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Chapter Text

He saw her a moment before he felt her buzz. She was a slight Immortal, with thin legs bare to mid-thigh and a fur-collared coat bundled tight about her narrow torso. For a moment he thought it was Amanda, MacLeod’s erstwhile lover—- but when she turned towards his presence, he saw her skin tone and re-evaluated. The woman was Black.

They were near enough for their eyes to meet, exposed in the car park, with sputtering street lamps providing plenty illumination. Another night he might have made a dashing retreat, but the woman was between him and his car. Adam let out his breath in a sigh, jingling his keys in his palm.

'I don’t want a fight,' he said, raising his voice slightly over the distance.

She relaxed visibly. 'Neither do I,' she answered shortly. She fumbled in her coat—- he tensed, even if she had passed on a Challenge—- but she only removed a pack of smokes. She watched him suspiciously while she lit her cigarette and put it to her mouth. He picked up his path again, meaning to give her a wide berth; but when he was close enough to see her face, a jolt of recognition hit him. He slowed, and halted.

'Do I—-'

'Do I know you?' she interrupted.

Adam moved a cautious step closer, hands peaceably out to his sides. 'Karen?' he hazarded.

'Claudia,' she corrected. 'Claudia Jardine.'

It came back abruptly. 'The pianist,' he recalled. If she was one of MacLeod’s projects, it explained why she hadn’t wanted a Challenge with him. He remembered her as a pretty slip of a girl with a demanding ego. Her hair was still short, the bouncy, tawny curls of African heritage, her make-up tasteful and mature. Formally, he held out his hand, and after a moment she took it in hers. 'It’s nice to see you again, Claudia,' he said.

'Thank you,' Claudia replied, shaking his hand loosely and briefly. She hesitated with her fingers still in his. 'You were the one who was dating the sick girl, weren’t you?'

Even after nine years, it was like a punch to the chest. He found it hard to breathe, and dropped Claudia’s hand. 'Yes,' he managed.

She put the cigarette to her lips again, covering her mouth with her hand for a moment while she looked at him nervously. 'How—-' She moved the cigarette. 'How is she?'

'She died,' Adam answered distantly. 'Shortly after we met, actually.'

Her genuine sympathy surprised him. 'I’m so sorry. It’s Adam, isn’t it? I’m very sorry for your loss.'

The feeling of being socked was easing, even if the image of Alexa’s last days was suddenly etched into his eyelids. 'Thank you.' He cleared his throat softly. 'I didn’t know you were in town,' he said. 'Giving a concert?'

'Taking a break, actually.' She took a deep draw, and the ash at the tip of the fag fell to the ground as she flicked it casually. 'I—- actually, I haven’t held a concert in—- almost two years.' Her dark eyes searched through the parking lot restlessly. 'I tell everyone I’m planning to record. I even met with a studio rep tonight.' She glanced back at the building they both exited, an elegant London high-rise that held multiple offices.

'Meeting didn’t go well?' he finished gently.

She managed a quick, broken little smile. 'Not really.'

Adam looked away from her to the lot again. It was empty except for themselves, but it was almost dusk. Her meeting must have been hours ago, he realised, and wished he didn’t feel quite so sorry for her suddenly. He couldn’t remember liking her before, but she didn’t seem all that bad tonight. If a bit lacking in polish. Her strident American accent didn’t even bother him all that much.

'You should get inside,' he said eventually. 'London isn’t safe at night.'

'No.' She didn’t elaborate, and he wondered which part she was answering. He edged past her, glancing at his car. He inclined his head to her. 'Nice to see you again,' he repeated.

'You too.' Another smile, this one superficial and perfunctory. She lit a new cigarette with the old one, and ground the burnt-out stub beneath her pump.

He made it to his car with his back to her, but as he slid into the driver’s seat he couldn’t avoid facing her direction again. She hadn’t moved. She stood there in the empty lane hunched in on herself, one foot tapping nervously.

He left the door open as he walked back to her. She jumped when he addressed her.

'There’s a pub up the road,' he said.

'Is there?' She blew smoke away from him. 'There’s a pub on every corner in this country.'

He smiled his own obligatory smile at the half-hearted joke. 'Perhaps you’d join me for a burger.'

'I don’t eat meat,' Claudia said.

He wasn’t surprised. 'You can watch while I do, then.'

Her delicate face turned towards him. 'Why are you being nice to me?'

'It’s one of the little benefits of civilisation.' She was half-convinced. He gestured to the car, not gallant, not pushy, just a straightforward wave; finally she nodded. He waited while she ground out the second fag, and then he walked her to his car.

**

Claudia dragged the chip through the puddle of catsup. 'At first he was a big help, but he had his own life. Then he went off to Tibet or China or something and we lost touch.'

'He lost a student,' Adam explained gently. 'It was a hard time for everybody involved.'

'I’m not blaming him,' Claudia countered quickly. 'It’s just that I didn’t really know a lot of Immortals, you see?' Her mouth twisted. 'The ones I did know, I did a fantastic job of alienating. Even Duncan, and he’s known me since I was a baby.'

It had taken three hours and a bottle of house red, but Adam sensed they were nearing a confession. It was plain enough that Claudia was lonely, possibly even depressed. He might not have been as sympathetic on another day, but she’d got him thinking about Alexa—- and maybe he’d been a little lonely himself, lately.

'What about that one who was trying to kill you?' he ventured. 'The actor.'

