Duncan's head snapped up as the approach of another Immortal registered in his brain. It felt like a very familiar presence, but he couldn't be sure. He reached for his sword, approached the door to the loft, and swung it open carefully.

Methos stood there, carrying a large brown paper bag, obviously full. Duncan dropped his katana to his side.

"Beergram?" Duncan asked, eyebrow raised. "What are you doing here?"

Methos had been in Paris when last they had talked about 48 hours ago. Mac grinned slightly as he remembered the last conversation they'd had.

"This had better be good," Methos had said sleepily as he answered the phone.

"Did I wake you?" Duncan asked.

"You usually do." Methos yawned into the phone. "I cannot imagine what I've done to earn this singular honor. Some people have alarm clocks. I have Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod giving me wake up calls. Feel like I wandered into the Immortal Hilton Extraordinaire. It's totally strange. Almost as totally strange as the phone call I got yesterday from this totally weird bird with the bookseller's convention."

Duncan was already grinning. "What totally strange phone call did you get from what totally weird bird?"

"Well, this female person I'd never met before in my life calls me up and tells me that I've been invited to discuss a panel on rare and collectible books. So, I ask her if I'm being invited to be on the panel."

"Uh huh?"

"And she says 'Umm, I don't know. You're not on the mandatory list. You're on the other list.' And I say, 'Mandatory list?' Having visions of downtrodden booksellers in chains with black-leather clad creatures cracking whips and compelling them To Be On The Panel whether they like it or not. She says again, 'You're not on the mandatory list.' So, I ask, 'What on earth do you mean by mandatory?' And she says, 'But you're not on the mandatory list.' As if the meaning shouldn't matter if it didn't apply to me. I tell you, Mac, this bird was clueless."

By this point, Duncan was laughing helplessly.

"Uh, earth to Mac." Methos was staring at him curiously.

"Sorry, just got lost in thoughts," Duncan said, as the memory of the call reminded him of his long distance bills. For the last couple months they had been even more horrendous than when he and Tessa had been separated by a continent and an ocean. He had realized that fact suddenly and with shock when the last phone bill had come. For days, he'd shied away from thinking about what that particular fact meant, and now, Methos was right here in the loft, making it a little difficult not to think about it.

"What are you doing here?" Duncan asked again, furrowing his brow.

Methos started unloading three 12-packs into the refrigerator. "I was bored in Paris," he replied, lightly. "You and your headhunters make life ever so much more interesting. And why on earth are scowling? Did I do something?"

"Did it occur to you to tell me that you were coming to visit? I'm not sure and maybe I'm out of my mind, but did we not talk around two days ago? Do you think you might have told me you were coming? Or maybe sent an e-mail?" Duncan asked, as he went across the room to the couch and plopped down.

Methos shrugged. "It was an impulse," he said. "I hung up from talking to you, picked up the phone, and booked the flight. And then I ran around like a madman arranging to get the bookstore covered and do laundry and get packed. . . and, voila, here I am."

Well, maybe not quite that simple, Methos reflected silently. He'd sat in the cab for almost twenty minutes outside the dojo, after handing the driver the fare with a huge tip and asking him to just wait.

He'd wondered what on earth he was doing there. He'd thought about telling the driver to take him to a hotel. He'd even considered telling the driver to just take him straight back to the airport so he could take a flight right back to Paris.

Now, that would be astonishingly whimsical behavior even for him. Fly from Paris to Seacouver. Take cab to Mac's loft. Stare at it. Take cab back to airport. Fly back to Paris. Make arrangements to have self carted off to looney bin.

He'd thought about airline food and crying babies and shuddered. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he'd thought, slinging open the door of the cab and marching into the dojo.

And now, here he was unloading beer into Duncan's fridge while the other man frowned at him from the couch.

Methos halted his unloading, looked carefully into Duncan's face, and spread his hands with a shrug. "Hey, if you don't want me to be here, I can go to a hotel."

"I never said I didn't want you here. I just don't understand why you couldn't tell me you were coming. Did you think I'd pack my bags and leave town?"

Methos put his head to one side and considered. "Actually, that never occurred to me as one of the possibilities," he said. "Never thought you'd flee your lair even if one of the unwelcome approached. You're entirely too primitive and territorial. You'd beat the unwelcome one off."

"Yeah," Duncan conceded. "That I would."

Methos went back to unloading the beer into the refrigerator. He opened one, left the top on the counter, took a swallow, took another out of the pack and held it out toward Duncan. "Wanna beer?" he asked, his voice muffled as he drank again.

Duncan thought for a minute. "No," he said, finally, "I don't want a beer. I was about to go to bed. I've had more than enough booze for one night."

Methos shrugged. "So are you going to beat me off?" He shed his coat and dropped it on the kitchen floor. It clanked.

"Wasn't planning on it," Duncan said. "And what kind of arsenal do you have in that coat?"

"The usual." Methos prowled across the room and collapsed on the other end of the couch. "You're still scowling," Methos pointed out. He started peeling the label off the beer bottle, dropping the little shreds of paper on the couch.

"I'm scowling is because of the horrible mess you always make." He rose and took the shreds to the trash can, gathering up the bottle cap on the way and dumping it too. Methos shrugged and put his feet up on the couch, stretching his legs out.

Duncan picked up the coat, considered the weight, and hung it on a coat rack near the door. He crossed the room, unceremoniously dumped Methos' feet back on the floor, and sat back down on the couch.

Methos sighed deeply and sat up. "I'm getting damned tired of you glowering like an unfriendly bear," he said. He flowed to his feet and wandered back to the kitchen, throwing his bottle in the trash can.

"That gets recycled," Duncan said.

Methos rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle out of the trash. "Where do you want me to put it?" he asked.

"Rinse it out and put in the recycling bin."

Methos rinsed the bottle, looked around for the bin, and tossed the bottle with a loud clink. "There," he said. "Happy now? No, obviously not. You're still looking like the wrath of God. Jesus, Mac, so I didn't call. What in hell is the big deal?" He snagged another beer out the fridge

"The big deal is that's inconsiderate, Methos. It's late. I'm tired. I have an early class to teach. I'm not exactly up for entertaining," Duncan said, still frowning.

"Did I ask to be entertained?" Methos felt his eyes starting to glint dangerously. "I've been entertaining myself a long damn time, you know. Longer than you've been alive anyway. And I have I ever bitched and complained about you calling me, usually an hour or two before I have to be awake, because YOU want to be entertained?"

Methos paused, took a swallow of beer, and went on, "No. Oh, no, I've been your court jester, oh great lord of the clan, for many of my mornings and your nights without a damn word of complaint." Methos thought about putting the brakes on as he watched Duncan's eyes go wide.

Hell, he hadn't lost his temper in a quite a while. "So, I didn't call. I didn't e-mail. Did you ever e-mail me and say 'Oh, hey, Methos, I'm gonna call and wake you up every damn morning for the next few weeks just because I'm bored and the only reason you exist on this planet is to amuse me.'"

