Between Love and Obsession

by Gillian Leeds

Bryn snuggled closer to Methos, sighing contentedly. She listened to his low, even breathing and realized he was asleep, his arms still around her protectively. She kissed him gently at the base of his throat, smiling as he murmured softly. I never knew anything could be so ... so ... perfect, she thought, her eyes closing sleepily.

The buzz that hit them, waking Methos out of his peaceful slumber, coincided with the thumping on the front door. He leapt out of bed, heading for the living room where the Ivanhoe lay.

"Damn." Realizing he was naked, he hastily grabbed his jeans, tugging them on as he made his way down the hall.

"ADAM! BRYN! Open up, it's MacLeod."

MacLeod! He was really going to have to speak to that man about his timing! He yanked open the front door as MacLeod was in mid-knock.

"Where the hell have you been? Is Bryn with you?" MacLeod asked angrily, brushing past Methos and entering the apartment. Amanda followed him.

"Well, and a good morning or whatever hell time it is, to you too! Say why don't you come in. Make yourselves at home!" Methos retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he closed the door. "What do you two want? What time is it anyway?"

"It's 12:45," Amanda answered. She eyed the room, taking in the gutted candles.

"Where is Bryn? Is she here?" MacLeod's eyes scanned the living room.

Before Methos could answer him, Bryn appeared in the doorway, swaddled in a sheet, her hair a tangled mass of curls. "What's wrong? What's happened?" she asked sleepily.

On the couch, Amanda looked at Methos, her eyebrows raised in wonderment.

MacLeod took in Bryn's appearance, the colour in her cheeks, lips that had recently been thoroughly kissed. It slowly entered his mind the state of the living room, the candles, the music. He coloured slightly, realizing what they had interrupted. He looked over at Methos, who stared back at the Scot, daring him to say anything.

"Nothing, sweetheart. We were just worried about you that's all," MacLeod replied, embarrassed. "We were expecting you at Joe's earlier, and when you didn't show up ... with everything that's happened ... we just got worried. We tried to call, but the phone was off the hook."

"Yeah, ever occur to you that that might have been for a reason," Methos hissed.

MacLeod looked at Amanda. "We should go."

"What a brilliant idea. Goodbye." Methos opened the door and stood waiting for them to exit.

MacLeod and Amanda made their way to the door. Amanda paused in front of Bryn.

"I'm sorry, but I have to ask." She looked at Bryn with innocence. "I know that ... well for some of us, it's been ... um ... awhile to say the least." She glanced over at Methos. "And ... um ... well ... I worry that real age ... will do strange, funny things to a person ... and I just wondered ... well?" Her eyes raised in silent question.

"AMANDA!" MacLeod exploded.

"I don't believe this!" Methos glared at the ceiling. He walked over and took Bryn's hand. "I'm ... WE'RE ... going back to bed MacLeod! Don't be here when I get up again MacLeod!" He proceeded down the hallway with the sheet-wrapped Bryn in tow.

MacLeod grabbed Amanda and pushed her toward the door.

"Sometimes you are really the limit," he growled at her.

"Why? You were just as curious. Admit it, I only asked what you were thinking."

"OUT!"

As Amanda was exiting the apartment, Bryn's head popped around the bedroom doorway.

"Amanda."

The dark haired woman stopped. "Yeah?"

"Some things *are* better with age!" Bryn managed to grin at her before Methos dragged her back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Smiling, Amanda closed the door quietly.

Bryn woke first in the morning. The sun was high and it was closer to noon than to dawn, yet they had only managed five or six hours sleep. The scent of their lovemaking still hung heavy in the air.

She lay on her back beside Methos. He lay on his side, one arm flung over her possessively. Bryn spent almost an hour just staring at him as he slept. She gently traced his features, the planes of his face, the cords in his neck, the muscles in his arms. My God. He is 5,000 years old, she thought, the awe hitting her anew.

"Keep that up, and you'll find yourself in real trouble," Methos murmured without opening his eyes.

"What kind of trouble?" Bryn asked, leaning forward to kiss the base of his throat.

Methos moaned softly. "Same kind of trouble you got yourself into last night."