'Walter.' She smiled wryly, and dropped her little chin onto her hand. 'He’s not a bad guy, he just... he’s got some grand notion of me being this Immortal genius. It was fun at first, but he wanted to run my life. He arranged auditions, tours, record deals, book deals—- I never had time to just be me. If Walter had his way I’d spend the next sixty years locked in Carnegie Hall.'

'How’d you get rid of him?'

She waved the chip. 'He fell in love with a new protégé. Jacques Boyet. A novelist.'

'Immortal?'

'I didn’t ask.' She dropped her head so that he couldn’t see her face. 'It’s been hard since he’s been gone,' she admitted, her voice small and strained. 'Being Immortal—- it was such a grand idea at first. Then one day I was looking at myself in the mirror—- I used to buy all these products, you know, face washes and anti-ageing creams and wrinkle reducers—- and it hit me all of a sudden that I was never going to get any older. I’d never have to think about laugh lines or grey hairs.' Her hand moved to cover her mouth. He head to lean closer to hear her. 'I’ll never change,' she whispered.

He reached for his wine, and finished the last of his glass. He picked at a tiny spot of sediment with one finger. 'The early years are the hardest,' he said carefully, not looking at her. 'Anger. Questions. Even despair. I know.'

When he looked, she was already watching him, her eyes a little red. 'Did you go through it?' she asked.

He had no memories of his early years, a situation that had long ceased to bother him. He thought about lying, but changed his mind. 'I still do,' he said instead. 'Not all the time. Sometimes. When I lose a friend—- a Mortal. When I wish I could be just like them. When I have to move because it’s been too long and someone might get curious that I haven’t aged.'

She covered her eyes this time. 'I’ve thought of that,' she murmured. 'It scares the shit out of me.'

An impulse made him reach for her hand, draw it away from her face. 'You get through it,' he told her. He patted her hand. 'It’s not so much that it goes away... but you get used to it. And it doesn’t seem so monstrous, so overwhelming. You learn to cope.' He lifted one shoulder. 'Just like they do.'

She sat silent for a while, looking at their hands. He made no effort to release her, and she didn’t pull away either. At last her eyes came back up to his.

'I haven’t been able to play in months,' she admitted. Tears appeared in her eyes, and she drew away from him to reach for her napkin. A moment later, she was crying. Adam left his side of the booth and slid onto her bench, wrapping an arm about her slender shoulders and pulling her into his chest. She cried into him, a hot, damp weight against his collar, and he gently rubbed the back of her neck and her shoulders until the storm passed. It wasn’t long, only intense; she must have been holding it in for some time, he thought.

She offered a watery laugh when she straightened, dabbing at her face. 'I must be the worst Immortal ever,' she said. 'God. Do you know I don’t even carry a sword?'

That surprised him. 'Does MacLeod know that?'

'I convinced him that I needed to feel mortal to make music.' She shook her head in bitter amusement. 'I didn’t realise I’d spend the next decade terrified every time I hear that—- that awful buzzing sound. Walter took a Challenge for me once. I was so scared that he would die because I was a stubborn little bitch. Thank God he won, but even that was awful.'

A glance at the clock over the bar decided him. He stood, and offered her his hand up. 'Would you agree to go somewhere with me?'

'Somewhere—- like out of London?' She accepted his help out of the booth, clutching her little handbag and grabbing her coat off the hook at their booth.

'Not very far out. My house.'

'You have a house here? Not a flat?' He assisted her into the coat as well, and she buttoned it tightly across her flat stomach. 'Everything I see here is either a palace or an apartment.'

He smiled. 'It’s a house.' They moved towards the door together, and back out into the street. 'It’s a bit of a drive into the city, but it’s worth having the solitude and the space.'

When she followed him out of the pub, her hand rested over his for a moment.

**

He opened the chest and removed the top drawer, lifting it out and setting it aside. The second drawer held three tightly wrapped bundles, and he took the middle one. He flipped back the oilcloth and looked down at a weapon he hadn’t seen for a good century. It was in good condition, as were all the swords he chose to keep on, if a little dull. He climbed back to his feet and turned.

Claudia stood at the mantle, holding a picture. She turned it to him as he joined her. 'This is her, isn’t it?' she asked.

He took the frame. It was himself with Alexa, a sunset picture—- the Grand Canyon. She’d used a dozen rolls of film. He didn’t remember posing for the shot, but he remembered the moment, thinking that her waist was so fragile in the crook of his arm, that her hair was thinning and he could feel the breath rattling in her. Remembered how desperately he’d loved her, that stage just before accepting that she was going to die and he wouldn’t.

He placed it back on the mantle carefully, in the spot defined by dust marks. 'Her name is Alexa,' he said. 'Alexa Bond.'

'Not Pierson?' Claudia searched his face. 'You weren’t married?'

'She didn’t want to.' He wiped at a line of grey on the wood, brushed it off on his shirt. 'She thought it would be too hard for me to move on, if we were more than just some crazy fling.'

'But she was wrong,' Claudia said softly. 'Wasn’t she?'

He forced himself to smile. 'It didn’t really make a difference. She was my wife in every way that mattered. It just wasn’t official.'

The awkward moment passed as Claudia turned her attention to the sword he held. 'What’s that?' she asked briskly.

He held it out, flat across both palms. 'A woman’s blade. It belonged to a friend, about... I think it was 1816. She had it made especially for her.' He watched Claudia take it, handling it like it would break. He corrected her grip, and stepped back while she swung carefully. 'This,' he explained, pointing, 'is the fuller. It lessens the weight of the sword while maintaining the balance. And the grip is smaller, made for a smaller palm, shorter fingers.'