Methos took another swallow of beer. "Oh, that is, except when I'm busy rescuing you from dark quickenings or from insane Immortals who're gunning for all your friends, or stopping you from giving up your life for no reason at all, or whatever use you want to put me to so I can atone for the terrible bad judgement I had three fucking millennia ago in choosing to ride with Kronos and the Horsemen. So that I can make it up to you that I disappointed you. . . and oh, shit what am I saying?"

Methos stopped, suddenly and desperately. Oh, there's a reason I don't often allow myself to lose my temper. Well, too late now. In for a penny. In for a pound.

"Fuck it," Methos said quietly, as he shrugged and then slammed his beer down so hard that the bottle shattered, spraying glass and beer all over the kitchen area and driving shards of glass into his hand. He grabbed his coat and without even looking at Duncan called out, "I'm outta here," as he fled down the stairs.

"Methos!" He heard the Highlander roar behind him. He heard Duncan thundering after him, but kept going. He smashed open the door to the outside just as hard hands caught him by the shoulders, spun him around, and slammed him into a wall.

A wild, stray thought occurred that, just for once, it would be nice if Duncan would follow up this particularly masterful move by kissing Methos full on the mouth. Said thought almost elicited a burst of hysterical giggles. Methos managed to control himself and turned the grin spreading over his face into an impertinent smirk, tilting his head to one side and raising an eyebrow.

"Is there a reason you're rumpling my coat, Mac?" he asked.

"Goddammit, Methos, what is your problem?" Duncan demanded.

Methos shrugged Mac's hands off his shoulders and stared insolently at the other Immortal. "I have no problems, MacLeod. I have a credit card., and I'm taking it to a hotel. Do you have a problem with that?"

MacLeod glared at him furiously, took several deep breaths, and glared at him a little less furiously. "There's no reason for you to go to a hotel," he said evenly. "You're welcome here. Hell, I want you here."

Methos took another breath and tried to calm himself. He was about to reply reasonably when Duncan ruined it by saying, "I just don't understand why you couldn't have just picked up a damn phone and told me you were coming."

"Because," Methos hissed, "I am inconsiderate as all hell. I don't even know the meaning of the word, 'consideration'. Gods know, I've appeared without warning on your damn barge and in your damn loft many times before. Why in hell are you harping on and on about it this time? Oh, I know. I've got it. Ms. Manners died and appointed you the heir to her kingdom."

"Methos, please. Let it rest," Duncan groaned.

"Oh, fuck you and the horse you rode in on," Methos said, aware that he was being insanely unreasonable. He slammed the door in Duncan's face.

Methos winced at the pained, unhappy look he'd seen on Duncan's face, just as the door slammed. Oh well. To hell with it. He started down the street.

Duncan came out the door behind him. Methos stopped and cursed himself, Duncan, and life in general. Whirling, he reached into his coat for his sword.

"Go away, Mac. We've both said more than enough. I mean it."

Duncan backed away, his arms spread wide. "Methos, come back inside, and let's talk."

"I said that we've both said more than enough. What part of that sentence did you not understand?" Methos asked, once again tilting his head to one side and directing a bemused smile at the other man that he knew Duncan would find infuriating.

He watched as Duncan closed his eyes and obviously tried to contain his anger. "Fine," Duncan said shortly. "You do as you please. You always do anyway." He went back inside his dojo, slamming the door.

Methos sighed deeply, hesitated, then went back down the street, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. He felt a stinging in his eyes and took a deep breath. That had not gone well. He resisted an urge to bang his head against the nearest wall and reminded himself, again, that there was a reason that he didn't often allow himself to lose his temper.

He decided to walk around the block, maybe a few times, and then maybe go back to the loft and see if they could start over. He wondered if that would have to involve an apology and groaned softly.

He had barely gotten half a block away when he felt the tingling presence of another Immortal. Not Mac. He took his left hand from his pocket, reached inside his coat for the hilt of his sword, and looked in every direction.

"Here," a voice called out. Methos whirled to the right and found a man standing in the shadows of an alley way.

"And here," another voice called. Methos turned to his left and saw a man standing beside one of the parked cars on the street to his left.

"And here," yet another voice chimed in. Methos turned again to a man standing beside the parked cars behind him.

His mouth dry, Methos called out, "Is this a Challenge?"

"Oh, yes," the first voice said simply.

Methos swallowed hard, took his sword out, and faced the man in the alley. "There can be no interference," he said calmly, his eyes glancing quickly from the man in the alley to each of the men on his sides. He backed up slightly.

The Immortal in the alley on the right chuckled and moved in front of him. "And who's gonna enforce the rules? Your boyfriend? I think you just had a fight with him."

"He's not my boyfriend," Methos said casually. Not for lack of hoping, though it seemed hopeless right now. He raised his sword to meet the challenge, and his right hand came out of his pocket with his Beretta. He fired first at the man in front of him, hitting him square in the chest, and then managed to wing the man on his left in the head. The one behind him dove behind a Honda.

Methos threw himself to the ground and rolled for cover. As he expected, a shot ricocheted off the pavement beside him. He kept rolling and dove behind a Mercedes.

The door to the dojo banged open about halfway down the block behind him. "DUNCAN! TAKE COVER!" Methos shouted.

A shot hit the open door, and Duncan disappeared back inside. Methos sincerely hoped the other Immortal was going after more fire power-- like maybe a grenade launcher. He did not like the odds.

Methos sat for a moment behind the Mercedes, then put his coat over the hilt of his sword and held it up slightly over the top of the car. He jerked it down as a shot rang out close by, rolled back to his stomach, and looked under the car. He could see the feet of his remaining standing opponent only one car length behind him. Bracing both his elbows on the ground, he held the Beretta firmly in both hands, and then carefully and precisely shot at first the man's right ankle and then his left.

Methos quickly rolled back to his feet, still crouching behind the Mercedes. A smothered curse of pain told him that he had hit at least one of his targets, but he wasn't at all sure that a foot or ankle wound would much slow down a determined, angry, adrenalin fired Immortal.

Where the hell is the blasted boy scout? Methos thought with irritation.

The blasted boy scout flung open the door of the dojo and fired a M-14 right at the car in front of the Mercedes. It blew up.

Methos blinked with respectful surprise. Where the hell did my boy scout, oh fuck, not mine. . . where did the boy scout come up with a M-14 with armor piercing incendiaries no less? He scrambled away from the Mercedes and under the cover of the explosion, scuttled back up the street to where he had left the bodies lying. He heard MacLeod yelling at him from behind, but he kept going. He knew if he left those boys to recover, they'd be back at him or Duncan with better fire power the next time.

Another car blew up right behind him, and he gratefully realized that Duncan was continuing to give him cover.