"Oooh, I hope so," she replied suggestively. She traced light kisses over his shoulders and chest, pausing now and again to take his skin in her teeth and give him a gentle nip. Methos gasped.

"Enough!" In one fluid motion he forced her onto her back, lifting himself over her. "I told you you'd get into trouble." He began to kiss her forehead, her eyelids, her ears, placing nibbling tiny bites on the most sensitive places.

Bryn arched against him when his mouth found her breast, drawing on one nipple, bringing it to complete tautness. She moaned in glorious contemplation of what was to come, as Methos moved his mouth lower and lower still over her belly. When she felt his breath brushing the inside of her thighs, she drew in a slow anticipating breath.

At the touch of his tongue on her, parting her, teasing her, she nearly came undone. He knew exactly how to touch her, how to bring alive the sensations within her. Bryn clenched her hands in his hair, raising her hips toward him, seeking release. His tongue kept on its sweet sensual assault, delving into her until she begged him to stop.

Methos drew away from her only long enough to maneuver himself between her legs.

She stared up at him. "But I want to ..."

He chuckled. "Not this time. I'd like to retain some of my sanity." He kissed her deeply, then, slowly; he trapped her arms above her head and laced his fingers with hers. Kissing her again, he entered her slowly, deliberately taking his time. She felt his hardness pressing into her, stretching her, filling her. Methos stared down into her eyes as they lay completely still for a moment.

"I love you," he whispered.

Then, continuing to stare at each other, they began to move together, each drinking in the other's pleasure and passion.

Methos rocked against her, sensation after sensation flooding him. He slowly withdrew from her before thrusting back inside her. Each time he sank into her was better than the time before. His motions became more forceful, quicker. He became mindless to everything but giving her fulfillment and finding his own.

Bryn joined him, matching his rhythm, crying her pleasure and her need of him. Finally, she reached an ecstasy so shattering she thought she'd died and gone to heaven.

When Bryn cried his name, Methos came with the force of ten creations. A physical explosion that jolted his body and seared him to his core. His head fell to the crook of her neck, his heart slamming against his chest, his senses dazed. Would it always be this way with her?

Afterward, Bryn clung to Methos, not wanting to move, ever, wanting to stay in bed for the rest of their days. When she told him this he laughed softly and kissed her, agreeing with her wholeheartedly. Still, he pointed out, even immortals had to eat and, because they had been otherwise occupied the night before, neither of them had had any dinner.

"I'm starving," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I've managed to work up quite an appetite." He grinned down at her. "I'll go have a shower, then I'll make us some breakfast."

Bryn snuggled deeper in to the bed, half-asleep, half-awake. She listened to the sound of the shower and to Methos and his pathetic attempt to sing. She was almost asleep again when the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stiffened, and she sat up abruptly. Someone was coming.

MacLeod! she thought with a smile, shaking her head. Methos would not be pleased. Bryn swung out of bed, pulling on her jeans. She hesitated slightly, then grabbed the gray Henley that Methos had worn the night before. It hung almost to her knees, and the smell of sandalwood and musk enveloped her. She grabbed a brush to tidy her hair with and padded toward the door, still aware that an immortal was nearby. Whoever it was began to knock.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. You know Duncan, your timing is really lousy lately. I'm gonna have to talk to ..." The sentence hung in the air as Bryn swung the door open and stood there, a look of terror on her face.

"Hi, princess. Remember me?" Stefan DeWinter smiled at her, before smashing the hilt of his sword viciously across her temple.

In the shower, the buzz hit Methos as he began to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. MacLeod or Amanda ... damn them, was his first thought. The awareness had a familiarity about it, but something inside him told him that it wasn't MacLeod or Amanda.

DeWinter!

He leapt from the shower, grabbed a towel and wrenched open the bathroom door.

MacLeod was on his way to pick up Amanda when his cell phone rang. He answered it on the first ring.

"Mac!" Joe's voice was strained.

"What's wrong Joe?" MacLeod was instantly on guard.

"It's DeWinter. He's in town. I lost three guys to him this morning. He's coming for Bryn. I tried to call, but the phone's off the hook. Can you get over there -- fast?" Joe prayed it wasn't too late.

