AllLight1

This was a plot bunny hatched at Jubie's Infamous Bunny Farm. Tray made invaluable suggestions (Methos thanks you for his beer!), and Cami beta'ed. (spelling?) I never had a beta before! It's wonderful!

Thank you all!
Jeanine

As All Light Fades

Part One

Methos lay crumpled, face down, in the position he�d fallen into after his last client had finished using him. Long, crawling minutes later he rolled on his side, pulling the single pillow to his chest and hugging it. He noticed the dirty pillowcase, the stained sheet stretched over the sagging mattress that smelled of sweat and anonymous sex. He wondered how many whores had been fucked on it, and if any of them had been as pathetic as he was now.

He was cold but there was no blanket, not even another sheet to pull over him. His gaze wandered around the dingy little room. It was much like all the others had been, though grimier, a bed, bare walls, a small window with wire imbedded in the thick glass. It looked down four stories on a trash-littered airshaft with no exit. Two doors, one to the bathroom, the other to the hall, which was locked from the outside. He couldn�t run away even if he could manage to run. The only ones who came through it were the men who used his body and the men who kept him drugged. He hoped one of the latter would come soon, the drugs had worn off and he could see far too clearly. He could see his thin arm around the pillow, the needle tracks running up the veins reaching the fold inside his elbow where an angry red swelling proclaimed an abscess. He wasn�t healing. He didn�t know why. He thought it might be due to the fact that he didn�t want to live anymore.

He felt filthy. He dragged himself up, into the tiny bathroom, and turned on the shower. At least his fingers were working again. Two days ago, shortly after he�d been dumped here, a man had strung him up by his wrists from hooks in the ceiling and left him there too long. His hands had swollen so badly that he couldn�t bend his fingers, but the swelling had gone down. He sat in the tub, too shaky to stand and afraid of falling, so weak that the walk to the bathroom had drained him. He rested his head against his raised knees and let the tepid spray drench him. It soothed the three deep circular burns on his back. That sadist had used a lit cigar, holding it against his skin, wanting to hear him scream. He certainly had obliged. His throat was sore and dry, he lifted his face to the water and drank as much as he could before his stomach cramped and rejected it, retching.

�The drugs keep making me sick,� Methos thought. He�d lost so much weight it looked as if they were starving him. They did bring him food, only he couldn�t bring himself to eat much of it. Maybe it was just that he preferred the drugs. Drugged he could remember and not feel the pain.

He finally felt, if not clean, at least less dirty, and he�d recovered enough strength to turn off the water and stumble back to his cubicle in hell. He dropped across the bed wet, there were no towels, and he was too exhausted to use one if there had been. The light through the smeared window was too bright and it made the edges of things too sharp. They hurt to look at. He closed his eyes, curled up, and hugged the pillow again. It was something to wrap his arms around, a pitiful substitute for Duncan MacLeod. His thoughts were not entirely in his control and they wandered into the worst possible place. �Duncan. My lost Duncan. Missing you is an endless empty ache inside me. No, no, I won�t think of you, not now, it hurts too much. I feel broken and everything hurts.�

The door behind him opened and footsteps crossed to the bed. A hand with dirty nails took hold of Methos� wrist, straightening his arm on the pillow, tying it off with a piece of rubber tubing. It took him a moment to find an unused section of vein, then the needle jabbed in, straight on.

Methos was disgusted with himself for the way he welcomed the surge into his vein with a whimper of need. The rush hit, the rush that blunted the cutting edge of perception and took away all pain, while it lasted. This was when he could think of Duncan without wanting to scream and cry. Methos floated away on a wave of heroin and whatever else had been in the syringe, holding close the memory of Duncan�s face, Duncan�s body, Duncan�s love. The tide drew him down into its dark undertow and Methos lost consciousness. The door closed.

Rough hands pulled Methos up, tugging on his body, trying to position him on his knees. He was too wasted, unable to stay up, falling on his face. He was yanked up again and punched in the side, hard, repeatedly, the brief flashes of pain rousing him enough that he could stay on his knees. The man entered him and began to thrust, callously seeking his own pleasure and release, indifferent to the helpless body he used. He expected no response from the gaunt whore who looked like he was dying of AIDS, or drugs, or both. He already had the virus and didn�t mind sharing it. He was surprised when Methos moaned and pushed back against him.

Methos was hallucinating, lost in the drugs and his memories. The brutal stranger was transformed into his beloved Duncan, it was Duncan inside him thrusting deep, holding his hips, and Methos gave himself up to the illusion with all the despairing passion of a man who knows it�s the last time he�ll ever be touched by his beloved. It had been so long since he felt any desire, but now he was aroused, hard, the feeling intense and building. Methos came with a half-choked cry. It was impossible for the stranger to tell whether the sound was from pleasure or pain.

