was low and wooden, uninflected. He paid no attention to the language he spoke in; he didn't care. These words were true in any tongue.

"They all die."

No claws sank into him, no churning tightness in his gut. Down deep, something cold stirred and woke. He said it again, firmer this time.

"They all die. You know that." Ah, yes, there it was: the old mantra, the old shield, an armour so well-worn to his soul that he didn't even feel it anymore.

Except when he did.

They all die. Everyone leaves. Only you go on. This is your truth.

He let it sink into him, and felt the cold grow deeper, freezing out the pain. It wasn't working as well as it should, but the numbing sensation was a comfort. It iced over the rage in him as well, kept down that clawed and naked thing that wanted to rend and burn and tear, to rail at Kronos and savage his corpse, to rip MacLeod's throat out with his teeth.

He didn't want to rip Mac's throat out. At least, he didn't want to want to.

It hadn't been meant to end like this.

It had never been going to end any way else.

And he was supposed to be the clever one. That thought made him laugh, a single exhalation of breath that came without mirth. Clever Methos, all tricks and schemes, and this was the best he could do? Improvise, dodge, hope like hell and finally jump when he could see no other way out? And look what the whole sorry mess had cost him. Brothers, friends, secrets, possibly even his anonimity if that mad witch Cassandra's Watcher were even halfway competent. MacLeod.

MacLeod? The voice in his head was uncertain, half afraid. Mac too? Methos thought the answer was very probably yes, and fuck it all if that hadn't gone wrong as well. He liked MacLeod, had come to value the man's friendship in spite of its adherent annoyances and myriad complications, in spite of the way the old reptilian survivor in him hissed in warning whenever the man came close. There had even, he thought, been a measure of trust between them. Well, that was over now. Cassandra had seen to that, carrying her grievances for so long that they had sunk into her bones. Hell, he had seen to that, flinging words and truth like sharpened blades into MacLeod's face, watching that big heart clench and crack in those eyes of his that gave everything away. 'Yes,' he had said, 'I was a monster. I am a monster. And you're a fool for ever thinking different. Now get the fuck away.'

That was what he had said. But what he had meant was 'Help me, Mac. I don't know if I can do this alone.'

Damn you Mac, why didn't you hear me? Why didn't you listen?

Why didn't I say what I bloody well meant?

MacLeod had said what he meant. 'We're through' was pretty fucking unequivocal, after all. And MacLeod had walked out on him and then walked back in, and saved him and destroyed him at the same time, and now the man could hardly bear to be in the same room. God, he wouldn't even accept Methos' bloody gratitude, hard offered as it was, as if his very thanks were tainted.

How the hell was a man supposed to feel about that?

Fuck MacLeod. Fuck him. 'You were meant to be better,' the man had said, as if he bloody well believed it. Well, fuck him. Methos was who he was. That was all. And it was so tiring, trying to live up to MacLeod's expectations, trying not to care about the flash of disappointment in the other man's eyes when he failed.

Before tonight, he had had a shieldbrother he had both loved and resented, and a friend he had both liked and despaired of. Kronos, dark star in his wide, eternal sky, and Duncan MacLeod, too damn good to be true.

And now Duncan bloody MacLeod was on the other side of that door with Kronos' quickening coming off him in waves, and Methos didn't know if he could stand it much longer.

Kronos, whom he had first seen across the temple sands as he vaulted and spun off the shoulders of the sacred bulls, and who had been there and lived when the skies rained fire at the end of the world. He shouldn't have died. He should not have bloody well died.

They all die.

"Yes," Methos said aloud, raising his head to stare at himself reflected in the dark glass of the hotel room's balcony doors. His image stared back, insubstantial as a ghost. "I know."

On the floor, the swords lay where they had fallen. Methos looked at them very hard, then turned his face away. When he got to his feet, the hilt of Kronos' heavy brutal blade was warm and humming in his hand.

The shower was bliss. MacLeod let the water drum over his shoulders, as hot as he could stand and hard enough almost to hurt, and felt the tension slide out of his neck, the shudders ease under his skin. Quickenings were always hard when it was the old ones that died, and it didn't make it any easier that he had been walking around as tense as a fox in a room full of hounds for a full hand of days. Immortal healing could take care of all number of things, but it did damn all for stress and confusion and the betrayal of a friend.

If there even had been a betrayal. Duncan wasn't sure. Two days ago he would have said there had been and made no bones about it, but now … he didn't know. Damn Methos and his plots. Oh, it had all worked out in the end – Cassandra was safe, the Horsemen finished – but MacLeod couldn't shake the feeling that Methos had pulled his strings from start to finish, setting him against Kronos knowing that only one of them would walk away. Using MacLeod as a weapon, perhaps, to do his killing for him – or using him the way one might use a coin to make a choice: heads or tails, MacLeod or Kronos, and Methos goes with the winner.

No, that wasn't fair. Methos had made his decision, had, in the end, been on his side – inasmuch as Methos was ever on anyone's side. He might even have been on MacLeod's side all along; there was simply no way of knowing. Methos was slippery like that. One thing Mac did know, though; Methos was a much more frightening creature than he had ever let on, and when he said that he had liked the death and terror, he hadn't bloody lied.

Kronos' memories told him that.

They wouldn't stop. Caspian's memories had been horrible, a turgid, off-kilter wave with everything sideways and askew, all the colours garish and wrong with red standing out over all, but they had already started to fade down unless MacLeod called them forth. Caspian did not have Kronos' focus, or his will; his quickening, though jagged, had already started to quiet. Kronos', though – ah, Kronos was fighting him for every inch. And his memories would not stop coming.

A dry land, and dust. Horses. Bulls, for some bloody reason, with their horns painted. A brace of hunting dogs with a tawny lion at bay. Fire that covered the sky, stones that fell from the heavens – MacLeod shook his head, letting water run into his eyes; he had no idea what that was about. A woman in a sun-baked yard, smiling to see him. Two dead children darkened with smoke. Burning huts, people scattering like ants. Death. Terror. Death.

And Methos. That most of all. Methos in a loose red tunic belted with tooled leather, watching him with admiration in his eyes, raising a cup to him across a table spread with food. There were bulls in that one too. Methos, hair grown long and pale skin stained by dust and sun, laughing down at him from the back of a white horse, and swinging into a leaping dismount even before the animal had drawn to a halt to take him in an exuberant, welcoming embrace. Methos in a towering rage, shouting at him, lashing out with fists and feet and a tongue sharper than the dull bronze knife at his hip; Methos sprawled with familiar abandon next to a glowing campfire, throwing pieces of bread at him with a teasing grin. Methos fighting at his back; Methos scratching marks onto a scrap of animal hide, his angular, patrician face set in concentration, and looking up in annoyance

(Pest)

at some interruption. Methos head to toe in blood, with mad, exultant eyes; Methos drenched and glaring at him from the middle of a river.

Stop it. I get it. He was your brother. I get it.

You don't. You don't begin to get it.

You're dead, you know. I killed you.

Shut up. God, such rage. Shut up!

