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The River

Part Eighteen: Floating on Darkness

Ash had blacked out again, losing all track of time. She only came back when Methos groaned, threw off the blanket and stretched, long and slow, like a cat. He sat up and tugged down the sweater.

�What time is it?� His voice was slightly rough, and he cleared his throat.

Ash had to check the clock. �A little after three A.M.�

�What is there to drink?�

�There�s coffee, tea, an assortment of soft drinks, five bottles of Scotch, a bottle of gin, and a small selection of wine.� Ash hid a small smile.

�I could stand some wine.� Methos went into the kitchen and began to poke around the wine rack.

�And I bought some beer.� The smile came out of hiding.

�Why didn�t you say so, you know�� Methos finally got it. He raised his hand and pointed a finger at her. �Teasing me can get you hurt, I don�t joke about beer.� He made a beeline for the fridge, pulling out a green bottle. He checked the label and said, �Ah, Heineken, good choice.� He opened the bottle and took a sip.

�I had to guess what modern brand you would like.�

�Good guess, you know me so well.� He took a deeper swallow.

Ash was pulling the couch out, trying to make the hospital bed less the focus of attention. Methos put his beer on the counter and joined her. They rearranged the bed and couch, placing the head of the bed against the wall, shifting the couch so it faced the bed, parallel to it. Methos touched the pads, tested the heavy leather ankle and wrist cuffs and sighed deeply. Ash began to make the bed, taking the clean sheets from a pile on top of the boxes. He went back for his beer, sprawled on the couch, and took a long swig from the bottle. A look of curiosity settled over his fine-boned face.

�Ash, how did you meet MacLeod?�

Ash was making up the hospital bed, straightening and tucking in the sheets, sliding pillows into cases and putting them in position. �I was wondering when you would get around to asking me that. We met one night on the shore of Loch Sheil, when he was still mortal. He�d lost the woman he loved, and the village gossip was that he was married to her ghost. He never touched any woman in Glenfinnan, he was still grieving for Debra Campbell and they thought he always would. Of course they had no idea how long he would live, and neither did he.�

�You didn�t tell him what he was.�

�Of course not, and he wouldn�t have believed me if I had. I couldn�t interfere, he had a family, a place where he belonged, a chance at a normal life, how could I take that from him?�

�He loved you.� It was not a question.

She ran her hands through her short, curly hair and answered, a touch of exasperation in her voice. �He hardly knew me.�

�Why didn�t you stay with him?�

�I wasn�t a member of the clan, not even a member of another clan, I was a foreigner, an outsider. I could never have been accepted by them, especially not as the wife of the next clan chieftain. I moved on.� Ash went into the kitchen area and began to look for something to do.

Methos followed her. �He let you go?�

�He couldn�t find me.� Ash didn�t like the direction this conversation was taking.

�So I�m not the only one you run away from.�

Ash tried humor as a diversion. �Well, actually I couldn�t stand the smell of sheep, wet wool, and haggis, not to mention that they were in the dark ages of personal hygiene.� She shuddered theatrically.

Methos was sidetracked from the painful subject; laughing so hard he could scarcely speak. �That was before cleanliness was next to godliness. So MacLeod was a bit ripe?�

�Not him.� Ash turned away to conceal a look of wistful reminiscence. �The smell I most associate with that night is the scent of crushed heather.�

Methos knew there was a story there, if he could ever get it out of her. He was about to try, when the phone rang.

Ash was glad for the distraction, and she answered the phone, while Methos mouthed, �Who is it? � silently.

Ash laughed, saying, �We�re both fine, although I�ve been tempted. Not yet, though I have to go and check him. All right, I�ll talk to you then.�

She hung up the phone and said, �That was Joe, wanting to know if one of us had killed the other yet, and if Mac was back. He said he�d call again tomorrow. I�m going to check Duncan and drain the water out of the tub, then we probably can undress him and move him to the bed.�

�Let me help you.�

They went in together, and Ash removed the sheet over the tub, laying it aside. She pulled the plug, and as the water drained she spread towels on the floor next to the tub. She maneuvered MacLeod�s arms out of the sopping jacket.

Duncan�s body had relaxed, and as Ash shifted him his head slipped under the water. Methos reached in and lifted him up, out of the water, then brushed back the wet hair from his pallid forehead. He noticed how long his hair had grown, Duncan apparently hadn�t bothered with haircuts for a long time and it was getting shaggy.

