Note: This story is set right before the episode "Forgive Us Our Trespasses."

Winter
by Keiko Kirin

Winter was slow to leave this year, lingering in Paris with fresh sprinklings of snow and a persistent, bone-chilling wind. Duncan MacLeod sat on the deck of his barge, watching the sky streaked with orange as the sun disappeared, enjoying the cold which was devouring him. He didn't often feel cold, a fact his friends and lovers had attributed half-jokingly to his passionate temperament, but in his present mood, he welcomed it. How long had it been? How many weeks since that dark time when Kronos and Cassandra had arrived in his life to expose Methos' past, to twist everything he thought he knew about his friend into distortions and lies? He couldn't remember the exact amount of time that had passed. It seemed an age, but also too short a time for the scar to heal. If it ever would. Some wounds not even Immortals recovered from.

When the sun had set, he sat for a while longer, watching Paris light up for the evening, but in his current state of mind the effect was too festive and joyful. He stepped down into the barge and stood, staring at his empty home. For a split second, a familiar ache haunted him, but he quickly pushed it aside.

No, I will not think of that.

He shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it aside, grabbed a bottle of wine, and slumped down into the sofa. He had dispensed with one full glass and was starting on his second before admitting to himself he was wallowing. I need Amanda, he thought. She would make me forget.

He spared a moment to wander through warm, sensual memories of Amanda, smiling as he sipped his wine, but soon the sensual thoughts turned elsewhere and he gulped the rest. Damn it! He reached for the bottle. Damn him!

***

The presence of another Immortal startled him awake the next morning. Finding himself draped over the sofa, he reached for his coat to grab his sword. His fingers had just gripped the hilt when an all-too-familiar voice said, "Have you ever considered locks, MacLeod? Paris is not the city it once was."

"Have you ever considered knocking?" Duncan asked sourly, letting go of his sword as he sat up and faced Methos.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected. He had told himself he would never see Methos again, that the pain Kronos and Cassandra had caused would never fade. But deep down, he hadn't believed that. Whether hope, or something more tangible than that, he didn't know, but seeing Methos now, he realized he had always expected this reunion.

But not quite like this. Methos seemed... unchanged. Events had changed him, surely, but here he was, looking the same as ever, even wearing the same bulky black pullover he'd been wearing the last time he'd been inside the barge. Almost as if time had been erased.

But it hadn't. Duncan stood up, moving to clear up the empty wine bottle and glass. "So what are you doing here?"

Methos hesitated for a moment, then stepped down into the living area, sliding off his coat, and settled onto the sofa. Not quite as at home as he once would have been, Duncan noted, not without a mild twinge of satisfaction. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest, watching him.

Methos met his gaze and started to say something, then stopped and shook his head a little. "If you're expecting me to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness, you're going to have a long wait, MacLeod."

Taken aback, Duncan moved away, walking behind the sofa, out of Methos' sight. Was that what he'd been expecting? He couldn't be sure, now. He couldn't even be sure if that's what he wanted.

"All right," he said slowly. "So if that's not why you came--"

Methos turned around in the sofa to watch him. "Can we pick up where we left off?" His voice as he asked it was surprisingly soft. Duncan froze, hearing it, not allowing himself to believe in the intimacy Methos' tone invited. He paced further away from the sofa.

"I don't know," he heard himself say. Methos gave a brief, sad nod, then started to stand up. "Wait--" Duncan said, coming to him.

Methos walked to the door and paused to put on his coat. "I came to tell you, I ran into an old Watcher acquaintance of mine -- of Adam's, I should say. He told me another Immortal had resurfaced recently in Paris. I think you know him. Luc Caruel."

The tension of the moment dissipated as Duncan thought this over, repeating the name. "Caruel? I don't know him."

Methos stepped closer, frowning a little. "Unless he went by a different name when you knew him... Damn! I should have asked Paul--" he muttered to himself, running a hand over his hair. Then he looked up, narrowing his eyes a little. "He was Jean-Baptiste Valraux's lover, and I think you will remember him, since you took his head in 1695."