Growling in his throat, MacLeod jammed the water off hard and stepped out onto the small bathroom's tiled floor, reaching for a towel. A good shower ruined, and all because Methos' one-time shieldbrother was too stubborn to know he was dead, would not lie down and be still. Duncan shook his head again, letting his hair fly loose and sending drops of water spinning. It was disconcerting, this rogue energy sparking through him, these foreign images in his head. He hadn't expected this, not the resistance of Kronos' quickening or what the man's memories were showing him. He had expected violence and destruction, and Kronos had given him that, but he hadn't thought to find such clear friendship in Kronos' –

Methos under him, arching into his touch, throat bared and white; Methos rolling to him in the dark, whispering, reaching, skin tasting of smoke and salt; Methos gasping his name over and over, moving against him in a dance more ancient than any of them –

Fuck. Fuck. MacLeod's eyes went wide. He stumbled, caught himself on the towel rail. Sweet Mother of God, he had absolutely not expected that.

You don't begin. Kronos' silk-and-steel voice, so clear in his head. You don't fucking begin.

Christ. He did not fucking need this. MacLeod hunched his shoulders against the wave of feeling that came with those images, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He caught himself cinching a towel almost defensively around his hips, and made himself stop. Bloody quickenings. He was not going to let a dead man's memories make him fumble and blush like a virgin. He bloody well was not.

You're dead. You're dead. You. Are. Dead.

I'm not. I am not. Not yours, I'm not yours, I'm not yours not yours not yours not yours NOT YOURS NOT -

"Fuck!" MacLeod swore out loud, jamming the heels of his hands hard against his temples as if he could squeeze the rising roar of Kronos' fury out of his head. "Get out of my mind! Get out!"

A wave of power hit him; Kronos, pushing hard, driving for the surface. Ice and fire and red hot wrath, with a diamond hard focus at its core – it was almost overwhelming. The man's energy was phenomenal. MacLeod had felt that when Kronos' quickening had first hit, trying to pull him in all directions at once, threatening to rip him apart. He felt it now in the blaze and sear that ran along his bones, like atoms colliding and splitting and reforming inside him. It was like he had swallowed the sun. MacLeod staggered under the onslaught, flung up denial in pure defense – No! – and shoved back with a fury of his own. Kronos' quickening might be strong, but the man was dead

(no I)

(yes you)

and Mac's mind was his own.

From somewhere deep there came a laugh that was part snarl, and the sound of a door slamming, then silence. MacLeod drew a deep breath, then let his hands fall. Shit. He had taken quickenings before that were difficult to settle, and even one that had turned him towards a darkness that scared him to think of even now, but he had never had one that fought him like this. He had certainly never had one with such awareness of itself. Kronos, it seemed, was not a man for letting go. Of anything. Ever.

As for what he had been shown … Duncan growled in his chest and grabbed for the towel he had dropped at that sudden and frightening surge. He swiped himself dry with an almost forceful disregard, ignoring the brief sting of chafed skin where he rubbed too hard. It didn't change anything. So they had been friends – Methos had damned well told him that. Brothers. Shieldbrothers. What matter if they had been lovers too? It was years – centuries – ago. He had never thought that Methos had been celibate all his life, after all; in fact, he'd had very good indications to the contrary. So they had fucked, in that long ago life built on raiding and plunder; they had shared laughter and hardship and the shelter of each other's arms. Didn't have to mean anything at all, knowing Methos. The man's appetites, MacLeod thought, deliberately unkind, were probably as fickle as his loyalties.

Except that he had seen Methos on his knees, seen that terrible look of loss, and he knew better. Methos' loyalties might have been seldom given, but where they were granted, they were not fickle. Methos did not trust lightly, and that was the truth of things. It did mean something that he and Kronos had been lovers – or it had, all those years ago. Or maybe, Duncan realised with a clarity that shocked him into stillness, not only all those years ago. The two of them had been together for more than a week, and there had been something in the way that Methos had stood at Kronos' shoulder at the base, an easy, unspoken intimacy in the lack of space between them …

Methos, eyes smoky with need, sliding out of a pair of faded jeans, laughing under his breath at the buckles and snaps and leather that resisted his clever fingers as a computer screen blinked in the background –

MacLeod squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then glared at himself in the foggy mirror.

Stop it. Get out.

That laughter again, faint but still aware, and this time, a whisper with it, so secret and low MacLeod almost didn't catch it – except that he was meant to. He had no doubt at all about that. Mine. His. Mine.

"You're bloody welcome to each other," Mac muttered. He flung the now-damp towel into a corner and swept up another, scrubbing angrily at his hair. Methos, he was willing to bet, would be every bit as baffling and sharp-tongued between the sheets as he was everywhere else, and Kronos – god, bedding Kronos would be like flinging yourself into Nietzsche's fucking abyss. Except that the abyss would not only fling itself back, it would crawl inside you and make a fucking nest.

He wondered if he was supposed to be jealous.

And he wondered, too, if that odd burst of quickening fire that had leapt from him to Methos might have had something to do with those whispered words.

No answer from Kronos, which was at least a small mercy. His voice had gone quiet; MacLeod hoped it would stay that way. He still felt as if his nerves were too alive for their own good, wide awake and raw from the lightning that still kindled inside him; he could do without voices as well. Dragging his fingers through the tangle of his hair, he stalked from the bathroom and pawed impatiently through his bag until he found a clean pair of sweats and a rumpled t-shirt he had meant to throw out ages ago but kept wearing anyway, and slipped them on.

Better. He felt instantly more at ease, clean and warm and half-way to comfortable for the first time in days. Shit, what a bitch of a week. He should call Joe, he supposed, let him know things were all right, that he wouldn't be filing a terminal report on anyone he knew, and perhaps he would do that later, but for now … for now …

For now, there was Methos, and he was most definitely not all right. MacLeod sighed and scowled at that thought, wondering why he cared. No, that wasn't fair. He knew why he cared. It was habit, mostly, but it was hope too. Methos had been his friend, and in spite of everything, there was a part of MacLeod that wanted to keep it that way. If anything could be salvaged from this mess, Duncan was willing to try. The truth of that surprised him. After all, he did not, right now, like Methos very much at all.

Oh, fuck, that wasn't fair either. He was angry with Methos, and hurt by his lies and deceit, and apalled at his bloodstained past and, yes, a little afraid of the fanged and clawed creature this past week had revealed, but he could not bring himself to truly dislike the man. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if he did.

Fetching a deep sigh, Duncan rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand and grimaced at the road his thoughts wanted to take. Of course disliking someone was easier than understanding, and understanding Methos … MacLeod snorted in derision at the very thought. Understanding Methos was damn near impossible. The man was all smoke screens and shadows, hiding the truth with sleight of hand and diversion. 'Stay away,' he'd told Mac with eyes and words and savage truth; 'follow me, help me,' he'd said with deed and intent. MacLeod didn't know which was real – the words or the deeds or both at once – but he didn't think he could have stopped Kronos without what Methos had done. Without Methos, he didn't think he would have found them at all.

Though why Methos had not simply tried to stop the man himself …

No, not fair again. There was so much history there, so much between the two of them. MacLeod knew that now, though he wished he didn't. Loyalty to old lovers was one thing he knew something about; it had led him into folly of his own more than once. It complicated things, and MacLeod didn't know how far he could blame Methos for that. What looked simple from the outside was not always so clear when hearts and blood

(and quickenings)

brought it home.

And now look where they were. It wasn't fair.

MacLeod sighed again, and scrubbed his hand over his face. Really, if he was being honest, nothing about this whole hellish bloody thing had been fair, not on anyone. Not the way he had passed judgement without thinking, not the way Methos had lashed out with truth as his sharpest weapon so that Mac wouldn't see his vulnerability and fear, not Kronos' obsession or Cassandra's hate. None of them had won from this. Sometimes, MacLeod thought, somewhere between bitterness and simple resignation, life was a right hard bitch. And too often, people ended up alone.