"Yeah, I'm just driving by now." MacLeod stepped on the gas, and the T- Bird shot forward.

Two blocks later, the car screeched to a halt in front of the brownstone. MacLeod jumped out, yelling Bryn's name as he sprinted up the steps.

He met Methos in the foyer, dressed in hastily pulled on jeans, sword in hand. His eyes widened when he saw MacLeod.

"Where is that bastard! I am going to carve him so even his mother wouldn't recognize him. DEWINTER!"

MacLeod grabbed him by the shoulder. "They're gone."

The old man looked at MacLeod, anguish in his eyes and more pain on his face than the Highlander ever thought possible. And something else ... pure hatred.

MacLeod shook his head. "They're gone. I didn't see anyone. Methos ..."

Methos turned away from him. "He has her," he said hoarsely, running his hand through his hair. His head fell back and his eyes closed. "That son of a bitch!" A 5,000-year-old fist slammed into the banister in an attempt to release some of the pain. He stepped back, arms by his side, breath choppy, oblivious to the cracking and popping as the hand healed itself almost instantly.

MacLeod watched silent, knowing full well that nothing he could say or do would dispel the rage his friend was feeling.

Methos stood straight, chin up, a small twitching muscle in his cheek betraying his emotion. His eyes slid sideways, meeting MacLeod's. "I am going to kill that fucking bastard MacLeod," rumbled a deep voice. He turned, spitting his words out slowly through clenched teeth. "If I have to tear him apart limb from limb with my bare hands. He will die. He will die slowly. He will die painfully. I will inflict more agony on this bastard than you or he or anyone can even being to imagine. And I will enjoy every single second of it."

In the course of their friendship, MacLeod had seen Methos assume many faces, but not this one, this was a darkness he had never seen before. He swallowed slowly, shuddering, not doubting the old man for a minute. "First we have to find them," he reminded Methos. A task that could prove difficult and in the end, futile. DeWinter had what he came for. Now he would run.

"Call Dawson. Now," Methos thundered, climbing the stairs. "If he'd kept better track of that bastard in the first place ..."

MacLeod pursed his lips, wondering just what would happen if they didn't find DeWinter. The thought of the torture he would put Bryn through made him feel physically ill, not to mention what her loss would do to Methos. He hurriedly pushed the thought from his mind. The last thing he needed to contemplate was what he would do with a 5,000-year old man completely consumed with rage and grief. Or just what such a 5,000-year- old man might be capable of.

"WHORE!" The word was accompanied by another blow to the head and Bryn gasped in pain. Her head was ringing, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. For her, healing was a slow process.

She was not sure where she was or how long she had been there, drifting in and out of reality. She only knew that it was dark and cold and she could hear the wind and rain outside. DeWinter had handcuffed her feet and hands around a thick wooden pillar. A heavy chain was attached to the first set of handcuffs, ensuring that she couldn't slump to the floor. She remained in a half-standing, half-kneeling position.

Bryn turned to face him, blood matting her hair. "You bastard. You killed Tara!"

DeWinter laughed. "Ahh, yes. Sorry about that. The bullet was actually meant for you, but big sister had to interfere one last time. She has no one to blame but herself, you know. Just like you have no one to blame but yourself for where you are right now." He bent down to her, placing his face near hers. "Do you think I don't know what you've been up to, princess, hmmm? I know everything. I watched it all ... the candles ... everything. You never went down on me like that, at least not until I made you." His tongue flicked across his lips at the memory. "I think we'll have to replay that scene a time or two until you have as much enthusiasm for me as you did for him."

"I'd rather die first," Bryn spat.

"It can be arranged," he countered. "I can wait until you come back." He laughed as he saw the horror of her situation fully dawn on her. "And I thought you had no passion. It's amazing what you can see from the rooftop across the street. Even on the third floor your friend should give some thought to closing his blinds at night. But, oh, I forget, it won't matter after this will it." The fist smashed into her again. "SLUT! I can still smell him on you. But by the time I'm through with you, the only thing you'll smell of is blood, and death."