Duncan took a step back in surprise. "Valraux's lover? I didn't know he had a lover. And I didn't take his head, although we fought--"

"Your chronicles say you did," Methos interrupted, sitting back down. Duncan ignored him, sifting through his memories of Valraux, of that frosty winter in Paris, of the beautiful, dangerous Genevieve. He searched for the face of another Immortal, someone named Luc...

"No," he said at last. "I'm sure I never met anyone named Luc Caruel. And I didn't kill Valraux."

Methos stared at him thoughtfully. "Then that's rather ironic, since it seems Caruel's purpose in coming to Paris is to take your head and avenge Valraux's death."

The snow had fallen for several days. Paris was blanketed in a carpet of white, and beyond the stone wall, the sounds of hooves and carriages were muffled over the cobblestone avenues. Duncan MacLeod stood ready in the garden, hand on sword-hilt, watching the silhouette approaching from the open gate. The figure of Jean-Baptiste Valraux stepped from the shadows of trees into the path of light from the mansion.

"Where is she?" Valraux asked, drawing his sword from his cloak.

Duncan slid his sword from its sheath, already moving defensively. "Inside. You will not involve her in this, Jean. It has nothing to do with her."

"On the contrary," Valraux laughed. "It has everything to do with her." He raised his sword, coming closer, then abruptly stopped. "You think she's innocent, don't you?"

Duncan slowed without stopping, frowning at the question. "She is innocent. She could never have taken de Bery's head. He was over 900 years old, and twice the size I am..."

His voice trailed off as Jean resumed his careful steps, gently slicing the air with his blade, smiling. "Ah, Duncan. Your chivalrous attitude is entertaining. Even refreshing in this corrupt age. But it will get you killed. Mark my words."

Duncan wondered at Jean's insistence that Genevieve had been behind the killings of de Bery and his mortal servant. Women were capable of killing, he knew, but not Genevieve. She wasn't even Immortal, so how could she have possibly overtaken de Bery? And why? It made no sense. And there remained the fact that he had seen Jean with bloodied sword, standing by de Bery's headless, and Valraux's wild appearance hallmarked a fresh quickening. Duncan had supposed Valraux had beheaded the poor servant by accident during the quickening, but Jean had startled him by protesting his innocence, and worse still, going after Genevieve "to avenge her crimes." Now they were to fight to the death, unhappy end to their friendship.

Valraux lunged forward, slashing Duncan's sleeve and drawing blood. Duncan instantly countered his move. The fight began, blades clanging in the crisp wintry night air, eventually met with the sound of hard breaths from the two opponents. Duncan regretted that it had come to this. He had liked Jean, appreciated his outrageous flair and sense of humor, and was grateful for his hospitality.

The tip of his sword scratched across Jean's chest. Duncan watched the brief flow of blood, dark liquid in the paleness of night, and raised his sword for another strike.

Valraux spun, aiming for Duncan's gut in a move to conquer. As MacLeod rolled away, pointing sword-tip to Jean's hilt to disarm him, he heard a sound close by. Jean stopped, lifting his sword carefully, glancing down at Duncan, then looking beyond. Still crouched, Duncan cautiously looked over his shoulder and saw Genevieve standing there, frail and pale in her black cloak, tears glistening on her cheeks.

"Please," she pleaded. "Don't do this! Not over me!"

Duncan rose to his feet, sword still pointing at Jean. "Genevieve, don't interfere. Go back inside. Now."

"No, I won't," she cried, rushing forward and casting herself at his feet. "I don't want you to die!" She gazed up at Valraux and begged, "Let him go. Please! If you believe I killed those men, then take my life. It's not Duncan's fight, it is mine."

Jean spared a glance at Duncan. "So I tried to tell him, mademoiselle," he said, flashing a wry smile.

In that instant, Genevieve moved quickly -- so quickly Duncan did not see at first where she was heading and what she pulled from her cloak. By the time he saw, it was too late. Jean's body crumpled and fell as his head rolled into the snow and before Duncan could react in any way, the quickening struck. He was so close, it was as strong as if he had taken Valraux himself. Flung into the snow, he felt it melting around him, felt the bolts of Valraux's centuries of energy hammer into him. Fire and ice and crystal converged in his senses, and as it always did, the world turned upside down for a few seconds, a brief age.