Methos must feel very alone right now. MacLeod supposed he could do something about that.

Sometimes small kindnesses were all they had. Sometimes comfort mattered. It was a start, at least.

Hauling clothes from his bag – jeans, boxers, a mid-grey pullover in better condition than the worn out t-shirt he had chosen for himself – he headed for the door.

Methos stood in the dark at the door, Kronos' blade in his hand, for several long minutes. He knew there was a reason he had told Mac to lock it from his side; the sword was hungry, and the lightning that flickered in his blood was no better. He knew very well what they wanted.

He didn't want to give it to them. And the door was locked.

Call him. Bring him.

No. He could, but he wouldn't.

The scent of blood was suddenly very thick. The taste of it filled his mouth. He had bitten through his own lip. He swiped the back of his hand over his chin and looked at the resulting smear of red incuriously. Blood. His own. Still alive, then. Good to know.

In the bathroom, he turned the shower on hard and climbed in. It seemed too much trouble to strip off, and he didn't want to put down the sword. The water was freezing. He sank down under the spray until he was sitting with his knees drawn up, the sword nestled in the crook of his body, his head bowed low. There was a dark stain of blood on his right knee – Silas' probably, or maybe Kronos'. He watched the denim darken with wet, watched the stain fade down and spread until he couldn't tell anymore what was blood and what was only water. That made him want to laugh, a sick, ironic sound, but his teeth were chattering now, and it was hard to laugh through chattering teeth.

In the other room, the bolt scraped in the door.

"No, Mac," Methos heard himself say, very mildly. "Stay away. Don't come in."

People who didn't stay away died. Wasn't that right, Kronos?

(brother you're like ice what are you doing come on get warm)

The bolt clicked free. There was a tapping.

Quoth the raven, nevermore. Methos grinned humourlessly.

"Methos?"

No no no. Go away MacLeod. Nevermore, remember?

Getting slowly to his feet, Methos hefted Kronos' sword. Kronos had always taken good care of his weapons; the grip was well wrapped. Even in the wet, it did not slip in his hand.

"Methos, I'm coming in. I've got some clothes for you. You'll want to get changed." The handle rattled, beginning to turn.

Looking down at his soaked clothing, Methos supposed MacLeod had had worse ideas. Why the hell had he been in the shower fully dressed in the first place? And why cold water? He hated the cold.

Fuck, he was losing it. "Mac, stay away. It's not -"

"And you should eat something too. I've ordered …"

MacLeod's voice was clearer now; the door was open. Methos was not listening to what he was saying. He was glaring at the sword in his hand. He made his fingers relax, lowered the blade to the floor. "Stay there, you."

It stayed. It did not look happy about it. Methos gave it a stern 'don't move' gesture, as if it were a poorly trained dog, and wondered again what the fuck he was doing. You've lost your mind, old man. Stress's been too much for you. You've flipped.

No I haven't.

Really? You sure?

"MacLeod?" Stepping to the bathroom door, Methos peered around the frame. His boots squished when he walked. Note to self : take off boots before shower, next time. "You armed?"

MacLeod stood on his side of the door, partly shielded by the angle, but Methos thought he saw a frown go over that expressive face.

"No. You're safe."

"I'm not, you know." A smile touched the edges of Methos' lips, making them fold into something brittle and unpleasant. It felt horrid; he wished he could stop. "I'm really not."

MacLeod seemed to catch the oddness in his tone, the sense of strain. He stiffened a little, and drew carefully forward. "Methos? Are you all right?"

"No." A short, disbelieving laugh came with that. "Fuck no. Sorry."

And then a knife flew out of the dark and buried itself into the door, next to MacLeod's head.

Shit fuck! MacLeod slammed the door sharply, ducking away even as he did so, cursing the fact that his katana was on the other side of the room, on the bed, out of reach. He scrambled for the bolt, smashing it into place and ignoring the way it pinched the fleshy part of his hand as it shot home. Shit. Shit.

Methos. What the bloody hell was going on? Backing away from the door, MacLeod watched it carefully. It didn't move; there was no sound from the other side. Whatever Methos was doing, it didn't seem to involve trying to break the door down.

Just throwing knives at people who were trying to help him. So much for small fucking kindnesses.

There was a shuffling sound from the other room, and Methos' voice came though.

"Mac? You okay?"

Okay? MacLeod's eyes widened in amazement. He actually sounded concerned. "What the fuck do you think?"

"I didn't … I tried not …" A sigh, and the sound of something hitting the door softly. Probably, MacLeod thought, Methos' head. He could picture the man standing there, arm's length away but unreachable, leaning his forehead against the wood, talking into the dark. His voice still had that oddness, that almost-panicky strain. "I'm sorry, Mac. I don't want to. Stay away, okay?"

"Fine by me." MacLeod glared at the door. "You're damn well paying for any damages in there, you know."

"Yes. Okay. I'm sorry." A pause, and then, in a calmer tone, "Thank you for the clothes. Mine are wet."

That made MacLeod frown. He had dropped the clothes when he had leapt back through the door, but … wet? "What? How?"

"Shower, apparently."

MacLeod gave a slow blink. Hell's bells, this was worse than he'd thought. "What?"

"Don't know. Can't … don't really know." The shaky edge was back, that borderline sound. "Not doing so well here, Mac."

MacLeod found there was nothing he could say. Methos did not speak again either. After a short pause, MacLeod heard the sound of him moving away.

Not looking away from the door, Duncan walked backwards to the bed. He stopped when the back of his leg hit it, dropped down and pulled his katana to his side. Then he sat, for a long time, with his head in his hands.

Oh, Methos. Fuck.

Take his head. Insistent, insidious voice in the back of MacLeod's brain. It had been whispering that for an hour. He's not safe, he's not sane. He's a danger. Take his head.

No. Not unless he forces me, not unless there's no other way.

He's not sane.

He's in shock. He's grieving. He's trying, damn it all.

He's not sa –

"Shut up!" A pillow caught the brunt of his frustration, went flying to floor with a dull whoof. "Shut up!"

The voice did. He did not think it was Kronos, but he could not be sure. Though why Kronos would want him to kill Methos, he couldn't begin to say. Surely that should be the other way around – Kronos should want Methos to kill him. All he could read from Kronos's quickening now, though, beyond the ever-present rage, was a smug sort of glee. He had no idea why, except that Kronos had seemed to thrive on chaos and conflict. Well then, he would be loving this. This was conflicted all to hell.

Room service had been and gone, but MacLeod hadn't touched the food he had ordered. The sight of it had made him feel ill; he had covered the tray with a cloth and shoved it into the coffee niche near the door.

God, he was tired. Glancing at the clock by the bed, he saw the digital display flash over to 1.36 am. There had barely been a sound from the other room – once, the distinctive muffled clang of a sword hitting a carpeted floor, once a choked off curse that had sounded suspiciously like

(fuck you Mac)

his name, and then the grate of steel and the sound of something heavy being moved. Since then, silence.

This was bloody ridiculous. Unless we kill each other during the night, Methos had said. MacLeod had thought the man was joking. He was a lot less sure now. Even for Methos' odd sense of humour, this was taking things too far.

And he had not been joking when he had spoken through the door, in that tense and edgy tone.

Not doing so well. Not doing well at all.

Yeah, Methos, Mac thought. You and me both.

Wait. He deserved this, didn't he? Methos the Horseman; Methos, Death of nations (or whatever had passed for nations in those long distant times); Methos who had killed ten thousand and liked it – he deserved to suffer for that, didn't he?