"Why are you doing this? Why me? What did I ever do to you?" Bryn pleaded.

"I do it ... because I can, and because you made me. You left me." Stefan reached out and stroked the matted curls. "You were special. I was going to let you share your life with me. I was going to let you live. I chose you. I could have had anyone ... but ... I ... chose ... YOU!" He cuffed her sharply. "You promised to be mine forever, and then you left. You lied." His fingers abruptly sank into Bryn's hair, grabbing a handful and yanking her head back cruelly. "I don't like being lied to, princess. No one ever lies to me, and no one ever leaves me. Not unless I say so. My game. My rules. You forgot that, didn't you?"

Bryn looked up into dark eyes that were startlingly absent of colour, merely muddy pools set in white. "You really are twisted, you know that Stefan?" she hissed. "You are one very sick son of a bitch." I won't go down without a fight. Not this time.

"Oh princess," DeWinter breathed, "you don't know the half of it."

Bryn saw the fist raise again and cringed. It struck her, and her head hit the pillar. She descended into peaceful darkness.

The gentle swish of the windshield wipers was the only sound in the vehicle as the Range Rover moved slowly through the streets. MacLeod drove. Methos sat in the passenger seat, slumping farther and farther down as the search continued. Twelve hours. She had been gone for twelve hours.

They had sat in the apartment waiting for DeWinter to call, but he didn't. Why should he? He had what he wanted. He had Bryn. After a while Methos could stand the waiting no longer. Leaving Joe at the apartment in case he did call, the two immortals hit the streets, hoping that chance would lead them to DeWinter, to Bryn.

Methos searched frantically for any sense of her. But there was nothing. Not a trace of her, not a hint or a reminder that she had ever existed, except for the lonely aching in his heart and the anger in his brain. This time last night, I was making love to her, and now she is gone. Damn Stefan DeWinter to hell! I will hunt him down, and I will make him pay for this. If it is the very last thing I do, if I have to hunt for him the rest of my days. I will take his head. It occurred to him that he didn't simply want Stefan's head; death alone would be too easy; he wanted him to suffer.

The cell phone rang abruptly, and the old immortal sat up, hopeful that some news would finally come their way.

"Joe?" MacLeod answered the ring.

"Yeah, I got something. It's not much, but it might help. I managed to track down Jason Danner. He used to be DeWinter's Watcher. He was the one who was there when DeWinter ... well, when he got to Bryn the last time."

His voice was calm, but the fact that Joe let slip a Watchers full name was indication enough of his concern over the situation.

Methos searched MacLeod's face for some sign that the information Joe was relaying to him would help.

"Anyway, Danner said that whenever DeWinter had a new toy to play with, he liked to take them to a place that meant something to them. He took a school teacher to an old abandoned school house, a cruise director on an empty ship, that sort of thing." Joe sighed deeply. "But what I can't figure out is where the hell he would take Bryn. She's an interior decorator for Christ's sake. Where's he gonna take her, a paint store? Sorry, Mac. I wish I had more."

"That's fine, Joe, you did the best you could." MacLeod glanced over at Methos, seeing the anger and disappointment in his face.

"How's the old guy doing? Will he be okay?" Joe asked, concern in his voice.

"Not well. And no, I don't think so."

"Well, I'll call if something else comes up. I got guys working on this across the country and in Europe. We're watching the airports in case he tries to take her somewhere. I'll keep in touch."

MacLeod put away the phone and told Methos what Joe had said.

He slumped farther into his seat. "I have to find her Mac, I have to. I promised her I would protect her. And I failed. If he's touched her, if he's ..." The sentence died in the immortal's throat. He looked out the window, overwhelmed with the thought of facing tomorrow, and possibly the rest of his life without her.

"We'll find her. We just have to figure out where he would take her. What place would have a connection to Bryn? Where would you take an interior designer that would mean something to her?" MacLeod slammed his fist into the steering wheel in frustration.

"Wait a minute," Methos sat up suddenly. "He doesn't know what she does now. He only knows her as a dancer!"

The two immortals looked at each other.

"The old theatre on the north end," Methos muttered softly.