When it was over, he pulled himself up onto his knees and looked across the garden. Genevieve was gone.

"I never met Luc Caruel," Duncan said again, resuming the conversation he was certain had never ended.

"But you knew Valraux," Methos said.

Duncan nodded. "Yes. I would have killed him, probably, if our duel had continued, but Genevieve stopped it."

"Genevieve?"

"Genevieve Bresson. She--"

"What?!" Methos cut in. "You knew Genevieve Bresson? She's involved in this?" Methos shook his head, reaching for his coffee cup and holding it protectively. "No wonder."

Duncan watched him in bewilderment. "What's going on?" He sipped his coffee, keeping his gaze on Methos, who sighed heavily.

"Bresson. She was a Watcher. Another renegade crusader against the 'evil' of Immortals. She never took the tattoo. Back then it was optional for the women."

Memories of Genevieve flowed back, dropping into place one by one. The deaths of de Bery and Valraux. Duncan asked unhappily, "She was my Watcher?"

Methos nodded. "For a time. But like I said, she became a renegade, more intent on killing us than watching us."

"How do you know so much about her?"

Methos pushed his empty coffee cup aside. "The Watcher archives. There's quite a file on her, written in a fine specimen of 17th century chancery hand," he added reflectively. "She killed seventeen Immortals before one of us finally figured her out and put her out of commission."

A feeling of queasiness overtook Duncan. "Seventeen? That many?"

"Eighteen now," Methos corrected. "It was Bresson who killed Valraux, wasn't it?"

Duncan nodded, sighing, "Nineteen. She killed Reynard de Bery. Jean tried to tell me but I wouldn't believe him. It was what we were fighting over."

"I wonder how many beheadings from that era are misattributed," Methos mused, staring absently out of the window. How could Methos be so calm about it? De Bery and Valraux had been friends.

Duncan fought down the confusion of anger and guilt that threatened to overtake him. "Well," he said, finishing his coffee, "when Caruel hears the truth, he'll know Jean's killer has long since paid for her crimes."

Methos looked at him, smirking slightly. "And what if he doesn't believe you?"

"Then you'll--" Duncan stopped, reading Methos' expression with growing dismay. "You won't tell him, will you?" he accused more than asked. His mind was reeling from the implications. He could be killed because of this, and Methos wasn't going to do anything to stop it.

Before Methos could answer, he continued, "Why? You're not a Watcher anymore. You don't have to keep their secrets."

Methos nodded slowly. "Yes, but--"

"But what? You'd rather see me die than expose some Watcher who died 250 years ago?"

"No!" Methos protested, finally losing his calm, Duncan noted with a mixture of relief and reassurance. "Listen, MacLeod, Luc Caruel doesn't even know the Watchers exist. Now how is he going to react when he finds out not only do they exist but one killed his lover almost three centuries ago? Do you really want a replay of last year? Another Jacob Galati on your conscience?"

His words stung, as, Duncan assumed, Methos had meant them to. Duncan sat back, considering his options. "Then what can I tell him?" he asked quietly, feeling more helpless than he liked to, and resenting Methos for it.

Methos shrugged. "You're assuming he'll give you a chance to explain. I wouldn't be so optimistic, myself."

"Naturally," Duncan retorted, crossing his arms and glaring out the window. He watched Methos' reflection stand up and bury his hands in his coat pockets.

"Well," Methos said. "I said I'd come warn you, and I have."

Duncan looked up at him, wanting desperately to say something that would make him stay, but no words would come to him, nothing that seemed adequate. He searched Methos' face for any sign of a similar dilemma, but Methos gave nothing away. As usual. His eyes seemed colder, however, and his face more chiseled and angular, severe.

"Thanks," he said at last. Methos gave a brief nod and silently walked away.

***

As Duncan approached the barge, he could see the figure of a man in black sitting atop. Hope rushed through him, warmed the blood in his veins, and he quickened his step, but as he came closer he could tell it was not Methos, although it was another Immortal. He kept walking, cautiously now, sliding a hand into his coat to grip the hilt of his katana.