The man he had shot in the head had just risen to his feet and was staggering toward his 'friend' who had been shot in the chest and was still lying on the pavement. Methos' sword swung in a wide arc, taking the staggering man's head. Before the quickening could strike, Methos whirled and decapitated the one still lying on the ground, swinging his sword like a golf club and resisting the urge to yell "Fore," as the head rolled merrily down the sidewalk.

Methos braced himself on the sword. Another car exploded nearby.

Police sirens screamed in the near distance. Methos trusted Duncan to protect him from the remaining opponent and to get him away before the law arrived. He staggered as the first blows of the quickening coursed through his body.

Dimly, Methos was aware of Duncan cursing as his arm was taken in a grip of iron and he was dragged away from his quickening as it was still going on. As if from underwater, he could see cars continuing to blow up and careen into one another. The street lights flickered and went out with a zapping, buzzing noise. Lights up and down the street went out and in the darkness, Methos felt himself being bumped up a flight of steps and heard MacLeod still cursing in Gaelic.

Methos chuckled to himself and welcomed the darkness as it claimed him.

Duncan dumped Methos' body on the floor at the top of the stairs, called the police, and reported gunshots and cars blowing up in the street below. He then gathered the other man up and carried him to the bed.

Staring down at the body on the bed, he continued to mutter Gaelic curses. He looked down at the M- 14 slung over his chest and shook his head. He couldn't quite believe that he had just blown up several of his neighbors' cars. Not characteristic behavior on his part.

But he had been scared almost out of his wits when he had witnessed the scene on the street in front of him after hearing the gunshots. Three Immortals out there, all gunning for Methos. Yes, two were down, one wounded and one dead, but they'd be up again.

In one heart stopping moment, he'd realized just how much Methos meant to him, and he was not prepared to lose him. He'd remembered finding the weapon earlier that week among Charlie's things in the basement. He'd cleaned it and tested it when he'd found it. It had taken him only moments to find it and load it.

He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed back the unruly brown hair that obviously hadn't been cut in a while. "Oh, Methos," he said quietly, shaking his head.

The police were going to be knocking on the door any minute. Duncan hid the M-14 in a closet and started gathering candles and oil lamps to light the darkness.

He went back to the bed, sat down, and waited for the other man to revive. He could well imagine that taking two quickenings at once could kill, but he'd never seen it. Of course, he'd never seen another Immortal take two quickenings at once. Count on Methos to give him new experiences all the damn time. Duncan chuckled and gently brushed his knuckles against the other man's cheek.

Methos awakened with a sharp intake of breath. Duncan was sitting, cross legged on the bed, watching him. "About time," Duncan said lightly. "You still think life is ever so much more interesting around me and my headhunters?"

"Obviously," Methos said dryly, shaking his head to try to clear the grogginess. "How long was I out?"

"About five minutes," Duncan said. "See why it's not such a good idea to go charging off in a huff in the middle of the night?"

"Oh, fuck you," Methos grumbled with a slight grin.

"Maybe," Duncan said easily. "But later. First, I need to get you conscious, clean, and functioning before the police knock on our door. They're crawling all over down there, and it won't be long till they're up here."

Methos' eyes widened. He wondered if he had been more injured than he remembered. What had the Highlander just said? Later? Maybe? He shook his head, but the same words still echoed. Was Duncan joking? Methos wondered if he were hallucinating.

His eyes lit up with a teasing glint. "I'm fine. I just need to find a hotel."

Duncan growled quietly, cuffed the other man gently on the side of the head, and said, "You're not going to a hotel, you lunatic. And you're not fine. Until a moment ago, you were dead."

"Dead?" Methos sat up and wished he hadn't. The room spun. He noticed that the loft was lit by candles and oil lamps. Obviously the electricity was still out.

"Dead," Duncan confirmed. He put an arm under Methos' shoulders and half led and half dragged him to the bathroom, stripping off Methos' bedraggled coat as he dragged. He propped Methos against the wall in the bathroom, pulled the ruined sweater over his head, and started to struggle with the waistband of Methos' jeans. Methos batted the Highlander's hands away.

"What are you doing?" Methos demanded, almost plaintively.

"I'm trying to get you into the shower, you, obnoxious pain in the ass," Duncan said. "You're dirty and bloody."

"Oh." Methos considered that bit of information and decided to cooperate. He helped Duncan get his jeans, underwear, and shoes off, stepped into the shower, and then shrieked in protest as cold water streamed over his head.

Duncan chuckled and turned on the hot water. Methos stretched like a happy cat under the cascades of warm water and picked up the soap. He was starting to wake up.

Duncan straightened as he heard pounding on his door. "Get clean as fast as you can," he hissed urgently. "I think the police are here."

Methos nodded and turned his face to the blessedly hot water pouring over his head while Duncan ducked out the door, ducked back in with a lit candle that he put down beside the sink, and went out again.

Methos was out of the shower in moments. He grabbed a large terry cloth navy blue robe hanging on a hook, wrapped it around himself, and strolled out of the bathroom.

"What happened to the lights?" he demanded as he exited the bathroom.

Duncan was talking near the doorway to a man dressed in a business suit. Methos stopped dead in the center of the loft. "Oh," he said. "Sorry. I didn't know you had company."

Duncan turned to him. "Adam, this is Detective Smithers. Detective, this is my house guest, Dr. Adam Pierson. And I'm not sure what happened to the lights. The whole block seems to be out."

"Almost this entire side of the city," the detective offered.

"Detective?" Methos raised his eyebrows.

"The detective is investigating the little war we watched a few minutes ago, Adam," Duncan said. "Again, Detective, would you like to come in and sit down? And some coffee or something else to drink?"

"No, thank you," Detective Smithers said. "I have to canvas this entire block. Dr. Pierson, can you tell me what you saw and heard?"

"We thought we heard gunshots and went to the windows to look out. Didn't see much of anything for a few moments and then it looked like World War III had broken out. Cars blowing up and such. We were pretty damn sure it wasn't safe to stay at the windows so we came away. Was anyone hurt?"

"No, there doesn't seem to be anyone injured," the detective said. Methos gave silent thanks for the usual efficient Watcher body removal operation. "You 'thought' you heard gun shots?"

Methos shrugged. "Well, I supposed it could have been a car back firing or fireworks. I'm not very familiar with the sound of gunshots, actually."

"I called the police as soon as we ducked away from the windows," Duncan offered. Methos looked at him and resisted the impulse to raise an eyebrow.

Good thinking, Mac, he reflected, wishing the damn detective would finish up and leave and instead saying aloud, "What on earth blew those cars up, detective? Grenades, maybe?"

"Actually, we don't know," the detective started to look toward the door, obviously ready to go. "Did you see anyone out there, gentlemen?"

"I guess I saw some shadowy figures running between the cars. Nothing I could make out clearly."

The detective closed the little notebook without taking another note and stepped toward the door. "Thank you," he said. "Is this where I'll be able to find you for the next few days?"

"Actually," Methos said, "I might be moving to a hotel. Hate to wear out my welcome, you know."

