The Parallel World Series: Part Four

                               The Encounter
                                by Alexandra

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(...Continued from Part Three)

"Well, not all beheadings are ours, Joe. Some mortal killer, a madman,
could have done it. Anything's possible. Or Methos may even have simply
visited the victim at some point, and that's why his prints were there. He
may not have known him well at all."

"Oh, I think he knew him pretty well," Joe said.

Mac didn't want to hear this. "Why?"

"Because the victim's name," Joe replied, "was Adam Pierson."
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                                   * * *

Methos opened the door to the work-out room and dropped his backpack just
inside. Every evening for the past week, after he finished checking the
database upload, he had met MacLeod here. Mac had rented the space so they
would have privacy. Once a gym, it had wooden floors and a shower area; Mac
had brought in mats, training equipment, and swords. They spent at least
two hours a night exercising and engaging in practice fights. Methos' rusty
skills were rapidly improving as a result.

He strolled into the shower area, where a locker held a change of clothes.
He stripped off his working clothes and put on sweat pants and top, then
went back into the main room and unrolled one of the exercise mats. Partway
through a series of yogic moves, he felt the presence of an immortal, and
looked up to see MacLeod coming into the gym.

"No news," Methos called out. He slowly uncurled his body from the plough
position. "No new inactives have been found."

"Pity." MacLeod disappeared into the shower room, carrying a large duffel
bag. He reappeared a few minutes later in his workout sweats, dropping the
bag by the wall near the katana stand. He unrolled an exercise mat close to
Methos' and began going through his usual warm-up routine.

Methos stretched into the cobra movement, keeping an eye on MacLeod nearby.
He enjoyed this part of their evenings very much. MacLeod wore a sleeveless
t-shirt this time, showing off his well-developed arms and his beautiful,
rippling shoulder muscles. Methos carefully chose the positions he flowed
into and out of so that he always had a good view of his exercise partner.

After the warm-up, MacLeod strode onto the wood floor to go through his
favorite katas. Methos decided he was done with his warm-ups for this
evening and settled into a lotus posture, the better to watch the
proceedings. He was always impressed by the smooth fluidity of MacLeod's
body, by the strength and control he exhibited in the poetic movements.
That control also showed in his facial expression, so solidly focused
simultaneously on both the individual motions and the overall form of each
kata. MacLeod never simply shifted from one position to another; he
*became* the kata itself, wholeness in every step.

When he was finished, MacLeod took a series of deep breaths, eyes closed.
Then he walked over to the katana stand and selected one of the practice
swords. "Got a present for you," he said, moving into the center of the
room. He nodded over at the duffel bag. "It's in there."

Methos rose from the lotus position in one fluid movement, and ambled over
to see what was inside the bag. His broadsword lay at the bottom. *About
time*. He felt naked without it, though Mac had loaned him a sword whenever
he needed to go out in public. He had owned this particular weapon for over
eight hundred years; no other sword, no matter how well made, fit him body
and soul the way this one did.

"Thanks." He turned to see that MacLeod had rolled up the mats, leaving the
large floor space available for fighting. "Now, then, where did we leave
off?" Yesterday evening they had gone through some complicated Japanese
techniques, very familiar to MacLeod but less so to Methos. "Shall we see
how well I remember?"

"Why not?" MacLeod strode into the center of the floor, and took up his
stance. "Come at me. Don't tell me what you're planning to do. Let's make
this as real as possible."

"Fine." Methos boldly lunged, testing out a few of the moves he had learned
last night.

MacLeod struck back effectively, adding at least one trick that Methos had
not seen before, a behind-the-back thrust that almost disarmed him.
"Surprise."

Methos stepped away for a moment to regain his footing. "You haven't taught
me that one yet. What's it called?"

"Invented it myself," MacLeod replied. "I call it the Diablo Defense." He
made a waving, "come on" hand gesture. "Try again."

Another attack, another flurry of the blades, and this time Methos tried
mixing things up more, putting in moves they had not been practicing,
things that came back to him from centuries past. MacLeod grinned, clearly
enjoying the test of his defensive skills. They parted on an even footing,
neither giving up ground, simply taking a breather.

"Not bad," MacLeod panted. "You've studied with some of the Italian
masters."

Methos gave a little nod. "Never hurts to learn from the best."

"Or to keep an opponent guessing by switching styles." MacLeod stepped
towards him. "My turn." He swiftly lunged, and Methos suddenly found
himself on the defensive.