Suffer? Maybe. No. MacLeod shook his head. No. That was wrong. He needed to answer for his crimes, and perhaps he had already done that, in his confession and in his turning away, and that was justice. To make him pay and pay and keep on paying though – to flay him with it and watch the blood run down – that wasn't justice. That was vengeance. And vengeance could be a dirty and dangerous thing. Vengeance could eat a man alive. MacLeod knew that; he had walked far enough along that path himself to know that he did not like where it took him. Another lesson from Culloden.

Methos had not harmed him. Methos had not, so far as he knew – in this millenium, at least – harmed anyone he cared about. He had harmed Cassandra, but she had had her reckoning. So why was MacLeod angry with him, again?

Because he had lied.

He always lies. It's how he survives. Half his life is a lie. Even the name he answers to out in the world is a lie. All he did to you was not tell you a truth he knew you couldn't handle. MacLeod's inner voice was scathing. It sounded very like Connor. Try again.

Because he had a past made up of secrets and darkness.

Aye, and so do you. So do we all. He just has more than most. He doesn't answer to you for that. Try again.

Because … MacLeod braced himself and gave it words. "Because I set him up high and he fell. Because I expected better."

And is that his fault? Or is it yours? What right have you to expect anything at all?

I'm just a guy. How many times had Methos tried to tell him that, in one way or another? He really should have paid better attention.

This was stupid. This was beyond stupid. It was time for this to end.

His katana lay over his lap. Scooping it up, MacLeod walked purposefully towards the bolted door.

He was floating away. He could feel it, bits of himself coming loose, drifting, falling into the gap inside him that wasn't supposed to be there. Burrowed in blankets, Methos curled tighter about the heavy, dark-hilted sword and wished he were warm. He was so cold. All the way through, he was cold. And it was only going to get colder. Fuck French winters. Maybe he would go to Morocco. Or Singapore. It would be warmer in Singapore.

Inside, a confused energy stirred and coiled, unsure of what to do. Silas, that was, fading down, fading out. Losing himself in the grey. Methos tried to be soothing, as to a baffled child.

Hush, Silas. Rest easy. It's all right; you're not lost. I'm here.

Little brother?

Little brother. The old name, the joke name; compared to Silas, everyone was little. Methos squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in hard.

Yes. I'm sorry. I killed you.

You did? No malice, just puzzlement. Were you angry?

No. Just scared. And trapped, and fighting for his life in so many different ways.

Silence. A long pause. Then, slow but sure, You're still scared, aren't you?

Fucking terrified. Methos curled around himself more tightly, trying to hold all his pieces together. Admitting his fear did not make him feel better. Even to a voice in his head.

Silas' familiar rumbling laugh sounded faintly, sinking deep. His voice was faint now too, but warm. Don't be afraid, little brother. I'm here.

I know. Oh, Silas. Tend to the horses for me, all right?

Horses? So far away, nearly gone. Methos told himself not to cry. God, Silas had always loved horses. I'll brush them until they shine, little brother. Hors …

Gone. Methos felt the spark go dim, fade back into the grey. He let out a long, shuddering sigh that wanted to be a moan and covered his face with his arms. The clothes MacLeod had thrown through the door bore his scent, clean and somehow comforting; it helped to breath it in. Poor Silas. He had lived so long in his forest, tending his animals and his axe and bothering no one who did not come to bother him, and now he was dead. Methos' fault. He should have left him alone.

They all die.

I know. Goodbye, Silas. I liked you.

There was no answer. From that voice, there would never be an answer again.

Pulling the blankets closer, Methos closed his eyes and set about trying to catch those floating pieces of himself, and slot them back together. He just needed to be warm. If he could get warm again, things would be all right. Everything was always better, in the sun.

But now it was dark and, inside and out, he was so fucking cold.

The room was a shambles. MacLeod hovered warily in the doorway. The knife that Methos had flung at him earlier was still in the door, having bitten deep into the cheap wood. It was an old thing by the look of it; MacLeod gave it a hard glance and wondered how many weapons Methos bloody carried. No blades came out of the gloom though, and no dry, sardonic voice to cut at him with a merciless, double-edged wit. Everything was utterly still. Methos was here; he could feel that, no mistaking that thrum of presence – but whatever he was doing, it did not involve moving.

The bathroom light was on, spilling a glow across the carpet and casting the rest of the room into long shadows. It took MacLeod a moment to register what he was seeing. The furniture was in disarray, the armchair shoved on its side in the middle of the room, the bed off-centre, mattress half-dragged to the floor, partially blocking off the corner of the room where the small writing desk sat. The bedding had been completely stripped. There was a trail on the floor of damp towels and Methos' wet clothing; his jeans, kicked against the wall, were soaking a dark patch into the wallpaper. His broadsword lay unsheathed on the floor, half wrapped still in the tangle of his coat. Of Methos himself, there was no sign at all.

MacLeod stepped carefully inside. "Methos?"

There was no reply. He had not really expected one. He tried again. "Methos, this is insane. We can talk this through. Let me in. Okay?"

Still no answer, but no knives either. MacLeod decided to take that as a good sign. He took two more stalking, steady steps towards the centre of the room, ready to leap if he had to. "Methos?"

He wasn't there. Well, he was, but MacLeod couldn't see him. He half-way lowered his sword. What was the man doing, hiding under the bed?

The wardrobe was open, the spare blankets and pillows stripped out, but no Methos. Prowling to the bathroom door, MacLeod glanced inside, half expecting to find the man perched by the basin, reading under the glare of the flourescent lights. He would look up, surprised, too engrossed in his book to have noticed a thing, and blink owlishly at him before saying something vast and intellectual, like; "Oh, hi Mac. It's you."

Nothing. Fuck, where was he? MacLeod didn't like this; it was making him feel nervous.

Standing by the bathroom door, he scanned the room again. The corner where the desk sat was the darkest, half hidden as it was by the tipped up mattress – and what had Methos been doing anyway, trashing his room like this? Some fucking Bronze Age commentary on interior design?

The dark over there was breathing. That was a hunter's instinct, perhaps, honed sharp by all the years of finding his own supper, and hunting prey that hunted back, but MacLeod knew when he was right. Sometimes a hollow log was just a hollow log; sometimes it was a wildcat's lair. A good hunter could tell by looking. MacLeod was a good hunter. He moved towards the dark, very carefully, and stopped at the edge of the mattress.

And stared.

If Methos had had a den, Duncan had thought back at the submarine base, he would have dragged himself into it. Well, now he had. This was a wounded animal gone to earth, and a man did not have to be a hunter to know that. A man only needed to look.

There was a pile of bedding under the desk – blankets, pillows, the covers stripped from the bed. The mattress jammed between bed and wall half leaned on the edge of the desk, making a sort of cave. Methos lay curled in the midst of it, wrapped in layers of blankets, only the white flash of his forehead and the dark smudge of his eyelashes showing in the shadows.

And the hilt of Kronos' sword, the pommel snugged up against his cheek like a child's comforter.

He did not open his eyes. He appeared to be very deeply asleep.

MacLeod did not buy that for a moment.

In the back of his head, Kronos seemed to be chuckling at something. Something to do with the sword, his sword. MacLeod set himself not to listen and thrust that awareness back.

My mind. You're dead. Disappear, will you?

Be nice. Chiding, reproachful, in a playful-soft tone, with warning underneath. He's just said goodbye to Silas. He's very cold. He needs to be warm.