"Nonsense," Duncan said casually while giving Methos a look behind the detective's back that shot daggers at the other Immortal. "You're always welcome here, Adam."

"Of course, MacLeod, but I'd like. . ."

"He'll know where I can find you if I have more questions?" Detective Smithers asked, obviously not interested in listening to the two of them debate the etiquette of giving or receiving hospitality. He paused in the doorway.

"Yes, detective, I'm sure I'll know where to find Dr. Pierson. Good night, sir." MacLeod said, taking the door and shutting it behind the departing detective.

MacLeod turned and glared at Methos who had crossed the room to the couch and sat down toweling his hair. "I don't want to hear another word about a hotel," Mac warned. Methos shrugged and went on drying his hair. "And where the hell is your luggage anyway? Did you come all the way from Paris without even a change of clothes? That's weird even for you."

"As it happens, MacLeod, the dunderheads at the airline seemed to have mislaid all my luggage except one bag."

"And that bag had your weapons," Duncan said. He crossed the room, dragged sweats out of a drawer, and tossed them toward Methos, who caught them easily. Duncan leaned against the wall.

"Developing a talent for stating the obvious?" Methos pulled the sweat pants on under the robe and shed it. He pulled the drawstring tight on the pants and dragged the shirt over his head. "And if they'd lost the bag with my weapons, I'd have called you from the airport and made you come pick me up. Now, mind you, that would have been just because I enjoy practicing the total heights of inconsiderate behavior. To drag you away from hearth and home, in the middle of the night, no less. . ."

"Oh, shut up, Methos," Duncan said with weary exasperation. "And what the hell was that. . .that. . ."

"Tantrum?" Methos suggested.

"Yes, tantrum would be a very descriptive word," MacLeod agreed. He waited. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

Duncan closed his eyes and resisted an urge to stomp into the kitchen area. He took a beer out to the refrigerator and held it in the air. "You want?" he asked. Methos nodded. "You promise not to slam it down and break it?" Duncan tossed the beer to his friend. Methos caught it, opened it, and swallowed.

"Oh, why? A little uncertainty makes life ever so much more entertaining." Methos got up, joined Mac, and grabbed a huge handful of paper towels to help clean up.

"Get out of here," Duncan ordered. "There's glass all over the floor and you're bare foot."

"I heal, MacLeod," Methos said, and yes, it will be a bitch to get these little shards of glass out of my freaking feet, but oh, it is so worth it to get that look of totally fried and frayed frustration on his face. Oh, too flipping funny

"Yes, idiot, but there's no damn reason to clean up blood as well as beer and glass," Duncan said with exasperation. Methos was already tracking bloody footprints across the hardwood floor.

"Ooops," Methos looked down at the blood, shrugged at Duncan, and went right on carelessly gathering up the spilt beer, blood, and glass shards in hastily wadded masses of paper towels. Duncan leaned against the island, crossed his arms over his chest, shut his eyes, and counted to ten. He opened his eyes again and found Methos staring at him with amused speculation on his face. "Well?" Duncan said again.

"Well, what?" Methos crouched and went back to essentially slopping the beer, blood, and glass around on the floor with the now sodden towels. "It's really not like you, MacLeod, to just keep on repeating yourself meaninglessly." Methos stood and leaned across the mess on the floor to throw the mass of towels in the garbage. He missed, and they landed with splat.

"Oops," Methos said again, leaning further to try to pick up the mess.

Duncan stared forebodingly at the target in front of him, drew his hand back, and landed a ferocious whack on the seat of the sweatpants in front of him.

Methos yelped, skidded, lost his balance and almost fell into the mess under him, but Duncan caught him around the waist, lifted him away, and around, backed him up against the wall, and held him there.

"Oh, good shot, Mac," Methos laughed into Duncan's face.

"You saw my arm go back and you didn't even try to get out of the way," Duncan accused.

"And?"

"You wanted me to whack you?" Duncan asked.

"Do you think it might have taken you longer to figure it out if I'd sent you an invitation in code?" Methos teased, tilting his head to one side and issuing a lopsided grin. Actually, it hadn't really occurred to him that Duncan would whack him, but he'd certainly enjoyed the sensation and was enjoying the hell out of being held against the wall.

Duncan looked with aggrieved astonishment into Methos' dancing eyes and shook him. "You want me to whack you, you rotten brat from hell?" he asked. "You want me to whack you?"

"Well, I did. I guess you can stop now," Methos said. "And, 'brat'? You're calling me, of all people, a 'brat'?"

"Yes, dammit, when you decide to play at it, you're the most unruly brat I think I've ever known." Duncan shook him again. "And what if I decide I'm not ready to stop?"

Methos managed to shrug somehow even while Duncan shook him. "I suppose I could pull out my gun and shoot you," Methos said lightly, seemingly totally undismayed by the prospect. "Except, oh, bother, I don't seem to have my. . .urkkk. . ."

Duncan abruptly whirled the other Immortal around again and started to push him firmly and inexorably across the room. "You want your gun?" he asked. "If you want it, I can get it for you. You want it?"

"Uh, no," Methos tried to look around and Duncan pushed him even harder. Methos almost tripped over the edge of the carpet, and Duncan caught him with one hand and pushed again with the other. "Uh. . .Duncan? Where are we going?" Methos asked as Duncan pushed him right past the couch.

"I still haven't even managed to get around to asking you how you managed to involve us in playing Rambo tonight? How did you manage to stomp out of here and immediately find yourself playing Gunfight at the OK Corral?"

"Now that part wasn't my fault," Methos protested. "Duncan, where are we going?"

"To the bed, Methos," Duncan said with ominous gentleness.

"Bed?" Methos' eyes widened. "Why are we going to the bed?"

At Duncan next enthusiastic push, Methos landed flat on his back on the piece of furniture in question and bounced.

Duncan sat, reached under the other Immortal, grabbed a handful of the back of the sweatshirt with one hand, and with the other opened a drawer beneath the bed. He leaned over, still firmly holding on, and then came back up.

Methos' eyes widened as he looked at the hairbrush Duncan held. It had a flat wooden back measuring about three inches across the back and five down the side.

"Oh, NO!" Methos started scrambling, managing to get the shirt halfway off over his head, before Duncan twisted the material tightly enough against his back to stop it from moving another inch and trapping Methos' head inside. Duncan picked him up by the material, slammed him face down over his knees, let go of the shirt, grabbed Methos' arm, and twisted it up behind his back.

"Duncan! You're not going to whack me with that thing!" Methos managed to get his head out of the shirt. "Duncan! YaOWwww."

Duncan raised the brush again and looked down at Methos thoughtfully. "I think I just did, and I think I'm going to go right on doing it for a while."

"Duncan! Youchhh. Stop." Methos got one knee braced against the bed and tried to lever himself off Duncan's lap. "YeeOWww. . . DAMMIT, Duncan that things HURTS! " Duncan smacked him so hard that he flattened Methos back over his knees where he proceeded to pin him with a leg across his legs and smack him again.