He did everything he could think of to fend off the attack, and to try to
get in a few well-aimed thrusts of his own. But MacLeod just kept coming at
him, undaunted, untiring, putting more power and speed into each series of
moves than Methos had even seen from him before, not during their entire
week of practice. Nothing Methos tried, from any style he could think of,
made a dent in MacLeod's offense. He was pushed farther and farther
backwards until he stood near the wall, his position uncomfortably
reminding him of their first encounter. Hemmed in again, Methos parried the
katana's relentless onslaught until his arm muscles ached.

"Enough," he rasped. MacLeod had never pushed this hard during their
sessions.

MacLeod knocked the broadsword from Methos' hand, then pressed his body up
against his, chest to chest, the blade of the katana held flat to Methos'
throat.

Methos' eyes widened. What on earth was he playing at? MacLeod had a deadly
serious expression, eyes narrowed, mouth firmly set in a straight line. The
cool steel of the blade quivered across Methos' skin. He searched MacLeod's
face for any sign that this was merely a joke, and found none. "I concede,"
he whispered, conscious of the closeness of the blade's sharp edge to his
throat. "What more do you want?"

"The truth," MacLeod said quietly. "That's all."

"About what?"

MacLeod kicked at the broadsword. "Adam Pierson," he said.

*Ah.* So that's what this was about. They must have run his prints through
Interpol, and found the old murder case on the books. "I didn't kill him,"
he said. "He was my friend." The closeness of MacLeod's body pressing into
his made him tremble. "And he was my lover."

The flat of the blade still rested on his neck. "Why should I believe you?"
MacLeod's voice sounded ragged.

Methos slid a hand between their chests, and wrapped his fingers around
MacLeod's wrist, the one holding the katana's hilt. He gripped it hard, and
slowly turned the blade so that the edge now stood at a right angle to his
throat. He held it there. "Why have you believed *anything* I've told you?"
His eyes locked with MacLeod's. "Trust," he said softly. "That's the answer
you're looking for. Simple trust."

He knew MacLeod would not take his head, because he knew what MacLeod
was--a good man who believed in his friends, protected his loved ones, and
fought for the truth wherever he could find it. And he wanted MacLeod to
know that he knew this, and that he believed in him in turn. He looked into
MacLeod's eyes with his own trust in the man shining out, and he saw
MacLeod study him, take in the meaning of Methos' actions and words, and
give a little nod before pulling the sword away.

"No more practice tonight," MacLeod said. "Let's talk."

Methos idly rubbed a hand along his throat. "No problem," he replied.

                                   * * *

MacLeod carefully restored the katana to its stand, then walked into the
shower room and sat on a bench running between the lockers. He took a deep,
calming breath. Methos had gotten to him in some unfathomable way--not just
here and now, but throughout their one week together. The man touched a
chord inside him, one that resonated with an odd, sharp note of fear mixed
with attraction. At times Methos seemed mysterious, remote, and
otherworldly--as if he were shrouded within the vast, impenetrable depths
of his own history--not quite human. At other times, the myth dissolved and
a very human, casual, charming man appeared. Mac felt drawn to the latter,
and cautious of the former; he wondered if the "true" Methos stood
somewhere in between, with shades of both shifting into each other.

Methos entered the room and sat down close beside him, so close their
thighs touched. He stared straight ahead at the lockers. "I worked at a
bookstore in Oxford for a few years. I met Adam there; he was studying
history and politics. I eventually moved into his flat. You don't need to
know the details."

"No," MacLeod agreed. No point in bringing up memories of a dead lover.
"Just tell me what happened to him."

"An immortal came hunting for me one night. I happened to be taking a
shower, and the bath stood right off the bedroom. Adam was in bed, with the
light out. My enemy broke in, felt my presence, and saw Adam, who got out
of bed to confront the intruder. He was struck down with one sure blow to
the neck."

"Surely you felt the presence as well?"

"Naturally. But everything happened like *that*." Methos snapped his
fingers. "By the time I stumbled out of the shower and into the bedroom,
Adam was dead. And the immortal had seen his error, and he came for me. I
managed to get to my sword and I tried to fight him off; unfortunately, he
wasn't out of practice. I came very close to losing. Fortunately, the next-
door neighbors had phoned the police at the first hint of a commotion, and
he bolted at the sound of the sirens. So did I."

MacLeod looked at him, and saw a faint sadness in Methos' far- away gaze.
"Why did you take his name?"

