This story refers to a sexual relationship  between consenting adult men.  If you are under age or don't care for this, LEAVE NOW.  As usual, characters from Highlander:  the Series belong to Davis-Panzer et alia; I only play with them from time to time without any compensation.  No harm; no foul.  Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again).  Beta-read by Nikki Memmott.  Thank you, merci beaucoup, tapadh leat, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato.  WARNING: This story is not Clan Denial friendly.  Any errors are mine alone.

Paris.

T he slamming of the door echoed through the single open room of the barge.  The three who remained continued to stare at the now-closed door.  As the last reverberation died away, a heavy silence descended over the threesome.  “Well,” the dark-haired man said, setting down his empty champagne flute before he shrugged into his long, black coat.  “I think this is my cue to leave, too.”

“What do you mean?” the gray-haird man asked.  “Where are you off to now?”

“That is the question, Joseph, my friend.”  Turning away from the Watcher, Methos kissed Amanda lightly on the cheek.  “See you around, love,” he said.  “Who knows — we might run into each other in a century or two.”

Amanda kissed him back, then rubbed the lipstick from his cheek with her thumb.  “Watch your head, Methos.”

“Always, milady.”  He inclined his head suggesting a chivalrous bow.

“Methos,” Joe insisted.  He opened his mouth to go on, but no words came out.

The oldest Immortal extended his hand to the Watcher.  “Joe....”

The Watcher stared, then shifted his cane and grasped his friend’s hand.  “Ah,” he grumbled.  He allowed Methos to hug him, returning the embrace.  “You’re incorrigible.”

“I certainly hope so,” Methos countered, and then went on.  “No mortal has ever known me as well as you do, Joe.”  He thought back over the millennia.  “Not even any of my wives.”  He stepped away from the older-looking man and pulled his coat closer around himself.  At the foot of the short staircase he stopped and turned back to his friends.

“Go ahead and write up what you’ve learned about me — Methos, Joe.”  A crooked smile crossed his face.  “But see if you can keep Adam Pierson’s secret, will you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Joe agreed, his voice strained.

Methos sprang up the steps, opened the door, and turned back one last time.  Amanda stood next to Joe, not bothering to hide the tears that ran down her lovely face.  Joe blinked repeatedly, then unashamedly let his own tears flow.  The oldest man sketched a salute with his left hand, stepped over the threshold, and closed the door behind him.  He never looked back at the barge as he descended the gangplank and walked purposefully down the quay.  His dark figure disappeared into the fog before he reached the first overpass.

He walked with the stride of a man used to walking distances, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of the long coat.  The quay curved with the river, and in moments he was out of sight of both the ancient, looming cathedral and the barge that rode the water in its shadow.  The fog began to thin as he approached another bridge, and he smiled when he saw the lone figure at the apex of the span, leaning on the railing, looking back towards Notre Dame.

“What took you so long?” the man on the bridge asked when Methos joined him, and they stood side by side at the railing.

“Some goodbyes take longer than others, Macleod.”

“It felt like hours.”  Macleod pulled Methos into his arms, and their lips met in a searing kiss.

“It was only a few minutes,” Methos gasped when he could breathe again.  As one they walked on across the bridge, each with an arm around the other, each with a bag in their other hand.  “And now we have forever.”

This page last updated  
21 August 2002

© 2001 Emma Keigh