"Yeah, I know this thing hurts. Trust me." Duncan's eyes sparkled. "Had to find out, didn't I? If I'm going to make responsible use of it."

"Oh, how fucking considerate of you. . .OWww. . .Mac, to find out. . .how much your. . .implements of torture. . .hurt. STOP it."

"You know, Methos, if you really wanted me to let you go, you could. . . ummm, take the chance that I wouldn't break your arm while you twist out of this hold," Duncan suggested with a chuckle.

"Fuck you, MacLeod."

"I said, maybe. Later. Not now."

"Promises. . . promises. . .OWWwww . . ." Methos couldn't suppress a helpless grin as he thought about what Duncan had just said. "Maybe" and "later" were starting to sound like "probably" and "soon."

"Is that what all this is about, Methos? Kinky foreplay?" Duncan couldn't quite keep the grin out of his voice.

"Damn it, Duncan, you're the one. . .with a freaking brush under your bed. Is that one of the toys you and Amanda play with?. . ..Fucking OUCHhh. . ."

"I really don't think you're in any position right now to tease me, are you?" Duncan said, still whacking steadily with Methos yelping out loud about every third or fourth time the brush smacked down.

Duncan paused. "Would you like this to be foreplay, brat? Would you?"

"Who me? Me? Would I have provoked you on purpose, you stupid, sheep fucking Scot? Just to see what happens?" Methos supposed that he could plead that he really didn't know when to stop, but he doubted anyone would be asking. Or listening.

"Just to keep you informed, Amanda hates this brush," Duncan said conversationally.

"Well, congratulations to that stupid little bitch for having good sense on some occasions."

"I thought you liked Amanda."

"I do, dammit. OUCH."

"Then why in hell are you calling her a stupid little bitch?"

"Just because. I'll tell you later."

"What about my question about the tantrum?"

"What fucking ques. . ..OWww. . .okay, okay, okay." Methos twisted as hard as he could and didn't succeed in freeing himself. "I. . .dammit, Duncan, how the hell am I supposed to answer. . .you if you keep whacking me?"

"We'll take a break if you're willing to talk."

"A break????" Methos demanded. "A break?"

"You don't want a break? You want me to go on? While you answer me?"

"No, dammit." Methos took a deep breath. "I'll talk. Umm, first question being why the tantrum? Could we sort of go on to the second question? Really, Duncan. I'm not ready for the first question."

Duncan sighed and acquiesced at the very real note of pleading in Methos' voice. "Okay, then, second question. What in hell happened out there?"

Methos explained about the trio of head hunting immortals who had been prepared to break the rules.

"Well, you were right about that one," Duncan said. "It wasn't your fault." Duncan's hand came down on Methos' flaming butt, and he started to caress it, absently almost as if he wasn't aware of doing it.

Methos' eyes widened, and he barely prevented himself from moaning with pleasure. Not a good idea. Not a good idea at all. Better to wait and find out what the deranged Scot had in mind. He made himself think of ten grossly disgusting things and willed his body not to betray him by getting any harder than he was already. Grossly disgusting things weren't working very well. Damn the boy scout anyway. Why is he stroking my butt so sensuously?

"Duncan," Methos began plaintively. "What on earth were you doing with a M-14? And armor piercing incendiaries?"

"Oh." Duncan started to chuckle. "I just found that a few days ago. In the basement. It was the only gun in the house." Methos made a mighty effort and managed to twist his head around so he could see Duncan's face. Duncan's chuckles turned to all out laughter at Methos' aghast expression.

"You found it. In the basement." Methos said flatly.

"I had a friend who used to own this dojo before me. Charlie DeSalvo. He was a vet and a sometime mercenary. He got killed a few years ago. He had a couple of trunks left in the basement. I'd just never cleaned them out. And I did a couple of days ago and that gun and ammo was part of what I found."

"Oh. Uh, Duncan, wasn't that a bit of overkill?"

"Yeah, it was overkill. But, as I said, it was the only gun in the house. And I was scared. I knew there was more than one Immortal out there and that they had guns. I couldn't risk losing you."

Methos felt his heart sing suddenly as he heard what Duncan had just said. But all he did was squirm futilely. "You're hurting my arm," he announced.

"Tough," MacLeod said. "I'll let you go when we're through."

"We're not through? Mac, are you planning to cripple me?"

Duncan chuckled. "I've never yet met a soul who was crippled by a paddling," Duncan said easily. Methos groaned and let his face fall back against the bed spread, muttering curses. In Sumerian. "Besides, there are questions left unanswered."

"Question three?" Methos asked, between the mutters.

"I could ask why you're going on and on and on about finding a hotel, but that seems to still be part of question one. How about, did you really come to the kitchen to help me clean up? Or were you planning from the moment you walked in to make a bigger mess?"

"Well, gee, MacLeod. I'm only 5000 years old and change. I'd suppose in all that time I, of all people, would never have figured out how to clean up spilled beer and broken. . . . OWWww. . ."

"Are you really in any position to be making smart ass remarks?" Duncan asked, not unkindly. "Of course. . ."

"Don't," Methos said darkly. "Just don't."

"Don't what?"

"Do not make any comments about my ass smarting. I may have to put up with you beating on me, but I do not have to put up with horrible puns."

"Methos, you know and I know damn well that if you really wanted me to stop, you could make this stop. Any moment."

There was a moment of complete silence. "Is there a question four?" Methos asked.

"Question four is why, Methos? Why do you want me to paddle your butt? Not that I mind. I actually kind of enjoy this in a weird way. But why?"

"Why do you enjoy it in a weird way? Why on earth are you asking me. . . OUCH. . . " Methos gasped. "Oh, uh, question four, huh? Uh, refer back to question one."

"Methos." Duncan's voice was quietly menacing. "Why don't we get back to question one?"

"Why don't we just return our viewers to their regular programming?" Methos asked. "Duncan, seriously."

"Are you capable of being serious? About anything?" Duncan asked.

"I think that's why I want you to get on with it," Methos said. "I'm not going to be able to answer unless you whack it out of me."

Duncan sighed in exasperation and raised the brush high, bringing it down with a resounding smack on Methos' butt. Methos twitched but was completely silent, as he continued to be for about ten more of the solid whacks that beat against him in a regular rhythm. He then gasped almost silently and gasped again at each smack as Duncan continued.

Duncan brought the brush down another five more times and paused.

"Don't st. . .stop," Methos breathed out.

"I wasn't planning on stopping. I'm just not keeping this up without looking at the damage I'm doing," Duncan said firmly. He tugged at the waist band of the sweat pants and was stymied by the drawstring.

Methos breathed a sigh of relief and then tensed when he felt the material part at the waist. He twisted his face around again and saw Mac putting a small pocket knife back down on the night stand. He groaned.