The man left him. It was as if the brief ecstasy had to be balanced by an eternal agony, and he became aware of reality, tormented by the thought, �Not Duncan, never Duncan, never again. Duncan is dead and gone forever.� In spite of the drugs the pit of grief opened up and swallowed him. He felt more bereft and alone than ever and cried without making a sound, almost without tears, the few he could shed falling to the dirty sheet. He could have cried for centuries, but he was too dehydrated and too fucking tired. It hurt too much, far too much, it was infinitely easier to let go, like drowning, to let the drugs pull him under their dark, numbing waters again.

Time passed unknown. He floated back up, not knowing what dragged him into uncertain consciousness. He opened his eyes and strained to focus. He saw Duncan�s face, his expression of shocked anguish. Methos reached up to touch him, knowing this was a mistake. It would only prove this to be another dream; he was never able to touch Duncan�s face, it would always fade away. But not this time. Methos� fingertips came in contact with Duncan�s cheek; he could feel the roughness of his beard and the wetness of his tears. He could see his own arm, the needle marks, the ugly inflamed abscess. He drew his hand back and tried to turn away, but this dream had hands that held on, arms that lifted him into their embrace, and a voice that tried to soothe him with a soft �It�s all right Methos, you�re safe now�, but instead of soothing him he became distraught, crying out, �Don�t look at me, don�t see me like this, no, no, no...�

He fought, but couldn�t resist the much stronger arms that lifted him and wrapped him in warmth that smelled of Duncan�s cologne, then carried him out of the dingy little room in hell. The slight struggle had exhausted him and he passed out again.

When Methos woke he was in an unfamiliar room, one with misty landscapes on pastel blue walls. He was lying in a comfortable bed with clean sheets and white side rails. There was a needle in his forearm leading to a tube and a bag of clear fluid that was dripping into him. The abscess on his arm had been drained and bandaged. He was in a hospital.

He moved his arm and was startled by the stab of pain when the needle shifted. His other hand was tethered to a monitor by a device clipped to his fingertip. �Why am I in a hospital?� he thought, �I wasn�t healing before, what can be wrong with me?�

There was something warm around his left ankle, and Methos raised his head and received another, deeper shock. �Duncan, oh my God, Duncan! How can you be alive? I saw you die, I *felt* you die! Please God, am I dreaming? Have I finally lost my mind?�

Methos had time to study him, to assure himself of his reality. Duncan was asleep in a chair by the side of the bed, his head lying on his left arm, which in turn was resting on the bed near Methos� feet. He looked worn, his face shadowed by his dark beard and worry. It appeared as if he�d put his head down to rest for a moment, to just close his eyes, and weariness had overcome him. Or perhaps he�d leaned over to slip his hand under the covers to touch him with the hand that was so warm around his ankle.

Methos was profoundly disoriented. He sat up, took off the monitor clipped to his finger and reached out, needing to touch Duncan, to prove he was real despite what he could see and the grasp he could feel. His fingers slipped into the silky dark hair and down the rough-bearded cheek. Methos thought his heart would fill too quickly with happiness, but it was what he couldn�t feel that worried him, and he thought, �If you�re real why can�t I feel your Immortal signal?�

Duncan woke at the touch. He blinked and looked up into the expression of conflicted joy on Methos� face. His first thought was, �I was afraid you�d never know I was here, but you�re awake and you know me.�

�How long have you been there?� Methos asked.

Duncan sat up, concern in his deep amber eyes. He had to clear his throat before he could answer, �A while now. How are you feeling?�

�Very happy, but very confused.�

Methos seemed strange, joyous, yet haunted, and Duncan�s heavy eyebrows almost came together in a frown. �Why confused?�

The words rushed from Methos in a torrent. �I don�t know what�s real. I thought you were dead, Duncan. I saw you die. I saw them kill you, I heard Cassandra laughing as your blood spilled on the concrete. What did that witch do to me? *Is* this real? If you�re alive why can�t I feel you? Can you feel me?�

The last pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Duncan stood up, moved closer, and took Methos� hand. How could he explain to Methos what he didn�t understand himself? When he�d learned Cassandra was involved in Methos� disappearance he�d been gripped by fear of what she might do. She was capable of almost anything, she hated Methos, and now Duncan knew how far she would go to hurt him. He had to tell Methos the truth, however bad it was, and it was as bad as it could be.

�I feel no Immortal sign from you, not even the faint sign of a pre-Immortal. Is it possible that Cassandra has somehow taken your immortality?�

Silently Duncan vowed to hunt down Cassandra and kill her, after making her tell him how to reverse this, if it could be reversed. But it would be too late, there was so little time, and he didn�t want to leave Methos.

