The world's oldest man woke up that morning before the sun. He tried to fall
asleep again, but wasn't able to. It was too daam cold. It was ALWAYS cold when he
woke up. He hated it. He hadn't woken up warm in months. And the last time was only
because the apartment below him was on fire. He was awake whether he liked it or not.
It had been decades, perhaps centuries since he'd been able to fall asleep again once
woken. Yet he found himself unwilling to get up. So he merely lay there, sprawled upon
his bed, staring at his white plaster ceiling. This went on for hours.

The phone rang. Luckily he kept the phone by the bed, and he picked it up. He
said nothing into it, but the voice on the other end immediately jumped in anyway.
"Hey there, Adam. If you don't mind, we're gonna need your help hauling party supplies,
my care got stuck in the snow. Would you mind cruising down here to pick us up?"
"Joe...I'm sleeping," said the bedridden man.
"No you're not. You're talking on the phone. Up n' at 'em, you PROMISED!"
Instead of responding the man dropped the phone. He placed it back on the cradle, turned
over and swaddled himself in the covers. The house was well heated but watching the
snow outside made him cold. He was not moving. No matter what he'd promised. There
wasn't anyone special enough to get him out of bed on THIS morning.
Five minutes of denial later, he was in his car fighting the snow down to Joe's bar.
f---. *At least,* he thought to himself, *MacLeod's birthday IS the shortest day of the
year.*

The party was, in his opinion, way too large. *You're asking for it just by
celebrating your birthday, MacLeod.* Most of the crowd were various neighborhood
mortals. With the exception of Amanda and himself, most of MacLeod's longer-lived
friends were represented with the stack of cards and gifts. *Birthdays are pointless. If
people give you one gift a year for four hundred years, you wind up with a lot of useless
shit.* Taking the time to reflect upon the decor and state of Duncan's residence, Methos
decided that yes, useless s--- was everywhere. Instead of mingling with the various
guests Methos opted instead to stare at Duncan through the green Tsingtao bottle he had
in front of him. *You're pathetic. Like some poor girl whose heart is set one one whose
rank exceeds her own. Just ignore him, you've done it before. Duncan MacLeod's just
another guy.* Methos winced at the lie. It had to be the weakest one he ever told.
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was about as exceptional as a man could get.
*Let's take a look at the facts, shall we? Duncan MacLeod not too long ago killed his
student, and is a few steps short of suicidal. He is desparately trying to cling to sanity,
and you're thinking of making moves on him. You, the thorn in MacLeod's side. The
horseman of the apocalypse. The bottomless beer glass. How could he love a thing so
low? Forget about him.*

* * *
"He needs someone to pull his daam head out of his pain. He's not a happy man
anymore."
Methos looked up from his beer.
"What's that you say?"
"Daamit, I'm trying to talk to you!" Joe's voice began to take an exasperated tone.
"Sorry," Methos said, turning back to his beer. It wasn't that he'd been ignoring
Joe, but the topic of the watcher's conversation only made him want to stare into his beer
more.
"Talk to him," Joe was saying, "Help get him out of his own personal hell, will
you? Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one trying to fix our golden boy."
"What makes you think I can do anything, Joe? He doesn't listen to me anyway.
He certainly doesn't listen to me above you. He probably doesn't even remember that I
exist anymore. There's nothing I can do for him." Joe looked a little uncomfortable, as if
he was trying to figure out how to word something.
"Look man, you're....I dunno, you're special. Despite what you think, he DOES
listen to you. Now go out there and fix him. You know you owe it to him."
*You don't know how much I want to read into what you're saying.*
"You have no idea how much I don't want to do this."
*Of course you want to do this, idiot. You're just scared to.*
Joe finally threw his arms up in exasperation.
"Hey man," he said, "I just call'em like I see 'em."
Methos sighed, and got up from the uncomfortable barstool that had been digging into his
rear. Without another word he walked through the swinging doors out of the bar.
*Joe doesn't need to know that I'm actually going to do it anyway.*