Shut up. I'm not listening.

Be nice. Not at all soft, this time. A command, pre-emptory and hard enough to make Mac blink, and then that door slamming again. Oh, he was going to have to settle that bloody quickening, and soon. Kronos in his head like this was going to drive him insane. For now though – hell. One thing at a time.

"Methos," he said, very quietly. "It's me. It's Mac."

There was nothing but the sound of the other man's breathing, slow and steady. MacLeod let his sword fall to his side. All right then. No knives, no hissing, flaring-eyed creature, no wounding words. A good sign. In any case, this would probably be easier if Methos didn't talk. Duncan might be able to say what he needed to, then.

Killing was all I knew. Is that what you want to hear?

No. It wasn't, not at all.

He took a breath, made a start. Careful, keeping his voice low. "I don't know what to do."

There. That was true. Another breath, another low, careful offering. "I want to help."

True as well. Truth had been in very short supply, just lately. Or, MacLeod thought, thinking of the terrible things Methos had said by the car that morning in Seacover and in the church here in Bordeaux, perhaps there had been too much of it. That thought made his head ache. He paused, raised his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug and let his breath go in an unhappy laugh. Might as well say it; what was one more true thing now? "I don't like you very much right now."

Methos did not answer; his breathing did not change. Slow and even, rise and fall. MacLeod counted to five, out and in.

"I don't understand. What you were, what you are, what you did, what happened here – none of it. What's still happening. I feel like … did you use me, Methos? Did you put me on the board to play out some gambit of yours, to end things in a way you couldn't?"

Still no answer, and MacLeod supposed he hadn't expected one. Methos was not given to owning up to his plans. He wondered, though, if the man had been willing to sacrifice his knight to take the king. He probably had been. Methos was as ruthless at chess as he was at almost everything else.

And as unpredictable.

"What you were I can't forgive, you said." MacLeod nodded to himself in the dim room, acknowledging that as one more thing that was true. The slaughter, the pillage, the killing of so many innocent, helpless people, the rape and plunder and burning … God. He had known that Methos could be a hard one, but that? How could he forgive that? But then, in his mind's eye, he saw Methos sprawling on his couch, beer bottle in one hand and a book splayed face down on his chest, laughing at some odd joke; he saw Methos in the snow, thrusting the hilt of a tartan-wrapped sword towards him, reminding him who he was when he had been halfway to losing himself completely, Methos wary and worried and trusting him even so, and felt a pang in his heart. How can you not forgive? the quiet, inner voice wanted to know. How can you not?

He couldn't.

What I've done, you can't forgive. It isn't in your nature. Will you accept it? Methos' eyes had been so wary when he said that, so guarded against hope. The memory made MacLeod sigh. The two of them reduced to stilted words on holy ground, their friendship fallen away around them, bleeding into the cold stone – he didn't want that. He had never wanted that. He tried to say so.

"You were right. I can't forgive. I'm not even sure I have a right to. I don't know if I can accept it, either. Not that, not the Horsemen and the killing, not all the way. But I can try and accept you. Who you are now, the friend you've been to me. If you'll let me." He took half a step closer, wanting to touch but knowing it best to stay back. Out of sword range. Safer that way; no threat, no risk. It wouldn't do to threaten

(be nice)

Methos now. "I want to try."

"That's very big of you, MacLeod." The words came out of the dark fully formed, dry, hard, and dismissive. The sound of Methos' voice made MacLeod pull back. The man's eyes opened, very clear and direct. "Should I be grateful, do you think?"

"Methos, I -"

"After all, your acceptance is what we all strive for, isn't it. The approval of the great Duncan MacLeod, granting absolution for all our sins. Walked on water lately, have you, Mac?" That voice was worse now, sharp-edged, fangs beginning to bare. MacLeod's face hardened.

"I only wanted -"

"Or," Methos snarled, cutting him off, "if we can't have that, perhaps simply your tolerance, the grudging right to fucking exist. If we're too reprehensible for forgiveness, too tainted to ever again be clean, maybe we can linger at the edge of the light, even so. Poor cousins at your table, yes?"

"That's not what I -"

"Fuck off, MacLeod. I don't need your acceptance, and I don't want your fucking pity."

MacLeod stared. This was what he got for wanting to help, for reaching out? This spitting, vicious thing, snapping at the hands that fed it, all coiled and seething and scaled?

"You ungrateful bastard."

"Ungrateful? Ungrateful?" Methos' voice rose with each word, though he did not move, except perhaps to draw further back into his den. "You killed Caspian. You killed Kronos!"

"You wanted me to!"

"I did not!" That came through clenched teeth. It was at least half a lie, but MacLeod didn't care. He snarled back, letting the tip of his katana flick upwards for emphasis.

"All right then: you didn't. But they were monsters and they deserved to die. And if you can't see that, you're a monster too."

"That," Methos told him, in a voice so cold it seemed to have come from a place that had never seen the sun, "is exactly what I am. And you're a fucking hypocrite. Get away from me, MacLeod. Get away and stay away, before I do something I'll regret."

The creature in that darkened den had never regretted a thing it its millenia-long life. MacLeod shook his head in disgust. What the hell had he been thinking? Clearly Methos was more the Horseman than MacLeod had ever known. He wondered why it had taken him so long to see it.

"You haven't changed at all, then. Maybe things like you don't change."

"Maybe we don't," Methos spat back. "Things like me. Like us."

Us? God no. MacLeod rejected that, fiercely. Whatever Methos was, they were not the same. There was no 'us' here.

"We are through, then." His jaw wanted to clench; his throat was tighter than it should have been. MacLeod told himself it was only anger. Purely anger. "Truly, this time. We're through."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Get out."

"Fuck you." Swinging on his heel, his whole body stiff with outrage, MacLeod stalked to the door. The upturned armchair was in his way; he kicked it aside hard enough to make something inside it splinter. That was fair enough. Something inside him was splintered too. Why should he be the only one?

Methos' voice stopped him at the door. A different tone completely, with all the ice stripped away. Colourless, and utterly blank.

"I don't want to, Mac. I'm not doing so well."

It was on the tip of MacLeod's tongue to say 'No, you're really not,' but he didn't. He didn't think he could speak. Instead he stepped through the door and shut it, quietly and finally, behind him.

So cold. He was so cold. But not cold enough. Pain cut through the ice, remote but still real. It felt like knives. A part of him wanted to howl and snap his teeth in a frenzy of hurt and rage, like an animal in a trap; the rest of him wanted to curl up and weep. He did neither. He let the pain wash through him instead, let himself feel it – oh god fuck like knives, like broken bones sticking out all over – and then waited as it fell into the ice again, growing colder, growing thin.

Fuck you, Mac. Fuck you sideways and around the corner and back again. This is killing me. You're killing me.

Oh, Mac. Duncan. I'm sorry. So fucking sorry.

Don't you dare forgive me.

I'm sorry.

He had not been able to see MacLeod's face. That, at least, he could be grateful for. Mac put everything he felt in his eyes, and Methos did not think he could have handled that. He was not sure there was enough ice in all the world.

Where the fuck was his anger? This would all be so much easier with anger. As it was, all he had to defend himself was his will, hardened to a hammer over all the centuries, and his cruel, cutting words. Both old weapons, both old friends. It appalled him a little, how easily he used them. And how very well.

It was horrible. It was exhilerating. It was, worst of all, at least part way true. Truth was best, he had found, for striking out. It had worked to drive Duncan away before, for a short time; it had worked now too. He had heard the hurt in MacLeod's voice, poorly masked by anger – gods below, Duncan was a terrible liar – and been glad. He could not afford kindness.