Together they lifted Duncan out of the tub and laid him on the towels. They undressed his now-limp body, Ash peeled the wet jeans and underwear off of his legs, tossing them back into the tub, while Methos carefully removed the sweater, then the shirt under it, dropping them into the tub with the rest. Methos held Duncan in his arms, his head resting on his shoulder, fighting the desire to cry. He had lost so much weight, he had needed taking care of and he hadn�t been here to do it. The guilt returned, unrelenting, tormenting, �I didn�t take very good care of you even when I was here, I�m so sorry�� His thoughts hurt him. He kissed the top of Duncan�s head, almost furtively.

Ash handed him a large towel and he began to dry the body in his arms, starting with his hair and face. The soft, dark hair was stuck by moisture to the ashen skin of Duncan�s face and body, and Methos seemed determined to dry every one, tenderly rubbing, almost caressing him. Ash started at his feet and moved up his legs. Methos seemed spellbound, in thrall to the body under his hands and the sight of Ash lifting Duncan�s heavy, slack legs, drying his thighs. Methos stilled, Ash had reached Duncan�s groin and he was watching her hands, holding the towel, stroking it gently over Duncan�s cock, down and under the soft, heavy sac, up again to the damp pubic hair, then down the other side. Methos had to close his eyes; the sight disturbed him and yet aroused him intensely.

They prepared to move him to the bed, wrapping him in the sheet, partly to finish drying him, partly to make him less slippery and easier to lift.

�Please Ash, let�s put him in his own bed. Just in case he�s rational, I don�t want him to wake up in that steel-railed monstrosity.�

Ash knew Methos was clinging to the forlorn hope that Duncan would simply wake up and they wouldn�t need the bed with its pads and restraints.

�All right, I suppose it won�t hurt to start with.�

They put his still form in his bed and removed the sheet. Methos covered him, and then stood over the bed, the look of sad longing on his face almost breaking Ash�s heart.

�Go on, �Thos.�

�I haven't the least idea what you mean.� Methos looked away, she could always read his face too easily.

�I can see it, you want nothing more in the world than to lay down with him and hold him. Go on. It won�t hurt him or you, though he may be a little cool to the touch. He�ll come back soon, and I can think of worse things than waking up in your arms.� Ash reached up and ruffled his short, fine hair.

Methos turned back and smiled sadly. �You do know me too well.�

He knelt down, uncovered and rearranged Duncan, turning him on his side, then took off the damp amethyst-gray sweater and the old, faded jeans. He got in bed and lay curled around Duncan�s back, one arm around his chest, the other under his neck, with Duncan�s head resting in the curve of his upper arm and shoulder. Methos� cheek was touching Duncan�s hair. He closed his eyes and appeared to go to sleep.

He heard Ash go up the stairs to the deck. He lay there unable to sleep. It wasn�t the faint chill of Duncan�s body that kept him awake. He was waiting, waiting for his body to warm, waiting for that first breath. It was too quiet; there was too much room for thought, for memory. The worst of memories, the memory of the pain and humiliation of the last time he lay on this bed with Duncan, the memories of all the other episodes of cruelty. He remembered how MacLeod would change, the cold light that would come into his eyes right before he would hit him with his fists, or wound him with his words. It was as if a dark tide would rise in Duncan, drowning him in rage and hostility. There were times that he had almost seemed to be someone else, not the man he loved, but Methos knew that was just wishful thinking. It was easier than believing Duncan had been deliberately and viciously brutal.

�Please, I want my Duncan back, please let him be all right, please let him love me again,� Methos whispered repeatedly to himself in an attempt to silence all other thoughts. It resembled a mantra, or a despondent prayer, and he continued until he at last fell into an uneasy doze.

Ash stood on the deck in the chill air of the night. She wanted to give Methos time to find some comfort, not to mention herself, the sight of Methos� long hands arranging Duncan�s body, the sight of them together in the bed, had unsettled her in a way she didn�t want to explain. She stared into the black water at the wavering reflections. She seemed to lose herself in shifting images floating on darkness. Memories surfaced fleetingly, the tears on Methos� face glistening in the sun of Rome, the softness of Duncan�s eyes shining in the moonlight by Loch Sheil, the touch of Methos� hands, the taste of Duncan�s lips, the scent of Aren�s hair. Sweetness and pain.

�Love carries in it the seed of loss.� Ash thought. �That is why we love so desperately, we have lost so much, and for so long.�

She stared into the water as the first rosy streaks of dawn painted the sky. She would have continued to stare, if it hadn�t been for Methos calling her.

Duncan had gasped deeply and shuddered in his arms. Methos moved back and rolled Duncan toward him, turning Duncan�s head so he could see his face. His hand stroked Duncan�s cheek, caressing the skin with the tips of his fingers.

�Open your eyes, Duncan, please open your eyes.�

Methos pressed his hand to Duncan�s chest, he could feel the heart beating under his palm, he could fell the rise and fall of his breathing, but his eyes remained closed and he showed no response.