Methos suddenly felt lightheaded. There was too much information, too much to comprehend. He lay back on the pillows. He recognized what Duncan was trying to tell him in a roundabout fashion. He was no longer Immortal. He couldn�t quite believe this. *Could* Cassandra have somehow taken his immortality? He answered hesitantly, �I don�t know. I was given so many drugs I don�t even know how long I�ve been gone. How long have I been missing?�

�Almost a year.�

�That long? I remember you finding me, carrying me out,� Methos closed his eyes for a moment. �I thought I was dreaming.�

Duncan caressed his cheek and said, �You weren�t dreaming, not then and not now.�

Methos turned his head away from the touch as if he felt he�d contaminate Duncan. He said, �How can you stand to look at me?� He was thinking of what a pathetic sight he must have been, and what Duncan must know had been done to him.

Duncan could guess at Methos� thoughts. He took Methos� face between his hands, turned it back, and kissed him gently, saying, �I love you and none of that matters. I know you didn�t leave me voluntarily, I know you were kept drugged, and I know that nothing that was done to you makes a difference as to how I feel about you. I love you. I�ll always love you.�

Methos felt a new ache caused by an overwhelming flood of love for this man. But despite his joy he could sense that something was not being said, and he could see a grief in Duncan that he was attempting to hide. Methos tried to put it together and a horrible concept began to form. He�d somehow lost his immortality, he was ill and not healing�no, this wasn�t right, it couldn�t be right, he was mad to think of it. Methos tore the bandage off of his arm. He could see the abscess had been drained but showed little sign of closing; the bandage had covered an open wound.

�Why am I not healing?�

Duncan couldn�t say it; he bit his lip and looked away.

Methos sat up and grasped Duncan�s upper arm, saying, �What is wrong with me Duncan? I haven�t been healing, not even as a mortal would heal.�

Finally Duncan had to say it, had to tell Methos the truth. �You�re not well, Methos.� Duncan met Methos� eyes, his own filled with sorrow. He needed a deep breath before he could continue, �You have AIDS.�

The green eyes blazed back in a fury born of fear and underlying, rejected knowledge. �No, no, it can�t be, this is insanity! I can�t have lost my immortality; I can�t have AIDS! I�ve never heard of such a crazy thing!� Methos pulled the needle out of his arm and got up to walk away from this ridiculous scene. His anger actually supported him for two steps before his legs failed him. Duncan took him in his arms before he could fall and helped him back into bed. Methos� eyes were closed and his face had gone white to the bone.

Duncan rang for the nurse; Methos� arm was bleeding. When she came in Methos could hear her fussing at Duncan about touching his blood without having gloves on. She rebandaged the arm, replaced the IV line, and placed the monitor back on his finger. She also turned up the morphine briefly, adding a bit extra to the line. It would drip in over the next few minutes and calm the obviously agitated patient. She left quietly. Duncan sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and took Methos� hand, careful of the monitor.

Methos had been wounded and had died a thousand times but he�d never known anything like this. He felt so sick, the pain came from everywhere and it wasn�t receding. Could it be true? Could he really have AIDS? And if he did how bad�no, oh no. So many unknown men had used his body and he�d been infected. He�d thought the sickness he�d been feeling had been caused by the drugs, though underneath his denial he�d known that something was very wrong. But he�d never imagined he could actually die of it. Until now. Without the protection of immortality he couldn�t fight it off, and there could be only one result.

�I�m dying, aren�t I.� It wasn�t a question; Methos had come to the realization himself, and the deeper anguish in Duncan�s eyes was all the answer he needed.

He was stunned. It was hard to accept that after living for five thousand years he could die as a mortal. He thought of all that would be involved in dying of a slow disease in these advanced times. He remembered Alexa, how he�d found her, loved her, and had shown her as much of the world as he could before her illness had caught up with her. He remembered how long it had taken her to die, all the painful treatments, and the respirator that hadn�t saved her. Methos knew that all the wonders of modern medicine couldn�t save his life; they would only prolong the dying. He wouldn�t allow that.

Methos clutched Duncan�s hand and pleaded, �Please take me home. I don�t want to die here. I know how it will happen here; I don�t want machines and drugs. I want to die in our bed, in your arms.�

Duncan moved closer, cradled Methos in those arms and promised, �I�ll take you anywhere you want to go.�

Methos relaxed into Duncan�s embrace. The morphine was hitting his bloodstream and the pain was finally fading. He was feeling euphoric, the anxiety left him and his thoughts seemed to drift. He noticed Duncan�s hair. It was half tied back as it was when they first met, long enough to fall a bit past his shoulders. He lifted an oddly heavy hand up to touch it, saying, �Your hair has grown so much.�

�I haven�t cut it the whole time you were gone. You said you liked it long, and you�re one to talk�� Duncan ran his fingers through Methos� hair, causing it to fall over his forehead, ��I almost forgot that your hair would curl if it grew long enough. It makes you look so romantic.�

Methos smiled. He was content, but so sleepy. He didn�t want to sleep, he was in Duncan�s arms and wanted to stay aware, but he was powerless to fight it. Before sleep took him he murmured, �I love you so much.�

�I love you too.� Duncan answered. Methos was already lost in sleep. Duncan held him, feeling him take every slow breath. He�d wanted to hold him for so long, when all they would let him do was sit by this bed and watch over him.