"Duncan, don't." He wiggled futilely. Duncan took the waist band and dragged the damn pants right down to below Methos' bottom cheeks. "Duncan!!!!!" Methos groaned again and felt his face get hot. He turned it back into the bed spread.

"Dammit, Methos, I'm raising blisters and bruises. What is your problem? Talk to me. I don't want to really hurt you."

Methos started laughing raggedly. "You maybe. . . don't think. . . this really, really. . .hurts. . .me?" he asked.

"I know damn well it hurts," Duncan said, not able to suppress a grin. "And I know damn well you'll heal. Quickly. But what do you want from me? Just tell me."

"Talk to me, Duncan," Methos gasped out. "Just talk to me. And goddammit to hell, you stupid boy scout, don't stop. . .YOWWwww. . ."

Methos almost, but not quite, managed to levitate himself off of Mac's lap as the brush came down again on his unprotected butt. "Oh, fuck that. . .Hurt." He held his breath and managed to get quiet again except for shuddering gasps as the brush came down again and again.

"Talk to you? Okay, I'll talk to you. I was startled out of my mind when you appeared here tonight. And you seemed jumpy as all hell. What was the problem?"

Methos just shook his head.

"Methos," Duncan growled. He took a breath and slammed the brush down hard. Methos gasped again. "What do we need to talk about? What?"

Methos' breath caught again and again. "Nothing. Cause, it's all my fault," he said flatly. "All of it. I just lost it for no damn reason. OWww."

Duncan sighed. "No," he said gently. "It was not for no damn reason. I was on you about not calling from the moment you walked in the door, which was crazy, because you're always welcome here. I was just rattled when you walked in the door. I'm sorry." He stopped for a moment and rubbed Methos' back gently.

"Rattled? What do you mean rattled? And don't fucking stop!"

Duncan sighed, raised the brush high and brought it down hard. Methos yelped involuntarily, and Duncan went right on whacking. "I'll tell you more about that in minute. But Methos where on earth did the stuff about the Horsemen come from?"

"I don't wanna talk to you about the Horsemen," Methos said, crankily, his breath catching hard at almost every solid smack coming down on him.

"We don't need to talk about the damn Horsemen exactly, Methos," Duncan said with profound exasperation. "We need to talk about how we've hurt each other over the damn Horsemen. I've never expected you to 'atone' for being a part of the Horsemen. Or to 'make it up to me' that you disappointed me. Where the hell did that come from? And I know I hurt you, you pain in the ass brat. When I told you that we were 'through.' I saw your eyes when I said that. I saw the pain. I've never said how sorry I was that I hurt you like that."

Methos closed his eyes. He remembered. He remembered standing at his car telling Duncan about the Horsemen. He remembered Duncan telling him that they were 'through.' Tears welled.

"I never should have said that you and me were through," Duncan said with pained regret in his voice. "I wasn't thinking of any of our history. I wasn't thinking. Period. And I should have told you I was sorry years ago." The blazing whacks stopped for a moment.

Methos felt tears trickling down his face. "I made you say it," he offered as his breath caught hard, and he remembered the pain and confusion in Duncan's eyes.

The brush smacked down again so hard that Methos hissed with pain and more tears sprang to his eyes and fell. "Oh, yeah, you did," Duncan said grimly. "I cannot remember the last time I felt so backed into a corner. You have any clue how much it hurt me? To hear that the best friend I've had since Fitz died had killed and raped his way across continents for a thousand years and that you fucking enjoyed it?"

Methos almost screamed at the blazing whack that accompanied those words. He shuddered and his breath caught again and again.

"Oh, Methos. Oh, shit," Duncan said softly. He dropped the brush, fell back on the bed, and pulled the other man into his arms as he heard Methos' gasping breaths changed to shuddering sobs. Methos buried his face in Duncan's shoulder and held on.

"I did enjoy it," Methos gulped out. He was crying so hard that his stomach hurt. "I was tired of being a slave. I was tired of being alone. I enjoyed the power and being with my brothers. I. . .oh, FUCK. . ."

"Hush. That was two thousand years ago, Methos. Hush."

"I won't 'hush'," Methos said crankily, still sobbing. "I'll talk all damn night if I want to. I won't, dammit to hell, hush. . .OWWww." Duncan's firm hand came down hard on his abused backside. His breath caught again and suddenly he was crying much too hard to talk any more. He pushed his head into Duncan's shoulder, and Duncan held him tightly, murmuring softly in Gaelic.

Methos listened as he sobbed and almost choked. "I. . .love. . .you, too, Duncan, but. . ."

"Hush, Methos. There is no 'but'. . .I love you."

"I don't even want you to love me," Methos said grumpily, still sobbing. "I don't fucking want to love you. It's too fucking dangerous and scary. . . FUCKING OWWww. . .Dammit, Duncan, STOP it."

"I'll stop when you do," Duncan said easily. He rolled over with Methos beneath him and looked down into his face. Methos winced as his sore butt hit the bed, and he stared up at the Scot.

"Methos," Duncan said gently. "I love you. God help me, but I do. And, yes, it's dangerous and scary. I know that. And I know that's why you're crying, and that's why you pitched the damn tantrum you threw."

"Had nothing to do with the damn Horsemen," Methos said, still sobbing.

"Yes, it did," Duncan said firmly. "It had to do with the fact that you knew I loved you before I found out about the Horsemen, and it was just a matter of time before we made love. After the damn mess with the Horsemen, you were afraid I'd never love you again, weren't you? Afraid I'd never want you again."

"Oh, fuck." Methos threw Duncan's hands off of him, grabbed a pillow, and held it over his face. He twisted away on his side, clutching the pillow.

Duncan curled up behind Methos and pulled him into an embrace. "Answer me, Methos," Duncan said gently.

"Fuck you," Methos said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Duncan sighed, moved slightly away, lifted his hand, and brought it down with a ferocious smack. He paused when there was no response but a shuddering sob and did it again and again.

"Okay, okay, okay, stop it. . .I'll answer you." Methos recoiled away and twisted to his back, wincing again. "Dammit, Duncan, that hurts."

"Really? I am amazed." Duncan grinned and looked at the palm of his hand that was reddened by the force with which he had delivered the smacks. "You were going to answer me?" His voice was low and ominous.

"I think I've created a monster," Methos grumbled. "I think you like whacking the hell out of me. Is there any damn kleenex around here or do I have to blow my nose on the fucking pillow case?"

Duncan handed Methos a box of tissues and waited while the other man blew his nose and wiped his face. Tears still trickled. "Okay," Methos said. "Yes, I was scared that it'd never be the same again. Okay? You happy?" His voice shook.

"It won't ever be the same again," Duncan said, quietly. "I found out that I couldn't stop loving you. I love you, Methos, no matter what you did 3000 years ago when yes, indeed, the whole bloody world was different. And we can talk more about that later. Right now, we have to talk about you and me."

