He woke to a transformed barge. Duncan blinked in dull amazement at the flickering hearthlight on the barge walls. Warmth, weak but determined, spread through the empty spaces, pushing back the chill air pockets to the farther corners. Firelight twinkled on the cedar and mahogany surfaces of his sparse furniture, now freed from their pale dust covers to add cloth and color to the home. Most astonishing of all was the aroma of something delicious to eat floating in the air, and the "table" made from a brocade cloth spread upon the floor, set with his china and glassware filled with wine.
He raised his head, lookin!
g for the immortal he sensed. A thumping noise from the head drew his attention, and soon Methos appeared, barefoot and wielding a mop, the arms of his sweatshirt and the legs of his jeans rolled up. Duncan braced for a smart remark, but Methos met Duncan's gaze with wariness, and looked away.
A new sensation shifted in Duncan's chest, and he realized it was a slight lessening of the pain he had been carrying. Bemused, he let the silence grow between them, watching as Methos wrung out the serpillere, the rag at the base of the mop, put the mop and pail away, turned off the stove, sat down before the fire, his back to Duncan, and put up his cold-reddened feet to the hearth, all without looking at his host.
"Your toilet was backed up," he said, when Duncan failed to break the silence. "I filled your auxiliary tank, but your batteries are quite dead."
Duncan studied Methos' defensive posture with a form of the strange detachment which grief brought, but this detachment was more lucid, sharper. He thought suddenly that while he knew this man so well, he also knew him not at all. He stood, grateful for the warmth which allowed more relaxed movement, and pulled the wool blanket from the mattress.
Methos glanced once at him sidelong, then returned to reading the fire.&n!
bsp; "I tried to have the electricity turned on, but your credit with EDF-GDF isn't so great. Forget to pay some bills?"
Duncan walked up beside Methos, knelt beside the lanky jean-clad legs, damp with the water from his recent chore, and began wrapping them with the blanket.
"What ... are you doing?"
Duncan almost smiled at the sound of confusion in Methos' voice. He finished by gently wrapping the bare feet and tucking the blanket beneath them. "You must be cold," he said, and stood to survey his ha!
ndiwork.
The wide-eyed look Methos gave him was filled with the pain of apprehension. "Duncan?" he asked.
Duncan turned to stand at a porthole, looking out into the winter. "I'm leaving, you know. I only came to sell the barge."
"So you said. I've found you a buyer."
"That was fast work."
"You've slept a long time."
"What are you cooking up, Methos?" Duncan asked.
Methos' silence was more than lack of response; it was lack of movement, lack of breath. Duncan turned to see him sitting perfectly still, staring at Duncan. "On the stove," Duncan added, gently.
Methos' features relaxed and his chest rose in a deep breath. "Tom Kai Gai," he said.
So that was the aroma. A delicious Thai soup. Rich coconut milk married with succulent lime, ginger, and a delicate fish sauce. Also strips of ... oh no.
"Chicken soup?" he asked.
"For the soul," Methos agreed, smiling hesitantly. "I'm sure your body's fine." Then he did an odd thing. He blushed.
Duncan nodded as the !
burden of his pain shifted again, becoming still lighter. He looked back out the porthole. He breathed like a drowning man taking his first blessed lungful of air. But he needed another breath; he wasn't on shore yet. "What did you say? The other day," he asked.
He heard movement behind him, and caught the reflection of Methos rising to his feet, the blanket falling around his ankles. Fight or flight. Duncan knew this man so well, he thought fondly. He turned around, still not able to smile, needing the answer like the lungful !
of air.
"I shouldn't have said it. It was poor timing." Methos said.
"You didn't mean it?" Duncan felt himself standing on a slippery precipice.
Methos hesitated, studying Duncan uncertainly. "I ..."
Duncan watched breathlessly as Methos, invulnerable to ages but vulnerable to heartbreak, stepped bravely into the abyss of risk. "Of course I did. Every word."
Duncan's dry eyes watered. "I can't love myself," he said.
Methos' face twisted in sympathy, and he moved his hand slightly, toward Duncan. "I can. I can love you enough for both of us." But he did not move.
Neither did Duncan. Something restrained him. Before him was comfort, love, and warmth, but if he accepted those things, he'd betray!
so many ghosts. He didn't deserve love.
"I'm ... leaving," he choked. "You found a buyer."
Methos nodded, his hazel eyes brimming over, too. Now he held out his hand as if to a man threatening suicide from a ledge. "I did. His name's Adam Pierson. Or, it used to be. He'll pay your price, whatever it is."
Duncan took a s!
tep and stumbled, suddenly weak-kneed. Methos met him, enfolded him in strong arms and steered him to the low futon couch. There, Duncan rested his head against a bony shoulder, struggling to leave behind the ghosts of grief which clutched at him. Methos stroked his back, saying soothing words, not all in any language Duncan knew.
The presence of another immortal was knife-sharp. Both men gasped, and then Duncan half laughed. "Sarnier," he said.
From outside the barge, Sarnier called "MacLeod!"
Duncan stood and !
rubbed tears from his face.
Methos looked panicked. "Duncan don't! We can swim away ..."
Duncan shook his head, feeling euphoric. May God help Sarnier; he would need it. "I can't, Methos. That's not me."
Methos looked aghast. "You were leaving that life! Be someone else! Try being someone who would run away!"
Duncan bent down, and, putting one hand under Methos' chin, he captured the man's lips with his own. Methos stilled beneath the kiss and closed his eyes as if all his focus was on that luscious point of contact. Then Duncan pulled away, the smile on his face feeling like cracking clay, and Methos' eyes flew open.
"God, Duncan, I'll lose you if you insist on being you! Don't do this!"
Duncan found his sword and his coat. "I'm back, Methos. You may lose me someday, but I swear to God, it won't be today. I hope Sarnier thinks today is a good day to die."
With that he mounted the few stairs, buoyed up by elation.
The fight was glorious and mythical. Sarnier joined swords joyfully, as did Duncan. Two warriors, contenders for the ultimate prize, master swordsmen, they goaded each other to ever-higher levels of displays of skill. Duncan had seldom been so challenged, in an old-fashioned test of pure skill, eschewing deceit as something beneath both contestants. Duncan never doubted the outcome, for he could see a future to live for, and in the end, he won. Duncan couldn't remember the last Quickening he'd taken which had been pure pleasure and no pain. It left him weeping with gratitude for Sarnier, for the gift of his life and!
of his death and of his joy.
He found Methos' shaking arms around him. "Take me home," he said.
And Methos did.