"You must be Luc Caruel," he said as he stopped at the bottom of the gangplank. The man stood, smiling pleasantly down at him.

"And you must be Duncan MacLeod."

He was not as tall as Duncan, but lean and fit. His eyes were dark and expressive, under finely arched brows, his nose long and sharp, his mouth almost feminine in its fullness. His dark brown hair was cropped short, tapering to neatly trimmed sideburns. He wore black jeans, black pullover, and a short black leather jacket. And held a long, gleaming rapier, pointing the tip at Duncan as he descended from the barge.

"You were surprisingly easy to find," he said, sounding almost disappointed. "Once I started looking for you," he added.

Duncan took a step back, producing his sword, but keeping it low. "Let's talk about this. I didn't kill Valraux. If vengeance is what you're after, you're too late."

Caruel stopped mid-stride, cool facade vanishing instantly. He lifted his rapier, balancing the point at the hollow of Duncan's throat. "Jean and I were lovers for over a hundred years, MacLeod. Do you have any idea what that's like? To love someone so thoroughly, so completely, that a hundred years might as well have been a hundred days because I lost him too soon. He was taken from me. By you."

Duncan felt a moment of anguish, from Caruel's naked grief and his own guilt, knowing he would have killed Jean had it not been for Genevieve.

The rapier's point slid a little, scratching the skin. Duncan raised his katana and carefully eased it away, saying, "Please. Just listen. I fought Jean, it's true, but I didn't kill him. There was a woman, she interfered, she killed him. I swear it." Did Caruel hear the pleading in his voice, he wondered.

Caruel stared at him, eyes burning with rage. His rapier swung up and Duncan thrust his katana into the air to meet it, but as he delivered the downward blow, the sensation of another Immortal presence reached them. Caruel's strike lost its impact and he edged away, looking around. Duncan kept his concentration on Luc, but stopped abruptly when he heard Methos' voice.

"MacLeod is telling the truth. He didn't kill Valraux."

Duncan turned to see Methos walking casually towards them, holding his sword as if it were as mundane as an umbrella or briefcase. Caruel stopped and muttered to Methos, "You can't interfere."

Methos gave a little shrug, walking over to the gangplank and sitting down. "That's true," he agreed quietly. "But if you take his head, I will take yours."

Still shadowing Caruel's movements, Duncan spared a glance at Methos. Caruel kept his rapier pointed at Duncan, giving Methos a look of curiosity and smug confidence.

"I understand your anger, you see," Methos said blandly. "The passion to avenge your dead lover gives you the edge in this fight. Knowing you will never hold Valraux again, never kiss him again, living with that ache for 300 years... That kind of grief is powerful. You could take Duncan's head with it. And if you do, then my grief will be just as powerful, you understand?"

Duncan stopped cold, staring at Methos in wonder, almost forgetting about Caruel. Caruel stopped too, and turned to face Methos. Duncan watched them exchange looks, saw what seemed to be a silent understanding between them, but wouldn't let himself guess what that would be.

Methos said nothing more, but stared intently at Caruel. The sword Methos held across his knees seemed more threatening by its mere presence. Duncan approached Luc carefully, touched a hand to his shoulder and said gently, "You have my word I did not kill Valraux."

Caruel turned around, his face a mask but for his eyes, which revealed his pain, so close to the surface. He whispered hoarsely, "I believe you," and started to walk away. Duncan watched him go, still feeling the painful mixture of grief and guilt, now tinged with shocked confusion. He slid his katana back into his coat and waited until Caruel was out of sight before he faced Methos.

He found he could not ask the question with his tongue, so he tried to read the answer with his eyes, but again was thwarted by Methos' passive expression. Suddenly, irrationally infuriated, he grabbed Methos by the wrist and yanked him to his feet, storming up the gangplank.

"You've got some explaining to do," he muttered.

***

Inside was little better. Methos sat crouched on the sofa, hands entombed in his coat pockets. Duncan sat on the coffee table, facing him, nervously rubbing his palms together as he searched for words.

Methos broke the silence. "What did you expect?" His voice sounded bitter.