Duncan couldn�t understand what was happening to Methos, how a five thousand year old Immortal could be dying of a mortal disease. He was used to losing Immortal friends to the game, to their endless battle to be the only one, the last one who would win the prize. Not like this.

He�d known Methos hadn�t left on his own, they�d been too happy and too much in love. His worst fear had been that someone had taken Methos� head, but Duncan knew he�d feel it if Methos were dead. He had to be alive, somewhere.

Duncan had spent months tracking him down, with all the help Joe and his fellow Watchers could give him. They�d spent hundreds of hours off their usual jobs of secretly observing Immortals to trace what they thought was one of their own, a former Watcher named Adam Pierson, a researcher who�d worked on the Methos Chronicles. Of the Watchers, only Joe knew that the slender, scholarly-appearing Adam *was* Methos. It was Cassandra�s Watcher who saw Adam being carried, apparently unconscious, into a run-down hotel in a seedy section of Los Angeles. She called Joe, and Joe had called Duncan.

He�d flown to LA and rented a car, driving straight to the address Joe had given him. He walked in and found a bored desk clerk who looked like he was about halfway through the pint in the brown bag that he kept nipping on. His red-threaded eyes had looked Duncan up and down, checking out his expensive shoes and coat, registering the fact that the coat was too heavy for the LA weather.

Duncan pulled out his money clip and peeled off a bill, holding it up. It was a hundred. Now he had the man�s full attention.

�An unconscious man was brought in here two days ago, dark hair, slender build, about thirty.�

The clerk took the bill and made it disappear. �Fourth floor, but you never heard it from me.� He took another nip, presumably to steady his nerves.

Duncan walked over to the elevator and pushed the up button. The clerk called after him, �Hey mister, I hope you brought a gun!�

He answered him as the elevator doors closed. �I don�t need one.�

The doors opened, and a man was waiting for him. Duncan wasn�t surprised; he�d figured the clerk would cover his ass with a warning phone call. The man was large and muscular, and he came at MacLeod. Duncan caught him by the forearm and used his own momentum against him, smashing him face-first into the wall. He slid down slowly, leaving a bloody smear on the chipped paint.

There was a second man but he gave Duncan no trouble, not after seeing what had been done to his larger partner. He repeated his description. �An unconscious man was brought in here two days ago, dark hair, slender build, about thirty.� The man scuttled down the dim hallway, unlocked a door, and backed away quickly.

When he stepped into that room Duncan had thought that the Watcher had been mistaken, or that they�d moved Methos and he�d lost him again. There was no Immortal sign from the body lying with its back to him. The dark-haired man was curled in on himself, and so thin that every knob of his spine stood out clearly. There were deep burns on his back, blood and semen streaked his thighs, and bruises shading from bluish-purple to greenish-yellow stained his ashen skin.

Even though he wasn�t Methos, Duncan had been determined to take this pitiful abused man out of this place. Duncan took his shoulder and turned him over. The man was unconscious, his body rolled lifelessly, and Duncan could see the needle marks on his arms, his chafed wrists. Then his head turned, and Duncan�s heart contracted painfully. He recognized the distinctive nose, the too-pale face. Methos looked like death, the bruised skin stretched too tightly across his fine bones.

Duncan froze in shock, and the pain in his chest felt like a knife. This *was* Methos, but what was wrong with him? Duncan shook him, calling his name, trying to wake him. Methos opened his eyes, focused on Duncan�s face, and smiled. That smile twisted the blade, driving it deeper into Duncan�s heart and he couldn�t stop the tears. Methos reached up to touch Duncan�s cheek. His fingers made contact and a moment later a look of shame came over his face. Methos tried to turn away, Duncan attempted to comfort him, but he�d only become more agitated. Duncan had wrapped him in his coat and carried him out of there. No one had dared to stop him from leaving with Methos in his arms.

He�d desperately rushed Methos to the nearest emergency room, trying to avoid explanations and the police. He had to call Anne Lindsey; he needed help and hadn�t known what to do. Anne was a friend and the only doctor Duncan could trust. She�d helped him explain and arranged an air ambulance to fly them both to Seacouver. She met them at the hospital emergency room and got Methos admitted.

Duncan knew that Methos had no idea he�d been in this room for almost a week. First there had been the drugs, a whole alphabet of them, LSD, GHB, MDMA, Mescaline, Ketamine, Thorazine, heroin, and several that had nothing but street names. He had to be detoxed carefully, constantly watched for multiple withdrawal complications. Then he�d become delirious, fighting a raging bacterial infection that had spread from the abscess into his body. Antibiotics had succeeded in halting that, but there had been far worse news. Anne had repeated all the tests and there was no doubt.