MacLeod slammed on the brakes and did a U-turn amidst honks and shouts from other drivers. The Rover sped off into the night.

When Bryn finally gained consciousness, her first thought was that she was alone. He's left me to die. She wondered how many times an immortal could die of starvation and come back to life. She grimaced at the idea. I think I would rather he just take my head, get it over with. She thought of Methos and smiled sadly, hoping with all her heart that he wouldn't blame himself but knowing that he would. "I love you Methos. Alive or dead, that will never change," she whispered. The buzz caught her unaware, and she struggled to see which direction it came from.

"Ahh, saying a prayer to your lover are you?" DeWinter stepped out from behind a half-demolished wall. "Hoping that he'll come and rescue you. It won't help. I'll take his head too. Perhaps I'll make you watch. You've never seen a quickening have you? It's a lot of fun, I'm sure you'll enjoy it immensely." He laughed softly.

"It's you whose going to lose their head," Bryn retorted angrily. "Methos will come for me, and when he does ..." Too late, she realized her mistake in revealing his identity to DeWinter.

"METHOS?" He stared at her in amazement. "Adam Pierson? One and the same? Adam Pierson is in actuality Methos, the legendary 5,000-year-old immortal! Unbelievable." He paced back and forth slowly, thinking. "This is quite a coup you know. I really must thank you; I would never have found him on my own. I wasn't even looking. I actually doubted his existence. The power that will be mine when I take his head is really quite astounding. I will be ... unbeatable." He giggled slightly, overawed with the knowledge of what was within his grasp.

Bryn cursed her error and glared at DeWinter. "He is better than you. He WILL take your head."

DeWinter pressed his face close to hers. "Oh, I don't think so, princess. He won't want anything to happen to you, will he? In fact, I'd make a bet that he'd give up anything to have you safe ... even his head."

Bryn spit in his face. "Bastard!"

DeWinter picked up a piece of wood that lay on the floor and shattered it over the back of her skull.

Bryn smiled up at him in triumph as her eyes began to roll back in her head and death crept over her.

The Range Rover pulled up outside the old Princess Theatre. MacLeod turned off the lights and the engine. "I don't see anyone," he said, peering out the window.

"Well, it's not like he's going to put up a sign is it," Methos replied bitterly, opening the door and getting out.

MacLeod followed.

They stood, silently appraising the building. The Princess Theatre had been built at the turn of the century and for almost 60 years enjoyed great popularity. Then, in the early 70s it had hit hard times, passing quickly from owner to owner, each one taking from the beautiful building what they could before passing her along. Finally, in the early 80s, a large conglomerate had purchased the building, and the ones around it, with the intention of demolishing them and building a huge office complex. Demolition had begun but was halted when the conglomerate hit bankruptcy and folded. Since then, the theatre had sat empty, neither demolished enough for a builder to be interested, nor in tact enough to be refurbished and realize its glory days again. It sat in the middle of a section of five or six streets with buildings that had all suffered the same fate. No warm welcoming lights shined out into the darkness. It reminded MacLeod of a ghost town.

"I'm going inside." Methos took his sword from the vehicle and headed for the door.

MacLeod pulled the Katana from his coat and followed.

Inside, what little sense of stability that the theatre had projected on its outside was gone. Broken beams and plaster lay everywhere. Gaping holes in walls allowed Methos to see into several areas at once, the furthermost hazy in the darkness. He picked his way carefully through the rubble. He couldn't feel her; he couldn't feel anyone. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she wasn't here after all. Perhaps she was on the other side of town with DeWinter torturing her, beating her. Perhaps she was dead. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind and concentrate. If she were alive, he wouldn't be much use to her if he didn't have control of himself. I waited 5,000 years for her, I won't give her up that easily.

Bryn gasped and opened her eyes. Life. The death part was easy; it was the rebirth that took her breath away.

DeWinter leaned against a post and regarded her with disdain. "Back again are we. Enjoy your little trip into oblivion?" He sauntered toward her. "I think it's time we had a bit of fun." From his coat pocket he drew out a lighter.

Click.

