Well, they did it again.  I was all set to finish the MI story, but the muses just had to have this one instead.  They promised it would be short, and thankfully kept their word.  I had a lot of fun writing it, actually, so I hope you all enjoy reading it.  This story is loosely based on a song sung by Terri Clark called “Midnight’s Gone” on her album Fearless .  Well, that’s what sparked the idea, anyway.  If you want the lyrics, I’ll be happy to send them to you.  Just let me know.  I don’t own either of the characters, although they seem to have camped out at my house.  I should probably be charging rent.  This story contains a m/m relationship.  If that concept bothers you, or if you are underage, please delete now.  There’s not any explicit sex in this part, however.  There, you’ve been warned.  I hope you’ll read it anyway.  A huge thank you to Emma for the beta.  I appreciate you making time in an already busy day so I could get this posted.  Thanks also to Athos for letting me paste the story in progress all over her IM screen and for helping me work out the title.  Thanks to AC and Caitlin for the illness suggestions.  Oh, that reminds me.  The issue comes up in the story of Richie getting sick.  I’ve basically gone with the discussion between Anne and Duncan where immortals can catch colds, although they can’t die from them.  It really doesn’t matter to the story how long the cold is exactly, although I have assumed that it lasted at least one full day.  So, feel free to imagine whatever length of cold makes you comfortable, just give me at least a day to play with.  As always, feedback is greatly appreciated and can be directed to n.memmott@gte.net

I’ m all packed.

The bag’s in the car.  Nothing too obvious, just enough to get me by for a few days.

I don’t want him to see it.  If he does, he’ll know I’m leaving.

He can’t find out, not until I’m already gone.  If I have to see his face, if I have to watch his heart breaking, I’ll never be able to go.

And yet I can’t believe I’ve stayed this long.  Six months I’ve all but lived here, playing house with Richie.  We have each other’s routine down now, have eased into this rhythm of being in a relationship.  Give and take.  Check and balance.  Weaving our lives together as though there was actually some possibility that it would last.

But it never lasts.  How can any bond survive the weight of my past straining and tugging at it?  The burden might be lighter if I could share it with someone, but I will not see anyone... I will not see Richie... bent and stooped from trying to carry what is my responsibility.

He’s so strong, like a green tree branch that bends, but doesn’t break.  But as much as he’s faced, if I stayed with him it would be too much.  It would break him.  How could I live with myself if I did that?
 
 

O h, look.  I’ve made him laugh.  I like knowing that I have brought at least some light into his life.  It’s almost painful to see him smile now, though, knowing that this is one of the last of his smiles  I’ll ever see.  I probably won’t ever see him again after I leave, but even if I do, he’s not likely to smile at me.

I’m going to be selfish this one last time.  I’ll get through dinner.  We’ll make love one last time.  Then, while he sleeps, I’ll leave.

That will be best.  He’ll wake alone, but not for the first time.  It will be Wednesday tomorrow, and I’m always out of the house before he wakes up on Wednesday.  It will be dinner time before he even misses me.  By then I’ll be too far away to turn back, and we’ll both just move forward with our lives.

Yes, that’s the best plan.  I’ll leave tonight.
 
 

W ho would have guessed that I would fall so deeply asleep after we made love?  I had a mission, a plan had been made.  But my body betrayed me, relaxing into Richie’s arms the way it has since our first night together and falling as completely, dreamlessly asleep as it always does when I’m with him.  Now it’s morning, and I have a class to teach, things to do.  I could have abandoned them in the dead of night, but in the harsh light of day my duties weigh on me.  I’ll have to leave tonight.
 
 

R ichie caught a cold.  I know he’s immortal, but I had to make sure he was going to be all right.

He needed me.

In the long run I’m the worst thing that could have happened to him, but I’m an excellent doctor.  Of course I had to stay.

I’ll always remember this cold.  Not because Richie was far from the model patient, although he certainly ranks as one of the most troublesome I’ve ever had.  What I’ll hold on to is the way he reached for me when the fever was highest, when he was at his weakest.  Not MacLeod.  Not even modern medicine.  Me.