Methos' breath caught again and again. "Oh, damn you, Highlander, you're making me crazy," he said. "What is there to talk about?"

"I love you. I think you love me. And if you need to act like a brat from hell and make me blister your butt hundred thousand times I will, but we're going to stop this endless dance of running away and coming back together and before you open your mouth again and say something stupid, I know I've done as much of the running as you and maybe more. But it stops now."

"Why now?" Methos grumbled. Duncan grabbed the pillow, threw it aside, pushed Methos back down on the bed, and kissed him hard. Tears still trickled from his eyes and ran down to his ears, but the sobs started to subside.

"Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you for weeks. Because I want you, now." Duncan kissed Methos again and went on, "Yes, it's dangerous and scary. You said once, falling in love with another Immortal is more commitment than you could handle, well, actually you said, marrying another Immortal, but close enough. And, yes, it scares me, too, and yes, I know, you were partly saying that to me."

Methos' breath caught again. "You knew that?" he asked carefully.

"Not sure I did at the time, but I've thought about it since then," Duncan said. "And if you still feel that way, it's okay. I'm not expecting commitment."

Methos looked up at the Highlander's face above him which was suddenly careful and guarded. "Duncan," he said, "I don't think we can do this casually. At least, I can't. Can you?"

Duncan's face above his relaxed and lighted up as if dawn had broken behind his eyes. "No, Methos, I can't do this casually. I love you. That's one of the reasons I was so rattled when you walked in tonight. I think I've been fighting realizing that fact for a long time, and it was sneaking up on me hard and fast."

"Oh." Methos considered, shuddered with an after- sob, suddenly acquired a wicked grin, and slyly asked, "Do I make your heart glad?"

Duncan rolled away, laughing hard. "Oh," he gasped out. "Is that where the 'stupid little bitch' comment came from? You're jealous of Amanda?"

Methos jabbed Duncan hard in the ribs. Duncan gasped and kept on laughing.

"Oh, Methos," he laughed out. "I do love Amanda. I always have and always will. She does make my heart glad." He rolled back over on top of Methos and stared down into his face seriously. "But, you, Methos, you make my heart sing and dance and yearn for more. I don't want with you what I have with her. I want you every day, and I think forever."

Methos' breath caught again. He nodded cautiously, not at all sure that was an arrangement that would work however much he wanted it, too. "Now that's scary," he said evenly.

Duncan chuckled. "Yeah, I know. I assume we have a lot of negotiating to do. It doesn't matter right this minute. Right this minute, I finally have you in my bed which is where I've wanted you for a long damn time. Do you really want to continue negotiating right now?"

He grabbed Methos by both shoulders and frowned sternly into his face. "I could just paddle the hell out of your rapidly healing butt again. Or do you just want to go straight to the main course and fuck like maddened minks?"

Methos' breath caught again in a shuddering after- sob, and he considered. His eyes started to dance. "Oh, go ahead and paddle me again," he proposed.

Duncan threw himself off the other man and groaned. "Oh, please," he protested. "My arm is tired."

Methos rolled back on top and looked down into Duncan's eyes. "It could wait," he said. "I'm sure I'll piss you off again, soon."

"Oh, aye," Duncan agreed, raising his head to kiss the other man again. He turned them over again and ran his hands down Methos' body as he continued the kiss.

Methos moaned and cooperated fully as Duncan started to pull off the sweats. There had been enough talking for one night. And Duncan seemed to know what he wanted. Methos shut up, explored Mac's mouth with his tongue, and helped the Highlander get his clothes off.

About an hour later, Methos was stroking Duncan's hair as the other man lay bonelessly on top of him in his arms. "Duncan," he said softly.

"Mmmmm?" Duncan murmured.

"Duncan, we've got to shower before we go to sleep," Methos said.

"Fuck it," Duncan said sleepily.

"If we don't shower, we're gonna be stuck together in the morning, and we'll both be miserably uncomfortable," Methos said reasonably.

"We can worry about it in the morning."

Methos rolled his eyes, raised his hand, and brought it down with a resounding whack on Duncan's butt.

"Oww," Duncan protested, his eyes snapping open.

Methos threw the other man off, stood, and pulled the Scot up beside him. "Shower. Now," he ordered.

"Y'know, brat, I know now why you're in my life," Duncan grumbled as he was dragged to the bathroom. "You were put on earth to make sure I never sleep again. And why are you limping?"

"Oh, glass in feet. Remember?"

Duncan groaned, shoved Methos down on toilet seat, grabbed tweezers, a needle, and small knife, sat on the edge of the tub, and started digging. "This is going to hurt, you know," he commented.

"Uh, duh." Methos grinned and winced simultaneously.

"Why on earth did you do it?"

"Just to aggravate you. . .OUCH."

"I would not recommend hurting yourself as a method of aggravating me." Duncan looked up from his task and caught Methos' eyes.

"Heard and understood," Methos said lightly. Duncan went back to prying out the shards of glass. Methos went on, "Doesn't mean I won't do it, of course. But I understand if I do, you'll be seriously pissed off. . .OWW!"

"Then you understand clearly. Dammit, Methos. . ." Duncan shook his head. "Never mind, we'll talk about it later. I'm too tired right now, and I think I got all the glass out."

Methos stood and rocked back and forth on his feet. "Yeah, you did. Now, shower." He stepped in, adjusted the temperature of the water, and pulled the younger Immortal in with him under the spray. His hands stroked water up and down a well muscled Scottish back as he kissed Duncan thoroughly and grinned as a part of Duncan's anatomy woke up to join him.

"Maybe we aren't through after all," Methos suggested as he knelt to investigate with his mouth what had just come up.

Duncan groaned with a smile and turned his face up to the warm water cascading over both of them.

Methos stretched, sighed, and craned his neck to look back at Duncan, dead to the world with his arms wrapped tightly around Methos. Sleep did not seem to be an option. Jet lag, he assumed, was the problem although the unexpected events of the last few hours certainly disturbed his equilibrium.

For a moment, he considered waking the other man up just to see what would happen, but he imagined that Duncan would just be seriously annoyed. He wasn't in the mood for serious irritation. And he needed some time to think and reflect.

He gently unwrapped the Scot's arms, got out of bed, and rummaged through Duncan's drawers for an intact set of sweats.

"Methos," Duncan woke and reached for him. Methos chuckled and went back to the bed.

"Here," he said, sitting down and taking Duncan's hands.

Duncan groaned. "You ever gonna let me sleep?" he asked.

Methos chuckled again. "No."

Duncan groaned again.

Methos relented. "Sleep, Duncan," he said gently. "I'm just suffering from what seems to be terminal jet lag. I'll be okay." He leaned over and kissed the full lips of the Scot.

Duncan kissed back and started to drift away. "If you leave, I'll kill you," he murmured.

"I'm not leaving," Methos said softly. "I promise. Sleep now, habibi." He grinned, wondering if Duncan would realize he'd been called 'beloved' in Hebrew. There was no telling from the Scot who had sunk into deep sleep.