Duncan frowned, looking down at the floor. "I don't know," he said truthfully. "I didn't expect that." He looked up, staring until Methos' eyes met his. "What you said about your grief -- did you mean that?"

Methos narrowed his eyes. "Of course I meant it, MacLeod. You think I would just say something like that--"

"To save my life," Duncan interjected quietly. He felt that rush of warmth, of hope, again, but with it the same shards of coldness and doubt he'd felt since he'd learned of Methos' past. He watched Methos, knowing fully now where he wanted to be, but unsure if he could ever reach that point.

"Methos," he began hesitantly. "If... If something happened to you, I would know that grief as well," he said, with a vague feeling of sacrifice.

Surprise flashed across Methos' face before it returned to that cool, impassive expression Duncan had begun to dread. "Would you?" Methos asked crisply. He stood up abruptly and headed for the door. Duncan rose to follow him, saying, "We've got to talk about this."

Methos stepped outside and stopped on the deck. He shook his head and turned around. "It's a little late for that, don't you think? Enough has been said."

Duncan wondered if Methos was talking about things that had been said weeks or minutes ago. He felt a chill run up his spine and looked beyond Methos, to the lights of Paris, trying to marshal his thoughts and think of something to say.

After an uncomfortable silence, Methos said quietly, "Caruel will come after you again, you know."

Duncan started as he was recalled to the earlier events of the night. "Why? I told him the truth, and he believed me. You saw him leave yourself."

"After Valraux died, Caruel went mad with grief. He spent a century in a monastery, and another in a madhouse. It doesn't matter if he believes you, he needs something to put an end to his madness. 'Closure,' I believe the pop psychologists call it. You're the only one still around who was connected with his lover's death."

Duncan watched Methos' profile, black against the gloomy glow of the city night. It revealed nothing. Duncan said gently, "I can take care of myself."

He could see Methos turn to him, but it was too dark to see the look Methos gave him. He thought he detected a slight tension in Methos' stance, and was not surprised when Methos started walking down the gangplank. He thought he heard Methos mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "So you keep saying," but he couldn't be entirely sure.

***

Luc Caruel did not return that night, nor the next day. Duncan found himself drawn into long-discarded memories of the man whose death had set this current play in motion, Jean-Baptiste Valraux, and of the charming, deceptive Genevieve. But wherever his memories led him, his thoughts always returned to Methos, and the words he had spoken: My grief would be just as powerful. The grief of a friend, a lover. The same grief Duncan would feel if Methos were to die.

Swiftly and forcefully, the image of Cassandra, axe in hand, filled his mind. She would have done it, if Duncan hadn't stopped her. Looking back now, it seemed incredible that she hadn't done it anyway. Even if not her, then someone. Methos was more of a target than himself. How many friends and lovers had Duncan lost in just the span of a few years? It was naive to believe it couldn't happen, just because he couldn't imagine how he'd cope if it did happen.

He didn't know what words to use, didn't know how to explain his conflicting emotions, or how to live with the conflicts. All he knew was that he had to.

***

It took an incredibly long time for Methos to answer the door. When he did, his look of startled unhappiness almost made Duncan change his mind about trying to settle their conflict that night. Methos lowered his sword and held the door open for MacLeod.

"I wasn't expecting you," Methos said with a rather nasty edge to his voice. Duncan looked around the eclectically decorated flat and, not finding any inviting chairs, leaned against a table. He wondered if he'd woken Methos up, for although Methos was still fully dressed, he looked tired and rumpled.

"I've been thinking about what you said last night, and been thinking about us," Duncan began. He watched as Methos carefully avoided looking directly at him and sat down across the room. Duncan fought down the familiar anger that swept through him and paced slowly about the room. "It's still hard for me to accept your past... What you did. But I know that a man is more than his actions, and more than his past. I'm trying... I want to try, Methos."

He stopped, feeling helpless. The words hadn't come out as he'd wanted them to, and he wasn't sure what to say next. Methos met his gaze, and to Duncan it seemed that Methos' look was warmer, less forbidding than it had been of late. He took that as a sign of hope.

"Try what?" Methos asked evenly.