�Ash, come here, he�s breathing, but he�s not waking up!�

Ash heard the alarm in his voice, and quickly rushed in and knelt down by the bed.

�Why isn�t he waking up?�

�Hey, I froze to death, but all I remember is waking up. Maybe he hasn�t healed enough for consciousness, or maybe�� Ash hesitated, then went on reluctantly, ��maybe he�s fighting coming back.�

�I suppose all we can do is wait.�

Methos caressed Duncan�s cheek again, and Ash reached out to Methos, mirroring the gesture, tracing her thumb along his sculpted cheekbone.

�Try to rest, �Thos.�

She got up, picked up a laptop from another stack of boxes, and sat on the couch. She had always loved learning, and to her the Internet was the most astounding source of information. She had already looked up the drugs she might need, now she checked dosages, side effects and drug interactions, along with more general information on what to expect. She filled hypodermic syringes with different drugs, tranquilizers and anti-convulsants, in anticipation of the need for them. This was extremely risky, her addiction came alive, craving the needle on sight, and she had to take iron control of herself. With an effort of will she put the hypos aside, and picked up the laptop.

Methos repositioned Duncan on his side, in his arms once more. He was now breathing, warm, alive, but Methos couldn�t stop the tears. It was familiar and it hurt, too familiar, holding his unconscious body, wanting his love, feeling this guilt. So much guilt. How many times had he held him like this? How many times had he subtly encouraged Duncan to drink until he passed out so he could hold him like this?

The only sound was Ash tapping on the keyboard, Methos cried himself to sleep silently, the tears falling in Duncan�s ebony hair.

Dark, floating nothingness. Something moving. His heart, beating. Breathing again. Cold, so cold. Pain. Too much pain. Don�t want this. Don�t want pain, don�t want life, let me go, let me go, please let me go. Damn it. Damn you all.

Duncan hung on the edge of consciousness. His body had healed, but he was struggling to stay comatose, rejecting the return to life. He fought to stay in the darkness, but the light kept finding him, pulling him up into the air, out of the snow he�d buried himself in.

Duncan felt as if arms were wrapped around him, holding him, warm all over, and he opened his eyes to discover that arms *were* around him, familiar arms. He recognized the hands, one was entangled with one of his own, and he knew those long, slender fingers. He was on the barge, in his bed, and Methos was close against his back, cradling him in his arms, sound asleep. His cheek was resting on Methos� arm and Duncan turned and nuzzled his face into it. The scent and presence of Methos surrounded him. He kissed the incredibly soft skin on the inside of Methos� upper arm, thinking, �I love the smell of your skin, old man, and I love waking up in your arms. It�s been so long since I woke up in your arms.�

�Wait, wait something�s wrong�� Duncan�s face twisted in pain, his head hurt so much he couldn�t think clearly. �Something�s wrong, something�was it a nightmare? Was it a horrible dream, hurting you, driving you away, then falling into a desolation so deep I wanted to die? You�re here; you haven�t left me. What�s happening? My head hurts, how much did I drink last night? The drinking, oh god, it wasn�t a nightmare, I shouldn�t be here, I should be buried in snow, halfway up a mountain�dead. How did you find me? Why did you save me? How can you stand to be near me after what I did to you? Wait, maybe I *am* dead and this is heaven. It is heaven, to be in your arms again, embraced by the feeling that you could still love me. It must be a lovely dying dream, this can�t be real�can�t be real��

He slipped back into semiconsciousness; he had a vague comprehension that he must be very ill, but how could that be? He was Immortal, how could he be sick? Then all thought left him as he was hit by a convulsion, his body spasming in a massive grand mal seizure.

Duncan cried out and his head snapped back hard and fast, hitting Methos on the chin, waking him instantly. He jerked helplessly in Methos� arms and the hand that grasped Duncan�s felt like it was being crushed in his grip. Methos ducked away from Duncan�s head and held on to him. It felt like being shaken by an earthquake.

Ash heard the odd cry and saw Duncan was convulsing. She put aside the laptop and quickly picked up several of the pre-filled hypodermics, then crouched down by the bed saying, �Try to hold his arm still so I can get this into him.�

Ash tied a tourniquet tightly around Duncan�s arm and the veins stood out clearly. Methos held Duncan�s arm with one hand, the other hand was still locked in Duncan�s grip, and between the two he managed to hold it immobile enough for Ash to get the first needle into a vein. She injected the contents of the syringe, released the tourniquet, and waited a moment, but it seemed to have no effect, so she repeated the process with the second. There was still no effect, and Ash reluctantly used the third syringe.

This had an effect; Duncan�s body slowed its movements, finally sagging against Methos, going completely limp with a last soft, unconscious moan.

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