Claudia looked up at him. 'A friend?' she said shrewdly.

Adam grinned at her. 'Friend,' he repeated mildly. 'She was taller than you, but I think it will work quite nicely.' He watched surprise work across her face. 'Yes,' he forestalled. 'I want you to have it.'

'But something like this—- this is an antique. And it’s beautiful. It must be worth hundreds, thousands of dollars—'

'So are you.' She pursed her lips. He lifted a hand. 'Say, "Thank you, Adam. It’s a princely gift."'

A small, unwilling smile stole over her mouth. She covered it with a hand for a moment; then she tossed her hair, her curls bouncing, and laughed. 'Thank you, Adam,' she said sincerely. 'It is a princely gift.'

The atmosphere was notably lighter, and he took the opportunity to remove the sword back to its oilcloth. 'You’ll have to learn to use it,' he added.

She stayed at his side as he finished wrapping the sword and began to look through the chest for a scabbard. 'Question,' she said. 'How do I get away with walking around with this thing?'

'Mac never told you?' Adam shook his head. 'It’s difficult to explain—- or easy, I don’t know. You wear a coat over it. That’s all.'

'And no-one notices that I’ve got a huge sword?'

'Exactly.' He saw her skepticism. 'Did you notice mine?' he asked.

Claudia blinked. 'No,' she said. 'Actually, I didn’t. And I never saw Duncan or Walter carry one either.'

'It’s a gift unique to Immortals,' he said. 'I believe that it happens because the sword is the most important part of an Immortal’s life. Somehow the ability to carry the weapon comes with the deal.'

'So mortals don’t see them?'

'Unless they know what to look for. The sword hides itself. They just... don’t notice.'

He could all but see the wheels turning in her mind, and was pleased by the insightfulness of her next question, fired rapidly. 'What about metal detectors? X-rays? Airports?'

'I suggest that if you have to fly you check your sword at the gate,' he answered, grinning. 'You’re not terribly likely to have to fight for your life at cruising altitude. Other Immortals want to land safely just as much as you do.' He found the scabbard, and handed the set back to Claudia. She seated herself on his couch with both on her lap, her slender fingers tracing the pommel. He sat beside her, crossing his ankles and linking his hands over his stomach.

'Why not use a gun?'

'Because a guy with a blade can move faster than you can.' She raised an eyebrow. 'Seriously,' he said, sitting up and miming drawing a gun. 'A gun has to be strapped in to the holster. In the time it takes you to unsnap the lock, draw the gun, flip the safety and aim, he’s already stabbed you.'

Her shoulders slumped. 'So the only option is learning how to use a sword?'

He dropped back against the arm of the couch, considering her thin frame. 'I think you should,' he said finally. 'But maybe a gun as a back-up isn’t a bad idea. Especially until you’re comfortable fencing. We can get one.'

Her dark eyes widened and her hands went still. 'You said "we,"' she whispered.

He had, he realised. But somehow it didn’t feel monumental or disappointing or regrettable. He smiled. 'I did.'

Her eyes looked a little watery, but she didn’t give in. 'Thank you,' she said evenly. 'That means more than you can know. I—- barely even know you, but you’ve been so kind.'

'It’s no particular hardship.'

From the front hallway, the chime of a clock announced that it was nearing one in the morning. 'I can get you back to your hotel,' he offered.

Claudia hesitated. Uncertainly, she said, 'Actually, can I... stay here? If it isn’t too much trouble.' Lamely, she added, 'Your home is so beautiful.'

'It’s no trouble,' he assured her gently. 'And—- it’ll be nice not to have it so empty.' Her smile was instantaneous, and lovely. He watched the transformation of a timid, unhappy girl into a woman, and wondered what he was getting himself into. But he smiled back.

Chapter Text

Mac exited the taxi wrangling his duffel and briefcase, propping them on the kerb as he stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. There was a light drizzle, something between heavy fog and actual rain, that peculiar London specialty that left a man perpetually damp. Mac checked the address again, sheer paranoia, but in his defence it was the first time Methos had actually invited him anywhere in years. Mac found himself tapping his knuckles against his thigh, tense in anticipation as he stood at the door waiting for the bell to be answered and more than half suspecting it was all a trick, he'd be at some stranger's house, Methos wouldn't be home, Methos would be--

Methos would be heralded by the deep bell-like tone of his ancient Quickening, and despite himself Mac's shoulders relaxed at that familiar feeling. When Methos opened the door to greet him, Mac was smiling.

'Duncan,' Methos greeted him, warmly enough, and reached for his hand. Mac met him halfway, clasping his forearm on instinct before he slid his hand lower for the more modern handshake. And if they stood there a moment longer than might have been modern, fingers wrapped tight, Mac told himself it would probably go pear-shaped soon enough, and to enjoy that small sign of a once very important friendship still lingering, wounded but never dead.

'Hi,' he said, and cleared his throat. 'Hi.'

'Hi.' Methos's voice was maybe, just maybe, a bit scratchy too. His fingers squeezed convulsively, then let go, so he could back out of the door and make room for Mac. 'Come in. Flight was okay?'

'Flight was something, anyway. Ryanair.'

'Oof. Did Amanda steal your fortune? You'd have had better luck buying your own aeroplane.'