* * *
*How do I fix this man? What could I possibly do to help him? He's taken one innocent
life, and he cries. I've taken thousands. Thousands. I can't comfort him. How can I help
him solve a problem I've never bothered to solve myself? He's hurting...I can't just stand
here. All right, fine...a hand on the shoulder. Just a touch. It's harmless, he won't think a
thing of it. After all, there isn't anything I can SAY to him, is there? No words out of my
mouth would sound anything but stupid and corny. For God's sake Methos, he's in tears,
and you're worried about whether or not anything you say is going to cross the line. You
really are feckless, aren't you? Why can't I help him? Why has he got to have a problem
I can't solve? Daam you MacLeod, why can't you just be happy so I can be happy too?
Don't you know it makes me feel like s--- whenever any tiny thing is wrong with you?*

"I'm sorry, Macleod. I wish I could help."

* * *
"A fine pair of fools, we make, do we not?"
"Heh....Don't get uppity, Macleod. I haven't been a fool in centuries."
"Now, I canna believe you are SO wise!"
"I'm handsome too."
"And vain."
"How vain am I?"
"So vain, that you think you can solve everyone's problems with your smile and
your beer!"
"It worked, didn't it? Aren't you feeling better?"
"Well....yes."
"There you go."

"Methos?"
"What?"
"Why don't you ever call me Duncan?"
"Hmm...well because you're Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Y'can't
have Duncan without the MacLeod."
"I dunno...it'd be nice if you used my first name once in a while."
"Fine. Duncan. What...? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm just...glad you're here. I want to thank you, for what you've done..."
"Oh forget it. I couldn't let Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, immortal
poster-boy and Champion of the Millenium go crazy, now could I?"
"No...but, all throughout this whole mess, ever since the Horsmen, I've treated you
like shit...and you still loved me."
"What?! Look, MacLeod-"
"Duncan."
"Duncan. I don't think-"
"Give it up Methos. You can't hide it all from me. From any of us. And I know
it's been a long dark hell this past couple years but I have to ask...is it too late?"

***
For the first time, in a long time, Methos woke up warm. Warmth was all around
him, he was wrapped in it. Although he was awake, this morning he didn't open his eyes.
He just lay, examining the sensation in every inch of his body. Duncan dominated his
every sense. He leaned down and nuzzled the arm wrapped around his chest, inhaling
Duncan's unique scent. Duncan's breathing echoed in his ears, low and loud, yet
peaceful. The salt of the skin touching his lips was tart and sharp. Opening his eyes, he
could seen the curve of the muscled arm wrapped around him. All around him, the touch
of Duncan's flesh against his made him feel safer than he ever had in all his millenia. But
most intoxicating of all, Duncan's presence tingled through his mind and body. It seemed
to fill him up and surround him at the same time. It was strange to think that even
Duncan's presence could be a thing of beauty to behold. Methos gave up trying to
describe it and just let it flow over him. *I'll always know when it's him. I could be
knocked unconscious in a dark room and I'd still know it's him.* His eyes closed again.
It was as if no matter how close he was to Duncan, he had to get closer. Moving back
against the Scot he could feel the other man press up to him, the touch stirring Duncan
into half-wakedness. Methos half-smiled to himself. *All men are like that in the
morning, aren't they Duncan? Especially the morning AFTER.* The sensation tempted
him, but he was pleasantly drowsy, and as he drifted off again, he realized this was the
first morning in years that he'd been able to fall back asleep. *No rush....we have forever
now, don't we?*