Methos decided another beer wouldn't exactly hurt, went to the kitchen area, and groaned silently as he looked at the mess on the floor. Well, my mess, he decided. He grabbed a beer, took paper towels, blotted up as much of the beer and blood as he could, swept up the glass carefully, put it in a brown paper grocery bag and then put the bag into the garbage. His bare feet still caught on the sticky floor so he mopped, sighing with exasperation and reminding himself that it was more trouble than it was worth, usually, to throw a tantrum, though he wasn't unhappy with the outcome of this one.

Methos got another beer and retrieved the backpack that he had dumped beside the elevator when he first came in and grinned to himself as he realized he had left the backpack even when he had stormed out to find a hotel. Obviously, he had had little real intention of leaving for the night. He never willingly separated himself for long from his laptop and journals.

Methos took out the laptop and the power attachments, plugged it into the wall and into the phone line and turned it on. Within moments, he was reading his e-mail and opening the files that contained his journal.

And within another few moments, he realized that he didn't want to type about his thoughts and feelings. Nor did he want to answer any of his mail. Except the one from MacLeod.

"Hi, old man," it read. "How is Paris in the spring for you? Any romance in the air? And when will you be back in Seacouver? There's always room for you at my loft."

Methos grinned and typed back, "No romance for me in Paris. Investigating possibilities in Seacouver. And is there only room for me in the loft when I call first? Maybe I should find a hotel until I figure it all out."

He sent the mail, put the computer down, and dug into his back pack again. He retrieved the notebook that he was using for his current journal and started writing.

Duncan stirred, reached out, found nothing in his arms, and opened one eye. The bed was empty except for him. He groaned, opened the other eye and searched the loft. He sighed with relief when he spotted Methos on the couch.

He pulled himself out of bed, looked at the clock that read 7:00, and pulled the sheet around his waist.

Methos was cross-legged on the couch, open journal in his lap, flopped over with his head on the arm of the couch, and sleeping soundly. Duncan resisted an urge to read the journal, closed it without looking, and looked down at the resting face of his new lover.

Methos looked heartbreakingly young, innocent, and vulnerable. Duncan felt his breath catch. He went back to his bed, got a pillow and a blanket, and returned to the couch, putting the pillow under Methos' head and pulling on his legs to settle him comfortably on the couch.

Methos opened his eyes, looked up at Duncan, and sleepily opened his arms. Duncan gathered him into a hug.

"Is this a dream?" Methos asked, groggily.

"No, baby," Duncan answered stroking the back in his arms.

"Baby?" Methos chuckled, drowsily. "You're actually calling me 'baby?' Have you lost your mind?"

"No, Methos," Duncan said casually. "I think you want to be my 'baby.' Am I wrong?"

"Oh, hell, no," Methos said. He raised his face to gather a kiss. "But, this has to be a dream. And I want to be in a bed. With you. Don't want to wake up."

Duncan put his arms under Methos' knees and shoulders and picked him up.

Methos laughed. "Damn, Duncan," he said. "I'm too heavy for you to do this."

"Watch me," Duncan said as he carried Methos to the bed, put him down gently, laid down beside him, and gathered him back into his arms. Methos sighed deeply and snuggled his head into Duncan's shoulder.

"Now, I don't want to sleep," he mumbled. "Just want to lie here with you and see what comes up."

"Methos, habibi," Duncan said gently. "I have to teach a class in about an hour. I have to leave."

"You understood what I said," Methos said happily. "Fuck the damn class."

Duncan started laughing helplessly. "There's at least 12 sophomore girls and two boys who would be just delighted if I fucked them," he choked out. "But the only fucking I want to do in the immediate future is with you."

Methos stared at him. "You mean that?" he asked.

"I mean that," Duncan said firmly. He kissed the other man again and reluctantly started to pull himself out of Methos' arms. Methos grabbed him tightly.

"Are we going to talk about all this later?" he asked.

"Yes, baby." Duncan kissed him again. "We'll talk. And if you leave, I'll track you down and kill you." He gave Methos one more kiss and disentangled himself.

Methos groaned and grabbed a pillow to hug instead. "I'm not leaving," he mumbled. "I'm gonna sleep for three days. And, I ask again, isn't it a little incongruous to call me, of all people, 'baby'? "

"Do you like it?" Duncan asked.

"I love it, actually." Methos said as he yawned into the pillow, opened one eye, and grinned up at Duncan. "Just for God's sake, don't ever slip up and say it in front of anyone else. I would die. On the spot. And have you ever come back to life after dying of embarrassment?"

"You're babbling, babe," Duncan said.

"Something I do very damn well," Methos said as he closed his eye again.

Duncan looked down at the other Immortal who was snuggling deep into the bed covers and grinned helplessly. He couldn't remember having been so happy since Tessa died.

He went to the kitchen, noticed that the floor was clean, poured himself a cup of coffee, and went to his wardrobe to get dressed. When he came out of the bathroom, Methos was sitting up in the bed.

He sighed. "Methos, you looked like warmed over death on a horse," he said flatly. "You need to sleep. I mean it."

Methos' eyes opened wide. "Warmed over 'death on a horse'?" he sputtered.

"Yes, I said that on purpose, brat," Duncan said. "Go to sleep or I'll cancel my class and paddle you again."

Methos' eyes lit up with devilment, and he grinned wickedly. Duncan shook his head.

"Cancel that threat," he chuckled out. He sat down on the bed and took Methos into his arms. "I promise to never paddle you again if you don't crash. You need to sleep."

Methos settled down in the Highlander's arms. "I'll rest when you leave," he promised. He pushed Duncan away. "Finish getting dressed and get ready to go. I'll be here when you get back. And I'll sleep. Really."

Duncan started to pull on his socks and shoes, darting frequent glances over at the other Immortal who grabbed a pillow and hugged it.

"Of course," Methos said sleepily. "If I'm left here to my own devices, I might just book a flight to Bora Bora and take off. You know I do have these issues with abandonment and. . .Oww. . . ."

Duncan looked down at the palm of his hand that was again reddened with the force with which he had swatted Methos and grinned.

"I'll sleep. I'll sleep," Methos said hastily. He looked up at Duncan. "I was just getting even with you for the death on horse comment."

Duncan finished with his shoes and gathered Methos back into his arms again. "I love you, Methos," he said with a smile in his voice. "We'll talk when I get home."

Methos hugged back and relaxed with the promise in Duncan's voice. When Duncan let him go, he fell back into the pillows and shut his eyes.

"Later, love," Duncan said, as he reluctantly left the loft.

As soon as the elevator descended downwards, Methos popped up on the bed, walked across it, crowing victoriously, leaped over the back of the couch, bounced on it once, bounced off, and went to the kitchen to get coffee. He could no more sleep than he could grow wings and fly.

To be continued. . .