She�d explained it to Duncan, carefully choosing her words, trying to tell him as gently as was possible. Methos wasn�t just HIV positive, he had three different strains of the virus; worst of all, Methos had the virulent 3-DCR HIV strain that wouldn't respond to treatment. It had caused horrendous damage with its usual terrifying speed. Anne tried all the anti-viral drugs in vain, Methos� massive viral load hadn�t decreased. His immune system was close to collapse; Methos had full-blown AIDS and was going to die very soon.

He�d been in this hospital room long enough. Duncan would take him home. He wanted him home, where he could hold him and take care of him without any interference.

He took him out of the hospital the next day, against Anne�s recommendation, though she knew there really was little they could do. She warned Duncan that it was only a matter of time until pneumonia or some other opportunistic infection set in, and even with hospitalization and treatment it would be rapidly fatal. He explained to Anne that it was what Methos wanted.

Anne shook her head, sighed, then sat down and began writing prescriptions, explaining, �The antibiotics and antivirals are extremely important. He has to have them exactly on time. He�ll need morphine for the pain. He can�t be on an IV at home, so you�ll have to give him injections. Do you know how?�

Duncan replied, �Yes, I was once a medic.�

Anne nodded, then got up and gave Duncan a hug, saying, �If you need anything call me, night or day.�

Duncan took the prescriptions and thanked her in a tight voice, not far from tears.

He took Methos home to the loft over the dojo. Duncan had meant to sell the place, but had never quite got around to doing it. He�d retreated here after Connor died, one more loss on top of all the others, but worse because Duncan had been the one to kill him. Connor had taught him what it meant to be Immortal, how to survive the game, but hadn�t been able to live with his own heartache. Connor had forced him, but that didn�t make it hurt less. He�d shut himself up until Methos had come to pull him out of the depth of depression. The love that had been growing quietly underground for years had burst into bloom in the darkest days and nights of Duncan�s life and Methos had become his light. Methos had saved him, but how could he save Methos now?

He carried him inside from the elevator and laid him gently in the bed under the tapestry. He knew Methos wouldn�t be here for much longer and silently promised to make every moment as perfect as it could possibly be.

Duncan took care of all Methos� needs. He gave him his medications on a strict schedule. He cooked food he knew Methos was fond of, to tempt him to eat more. Methos had little appetite, but he tried to eat if only to please Duncan, and he did gain a little weight. Duncan helped him to bathe and would rub lotion into Methos� skin, very gently on the sarcoma lesions that had begun appearing on his body. He�d bandage the abscess, which had been stitched but still wasn�t healing, using the same painkilling antibiotic ointment for his burns. Methos did regain some strength, if only from being so close to Duncan and so lovingly cared for.

Methos became chilled easily, so Duncan turned up the heat. He offered to go out and buy him warm pajamas but Methos refused them, and he didn�t want his own clothes. He only wanted to wear Duncan�s sweatpants and shirts, the old ones, soft and faded from much wear and washing. �It�s like being wrapped in you,� he said, sniffing his shirt, �all the washing can�t remove the essence of Duncan that permeates them.�

Duncan�s face took on an obviously feigned hurt look and he said, �Oh, so what you really mean is I reek so badly that even detergent can�t get the smell out?�

It worked, Methos laughed, but only briefly. Expressions chased each other across his face, love, loss, regret, sorrow, and they both had suddenly been unable to speak. They had many moments like that, each avoiding drawing out the other�s pain. Although they had to deal with it, they both seemed to avoid talking about what was happening, and shunned almost all discussion of his approaching death.

Duncan would sit with him on the bed, his back against the tapestry, Methos leaning back against his chest, enclosed by Duncan�s arms and legs. They were sitting like this when Methos finally was able to talk about his abduction and what followed it.

�I was crossing the parking lot at the mall. I�d seen a jacket and was wondering if you�d like the color; I was thinking of buying it for your birthday. I should have paid more attention to the van parked next to the car. I heard the door slide open, there was a pain in my head, and then there was nothing.�

�When I came to I was bound, standing, and Cassandra yanked my head up by my hair. She looked at me with such hate in her eyes and told me that now I would pay for all I�d made her suffer. She wrenched my head to the side and I could see you at a distance, you were on your knees, your arms held by two men. There was a third man standing over you with a sword in his hands. She made me watch them behead you. Those who slaughtered you were mortals. Your Quickening was lost, I was too far away for it to find me and it had nowhere to go. All you were was gone forever, and it was all because of me, that was my worst torment. She must have induced a hallucination with drugs, but it was so real. I was certain you were dead. There was no reason to run, I gave up the moment your head fell. There wasn�t even the possibility of reclaiming your Quickening. I never knew anything could hurt so much. I even hoped she�d kill me next.� He sighed and shifted against Duncan�s chest.

�Almost three thousand years and she still can�t forgive me. I can�t really blame her; we rode in and destroyed everything and everyone she knew and loved. She came back to life to find herself my slave. I knew she thought she loved me and I gave her to Kronos anyway.�

�Why did you give her to Kronos if you knew that?� Duncan rubbed Methos� shoulders through an old blue sweatshirt, careful to avoid the burns.