The flame burned high and bright. Bryn's eyes fixated on it as DeWinter came closer to her.

"No, please. Don't. Please." She turned her head away from him, whimpering softly as he came nearer.

"The time for mercy is gone, princess." He licked his lips and slowly ran the flame under Bryn's exposed arm. She screamed.

Methos was about to give up, when a scream broke the silence. His head jerked around in that direction. Bryn! He glanced at MacLeod, and the two slowly began to pick their way toward the sound. Both were wary that if they got too close, DeWinter would sense them.

Stefan giggled at the tears running down her face. "Oh come, come. It doesn't hurt that bad, does it?"

"Give me the goddamned lighter and I'll help you find out." Her voice was heavy with emotion. How long would he keep this up? How long would he torture her? Months? Years? She felt sick at the thought.

"Tut tut. And here I thought you were stronger than that." DeWinter extinguished the flame, the amusement over with for the moment.

Suddenly they both became aware that they were not alone. "I do believe you were right, princess. We are about to have company. Your knight in shining armor I expect." DeWinter moved to a makeshift table and grabbed the rapier that lay there.

"Leave her alone DeWinter. Let her go, and you can walk out of here." Methos stood just beyond the edge of the stage, the Ivanhoe in his hand. His eyes flickered over to Bryn, thanking the gods that she was still alive.

Her heart leapt with joy at the sight of him. Then her face crumpled as she realized what now must happen.

"Let me see ... hm, let her go and walk away. Not much in it for me is there? No, I don't think so, sorry." DeWinter walked over to Bryn, sword in hand. "I think I'll just take her head now. Exit after the foreplay, so to speak. It won't be much of a quickening, but every little bit helps." He placed the razor sharp edge of the sword against Bryn's neck, and a thin red line appeared.

"Do that and your head is gone before her quickening is over," Methos thundered.

DeWinter laughed. "Ah yes, but you lose. No Bryn. How sad for you ... METHOS!"

The only evidence that the oldest immortal noted DeWinter's use of his real name was a slight flicker of his eye in Bryn's direction. Their eyes met briefly, hers silently apologizing for her indiscretion, his forgiving her immediately. Methos returned his gaze to DeWinter.

The two men eyed each other silently.

DeWinter smiled. "Well, I do believe what we have here is what they call a Mexican Standoff. What ever are we to do?" The sword cut deeper into Bryn's neck, and she whimpered in terror.

"You hurt her DeWinter and I promise you, you will die a slower death than you ever thought possible," Methos seethed, his tone erasing any possible doubt as to his seriousness. "By the time I'm through with you, you'll beg me to kill you, though I seriously doubt you'll have a tongue to do it with."

"But that wouldn't bring her back, would it?" DeWinter replied, glancing down at Bryn. "She'd still be gone, still dead. No 5,000 years for poor little Bryn." He laughed softly. "Not even thirty. She'd have been better off being mortal." He looked up at Methos. "Tell me, how much does she mean to you, Methos?"

Methos didn't answer. His eyes narrowed, wondering what game DeWinter was playing now.

"I asked you a question. If you don't want her to die in front of you, I suggest you answer me!" DeWinter screamed. "How much does this bitch mean to you?"

"Everything," Methos roared. His eyes closed and he clamped his lips together as the realization hit him that he had just done exactly what DeWinter wanted him to do. He'd lost his control. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the wind and the creaking of the old theatre. "She means ... everything to me."

Stefan smiled. "And what does 'everything' mean exactly?" His hand reached out and caressed Bryn's cheek. She closed her eyes, recoiling from his touch. "Do you know what it's like to lose her? Hmmmm? To have her in your bed, then have her gone?" DeWinter chuckled. "Of course you do. I've made sure you know."

Methos felt his skin crawl as he watched the man continue to fondle Bryn. His hand clenched and unclenched the Ivanhoe, feeling helpless. He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing his temper, reminding himself that this was a show for his benefit. DeWinter wanted him to get angry, wanted him to make a mistake.

"By the way, that was a lovely little performance you two put on last night." Stefan's eyes wandered back to Methos. "I wonder just how many times I'll have to screw her before she forgets about you."