Not with Kronos' sword humming at his side, and Kronos' quickening calling to him with every beat of MacLeod's heart, and his hand tightening on the dark sword hilt in a way he could not help, and so very little to hold him back.

Go away, Mac. Get out of here. Never-bloody-more, all right?

He didn't want to do it.

He tasted blood in his mouth for the second time that night, and only then realised that he was stifling a rising sound with his fist. His teeth cut into his knuckle, making bright fire burst beneath his skin; he bit down harder and tasted blood again, but the sound didn't stop.

Christ, why was he laughing?

I want him to live. Why the fuck had he said that? MacLeod shook his head, growling low in his chest at the question, pacing angrily about his room. A week ago, he wouldn't have asked that of himself; a week ago he wouldn't have had to. Methos had been his friend then, and he had harboured no doubts about that at all. He had, God help him, even trusted the man, telling himself there was a good heart behind all those glib, cynical jibes. They were a defense mechanism, MacLeod had decided, like his lies and his harmless Adam Pierson act – no one could be as jaded, as singularly concerned with only their own survival, as Methos pretended to be. No one could.

So he had thought. But that was before the Horsemen, before Death, before he had seen that ruthless, scaled thing slide through Methos' eyes and heard it speak with his tongue. Now … well. MacLeod swore. Now he knew better.

He should have let Cassandra kill him. The creature in that other room was not the Methos he had known; he was not even sure the creature in that other room was entirely human. Certainly it didn't care for anything beyond itself. Itself, and its undearly departed shieldbrothers,

(not yours)

(shut up shut the fuck up you're dead already you're dead)

who were still roiling about in MacLeod's blood and in his head, making him see half the world through a thin gauze of red. No, the creature in that other room had no human feeling at all.

Except … 'I don't want to. I'm not doing so well.' That had been said in a different voice. Not a human voice perhaps, not the voice of a man who cared that he had just sliced open another's heart and killed a friendship dead –

Is that what he's done?

– but different all the same. The voice, perhaps, of a man fighting himself, and holding something down very hard.

No. He didn't want to feel sorry for Methos, didn't want to feel sympathy. Not now. Anger was easier, better, cleaner. Truer.

Really?

Yes. Be quiet.

Muttering curses in Gaelic (always the most satisfying to his heart) MacLeod stalked across the room to the mini-bar and flung the small fridge open. He glared at the array of overpriced, ridiculously small bottles, grabbed the Glenmorangie – only a halfway decent single malt, but his options here were limited – and slammed a mouthful down without pausing for a glass. Damn Methos. Let him rot in his own hell.

I don't want to.

Didn't want to what? Be a prick? Bit fucking late for that. MacLeod emptied the rest of the little bottle down his throat and tossed it at the waste basket, missing by inches and not caring. Didn't want to be a cold-hearted monster with the morals of a crocodile? Yeah. Right. Whatever. Too late for that, too. Far, far too late. Too late by fucking millenia.

"I don't want to, Mac," he mimicked viciously. "I don't want to. I lie and I kill and I use my friends like fucking hunters' decoys, but that's all okay because I don't want to." He swore bitterly. "Yeah, right, Methos. Try again. Try harder. Maybe the next idiot off the line will believe you. But I'm done with giving you chances. I'm done."

You stupid Scottish shit. Don't you ever fucking listen? Kronos's voice cut him off dead, coming through as clearly as if the man were standing at his shoulder instead of lying dead in the freezing dark. He sounded utterly disgusted.

Bloody hell. MacLeod shook his head, wishing the voice away. What was this, the most stubborn quickening ever?

I said, don't you listen?

And I said, you're dead. MacLeod eyed the remainder of the mini-bar sullenly. Baileys. Christ, who drank that? He palmed the bottle of Stolichnaya instead. Aye, I listen. I heard every bloody word.

You didn't hear a fucking thing he said. There was a hard, disparaging anger in that. Here, let me fucking help you. Listen.

Kronos wasn't gentle. There was a sense like something wrenching sideways, sending a bolt of pain so deep that it made MacLeod feel briefly ill. He gasped and clutched at the mini-bar for support, dropping the little vodka bottle to the floor, and then he heard Methos' voice again, replayed from the depths of his mind like a CD skipping in a machine. And suddenly, in MacLeod's head, 'I don't want to' sounded very much like 'please'. And 'I'm not doing so well' had the same tone as 'help me'.

Please Mac. Help me.

You stupid Scottish shit, Kronos said. You arrogant, fucking stupid, fucking judgemental Scottish shit.

And in the back of Mac's head, he slammed the door.

Duncan wasn't sure he'd ever felt more confused in his life. Probably he had, his rational mind insisted – in the months after his first death, nothing at all had made sense, for example – but this … this was different. This was like being blindfolded and spun in a circle and let loose to find his way through a minefield in the dark. Methos was his friend; no, his enemy; no, his ally; no, his enemy again. Or his friend. Methos needed him; no, he was using him; no, he was helping him; no, he was trying to kill him; no, he was asking for help. Fuck. And Kronos …

… Kronos was dead, and refusing to stay that way. And he knew Methos too damn well to let MacLeod get away with anything.

It was enough to do a man's head in.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, MacLeod studied the closed and bolted door between their two rooms as if the answers he needed were written on it in a language he had yet to decode. They weren't, of course. But Methos was behind that door, lurking like a wounded beast in a dark place where no one could reach him, and he had said "Help me." And Mac had walked away.

Mac never walked away.

Why the hell didn't Methos ever say what he meant?

He wasn't going in there again. Twice he had tried, and twice he had been forced back. A third time and he might not be so lucky. Methos was good with a sword, better than he ever let on, and if the man came at him with one of the blades he had in there, in his current mood, he would mean it. He might not want to, but he would mean it. Certainly he would take some fighting off. MacLeod knew better than to tempt fate that way.

Kronos thought him a coward. That was interesting. Kronos, Horseman to his bones and as hard as granite, thought that not going to a friend's aid – well, Methos' aid, since Kronos didn't seem to give a rat's arse about anyone else – was poor form. MacLeod's sense of irony had never been particularly sharp, but even he could see the satire in that. Methos – the old Methos, not the half-feral thing in that dark room – would have given him a sly smile for recognising it. Judge not, yes? Yes.

Bloody stubborn, bloody ugly quickening.

It was very late; MacLeod was very tired. His head was too full for thinking, his heart too battered and wary for much else. He did not look forward to sleep – Caspian had gone quiet, but he would bleed through still in dreams for months to come, and Kronos did not need dreams to make himself known – but he wasn't going to have a choice for much longer.

Surely he could work out what to do about Methos in the morning. Everything would look better in daylight, when he had had some sleep. Everything always did.

But Methos had said, "Help me."

Fuck.

MacLeod went to bed in his sweats, the worn t-shirt tossed in a sad rumple on the floor and his katana laid out on the bed beside him. The last thing he had done was to very softly, very slowly, unbolt the closed door.

It was, right now, the best that he could do.

K? You there?

No answer.

Fine. Don't talk to me.

Nothing. Methos frowned in the dark, feeling himself drift. He was looking for an anchor. Anything would do.

Fuck, I need you K. I need you. Where are you?

You know. Faint, so faint. Why won't you?

I can't.

Damn it. And why not? Why couldn't he? What the hell was Duncan MacLeod to him? Infuriating, judgemental bloody Highlander.