�Because he demanded her. The Horsemen shared everything, though Silas or Caspian would not have dared to ask for her. The truth is I cared for her, but I was afraid of Kronos, and I knew that if he realized I cared for her he would treat her far more cruelly. I imagine death was preferable to what Kronos would have done to her.�

Duncan could hear the depth of regret in Methos� voice. He stopped massaging and enfolded Methos in his arms. �You�re not that person anymore, it�s been eons since you were Death on a horse. People can change, especially us. Living as long as we do we have to learn. Look at me. I never would have thought I would be able to love you the way I do, but I learned.�

�I wish Cassandra understood that. I suppose she�s had her revenge now. She wanted me to know how it felt to lose the one I loved most and how it felt to be violated. They kept moving me; Cassandra would come and take me to a new place, always worse than the one before. It was as if she had to witness my degradation. I guess that last one was the bottom of the gutter. She had me convinced that she killed you, then drugged me and dumped me in those places just to torture me.�

�It was easier when I was out of it, when I was so drugged I didn�t know what was happening, or when I was able to slip into delusions that the men inside me were you. The drugs made that so easy, I was hallucinating much of the time.�

Methos fell silent. He didn�t want to talk about how he�d suffered when he couldn�t hide in illusions and had been all too conscious of being brutally used by strangers.

Duncan knew at least some of what Methos had endured; Anne had told him how Methos� body had been torn and injured. Duncan saw no reason to ask him about it, no reason to dredge up that pain. He just kissed him and held him as he fell asleep.

Methos often fell asleep, he had no energy reserves, and the morphine played its part. Duncan would hold him, or sit and watch him sleep, contemplating how he would make Cassandra pay for this. He knew revenge would solve nothing but it was all he had to hold on to, that and the thinnest wisp of hope that somehow Methos might revive. There was no pre-Immortal sign, but perhaps there were those that weren�t perceptible. He asked himself, �How would I know if I met a pre-Immortal without a signal, unless I met them later, after they�d changed?� It had never happened, but who was to say it couldn�t happen?

Methos didn�t always sleep peacefully. He would try to hold still and be quiet, but two low moans were all it took to wake Duncan. He opened the night table drawer and brought out a syringe pre-filled with morphine, saying gently, �Give me your arm.�

�I was trying not to wake you.�

�You should have woke me as soon as the pain started, I could have helped you sooner. It�ll stop in a little while, just hold on.�

Methos protested, �I hate that stuff. It knocks me out and takes me away from you.�

�I�ll be right here, and I�ll hold you while you sleep. It�s night and you�re supposed to be asleep anyway.�

�Well, who am I to argue with such obviously unassailable logic.� Methos half smiled and gave Duncan his arm.

Duncan swabbed his arm with alcohol and injected the morphine, then held him until the pain eased. Methos rested his head on Duncan�s chest. He was on the edge and drifting, and the euphoria enabled him to express what he hadn�t allowed himself to say before.

�I wish we could make love one more time.�

�I do too.�

�We could. You know how. Like this.�

Methos began to kiss down Duncan�s chest, intending to give Duncan pleasure in one of the few ways left to him, even though he could not feel it himself. He could sense Duncan�s breathing change and at first thought it was from arousal, but then Methos realized that Duncan was desperately trying not to cry.

�Stop, please stop.� Duncan�s voice was ragged. He was losing his fight not to cry, it was too exquisitely painful, this overwhelming love. He could feel it pouring out of Methos, like his life, and the knowledge that both were so soon to be gone was more than he could hope to stand. �I can�t, I can�t, I�m sorry. Oh, I love you.�

Methos understood what Duncan meant, all the unspoken grief that was in those words. He could only answer, his eyes brimming with unsheddable tears, �I love you so much there are no words to describe it, not in all the languages I�ve ever known.�

Methos couldn�t let himself cry. He was afraid of releasing his emotions and showing Duncan how deep his sorrow ran. He lay his head back down on Duncan�s chest, and listening to the beat of his great heart he soon fell asleep. Duncan lay still so as not to disturb him. Tears ran down his face silently, and it was almost dawn when he finally joined Methos in sleep.

It wasn�t only pain that kept Methos wakeful. There were nights he would just sit and look at Duncan. The heat would make him too warm and he�d throw off the covers, leaving his body open to Methos� gaze. He loved to look at him, the wide shoulders, the scattering of silky dark hair over his muscled chest and stomach, the strong legs and what lay nestled soft in the thicker hair where they joined.