'I cancelled the return ticket as soon as I landed, so I'd best,' Duncan agreed. Methos took his duffel for the purpose of dumping it into a corner, but treated his heavy coat, and the katana inside it, with all due consideration, hanging it from a hook with the habitual arrangement that would allow an Immortal to swiftly liberate a blade if needed. Mac only noticed because he'd thought, for just a fraction of a second as he allowed Methos to take the garment, that maybe he ought not to. And chastised himself immediately, forcing himself to smile as if all were normal, fine. If Methos thought anything of that exchange, Mac couldn't tell; he wore the exact same expression.

'Tea?'

'Thanks.' Mac glanced about as he followed Methos inside. Sunroom, to one side, a large study to the other, books crammed floor to ceiling and an impressive array of computer equipment overwhelming a too-delicate escritoire. The back of the house was a sitting room and kitchen, and that was where Methos led him, to fill an electric kettle and set it to rumbling. Methos provided him a mug and a box of Twinings to choose from, supplying cream and cubed sugar from the windowsill. Mac took his time selecting an Irish Breakfast sachet, buying himself a minute of awkward silence til Methos brought the steaming kettle to fill his cup.

'Thanks,' he said again. 'Bit of a change, this. From your Paris flat.'

'Nice to have more space,' Methos agreed, and poured for himself, too, rescuing a cup already in the sink and refilling it. He wrapped the string of an Earl Grey about a fingertip and dunked it rhythmically, eyes on some point in the middle distance. 'You look good,' he said then, long lashes flickering.

'Thanks,' Mac mumbled a third time. 'You, too. Adam, still?'

'Adam, still.' Methos's mouth quirked in something more familiar, then, ironic disdain for the whims of fortune. 'Watchers figured out the Immortality gig at some point. We've reached detente-- I don't try to break into their files too often or too obviously, and they don't try to execute me for treason.'

'They don't know your-- who you-- that you're really--'

'No,' Methos assured him, though his shrug was more ambivalent. 'We've all settled on the story that I "discovered" my Immortality after getting sucked into your orbit, actually. You have a way of collecting young ones. It suits well enough.'

There were too many things to say to that. Or not enough, maybe, because the word he most wanted to say was an ache that would never go away. He didn't take students any more. He couldn't trust himself. He would never fully trust himself again. 'Oh,' was all he managed, and he sipped his too-hot tea, tongue burning in a way that felt deserved.

'Have a sit in the garden?' Methos asked then.

'It's raining.'

'You won't melt. It's covered, anyway.'

Not worth fighting it. 'Sure.' He followed Methos once more, decamping down creaking wooden steps sloping downhill to an ironwork table and chairs on a small, unevenly laid patio of slate pavers. He helped Methos crank open the lawn umbrella, an incongruous pattern of daisies that still bore a discounted sale ticket clipped to one edge, and then they brushed wet from the plastic cushions to settle. Methos crossed one leg over the other, tea cup resting on his knee as he gazed across winter-shrivelled hedges and leafless trees, unrelieved brown to the slightly sagging line of fencing cutting him off from his neighbours.

'I like your place,' Mac said, and puzzled himself by meaning it, patchwork, homely little island of Methos's misfit toys that it was. 'I never really pictured you in a house like this. All nestled in with people.'

'That Paris flat was all nestled in with people,' Methos replied, amused. 'I think there were twelve or fifteen post-grads crammed into the studio above me.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Almost never, MacLeod.' Methos smiled, though. 'So. What brings you to London? Just passing through?'

'Conference. A little meet and greet. Trying to get the business back up and running.'

'You're not skint, are you? Now Ryanair makes sense.'

'I've plenty of reserves, thank you. But I'd rather not dip too deep into savings. Besides, I could use the distraction.'

'Yeah, s'good to keep to busy.'

They'd had that conversation before, he thought. Methos had said that before, to him. It didn't ring any truer now than it had then. 'Yeah,' he nodded anyway. 'How's Joe?'

'How's Joe? I'd've thought you'd know better than me.'

'Haven't seen him in, oh, going on eighteen months, I'd reckon. He didn't follow me back from the States after the last trip. I sort of had the impression he was cutting back. Getting on.' White had replaced the salt-and-pepper in Joe's hair and beard, the last time he'd seen the mortal. His shoulders had gone thin, losing muscle mass, that healthy bulk of middle age. 'You don't keep in touch?'

'Giving him some space. Since his daughter had the baby he's been well occupied.'

'He has a daughter?' Mac demanded, shocked. 'Since when?'

'Since 1975ish, I'd assume.'

'He's never said.'

'Joe's a regular lockbox,' Methos observed, sipping his tea. 'One of those overly complicated soap opera storylines, all Watcher intrigue and illicit affairs under the dark of the moon. But all's well that ends well. The baby's cute, in a newborn potato sort of way. They've named him Jackson, after the man who raised her, but Joe tells me they're calling him JJ. Jackson and Joe.'

'I'll be damned. That's good news, then.'

'Yeah. Probably he'll retire, when he gets round to the paperwork. Grandpa Joe's a good look on him.'

'He deserves every happiness,' Mac said, meaning it, and refusing to look too closely at the little twinge it cost him to say. That was about his faults, not Joe's, and he was living with it. He would.

'Yeah,' Methos said again. He squinted skyward at the faint rumble of distant thunder, but didn't move from his chair. 'Listen, hope you don't mind the second guest bed, by which I mean the couch. The actual guest bed's occupied.'

'You should have said you already had company. I can find a hotel.'

'Nonsense,' Methos scolded him briskly. 'And she's out of town, as it happens, won't be back til Saturday next, but I didn't want to move her things without her knowing.'

'Oh-ho. She?'