He's my friend. And I don't have so many of those left.

He hates you. More felt than heard, a shiver in the ice.

That is the bloody idea. Methos shifted, drawing the blankets closer in the nest he had made. MacLeod had to hate him now, had to stay away. The alternative was … no. There really was no alternative. Knowing that should have hurt more than it did. He wondered if he should be worried that it didn't. Maybe the ice was finally working. You shouldn't have done this, K.

I came for you.

I know. You shouldn't have.

A long silence. Breathing in the dark. From across the room, there was the faintest, stealthiest sound. The bolt, being oh so carefully drawn back. Then nothing.

The light flicked out in the other room, the beacon glow disappearing from under the door.

I'm not whole.

No. Methos felt his lips curve in that unpleasant smile. Neither am I. Haven't been for a long time.

Easy solution. For both of us. Kronos' heavy sword seemed to shiver where it lay along the length of him, cradled like a babe. Methos sighed. Why was he still so bloody cold?

That's what you want?

I came for you, brother. So, so soft. I came for you. And then, when Methos did not respond, You'll be warm. Once it's done. I'm like the sun, remember?

Dark star. Yes. Pest.

Tyrant. The old affection still there in that word, that old love-name. Still strong. Come. Do this. For me. There was a shifting, a subtle flickering in that faint awareness that Methos knew for a shrug. Behind his eyes, he could almost see Kronos' brow crease, the way it always did when he was looking at a puzzle he couldn't figure out. He's not like us.

No. Not like us.

Why not, then? Why not?

"Oh, Kronos. You always did push too hard. It's why I always left, you know." He whispered it to the sword, its hilt tucked under his chin. The sword whispered nothing back. Methos listened, and after a while nodded as if it had. "Yes," he said. "Yes. I know. All right. Yes."

For a long while, he lay in the dark and watched the space under the door. The light did not go back on.

Don't want to.

Do it anyway.

Don't want to.

So cold. So cold. So fucking cold.

Don't want to.

Help me.

Nevermore.

He opened the door and walked through.

MacLeod came awake from a dream of fire and hunger with a surge and a lunge and his katana halfway to somebody's throat. Methos was standing by his bed, all long planes and angles in the moonlight that came through the uncovered glass doors. He spread both hands very slowly. There was not a weapon in sight.

His sword, where's his sword? MacLeod let his eyes cut quickly to the door, catching on the long narrow shape propped on the frame – Kronos' sword, ugly thing – and then back to Methos. Unarmed. Not here for his head, then. He felt his heart, that had been hammering in his chest, start slightly to ease.

Shit, what a filthy dream. Caspian was … MacLeod shook that thought away and focussed on the man standing over him. He didn't lower his blade an inch.

"Methos?"

"Mac." Methos' voice was so subdued it was little more than a whisper. His hand flickered restlessly, almost aimlessly, to the doorway. "I left it …"

"I see that."

"It wanted …" He trailed off, then took a breath. "I couldn't."

"Good." It wanted? What, the sword did? Soulless, mindless chunk of metal? MacLeod shifted his katana warily, not lowering it but moving back from the edge of a strike to a half-guard. "What the fuck are you playing at, Methos?"

Playing? Methos closed his eyes at that. God, he wasn't playing; he was fighting with everything he fucking had. He heard himself make an odd, choked sound and hoped he wasn't going to laugh. It would not be a good thing if he did.

Please Mac. Help me.

"Not playing. I know what I … I'm sorry, MacLeod. Will you believe that?"

MacLeod didn't answer at once. He only waited, watching, his sword very steady in the dark. Finally, he said, in a tone so neutral it howled, "All right."

He didn't. He didn't believe that. Methos nodded, hearing that in his voice. It was interesting how much that could reach him, as far beneath the ice as he was. He wanted to shake it off, to claw his way back to the surface, but it was as if he had fallen into a frozen lake. The ice kept slipping past his fingertips, and the water was as black as hell. Probably he would drown. "I deserve that."

"Do you?"

"You think I do. That's enough."

"Is it?"

God. He was making this so hard. Methos felt his own howl rising from his gut and forced it down. At his side, his sword hand clenched and released, clenched and released. He whispered, "Please, Mac. Please."

"Please what?" MacLeod knew he was being harsh, but he couldn't help himself. There was only so much a man could take. "Say what you mean, for once in your bloody life. Let me at least try and understand you."

Methos said nothing at all. His head was bowed in the shadows; MacLeod could make out nothing but the line of one cheekbone and the weary slump of his shoulders.

"Methos?" If the man wasn't going to speak, he could leave. MacLeod opened his mouth to say so, but then there was a soft sigh, a shaky whisper of breath, and Methos' voice came out of the dark, his familiar clipped accent sounding oddly strained. Oddly, peculiarly wrong.

"Please don't. I can't. Please, Mac." Another uneven breath, and MacLeod suddenly realised what he was hearing. Methos always hid his fear with anger or laughter or quick, scathing words; MacLeod had never seen it laid bare before. It stunned him a little. He sat up straighter, setting the katana aside.

"Methos?"

"I can't. I can't. Please." Utter despair in that voice now, and utter desperation. Methos made a small gesture; his long-fingered hand fluttered like a moth in the moonlight. He touched the bed, almost as if he didn't want to. "Please?"

MacLeod said nothing, and for a handful of seconds Methos stood where he was, waiting. Then he made a small sound of pain, of pure dejection, and began to turn away.

No. Fuck that. No. It was too much. That pain, that need – Duncan MacLeod could not turn it away. He wasn't made like that. And this was Methos. That mattered, right now. That mattered.

Reaching out with one strong hand, he caught Methos' wrist and pulled him back. Methos did not resist. He let himself be pulled, and sank down on the bed.

"It's all right." MacLeod's voice was gruff as he lifted the blankets aside. Best not to think about this too much. "Come on. Get in."

Methos hesitated, then slid himself under the covers, fully clothed. He didn't curl close, in spite of the chill that clung to him; he didn't touch at all. Instead he lay with his back turned, knees drawn up, his face buried in the roll of the blankets he had drawn around himself. He seemed perfectly miserable.

He should not be so scared. Watching him, Duncan found himself thinking again of a wounded animal gone to earth. This went further than simple grief, even if he and Kronos had been more

(You think so, Highlander?)

(Not now. I'll deal with you later. Not now. For his sake.)

(He's too cold.)

than friends. This wasn't a loss that had happened; for Methos, this was a loss that was happening now, right in this moment, this instant. Shifting awkwardly, MacLeod lay back against the pillows, careful to keep to his side of the bed. He didn't understand. Methos ran when he was threatened, or he fought like a cornered cat, all tricks and quickness and hissing fury, or he did both, if he had to … but he didn't disintegrate into hopelessness. And there was no threat here, in any case. The Horsemen were gone – well, mostly – and Cassandra had disappeared. If it were him that Methos was afraid of, then Methos wouldn't be here at all. It made no sense. It didn't.

It didn't matter. The man needed comfort, a breathing body next to him in the night. MacLeod could give him that much. Morning would be soon enough to unravel the rest. To discover how far they hated each other, or not.

He would really prefer 'or not'. Even with the cutting words and the blood and the ice, he would prefer 'or not'. It surprised him a little to realise that.

"Methos?" He spoke quietly, not really expecting an answer, but somehow it seemed important to say this. "It will be all right. In the morning. We can talk. It will be." And, reaching out quietly, he set his hand on Methos' shoulder, a wordless and simple reassurance.