Methos was seared by a memory too clear, a memory of those legs wrapped so tight around him while they made love. The image made him ache with loss. He thought, �I wish I could feel that again. I wish I could take your cock in my hand, stroke you hard and kiss you awake, nibbling on that full lower lip, then we could make love until dawn.�

His thoughts were breaking his heart. �I hear you crying, Duncan. You go into the bathroom, close the door, and turn the shower on. You think I can�t hear you over the sound of the water, but I can. I gave you the chance to talk about it, I asked you why your eyes were so red, and you said soap got in your eyes. It�s the only place you let yourself cry. This is hurting you so much and you try so hard to hide it, to not make it more difficult for me.�

�I remember how I found you, right here on this bed, after Connor and the Quickening you took from Jacob Kell. You came here to hide like a wounded thing trying to die. You hadn�t even turned on the lights, I found you lying in the cold darkness. It looked like you just walked in, lay down on the bed, and shut yourself off from all contact with the world. When I found you I was frightened by the emptiness in your open eyes. I lay down beside you and took you in my arms. I talked to you, telling you how much you were needed. Somewhere in there I babbled out how much I loved you. I think that was what you heard; you turned to me and hid your face against my chest. Once you started crying it took you hours to stop, finally it was only exhaustion that ended your tears. So many times you cried in my arms, but now you hide your tears from me because those tears are *for* me.�

�How can I bear to leave you? I�m not afraid for myself. If there�s nothing after this life I don�t have to worry, and if there is it�s far too late for me to do anything to change what�s waiting for me. But I�m afraid for you. I�m afraid that you�ll give up and let yourself be killed by the next challenger who finds you, or that you�ll shut down again and there will be no one who can reach you. I�m trying so hard not to show you my own grief, Duncan; I don�t want to make yours worse. And I don�t want to show you my hope either, because I�m afraid that�s all it is, a pale hope, not real. The hope that I might come back.�

Methos thought very carefully before he asked Duncan to help him to die, his voice soft but sure. �I sat by Alexa�s bedside and watched her life fade day by day. I watched her die, helpless to stop it, hoping only that she wouldn�t suffer. She lost consciousness and died in her sleep, I was there, holding her hand.�

Methos looked at Duncan with somber eyes and asked, �Can you let me go, Duncan? Every time I fall asleep I�m afraid I�ll never wake up. I don�t want to die unconscious, I want to see it coming, I want to know it�s happening. I want to be looking into your eyes as all light fades for the last time.�

Duncan sat on the edge of the bed and said, �Methos, are you asking me to kill you?�

�I�m asking you to help me in the only way you really can.� Methos saw the emotions cross Duncan�s expressive face, shock, grief, then sorrowful understanding.

Duncan thought �How can I ask him to suffer the death waiting for him? How can I deny him the right to die as he wants?� He caressed Methos� cheek with the back of his fingers and promised, �I�ll help you when the time comes, I only ask that we not rush into it too soon. I want every minute I can have with you.�

Methos could feel the soft fuzz on Duncan�s knuckles against his skin. He smiled sadly and covered Duncan�s hand with his own. �We�ll know when it�s time. Until then I want every minute, too.�

They�d hoped for more time, but the end came far too soon. It was barely three weeks after Duncan brought him home that Methos developed a fever. Methos actually looked better, the fever caused a flush that gave him some color, but it was a fatal blush.

He called Anne, and she phoned in a prescription for a powerful new antibiotic, making it clear that if Methos didn�t respond to it within twenty-four hours he would have to be hospitalized. It couldn�t be delivered fast enough, so he called Joe to stay with Methos while he went to pick it up.

When Joe arrived Duncan left immediately, anxious to get the new medication into Methos in the hope it would stop the fever and save him. Joe had been coming by to visit, staying with Methos if Duncan had to go out for anything, usually a delicacy to tempt Methos� appetite. Duncan wouldn�t leave for long, and Joe tried not to intrude on what time they had left, but they had known he was there for them if they needed him. He�d seen Methos� pallor, his thinness in the baggy sweats, and now could see how much more ill Methos was; he was flushed with fever and obviously weaker. It was a hard thing for Joe to see; he�d never thought he would live to see Methos die, and never like this, not until recently. The sorrow was too clear in his eyes, he couldn�t hide it well.

Joe�s open grief was liberating. Methos could talk more freely to him, saying, �I think this is it. If the antibiotic doesn�t work I�m finished.�

Joe couldn�t say anything, he just sat down on the couch next to Methos and hugged him, offering what comfort he could. He could feel Methos� shoulder blades too clearly through the sweatshirt.

�I�m afraid of what�s going to happen to him when I�m gone, Joe. He was in bad shape when I found him here after Connor�s death, and I don�t know how he�s going to react when I die.�

�You don�t think you�re going to resurrect?�

�No, I don�t. I�d like to hope, but I feel so different, so mortal. I�ve asked Duncan to kill me. If I�m to have any chance it will have to be a violent death, but I think I�m really going to die, and I don�t think Duncan will be able to bear it. He�s been through so much, Joe, and he feels it all so deeply. This may be the last straw. If the worst happens will you take care of him? �

�I�ll do everything possible.�

�Just keep him out of Sanctuary, if you can.�

Joe's eyes narrowed in shock. �You think it could be that bad?�

�I think it could be worse than that.� Methos looked almost frightened.