'Get your mind out of the gutter, MacLeod.' Methos flashed him a grin, one of the real ones, crinkling the small hints of lines at his eyes, the only remainder of the mortal he'd been millennia gone. 'It's a good couch, not like those leather monstrosities you favour.'

'Couch is just fine. Shame I won't meet the mysterious "her", though.'

'Terrible shame, yes.'

Fat drops began to pelt the patio, rain picking up, and a sudden gust of wind blew it straight into their faces, rattling the umbrella in its stand. 'Don't suppose we could go back in,' Mac suggested, when Methos calmly continued to drink his tea.

'Wimp,' the eldest Immortal scorned him, but took the hint all the same. 'Anyway, the booze is all back in there.'

'Perfect,' Mac agreed, and followed him willingly.

'Water closet at the top of the stairs, help yourself to the kitchen any time you like, extra blanket, pillows, remote control, bottle of water, bottle of wine...' Methos completed his inventory of supplies with a vague gesture towards the large pile he left on the couch. 'Take you out for breakfast in the morning.'

'Thanks. For everything.'

'Of course.' Methos pulled the curtains closed, as Mac sat himself gingerly on the wicker sofa. It whinged a little at his weight, but not as noisily as he'd feared, and the cushions were appealingly thick and firm, letting him sink in without sagging. Perfect for a long comfortable read on a rainy afternoon, and not too shabby for an overnight stay-- more comfortable indeed, Mac had to admit, than his leather couches. Mac shucked his cashmere jumper, shaking it out to avoid wrinkles and draping it across the arm of the sofa. Methos turned to go, but didn't. He just stood there, hands fisted in his pockets in that way that put his shoulders back, lips slightly parted as if he were going to speak, but he didn't. Mac popped the top button of his jeans and eased down the zip, and still Methos didn't move.

'Guess your guest really is a guest,' Mac said, and his voice had dropped an octave without his permission, joining his rebellious hands which lingered cupped at his crotch.

'Mmhm,' Methos said, or something like it. Mac wasn't listening for his answer, anyway. He was watching the bob of his throat, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Methos and those henley shirts. Sinful collarbones.

'I... didn't come expecting...'

'Really?' Methos asked dryly. He dropped into a crouch at Mac's feet, one palm smoothing over Mac's denim-clad knee, for balance, for the sheer hell of it. 'If I told you I don't mind in the least, does that fix everything?'

'It's been a long--'

'It's been long enough.' For it not to sting so badly. That went unsaid, understood. Methos's other hand joined the first, applying just enough pressure on Mac's thighs to spread them. Methos eased onto his knees between them. 'Yes, or no?'

As if there were more than one answer. 'Yes.'

'Bright boy.' Methos brushed his hands up the length of Mac's legs slowly, less so teasing than appreciating something that was rare for reasons Mac couldn't quite recall under pressure. Grasped the waistband of his jeans, and pulled. Mac pushed his hips up enough to permit the jeans passage under his ass, far enough down to expose his undershorts. Methos took his time reacquainting himself, fitting his hand over the vee of Mac's groin, thumb roaming down and back up, down and back up. Mac whetted suddenly dry lips, pressed for air. He dropped his head back to the cushion behind him, gazing up through the glass roof of the sunroom into the black of night above. There was too much light pollution even in the London suburbs to see any stars, but the vacuum of space was enough, more than enough. When a nose nudged at the crease of his hip, a knowing tongue soaking through the cotton in a warning of what more was to come, he exhaled shakily.

'Yes,' he whispered, and reached out to hold Methos's head, soft hair spiking under his fingers as he pushed him down.

'Don't be a stranger,' Methos said, hands in his pockets again, watching Mac load into the cab.

Sometimes, Mac thought, it was possible to forget he stood across a bit of asphalt from the oldest living man on the earth. Until you looked at his eyes.

'Is that an invitation?'

Methos pressed his lips together, considering that with a slow nod. 'Yeeaaah,' he said, stretching the word long and slow. 'Yeah. Standing invite. Mi casa--'

'Es su casa.' Mac smiled. It felt easier than it had in years. Centuries, maybe. 'Yeah.'

Methos dug a toe into a weed growing out of a crack, looking up at Mac from lowered lashes. 'That a yes?'

'Yes.'

'Okay. Good. Well.' Methos jerked his chin at the taxi. 'Til next time, then.'

'Hey.' Mac caught his elbow, and stepped up to put them eye to eye. He brushed his mouth tenderly over Methos's, never mind the cabbie waiting none too patiently. He laid his hand on Methos's waist, curled back to his spine, tracing the knobs of bone up between his shoulderblades as he traced the lower lip caught gently between his teeth. Methos's eyes were closed when Mac eased back. 'Okay,' Mac echoed.

'Very okay.' Methos licked his lips, and heaved out a deep breath. 'Yeah. Okay. Well, that makes this gesture seem a little less far-fetched.' He held up a small key. 'Don't wait so long between visits, next time.'

Not far-fetched. Generous. Maybe a little bewilderingly generous, reminiscent of days long behind them. Long enough behind. The sun made a tentative break for freedom from the dark clouds, and Mac took the key, pocketing it inside his coat. 'No couch next time.'

Methos smirked. 'We'll see. Get gone.'

'Going.' Mac climbed into the cab, and Methos shut the door for him. Mac propped his elbow out the window, and twisted to watch as the cabbie pulled out into the street to go. Methos watched him back til they turned a corner, and the house and its owner disappeared from view. Mac sank back into his seat, rubbing his mouth thoughtfully with the pads of his fingers.

Maybe he'd have to go looking for another reason to visit, soon.