Methos' reaction was quick and startling. He jerked almost frantically away, his body coiling in on itself, rejecting the contact in a purely visceral way. His words came fast and feverish: "Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't fucking touch -" … and then in a breath he reversed everything, clawing across the space between them to fling himself hard against MacLeod's chest, his face pressed to the crook of his neck, clinging just as frantically as he had shied. His skin was like ice, even through the clothes he was wearing; his whole body was shaking. His words, muffled, came through clenched teeth.

"Not you too. Please, not you, Mac. Not you."

MacLeod had no idea what he meant, but he knew he had to answer. Too shocked to do anything else, he wrapped one arm about Methos' shoulders, raised his other hand to soothe Methos' hair. "No," he said. "Not me."

Methos wept then, hard and with his whole body. It did not last for long. The years in him seemed to have scoured tears down to dust, the ice to have locked them away. Those few that escaped were hot and precious things, like diamonds pressed from coal. Once they had stopped, he lay quietly for a very long time. MacLeod let him, feeling the slow pull of warmth returning to that pale skin, feeling the winding down and letting go that told him something wrong had been broken, and was being slowly set right. His hand cupped the back of Methos' neck, his thumb stroking gently at that vulnerable spot at the base of his skull. The texture under his touch was like velvet. Methos did have soft places, after all. That thought made MacLeod smile wryly to himself.

"Better?" he murmured.

Methos' voice, pressed now against his shoulder, was much calmer than it had been. "Not you." He sounded as if he was telling himself something, imprinting a fact. "Not you."

"Not me."

"Good."

Another long silence, and MacLeod could trace breath by breath the tension easing from the long body that pressed against him, the yielding, the sense of surrender. Whatever battle Methos had been fighting, it was over for now.

MacLeod was beginning to think that Methos had fallen asleep when he spoke. His words were quiet, resigned, and very sure.

"They all die."

MacLeod said nothing to that, only stroked his hair again. There was nothing at all to say. It seemed enough for Methos, though. He sighed and rolled away, and didn't speak again.

Duncan fell asleep listening to the sound of his breathing, and when he woke, he woke alone.

Duncan, stepping back from the open door to his loft, gesturing him inside. Methos turned the memory in his mind a little, acknowledging it – the warmth, the welcome – and then he put it in a little box and floated it away.

Nevermore.

Duncan, making 'I don't believe you' faces at him over a row of shot glasses on a table at Joe's bar. He smiled a little at that one – MacLeod had never known when he was joking – then set it gently in another small box and let it float away too.

Nevermore.

Duncan grinning at him like a maniac down the elegant length of his katana, laughing in triumph. Duncan staring at him in bafflement with a beer can in one hand and his sword in the other. Duncan standing with him at Alexa's grave, steadfast for a friend. More tiny moments to briefly savour, more little boxes, more floating away.

Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore.

He had always been very good at letting go.

Sitting in the armchair in MacLeod's room, he watched the other man sleep. MacLeod's hair was a dark tangle on the pillows; his face still, almost gentle. Methos held him with his gaze, tracing the lines of him, reminding himself how Mac's eyes creased at the edges when he smiled and meant it, how his top lip thinned when he wanted to shout or snarl and was holding back.

He had another box for that, but he wasn't quite ready to use it. He could hold on for a little while longer. It was not yet dawn.

Nevermore, Duncan. I'll miss you, you great daft Scot.

Over his knees, Kronos' sword lay quiet. Methos bounced it absently, feeling its weight – big sword for a man of Kronos' height, but then, Kronos had always been one for pushing limits – and its wanting.

Can't do it. Sorry, brother. Not him too.

The answer did not come at once, but Methos felt the stirring in the air, a slow and strong unravelling, and then the ghost of a touch on his wrist, at his neck. Kronos. Always so willful, always so strong. Holding on even now.

Are you angry with me? He should have been; he should have been furious. Methos asked it as if he were merely curious. He supposed he was. It wasn't his head that Kronos was locked in, after all. Not all of him.

Should have known not to push you. Kronos' voice was stronger here, closer to Mac, echoing inside. He sounded – shit, he sounded almost amused. You always fought like hell when I pushed you.

I always ran when you pushed me.

I always chased when you ran.

I always wanted you to. Eventually. But not this time. Not now. The timing here had been wrong from start to finish.

I know. A pause. You can't leave me like this, brother. I'm not whole. And it's … fuck, it's like playland in here. Nothing real. He really still listens to fucking opera?

Oh, bugger off. If you don't like his taste in music, you shouldn't have let him bloody kill you, then. That was harsh, but Methos was not taking the blame for this one. Not for this. This was all Kronos. And you shouldn't have jumped like that. Or you should have jumped harder.

Think I didn't try? Familiar flash of anger, there. I came for you, I told you that.

Yeah, well. You got him instead. Good job. And then, because it was true and he couldn't help it; K, I didn't want this.

You think I did? Kronos was snarling now, his temper flaring. On the bed, Mac muttered and turned his head. Methos frowned.

Don't wake him. His frown deepened; he shook his head. This should not even be possible. K, how are you doing this? How are you holding on to yourself?

That earned a scathing bark of laughter. Intellectual curiousity, brother? Or survival, as usual?

You know me. Don't be an arse. How?

As if I'd let this one take me as easily as that. He's nobbut a bairn.

A corner of Methos' mouth lifted at Kronos' sudden false brogue. He replied in kind. Hush thy clamour, pest. Aye, he's a bairn, but he be a fair strong'un a' tha'. He dropped the accent, went on in his own tones. How long do you think you can hold?

We'll see, won't we. God, that sounded determined. And then, as if he were only just realising it; You're really doing this? You're chosing this … this Highland infant over me?

No. I'm chosing myself. Did you expect anything else?

For a long time, there was silence. And then, quiet and accusing and half a plea – I came for you, brother. For you.

I know. I'm sorry, K. I know.

Once, long ago, Kronos had danced the bulls on Knossos. He had leapt so high. So high. No fear in him at all. And his courage had been beautiful.

He should have stayed away.

He shouldn't have fucking died.

They all die.

But not Duncan. Not if Methos could help it. Not at his hand.

Not this one. Not this time.

The sky was growing lighter. Methos looked long at MacLeod's sleeping face, touching with his eyes that generous mouth, the brow that furrowed too easily with guilt or worry, the lashes any woman would envy. He took those images in, treasuring each one for the gift that it was. Then he put them all in that box, that last, waiting box – so carefully, so kind – and let it float away.

Nevermore, Mac. Nevermore.

Pale sunlight fell in bars across the bed, so that MacLeod woke blinking and renewed. He knew at once that Methos was gone. No low thrum of presence; no sense in the air that someone had just stepped out and would be back soon. MacLeod frowned at that. Bloody Methos, wandering off in the middle of the night. What was the man thinking? They needed to talk. They really did.

A note lay on the pillow. Methos' neat hand on the cheap hotel stationary was clear and precise.

Cast a cold eye

On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by.

You wanted me to live.

Thank you, Mac.

I want the same for you.

AP

AP. So fucking careful, even with him. Wouldn't do to set his true initials to paper. 'M' could stand for anything, of course, but it still wouldn't do. Duncan read the note three times, then swore and crushed it in his fist. Then, slowly, almost automatically, he smoothed it out again, and traced one line over with his finger.

You wanted me to live. MacLeod had not known that Methos had heard him say that.

He had, though. He had heard every word.

And in the bright bars of the morning sun, Duncan found that he was glad.