Methos shrugged. "It seemed safest. There was certainly more than one 'Adam
Pierson' in England. The police were looking for his roommate, or the
mysterious intruder--the last person they would be looking for would be
someone with the dead man's name. I figured the same would hold true for
his killer. He would hardly go hunting for someone with that name. He'd
still be searching for me under my previous pseudonym."

"That happened ten years ago," MacLeod said. "Which is when you joined the
Watchers."

"Yes. I came here to France and got into the organization. At first I did
it just to keep track of that one immortal, but a year or so later, he
vanished. Wound up in those inactive files that your friend Kristin is so
keen on. Instead of leaving the Watchers, though, I realized how much I
loved the research I was doing--history is important to me. Making sure
people remember what happened, what *really* happened, is important."

MacLeod felt, at that moment, that he was listening to the true Methos--the
fusion of past and present selves into a man who could look back at love
and loss with regret, yet look still forward to the future with a sense of
purpose and joy. And at the same moment Mac thought this, Methos rose from
the bench, and the abrupt breaking of the physical contact between them
made Mac yearn for more--he wanted to touch this man, wanted to feel his
strength and his power.

"I need a shower," Methos announced, and oh-so-casually stripped off his
sweats.

Mac stared unabashedly at the trim yet muscular body, long and lean and
shiny with sweat. He felt a familiar tingle in his groin and quickly looked
away.

Methos strolled over to a shower stall and turned the water on. MacLeod
dared to take another look. The water sprayed over Methos and steamed up
the room.

There was absolutely no reason two people couldn't fit in that shower
stall.... Mac quickly got his sweats off, and with a certain degree of
trepidation, walked under the hot spray.

Methos didn't say a word. He simply smiled, wrapped his arms around
MacLeod's neck, and kissed him.

It started as a sweet, darting exploration, with Methos' tongue dancing
around the contours of Mac's mouth. Then it deepened as Methos thrust past
Mac's lips with his tongue, and turned fierce with passion. Mac put his
arms around Methos' waist, pulling him into a tight clinch; the warm
slickness of the water made their bodies slide against each other. Methos
broke the kiss and his hold, and slid his hands down MacLeod's chest. "Good
idea," he said as he stroked firm circles around Mac's nipples.

Mac moaned. His cock grew hard in response, rubbing alongside Methos'
equally solid shaft. He drew his roving hands down Methos' back until he
gripped his buttocks. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Methos replied huskily. His hands worked magic on MacLeod's
body; teasing, arousing, pulling him over the edge. One hand snaked down to
grasp Mac's cock, expertly stroking and pumping him as the invigorating
water continued to wash over them both.

MacLeod lost himself in the luxury of being touched, of being loved. He
kissed Methos again, hard and fast, then whispered into his ear, "I want
inside you."

Without a word, Methos ceased his ministrations to Mac's cock and turned
towards the wall, planting his hands on the tiles, his back to MacLeod. He
spread his feet. "Get in there, then," he rasped. "*Now*."

Rivulets of steaming water flowed down Methos' back, and over his ass; Mac
pushed the head of his cock inside, and Methos arched with a soft moan.
"More," he gasped. "*Harder*."

Mac obeyed, thrusting further in, pressing past initial resistance until he
lay fully ensheathed in Methos' body. The tightness felt so good. He slid
an arm around Methos' waist and began a rhythmical pull and push, building
from a slow, steady beat to a frenzied, throbbing momentum. Methos dropped
one hand from the wall to grab his own cock, rapidly stroking the length of
it in time to MacLeod's thrusts. They were joined in need, they merged in
desire. Methos suddenly stiffened and cried out, his body jerking as he
came, and the intensity of it fired MacLeod's own urgency, and he spilled
into Methos with a hoarse shout, release emptying him and yet filling him
with utter satisfaction.

When he returned to his senses, Methos faced him again, a bar of soap in
hand. "Glad we finally got to that," he said, and gave MacLeod a quick kiss
before proceeding to rub his chest with soap.

"Mm-hmm," was all MacLeod could manage for reply.

                                   * * *

Methos relaxed within Mac's embrace as they lay curled close together on
the bed. They had made love again soon after returning to the barge, this
time much more slowly, and with a little more tenderness. He could very
easily get used to this; it had been at least ten years since he had felt
so connected to someone so quickly and with such intensity.

Mortal lovers always died, but immortals.... Methos had not tried to get
involved with another of their kind since Byron, well over a century ago.
Immortals also died, and not always physically. Sometimes they simply
burned out too soon, and became walking shells of what they had once been,
hollow inside. MacLeod was different. He had a solid core which, no matter
how hard or how often life battered him, managed to survive intact.