* * *
The 6th bottle slammed down on the counter of an empty bar. Another one, full
was already waiting. Unfortunately, the tattooed appendage gripping it wouldn't let go.
"You wanna talk about it?" asked Joe, hanging onto the beer just a second too
long.
"Nope," said Methos nonchalantly as he yanked the beer away and popped it
open. He didn't even want to think about it, really. He was just trying to convince
himself everything would be all right. Unfortunately, he couldn't do that while Joe was
pushing buttons.
"Look, you guys have got to be honest with each other," the bartender was saying,
"I've seen lots worse, and whatever happens-"
"Joe, it's just damn dandy of you to try and help, but I'm not going to get any less
grouchy. Apparently, there's nothing I can do." Methos pulled on a tougher exterior, as
if it were an extra sweater.
"Why? What'd he say?"
"Well....nothing really!" exasperation started to dominate the immortal's tones.
"He was juast all damn cryptic in his silly MacLeod way." At this point, Joe sat himself
on the stool next to Methos and drank the beer in his hand instead of serving it.
"Look, you know Mac has had a tough time of it. You and I can both tell he's
going through some serious issues. That whole business with O'Rourke only proves how
messed up he is inside. He's got to put himself back together from the ground up. Maybe
you should give him some time."
"I just wanted to help him, Joe! I didn't take advantage of him, he came to me..."
"I know, I know, but he's got a lot on his plate already. You're not exactly the girl
next door that he's used to, y'know."
The ancient one chewed on that one for a while. Years of experience in dealing with the
human heart and mind told him that Joe had truth in his words.
"I should be able to help him there too. I can be there for him."
"You can't do everything for the guy. If it's not about you, you can only do so
much."
"That's what he said," whispered Methos, more to himself than Joe, "It's not about
me...it's all about him. All about Duncan."

* * *
"What is it? Was it something I said? Just tell me what's wrong!"
"It isn't anything you said-"
"Well then WHAT? What did I do?"
"Look, Methos...it isn't about you, it's about me, okay? It's not your fault."
"You said..."
"I know what I said. Listen, you have done more for me now than anyone. But
this....relationship between us, it just doesn't feel right. I thought it did and I was wrong.
And right now, I just want to save the friend I have."
"Duncan...why? We haven't even TRIED! You said it yourself, we have
FOREVER to make our mistakes in. Can't we give it a try?"
"No, we can't. Methos, have you ever touched someone, and wanted so badly to
feel something for him but you couldn't?"
"Yes."
"Exactly, you see?"

"You feel....nothing? At all?"

"I'm sorry, Methos. I wanted it to work too, but it's just not who I am...can you
understand that?"
"But everything we've shared..."

"I'm sorry."

* * *
*I want him back. I know it can't ever be the way it was, but I want him back. I knew
this was going to happen. I KNEW it. I watched it happen, totally helpless. And now,
I'm not only short a lover, I've got one less friend.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Even now, I still need the man. My spirit
loves, and loves him yet. Even now. Some people are too important to lose. I want him
back.
Dammit, Duncan, when are you going to learn that the world relies on you?*

***
The bar was different, though in the same place. Years of redecorating and repair
had changed the place to the point where he no longer felt at home. The crowd was
young, and it was a generation that had never heard the irreplacable sound of Joe
Dawson's guitar. Their only connection to the man whose name adorned the bar was a
now faded photograph that hung upon the wall. The photograph became blurred with his
twelfth beer. He lifted his head and stared at it, trying to hold on to the colors and faces.
The man on Joe's left was a mirror. The man on Joe's right, had disappeared from his life
an age ago. And after months of silence and denial, and after years of scouring the world
for him, Methos had come back here to wait. Duncan was alive. He HAD to keep
believing that. *And sooner or later,* he thought, *everyone comes to Joe's. Sooner or
later.*
So he sat, and he waited. And waited, and waited, and waited.

Duncan did not come.
_____________________________________________-

In Memorium A.H.H. stanza LX
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

He past; a soul of nobler tone:
My spirit loved and loves him yet,
Like some poor girl whose heart is set
On one whose rank exceeds her own.
He mixing with his proper sphere,
She finds the baseness of her lot,
Half jealous of she knows not what,
And envying all that meet him there.
The little village looks forlorn;
She sighs amid her narrow days,
Moving about the household ways,
In that dark house where she was born.
The foolish neighbors come and go,
And tease her till the day draws by:
At night she weeps, `How vain am I!
How should he love a thing so low?'


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