Duncan took a breath, released it. "Try to get back to where we were before. Do you think we can?"

"No." The reply was quick and firm but not sharp. It was not meant to be a weapon, Duncan could tell, but was simply a statement of truth.

"No," he echoed with a sigh. "I suppose we can't. But can we move forward from where we are now? Methos, I... Well, I miss you." Inwardly, Duncan groaned. This was all going wrong. Nothing he said came out the way he wanted it to.

"I miss you, too," Methos said quietly. Duncan glanced at him, momentarily struck dumb by those words. He sank down and sat on a low table, staring at the man before him, noticing for the first time how nervous Methos seemed underneath his calm exterior.

"There's more," Duncan said slowly. He almost didn't want to proceed, grateful for the ground they'd just made despite his clumsy words. Methos nodded for him to continue.

"My feelings for you," Duncan began, then stopped. "Everything we said last night. It's true. That kind of grief, the grief a lover feels... Since we've been so distant, I think I know what that grief feels like, at least a little."

Methos sat forward. He made a small movement of his hand, as if to reach out, then seemingly thought better of it. He clasped his hands and leaned his forearms on his knees. "MacLeod," he sighed, more to himself than to Duncan. With a tiny fraction of their former spark visible, Methos' eyes met Duncan's. "Nothing can ever be easy with you, can it?" Methos said, tone strangely harsh and affectionate at once.

Duncan could think of many replies to this, most of them tinged with a bitterness he longed never to feel around Methos again. He gave them all up with a shrug and slid into the comfort of friendly teasing. "You should know."

Methos smiled at him then, a smile that seemed to break the invisible ice that had been trapping them for so long. Duncan made up his mind. He reached out and cupped Methos' neck with his palm. Methos started at the touch, eyes widening. Duncan leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. The kiss was not returned, but not rebuffed. As he drew away, Duncan murmured, "Maybe some things can be easy."

Methos raised one eyebrow in response, then gripped Duncan's face in his hands with a strength that Duncan realized was just barely contained. Before his amazement could wear off, Methos was kissing him passionately. As he wrapped his arms around Methos, Duncan wondered vaguely if they would end up on the floor, and instantly decided he didn't care if they did.

***

They did not end up on the floor. The dark flat was silent, and a slow-moving bluish light from the city outside travelled along the walls. Duncan watched its progress, uncomfortable in the unfamiliar bed. Methos stirred and Duncan hugged him closer, knowing he was not asleep.

"What are you thinking?" he whispered, kissing Methos' temple. Methos shifted onto his back, nestling into the curve of Duncan's arm, lazily caressing him with the back of his hand.

"About a lot of things."

Duncan decided not to inquire further and contented himself by planting soft kisses down Methos' cheek and neck. After a while, Methos asked, "Was Valraux your lover?"

Duncan paused, surprised by the question. "No." After a hesitation, he added, "I was interested in him, but then I met Genevieve, and pursued her." Duncan settled back, sifting through the memories. "Now, looking back on it, his casual attitude makes more sense. If he was with Caruel..."

Methos turned onto his side, curving against Duncan, gliding his hand over Duncan's chest, toying with the fine hairs.

"I feel bad for Luc," Duncan sighed, skimming his fingers down Methos' arm. "All these years... How sad." He imagined the terrible shock, the unfathomable grief, and tightened his arms around Methos.

"It's a shame he didn't know about Genevieve," Methos said quietly. "He could have had his vengeance then."

Carefully ignoring the cold-bloodedness of this statement, Duncan asked, "One of us killed her, though? I wonder how they found her out. I wonder who." His fingers wandered through Methos' thick, short hair.

There was something about Methos' silence that made Duncan's wandering fingers halt. He sat up a little and looked down at Methos. "You?"

Methos returned his look calmly, but tensed slightly, as if expecting an outburst. "Yes."

For a moment Duncan felt sick, imagining Methos killing this mortal woman, a woman he'd loved; but the Genevieve he'd thought he'd known was not the Genevieve she was. He remembered Valraux's headless body collapsing, remembered seeing the corpses of de Bery and his servant. She had been their killer.