*I need that,* Methos thought. *I need it to hang onto...to take strength
from--but something should be given in return, and what have I left to give
other than cynicism and world- weariness?*

A nose nuzzled his ear. "Hey," said a deep, sultry voice. "What are you
thinking over there?"

Methos pulled MacLeod's arm more tightly around his waist. "I was just
wondering what the hell you saw in me."

"Oh," came the amused reply, "you mean besides those extremely
dexterous-looking hands? Knew you could put them to good use."

"Mm-hm. Besides that."

Mac nibbled on his earlobe. "You serious?"

A little quiver of pleasure ran through Methos, and he said, "More or less.
That ear is very sensitive--"

"I noticed." More nibbling took place, followed by a few warm breaths
blowing across Methos' face. "You really want to know?"

Methos closed his eyes. Sometimes it was better not to keep thinking.
"Maybe not."

MacLeod's lips touched his cheek, then his nose, and then gently drifted
across each eyelid. "I'll tell you anyway. What I saw in you was mystery.
Mystery, and mesmerizing images of a world long lost to the mists of time.
A myth made real. And uncertainty...I couldn't put you in any
easily-defined place in my mind. You were exotic. And yet at the same time,
you were just a guy who could cook a really superb meal of spicy prawns."
Mac kissed him on the lips, then trailed a line of smaller kisses along his
throat. "How could I resist?"

"Mm...keep talking," Methos whispered. "Because I can't...."

"Hang on." MacLeod left off his attentions. "Before your brain turns into
mush, there's one thing I forgot to ask you earlier."

"What's that?" Methos struggled back to some semblance of cogency.

"The immortal who came after you ten years ago--did you find out his name?"

Methos nodded. "I'd met him before. He'd been hunting me for a long time.
Somehow he found out who I am."

"What?" MacLeod raised up on one elbow. "He knows you're Methos? How?"

"I don't know. But when I ran into him the time before, he said something
about my days in ancient Greece which made me believe that he had somehow
read at least part of my journal. Perhaps he broke into the storage place I
kept it in back then."

MacLeod blinked in surprise. "You keep a diary?"

"Yeah. I've been keeping one for nearly as long as writing has existed."

"How much of it is in languages I might understand?"

Methos smiled. "Just because I read your Chronicle does not mean I am going
to let you dig through a few thousand years of my past dirt."

"Why not?" Mac asked. "Seems fair to me."

*I don't think so*, Methos thought, but for now, he decided to keep his
lover happy. "Fine." He would just have to make sure he selected the more
boring passages, and not let MacLeod see the rest. There were plenty of
things in his past he never wanted the man to know about.

"Thanks. It means a lot to me." Mac settled back into the earlier embrace.
"You know, you never answered my question. Who is this fellow who's after
your head?"

"Oh, him." Methos didn't want to think about that. He was much more
interested in not thinking at all. "He may not be using the same name now,
but you'd know him if you'd ever met him. Has a nasty scar across his
throat. I knew him as Kalas."

The last thing he expected from this revelation was a thoroughly agitated
Scot.

                                   * * *

"I thought you *read* my Chronicle!" MacLeod paced the length of the barge,
robe tied around his body, arms crossed over his chest. He could not
understand how Methos could lie there in bed so completely unconcerned.
"You should *know* how dangerous he is!"

Methos groaned. "It's a long Chronicle," he said. "I skimmed a few pages,
so what?"

"So *what*? Methos, the man is ruthless--he set traps for our kind and
slaughtered them. And he killed my friend Fitz--did you manage to learn
about Fitzcairn or did you skim all of his sections as well?"

"I think I know who he is--"

"*Was*." MacLeod waved his arms about for emphasis. "He's dead, Methos.
Kalas takes great joy in destroying people I care about. Do you know how he
suffered that damage to his throat? I did it. Trust me, there is no love
lost between us."

Methos idly stretched and yawned. "It's after midnight. Calm down and come
back to bed. I'll listen to your trips down memory lane in the morning."

"Oh, honestly." For a man who had survived for five millennia, Methos was
demonstrating a remarkably nonchalant attitude. "Don't you understand?
He'll come after you!"

"Maybe. I haven't seen him in ten years, Mac. He never figured out my new
identity, so what makes you think he'll find me now?"

MacLeod sighed in exasperation. "Because he knows where I live. Because he
loathes me. Because the next time he decides to try for me, there's a good
chance he'll spot you."