I should be worried that he looks to me first, when I’m the person most likely to disappoint him.  But, like an idiot, all I can feel is awe that Richie thinks of me as someone he can turn to.

Ahh, there it is again.  Such a beautiful pain.  It shocked me at first, this ache that comes over me when I think about how much I love him.  It hurts, but it has been so long since I felt anything at all that the sweet agony is welcome.  In fact, I positively wallow in it these days.

Oh, gods.

I have to get out of here.

His fever has broken, his cough is gone — the last traces of the cold have disappeared.  Richie’s completely recovered.

But he could have a relapse.  Even immortals do, sometimes, if they’re not careful.  And Richie won’t rest if I’m not here to drag him to bed.  He won’t eat anything but junk food if I’m not here to insist on something other than hamburgers and pizza.

I’d better stay through the week, just to be sure he takes care of himself.  But that’s all.

Next week, I’m gone.
 
 

I’ m still here.  It’s Tuesday night again, and the wretched bag is still in the trunk of my car and I’m here eating dinner with Richie as though I hadn’t lived the last month with one foot out the door.

There’s the problem:  getting the other foot out.  Sounds simple enough — just pick it up and set it on front of the other one, repeating until I have successfully walked away.

But there’s nothing simple about this.

So many little things that, added together, completely foiled my plans to go.

We were out walking until midnight.

It was MacLeod’s birthday.

We had dinner at the Dean’s house.

Now it’s Christmas Eve.

It’s relentless, the rushing tide of the Now, sweeping me along with utter disregard for what I know I should do.  What I have to do.

I have to go.

I have to.

But oh, how I want to stay.  How I want to keep living in this dream that Richie and I can make it through centuries, through forever together.

That’s all it is.  A dream.  A dream from which I have to wake up.

But not just yet.  It won’t make any difference if I stay just a little while longer.

Next week is a new year.  I don’t want Richie to be alone for that.

Who am I kidding?  I want midnight to find me wrapped in Richie’s arms having the breath kissed out of me as much as I have ever wanted anything.  I can give myself that, give both of us that, with a clear conscience.

A few more days mean nothing compared to the centuries I’ll have to live without him.

I’ll leave after New Years.
 
 

W e made it.

I can’t believe it’s our tenth anniversary.

Ten years together, when I wasn’t sure we were going to make it through one.

I was so scared.  Worried that I was going to do the wrong thing, or say the wrong thing.  Terrified that he’d actually be able to leave.

Methos likes to think he’s mysterious, but I could see it in his eyes.  He was going to leave.  I never said anything, though.

How could I?

I’ve never been so torn.  One minute I was furious that he would even consider walking away when he loved me.  The next minute all I could feel was utter despair at the prospect of life without him.  And underneath it all was the certainty that either response was sure to send him running away from me as fast and as far away as he could go.

Mac and Joe kept saying I should confront Methos, tell him I knew about the bag in his trunk.  They just didn’t get it.

Telling Methos that I knew he was planning to leave would have been like pouring cold water in a glass that’s still warm from the dishwasher.  It would shatter.  Methos would have shattered.  The life we had, the life I so desperately wanted, would have broken into a thousand shiny pieces.

All I could do was love him.

That was actually the easy part of the whole thing. I didn’t have a choice.  I’ve never had one.  From the moment we met I have been utterly, completely his.

And now, ten years later, there isn’t a part of me I can call my own.  Everything I am, everything I want, is bound up in him.

Of course, it’s the same way for him.  I have never been as sure of anything as I am that Methos loves me.  That he will always love me.

Even after all these years I see a hint of the shadows in his eyes sometimes.  He hasn’t completely accepted what I have never doubted — that he is exactly the person I am supposed to be with.

I still don’t know how to make him see himself the way that I see him.  Most of the time I swear he can read my mind, but he can’t see how perfect he is for me.

We’re working on it, though.  One day he’ll know.

Until then, I’ll tell him every day how happy he makes me, show him how much I love being with him.

I’d better start now.

© 2001 Nikki Memmott