"She spared my life so I would be blamed for Jean's death," Duncan whispered, amazed and repulsed at her calculated cleverness. "Just as I blamed Jean for de Bery's death."

Duncan gently massaged the back of Methos' neck, hoping his memories and uneasiness would fade. After a while he asked, "How did you figure her out?"

"I was the Watcher of one of her last victims. She was getting sloppy by then. She tried to kill me so she'd have no witness to her murder, but I woke up from the dead and found her standing over his body. I killed her before she could kill me."

Duncan slid back, stretching out and staring up at the ceiling. Methos had killed in self-defence, and Genevieve had been a calculating murderer. Why was it so hard to accept? Because she had been a mortal? Or because she'd been just one of thousands of mortals Methos had killed? And I killed hundreds of mortals as a soldier. In times of war.

His thoughts revolved thus, going around and around, until he was pulled from them by Methos' voice, surprisingly harsh. "She killed at least nineteen of us, Duncan. She was no innocent mortal."

Duncan whispered, "I know." Then again, louder, as if the proclamation could settle his conscience, "I know." He sought the warmth of Methos' body again, curving to him and folding him into a snug embrace. Methos seemed grateful of it, relaxing against him with an almost inaudible sigh. They stayed entwined in the silence, but sleep eluded them. Duncan could feel the lingering tension in the body he held, and knew with a pang of sadness Methos felt it in him. No, it couldn't always be like this, Duncan told himself. It was just the night, the shift in their relationship, the remembrance of memories best laid to rest.

Into the silence he said, "I think you were wrong about Caruel. He never came back to challenge me."

Methos tensed in his arms. A sickening dread filled Duncan's gut. He forced the words out, not wanting to know, needing to know. "No. You didn't. Tell me you didn't."

Methos didn't move. His voice was flat as he answered, "He was going to come back for you. I stopped him."

The ache that shook Duncan's body was stronger than the anger. He found he could not move, could only loosen his hold on the man in his arms.

Methos sat up and moved away. "I was going to tell you. If you hadn't shown up when you did... Well. You did. And now you know."

Duncan listened to him, not knowing what to say. He was out of the bed and getting dressed before he was even aware of what he was doing. Methos made no move to stop him, only watched, saying, "He wouldn't let it rest, as I knew he wouldn't."

Duncan had finished dressing. He stood at the foot of the bed and stared at Methos. "Then it was my fight," he pointed out.

Methos narrowed his eyes. "No, before it could become your fight, I challenged him and I killed him. It's what we do, MacLeod."

Duncan could only shake his head. "You killed him to save me. Rather than risk that Caruel might take my head."

Methos' expression darkened before he looked away. "You seem to forget that Caruel could prove just as unwelcome a threat to me. With your quickening inside him, he might have defeated me, a chance I wasn't willing to take," Methos said with a certain tone of malice. There was a sour taste of truth in his response, but Duncan knew there was more to Methos' motives than that. Hadn't their night together just proven that?

"I need to think about this," Duncan said quietly. He could see Methos begin to form a reply, then think better of it. Methos merely nodded, looking down at his hands.

Leaving the flat was the hardest thing Duncan had ever done, for reasons he couldn't even begin to explain to himself.

***

The dawn was grey and unpromising. The Seine lapped desultorily against the barge and along both banks lights appeared as the city woke up. An icy breeze whipped along the river and blew Duncan's hair into his face, where it caught on his lips and eyelashes and batted at his cheeks. He made no move to push it back.

He could not recall Jean-Baptiste Valraux's face, nor that of Genevieve Bresson, nor that of Luc Caruel, whom he'd just seen two nights before. He could not recall the laugh of his good friend Reynard de Bery, although he knew he'd spent many an hour with him, drinking and carousing. The only memory he seemed able to hold onto was the feel of Methos' body against his own, and the strength of the love that had claimed them both.

Am I betraying them, by loving him? Will I always have to choose like this?

He turned his head to the cloud-filled sky and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of a Paris morning.

Will the price be too great, if I always choose him?

Duncan had no answers.

(the end)

April 1997/May 1999
Many, many thanks to Ruth, Marie, and Kenna for their help and input.