Methos finally managed to look concerned, a faint frown creasing his face.
"Oh. I see. When you said that he had killed your friend Fitz, you weren't
talking about something that happened last century, were you?"

"No." Mac strode past his desk, and grabbed the pages of his Chronicle. He
fluttered them about. "If you'd read this instead of skimming it, you'd
know that! Fitz died six months ago, and Kalas *will* be back for me. It's
only a matter of time."

Methos sat up, resting his arms on his knees. "Well, that does make a
difference."

Mac dropped the pages back on the desk. "He's good, Methos." He strode to
the bed and climbed up to sit beside his lover. He gently stroked Methos'
forearm. "I don't want to lose you. Not now. Not ever."

"Yeah. Bad timing all around." Methos lowered his head to press his lips
against Mac's hand. "First Kristin, now Kalas. Who's going to appear to
task us next?"

"Don't even think it." MacLeod wrapped both arms around him, holding him
close. "We'll stay together, or go out alone only to public places. If
Kalas reappears for a challenge, you let *me* fight him."

"Very noble," Methos said. "And don't think I don't appreciate it. But if
it's me he challenges, it's me he'll fight."

"You're not ready--"

Methos shook his head. "What, not with the great Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod running me through my refresher paces? I'm not rusty anymore, and
I'll bet I know a lot more tricks that you do. I just chose not to show
them all to you yet."

"Really?" MacLeod gave him a suspicious look. "And what other little
secrets have you been holding in reserve?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself over." Methos slid out from Mac's
embrace to stretch out on the bed. "Can we worry about this in the morning?
I'm tired." He turned his back to Mac and pulled the covers up.

MacLeod sat there for a long time, staring into the darkness. *Possibly the
most intriguing relationship of my long life.* The thought he had held
earlier floated through his mind, teasing, taunting him. He knew that it
would never be easy to love this man. But he also knew that he had fallen
for Methos partly because he was so complex, and when Mac considered what
the future might bring, he realized he didn't want it to be simple.

He wanted to keep on falling.

                                   * * *

In the morning, an elegant solution to their problem occurred to Methos,
and he felt distinctly irked that he had not thought of it the night
before. In his defense, he told himself that he had had other things on his
mind--or rather, he had allowed himself to become so entranced by MacLeod's
body and the truly luxurious ways he could play with it that his sense had
temporarily fled.

But now it was back.

"Remember I told you that Kalas had gone on the inactive list a year after
I joined the Watchers?" he said to MacLeod over sausage and eggs.

"Yeah." MacLeod mumbled through a mouthful of toast. "Pity."

"What I should do," Methos explained, "is tell the Watcher HQ that I think
I spotted Kalas here in Paris. Whenever someone thinks they've seen an
inactive, all of the Watchers in the vicinity are put on alert, and asked
to be extra vigilant in trying to find the immortal. His photo will be
widely circulated. The extra effort might just turn him up, and get us an
address."

Mac swallowed his food. "And then what?"

"I should think that would be obvious."

"No," MacLeod said with a sudden chill in his voice. "It isn't."

"Oh, come on." Methos speared a sausage and waved it at him. "What's wrong
with you? If they find him, they'll update the database. And who will be
waiting for him when they do?" He bit a large piece off the end of the
sausage. "Kristin. Problem solved."

MacLeod simply sat there, a block of stone, and stared at him.

Methos chewed the rest of the sausage thoughtfully. Once a boyscout, always
a boyscout. Still, this went beyond chivalry or any other high-minded
stance on morality. He finished his breakfast and leaned back in his chair,
arms crossed. "What exactly is your problem? Would you rather see Kalas
die, or me?"

"She is breaking the rules," MacLeod said steadily. "And I promised she
wouldn't get away with it again."

"Promised who?" Methos felt an urge to leap across the table and shake some
sense into the man. "Yourself? All immortals? Joe Dawson? Get real,
MacLeod. So what if she whacks one more of us before you step in to stop
her? Especially if it's Kalas."

MacLeod pushed away from the table and stood. He carefully gathered up his
plate and coffee cup and strode into the kitchen area to dump them into the
sink.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Methos called out. "I'm not up on all of
your body language yet. Does stalking into the kitchen mean, 'I need
another cup of coffee', or does it mean, 'get the fuck out of my home'?"

MacLeod strode back to the table, standing over Methos, face flushed. "What
do you want me to do," he said angrily, "break my own code of honor? I
won't do that. Not for you, and not for anyone..."

**************************************************************************
                            ...to be continued.

Send email to the author: alexa@aa.net