**

It was full summer by the time he found that excuse. The Parisian weather was underwhelming most days, muggy at its best, and escape north promised some relief from humidity and sticky shirts on sweat-slicked skin. Or Mac pretended it would. In truth, as he packed, he was entertaining some fantasies of not needing clothes at all.

He drove, this time, taking the Chunnel vehicle shuttle, for the luxury of rolling up to Methos's house in the Ford Thunderbird with the top down. He took a gander at the sky as he parked kerbside, judging the likelihood of an evening shower and deciding it was worth the risk of looking good. He smoothed his hair as he stepped out, checked his collar, grabbed his duffel, and headed for the door, eager to try that key that had been burning a hole in his pocket for months. But something slowed him as he neared the house. The familiar deep bell tone of Methos's Quickening, yes. But a discordant note, a tinkling harmony. A second Quickening.

And, as he drew close-- the clash of sharp metal. Swords.

Duncan left his duffel by the door, and drew his katana from within his coat. Go around or through? The sound was coming from outside, probably the back garden, and he didn't remember if there was a side gate. Through, then. He let himself in the front door and moved swiftly through the house, noting only that the rooms were empty of occupants. A single mug on the kitchen counter, half drunk, still warm, a still wet spoon beside it. Methos had been ambushed by his challenger. Who was bold enough to hunt an Immortal down in the suburbs? In his own home. It couldn't be a random encounter, surely, maybe someone Methos had met in London who'd followed him back to his lair, that was a time-honoured trick. Or someone Methos knew well and offended, that was hardly off the table. There-- Mac saw them out the window, in the garden. A woman, slender, wearing sweatpants and a slouchy jumper, her hair bound up in a messy bun, trainers shuffling carefully through the grass. And outmatched, that was immediately obvious, and it wasn't like Methos to string out a fight. Mac eased out of the door and down the steps, knowing they might not catch his Quickening approaching if they were deep enough into their duel. He raised his sword--

'You can't interfere, MacLeod,' Methos said calmly, and flicked him an unconcerned glance. 'And I don't want any complaints about how I conduct myself.'

'Duncan!' The other Immortal lowered her sword, only for Methos to take a warning swing at her. She jerked her blade up, scowling. 'I just want to say hello.'

'Friend or foe, anyone who tries to interrupt a Challenge is a distraction, and you can't ever afford to be distracted,' Methos said, in a voice Mac had never heard before-- a lecturing voice. Mac had used that voice himself a hundred times with Richie. Hardly believing his sudden conclusion, he focused on the woman's face.

'Claudia?'

She was sweating. Sweating. Claudia Jardine, who had tried every fad diet under the sun and turned up her nose at the mere notion of a gym. And though she smiled at him, sudden and radiant, she didn't break her concentration again. She caught Methos's underhanded swing, blocking him and even jabbing back. Methos had to jump away to avoid her thrust, and she let out a squeal of delight. 'I did it!'

'You almost did it,' Methos corrected, and countered with a vicious overhand that knocked her sword right out of her grip. He set the edge of his blade at her neck, which Mac thought was a little overkill, but Claudia didn't seem put out by it. If anything, she rolled her eyes, just as she always had with every instructor she'd ever had. But when she picked up her sword again a moment later, she looked absolutely determined to wipe him out.

'Stand down,' Methos advised, and lowered his sword. Reluctantly, Claudia mirrored him, but finally broke her stance to wipe her face on her sleeve. And then she turned and threw herself into Mac's arms. Methos fell back, running his arm under his nose, scrubbing a hand through his short hair to flick the sweat away. He watched their reunion with no discernible expression, sword propped on his shoulder.

'The mysterious "her"?' Mac asked him, over Claudia's head.

Methos shrugged. 'When she's in town.'

'You're touring again?'

'Not exactly,' Claudia admitted. 'It's a long story. And best told after a longer shower.'

'Don't destroy my water tank,' Methos sighed. 'Leave some for the rest of us.'

'Weren't you people all born before the invention of bathing?' Claudia freed her hair, fluffing it. 'Duncan, you're staying for dinner, aren't you?'

He'd been planning on a long weekend at the least. 'I,' he began, and hesitated, unsure how to cross that bridge.

'Of course he is,' Methos answered for him. 'And a lavish feast of curry takeaway seems in order. I'll phone it in whilst your Majesty primps and preens.'

'Do,' Claudia responded airily, and they both grinned at the apparently familiar exchange. Claudia left a kiss on Mac's cheek as she returned to the house, taking her sword with her.

Her sword. 'Since when,' Mac began, but there were a few too many questions to ask, and he couldn't decide which one.

'Going on two years now,' Methos said. He left the grass for the patio, and wiped his sword with a waiting cloth. 'Hope you're not offended,' he added, and though it was flippant, there was an undertone there, cautious, expecting rebuff. 'I know it's not the done thing, taking another man's student...'

'She wasn't ever my student. I was just startled.' Mac realised he was still holding the katana, and sheathed it. 'Why didn't you tell me? Were you ever going to tell me?'

'What, between blow jobs?'

He was getting worked up. He tried to short-circuit it, taking a deep breath in through the nose. 'I get it,' he said, knowing Methos knew anyway. Knowing Methos would take the out. 'Just startled. And glad I wasn't walking into a bloodbath. I haven't had to bury a headless corpse in the backyard in a while.'

Methos grinned faintly. 'Yeah. Come in. Speaking of the unexpected.'

'Oh. Right. Hi.'