The elevator rattled and groaned, announcing Duncan�s return, and they broke off their discussion. He gave Methos the first dose of antibiotic and made dinner for the three of them, broiled steaks and salad, but none of them had much of an appetite. Methos mainly rearranged the food on his plate, almost too tired to cut the meat, tender as it was. They sat around the coffee table afterward, trying to make conversation. Methos sat leaning sideways against the back of the couch, with Duncan next to him. Even though he was wearing socks he had his toes tucked under Duncan�s thigh for warmth. He was obviously weary and soon fell asleep. Duncan got up and turned down the bed, then came back and lifted his slight weight in his arms. Methos half-woke, mumbling, �What are you doing?�

Duncan hushed him, saying, �I�m putting you to bed. It�s all right, you don�t have to wake up.� He laid him in bed, leaving him in his clothes, and covered him, tucking the blankets around him tenderly. Methos was asleep before he straightened up. He crouched beside the bed again. One of Methos� feet was over the edge and outside the covers, looking strangely defenseless in a sock that had slipped down. Duncan pulled it up, gently tugging down the leg of the sweatpants over the cuff to keep it there. He stayed that way for a moment, holding Methos� foot in his hands to warm it. Joe could see an expression of bewildered pain on his face. Duncan seemed to recall himself and covered Methos� foot, then sat back down on the couch.

�He gets so cold,� Duncan said in explanation.

�He told me that you�re going to��Joe hesitated, looking for a better way to phrase it. He couldn�t find one.

Duncan answered the unfinished question, �Yes, I�m going to kill him. I have to if he�s to revive.�

Joe thought, �But you told me he has no Immortal sign,� though he didn�t know what to say. If he�d learned anything in his life it was that people were usually deaf to what they didn�t want to hear, even Immortals. He could see that Duncan was deep in denial, or at least was not allowing himself to think about the possibility of Methos� permanent death. It worried Joe badly, it showed that Duncan wasn�t prepared for the worst, and if that happened it might easily be a blow from which he couldn�t recover. They were both so fragile. Methos� frailty was obvious, but Duncan�s was more like a piece of old china with hairline cracks, its fragility only revealed by the next bump that shatters it. The silence grew.

Duncan finally spoke, saying, �There�s a place on my island, west, a distance from the cabin. A boulder under the trees, shot through with veins of quartz that sparkle when the sun hits it. It looks out over the water. It�s so peaceful. I�d like to be buried there, if it should ever come to that.�

�What are you talking about? You�re not dying, Mac.�

Duncan shook his head, saying, �No, of course not.�

There was a strange look in Duncan�s eyes. His words had alarmed Joe, but he couldn�t think of a way to follow up on his peculiar statement. He noticed that MacLeod looked more worn-out than he�d ever seen him. He couldn�t stay any longer. He got up to leave, and Duncan walked with him to the elevator. He hugged him and felt Duncan shudder in his arms, almost crying but holding it back. �You need to let it out, Mac,� he said gently, �If you keep holding it in it�ll overwhelm you.�

�I can�t, not now,� Duncan said, his voice rough, �I�ll be all right.�

�Take care.� Joe left, the elevator creaking and rattling its way down.

They were alone.

Duncan sat and watched Methos sleep. If he didn�t respond to the new medication there was nothing else to be done or tried. It would all be over. Methos knew that he wouldn�t let the illness take him. He would do what he�d promised. He�d help him to die.

Duncan had given careful thought as to how to fulfill Methos� request. Drugs were out, Methos wanted to be awake and aware, and poison was something he didn�t want to consider. He could use a gun, but Duncan knew what it felt like to be shot in the heart at point-blank range, too hard and fast, with no time to say goodbye. The chosen instrument was in the drawer of the night table, a stiletto with a nine-inch blade as sharp as a scalpel.

Duncan tested it on himself while Methos slept, plunging it into his own chest. The narrow double-edged blade went in smoothly, causing very little pain. It wasn�t until he pulled the stiletto out that the blood started to pour out of the deep wound it had slashed in his heart. The bleeding was internal; the small hole left in his skin by the blade had closed as soon as it was removed. The dying began, it felt like all his strength was draining away and the pain increased, but not for long. He checked the clock to time it and found he could focus until the light faded to gray, then black. Two minutes to darkness, and maybe one more minute to death. That was all.

He prayed that he wouldn�t have to use the dagger, that Methos would respond to the drug and improve. It didn�t happen. Methos slipped deeper into illness, and it was clear to both of them that it was the end.

They spent the day in bed, in each other�s arms, Methos drifting in and out of sleep. Neither wanted food. Duncan just made sure Methos took his meds, still hoping for a last-minute reprieve. He worried, he wanted to wait as long as possible, but not so long that Methos was delirious or too ill to be aware. The stay of execution didn�t come. As the sun set he got up and began to prepare.

              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~Continued in Part Two~~~~~~~~~~~~~