Anger eclipsed rationality. "You fucking bastard." Methos leapt onto the stage, sword raised. Even he had his limits. He stopped when he saw a trickle of blood, scarlet against the white of Bryn's neck.

"Temper, temper." DeWinter smirked and shook his head. "5,000 years and the best you can come up with is 'you fucking bastard'? I at least expected ancient Greek."

"I'm struggling to keep it at your intelligence level, DeWinter. Simple, direct and easy to understand." Methos shot back. "Some would call it idiot proof. Besides, even in hieroglyphics, you'd still be a fucking bastard."

"Ahh, yes," DeWinter countered, "but at the moment, THIS fucking bastard has both a sword and the girl! Let's not forget that, shall we? It might be detrimental to her health."

"So just exactly what do you want?" Methos spat, his patience wearing thin.

"I want what we all want. A quickening. Yours. Hers. Both." He shrugged. "It really doesn't matter ... although I think I would rather prefer yours." Stefan watched with amusement, the play of emotions across the old man's face.

Methos stood, clenching his jaw, rage barely contained. "So why don't you quit hiding behind her, hmm? Why don't you just let her go? Then you and I can get on with this." He stepped cautiously toward them, keeping a close eye on DeWinter's blade, wondering if he could take the man's head before he took Bryn's. He didn't think so, and it wasn't something he wanted to try and fail at.

DeWinter laughed. "I was thinking of something a little less ... predictable.

Quite frankly, if you think I'm just going to let my advantage walk away, you're either very hopeful or very stupid. And I don't think you've survived 5,000 years being either. No, Methos, I'm not going to fight you. I never was."

Methos closed his eyes momentarily, searching his mind in vain for a solution or a plan, finding neither. He sighed, he had hoped to avoid this, but it seemed inevitable. "You want a trade."

DeWinter chuckled. "My, aren't we just brilliance itself."

Methos nodded. "All right." He sighed and looked away, loathe to voice the next sentence. "My head ... for her life."

"NO!" screamed Bryn. "NO! YOU CAN'T. PLEASE. NO!" She began to sob.

DeWinter cuffed her savagely across the face. "Shut up, whore. It's more than I'd ever have done for you."

"Do not touch her!" Methos bellowed.

"What do you care? You won't be around to enjoy her anyway," DeWinter queried, then shrugged. "Fine. If it gives you pleasure to think of her unmarred little face while you're having your head cut off ... who am I to argue with a dying man."

Methos stood silent, glaring at him. He swallowed slowly. "She walks away, you never go near her again. You don't talk to her. You don't touch her. You leave her completely alone, understood? If you do, you will die. It might not be by my hand, but you will die? Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Oh perfectly," DeWinter purred. "But I too have a few conditions." He eased the sword away from Bryn's neck slightly. "If I stay away from her, I have your word that none of your friends will come after me, not today, not tomorrow, not ever?"

"You have my word that none of my friends will take your head," Methos said with clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving Bryn's face.

"And that you'll allow me to take your head without raising your sword to defend yourself?" DeWinter was almost gleeful.

"I give you my word that this sword will not be raised to you."

"Then I believe we have a deal." DeWinter leered down at Bryn, who sat in stunned silence, staring at Methos, tears trickling down her face. "I'll even be gracious and allow you two lovers time to say your goodbyes. Oh, and by the way, you can tell your friend to come out into the light. I knew he was there all the time." He looked pointedly into the darkness beyond the stage.

MacLeod stepped forward, anger and hatred clearly visible as he stared at DeWinter. "If this were up to me ..."

"Well, it's not, so shut up!" snapped DeWinter, turning toward Methos. "He'd better not come after me when this is over. If I go down I take her with me, rest assured, she is only as safe as I am."

"Leave him be, MacLeod, I gave my word." Methos moved across the stage toward Bryn. He raised the Ivanhoe, bringing it down in one heavy swoop, severing the chain that held her up. He repeated the blows to the handcuffs. She collapsed into his arms, weeping. Together they sank to the floor.