'Hi.' Methos swayed on one foot, towards him, back. The little flicker of a glance at the house seemed to tell a story, but Mac refrained-- mostly-- from constructing his own narrative out of it. Again. 'Beer?'

'Beer's good,' Mac agreed, and followed him in.

Mac idly paged through a tome of what looked like rebound vellum, maybe late mediaeval, excellent condition, and written in a language or script that was totally unintelligible to him. 'Does she know who you are?' he asked.

Methos was perusing an Indian restaurant's menu on his computer. 'It wouldn't mean anything to her,' he said absently, scrolling past appetizers, soups, and specials to examine the biryanis. 'Her grasp of Immortal history is pretty light. She knows I'm old, which isn't untrue.'

'Rather like saying the sun is hot, Old Man. So you're not planning on telling her?'

'You always say that with such a note of suspicion,' Methos said, amused, casting Mac a look over his shoulder. 'I don't keep secrets just for the shits and giggles. Life is complicated enough. Things come out in their own time. What would change if she knew my name? Nothing, except that she might not feel she could question me, and I want her to ask questions. Best way to learn.'

True enough. Mac let it go; it wasn't so important it was worth arguing about, and he had the uneasy feeling they could fall back into an argument if he let slip his control. It had been different, last time. Not tentative, like this. Nervy, foreboding. It wasn't all Claudia's unexpected presence. Mostly, but not all. Maybe he hadn't been as sure of his reception as he'd told himself, and he didn't really know yet which way it was going.

'Goat saagwala?'

'No way in hell Claudia's going to eat goat.'

'For us, I mean.'

'Sure.' Mac browsed the books on the shelves, an eclectic assortment without any apparent organisational principle that ranged from Bridget Jones's Diary to Confessions of Saint Augustine of Hippo. Behind him, Methos used an old landline to call in their dinner order, food enough to feed an army. Or enough to last a weekend, if one were not inclined to go out. If one had other plans. He sipped his beer, only to find he'd finished the bottle.

'That's that, done, then. Twenty minutes til delivery.' Methos set the receiver back in its cradle. 'Gee, I wonder how to fill the time.'

Mac's mouth went dry. He put the beer to his lips again, but it hadn't miraculously refilled. 'Claudia?'

'Her Majesty won't be done for at least that long.'

'You seriously want to--'

'I wasn't born before bathing, but I was born before door locks. Lovely modern inventions.'

'So you're not...'

Methos's dark brows arched. 'Not what?'

'Not... you know... the mysterious "her". I thought maybe...'

'Wh-- Claudia?' Methos barked out an incredulous laugh. 'It's finally happened. You've officially stumped me. I honestly can't think of a single thing to say to that.'

'"No" would be a good start.'

Methos rose from his chair, turning to face Mac fully. There was a trace of some emotion on his face, a curl to one side of his mouth, but Mac couldn't read it. His hands hung loose at his sides, waiting. The sweat on his shirt had mostly dried, but for a line of damp by each armpit. His hair was sticking up oddly on one side. If Mac opened his mouth, he'd be able to taste the scent of him.

'MacLeod,' Methos said slowly, 'you could walk back into my life any time in a thousand years, and the answer will always be yes.'

Mac stood stock still, only breath and heartbeat and the thrum of his own blood flowing letting him know he was awake, not dreaming. It didn't feel altogether real, except for that. 'You have to know it's the same.'

It was Methos's chest rising and falling now, shallow inhales, exhales smothered as he tried to keep his face calm. 'Sounds like that was a little hard to swallow, Duncan.'

'Mm, from what I remember, anyway.'

'Are--' Methos stopped on a laugh, no less sceptical than ever. But maybe a little more rueful. 'No,' he finished decisively. 'No, I think that's enough emotional goo for one night. And we're using up some valuable time blathering on. Once Claudia turns on the hair dryer, we've got fifteen solid minutes while she'll be totally deaf to anything outside the bath.'

'Then shut up already,' Mac advised, and closed the distance between them. He took Methos by the shoulders, and backed him up, step by step, til they met the door. Methos reached behind him to push it closed the last few inches, and to twist the latch. Then his hand came up to Mac's chin, halting him just before their lips met. 'What?'

'Just enjoying being surprised. It doesn't happen very often.'

'You talk far too much,' Mac murmured, and kissed him silent.

Mac hadn't noticed the battered old upright piano in the study, covered as it was with books and papers and stereo equipment that looked to have been rescued from an estate sale, still tagged with shakily inked stickers reading '£5'. Methos cleared off the mess, complaining all the while, to give Claudia pride of place at the keys. She in turn complained of how poorly tuned the old Steinway was, and even Mac could hear it gave a distinctly sour sound, but Methos only teased that a real musician played the instrument, and not the reverse. Claudia took his ribbing with surprisingly good humour. She had grown, Mac thought, pleased with it. And Methos-- maybe he had grown, too. Mellowed. He lounged comfortably, beer in hand, head propped up on one hand as his stocking-clad foot bobbed along to the beat, but there was a contentedness to him that Mac had rarely seen. It was a cozy scene, the three of them, in a way it never quite had been with Richie. Because Richie had been his student, and now Claudia was Methos's? Not unlike Methos, to only trust what he could control. But it was more than that. There was a life in Methos again, an openness, and it had been a long time. Maybe since those days right before Alexa, when the griefs of Tessa and the Hunters had faded and new divisions wrought by Jakob Galati and the Dark Quickening and... and the many darker things to come had weighed on them. It felt good, this lightness. A trough between waves, maybe, but it felt good.

'My fingers are tired. You play.'

'Nooo,' Methos waved her off, though Claudia turned on the stool to implore him with limpid eyes and dramatic sighs. 'No-one wants to hear that.'

'I do,' Mac chimed in indulgently. 'I didn't know you played. Does Joe know you play?'

'Extremely past tense. The last instrument I was proficient in was the harpsichord.'

'Let me guess. You were the pianist-- harpischordist?-- in King Henry the Eighth's court?'

'James the Sixth,' Methos countered, straight-faced. 'He liked a pretty young man to play him to sleep.'

Claudia's jaw dropped. 'You're not serious.'

'I am.' Methos drained his beer with a long swallow. 'But I just composed. I left the playing and the seduction to the pretty young boys who didn't mind losing a head over it.'

Claudia fired the first thing in reach at Methos, which fortunately was an empty Delftware pot that didn't shatter when it rebounded from Methos's shoulder to the rug. Methos laughed at her poor aim. 'Prove it,' she demanded, gesturing to the keyboard. 'No points without receipts.'

Mac shrugged. 'Have to agree. Put up or shut up.'

'No respect for the elderly these days,' Methos groaned, hauling himself upright. 'Well, budge up then, give a man some space.' He settled beside Claudia on the creaking bench. 'Two-part ostenato, G minor to D minor on the left, the right hand is improvisational over the Doric mode. A lament, so get yourselves properly in the mood. You'll have to imagine the lute.' He settled his hands in place, arched beautifully. 'Used to have two keyboards,' he muttered, fumbling the pedals and then ignoring them. He began to play, tentatively at first, a stolid beat with the left hand, the right picking out a melody that began to trill and wander into intricate stylings quickly. Mac closed his eyes, much as he intended to watch, but it was transporting, that melody. He hadn't heard its like in a very long time. It had been going out of fashion already, by the time he'd made his way into a court fine enough for this type of fair music, but instantly he was back there, in a time when only candlelight had provided the glow on lace and silk, women in paniers and heavy gowns that swirled across the dance floor, men in buckled heels and doublets glimmering with jewels. He could almost taste the warm spiced wine, the scent of cedar and apple and yew burning for warmth and pleasing fragrance alike. Lament it may have been, and a few notes flubbed here and there, but it had much of its composer in it. Teasing, testing, taunting. It was less than three minutes, all told, but for Mac it was hundreds of years there and back again.

Claudia rested her head on Methos's shoulder as his hands laid flat on the keys, song complete. 'Sometimes I can almost forget it's real.'

'Not just you, love.' Methos depressed a key, a low mellow note. 'But there's no time to live in like the now. Play us something for living well to.'

'Tchaikovsky? Waltz of the Flowers.'

'Yellow Submarine,' Methos countered.

Claudia made an exaggerated face. 'I thought you wanted something from "the now".'

'Hey,' Mac objected.

'My Heart Will Go On,' Methos hummed, tapping out a few notes, laughing as both Claudia and Mac shouted him down. 'All right, genius, you pick.'

'Wait, I have it. See if you can keep up, old man.' Mac shot Claudia a look of askance, wondering if he'd slipped with Methos's true name after all-- but it seemed to be just a jab about his musical tastes, and Methos didn't react but for a small smug smile. Claudia began to play, and at first Mac thought it was one of her classical pieces, if a little airport loungey. But then Methos, nodding, brought his hands to the keyboard besides hers, and began to improvise the melody in the lower key, and suddenly it all flowed together. Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Languorous, luxurious, somehow both melancholic and euphoric. Claudia's technical brilliance was an orchestra all of its own, creating a cloud of sound as Methos held constant the through-line, steady against the whirlwind of her fanciful runs. Mac had paid for concerts far less wondrous, he thought, watching them sway against each other, elbows bumping, shoulders together, hands even overlapping once, but coming apart at the end for a tender denouement, the final note from Methos's small finger, soft as air and lingering in a slow fade.

No-one spoke immediately. Methos's chin was to his chest, and Claudia looked at him, for a long unblinking minute, before her gaze moved sideways to Mac, where he watched from the wingback. Her smile was small and lovely.

'He refuses to record with me,' she told Mac then.

Methos let out a sharp little sigh. He stretched, exaggeratedly, and rose from the bench. 'If it's possible to sell negative CDs, that would do it,' he said dryly.

'Obviously my name would be the marquee,' Claudia retorted, with a shade of her old, mortal arrogance. But there was warmth in her eyes. 'Run and hide all you like, Adam. But when you're ready to stop, I'll be glad to see it.'

Methos only shook his head. 'Good night,' he told her fondly, and she gave them a little wave as Methos gestured Mac for the door. They left their empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter, and by the time they climbed the stairs, Claudia was playing again. Beethoven, Minuet in G. The door of Methos's bedroom shut out most of the noise, but for a faint ping of the high notes like rain.

'This won't shock her, will it?' Mac asked, as Methos casually shucked his shirt and gave it a toss in the general area of the hamper.

'Are you asking whether I've had male company other than yourself here?' Methos said gravely.

Mac rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were slightly heated to be caught out. He unbuttoned his own shirt and balled it up to throw. It landed in the basket.

'Is that your way of telling me you'll be here long enough for laundry?'

Mac pulled Methos close by the belt loops, and smoothed his palms up Methos's bare arms, down the long curve of his back. 'The answer,' he whispered, bend his head to brush his lips over the mouth he found awaiting him, 'is yes. Always.'

'Good,' Methos whispered back, and flicked off the light.