"No, you can't. I won't let you. Please Methos. Don't do this. Not for me. You've lived 5,000 years. You are important. I'm nothing. Let him have me. Please," Bryn pleaded, clinging to him. She couldn't let this happen. It wouldn't happen. She had to change his mind, had to make him see reason.

Methos cradled her in his arms, rocking her gently. "You are important. You are the most important thing I can remember having in my life. I have to do this Bryn." He kissed her gently on the forehead. "Bryn, look at me." Cupping her chin with his hand, he forced her to face him, staring into her eyes. "I love you. More than I think I have ever loved anyone in my entire life, all 5,000 years of it!" He smiled at her and brushed her hair away from her face with his hand. "I have lived a good life, a long life. And if I have to die today in order for you to have a long and happy life, so be it. I would give that to you. You really are everything to me." He took her hand and placed it over his heart. "You are here, and you always will be. I will always be with you, no matter what." With that he kissed her, a deep, long kiss, hoping it wouldn't be their last.

"Oh, enough already, you're making me ill," DeWinter muttered. "ENOUGH!" He raised his sword, and advanced toward them.

Methos broke away from Bryn, pulling her up to stand beside him. "MacLeod," he called, not taking his eyes from her.

MacLeod slowly walked to the couple. "Come, Bryn, it's time to go," he said softly, putting his arm around her and drawing her to him.

"NO!" She threw his arm off. "I'm not going anywhere. This isn't going to happen. I won't let it. I won't let you die, I won't. Please Methos. Please, please, don't do this." She wrapped her arms around the immortal, weeping.

Bryn's sobs tore through Methos' heart; he hated causing her so much pain. "Go love, please. It will be easier for me if you are not here." He tenderly unwrapped her arms from around his waist and kissed her. "It will be fine. Trust me." He raised his hand for a final touch of her cheek before MacLeod gently led her away.

"NO!" Her anguished cries filled the room. MacLeod wrapped his arms around her waist and half dragged-half carried her down the stairs and toward the door. At the doorway he turned to look at Methos, then, giving an almost imperceptible nod, he turned and took Bryn out.

DeWinter began to applaud. "How very touching. It almost brought a tear to my eye ... NOT!"

"Let's just get on with this shall we," Methos hissed.

"Fine by me. Any preference where you want to die, or do I get to pick?"

Methos looked around the room and slowly walked over to the area where MacLeod had appeared. "This looks as good as any." He dropped to his knees.

"I'd feel much better if you didn't have that in your hand." DeWinter pointed to the Ivanhoe. "Not that I don't trust you or anything."

Methos gritted his teeth, then tossed the sword across the stage where it landed with a clatter. Completely unarmed, he took a deep, steadying breath.

"Well, it has been fun ... at least for some of us. Ta-ta for now." DeWinter raised his sword to his full height, hesitated momentarily and then, with all his strength, swung the blade downward.

With the edge of the sword inches from his neck, Methos rolled suddenly to his left, throwing himself as far as he could.

DeWinter's sword cut into the wooden floor with a sickening thud. He screamed his frustration when he realized Methos and his head were still attached.

"YOU BASTARD, you gave me your word that I could take your head."

"No, I gave you my word that none of my friends would take your head. I saved that pleasure for myself." Methos scrambled off the edge of the stage, rolling into a heap of rubble and wood.

"You said you wouldn't raise your sword to me!" DeWinter was wild with anger.

"Yeah, I did," Methos snarled, "but I never said anything about this sword." With that he grabbed the Katana from where MacLeod had left it and lunged back onto the stage toward DeWinter.

MacLeod continued to half drag-half carry Bryn outside. Her sobbing had slowly subsided to grief-filled silence.

"I can ... I can walk now."

"Are you sure?" MacLeod stopped and looked at her.

She nodded. "You have to go back Duncan, you have to help him." She stared at him with tears in her eyes. "I love him," she whispered.

MacLeod brushed her tears away. "I know you do. But I have to leave them. It's part of the Game, part of the rules."

"Damn the Game! Damn the rules!" Bryn exploded. "He's your best friend, and he's going to lose his head in there, and you don't give a damn."

MacLeod pulled her against him. Oh, I do give a damn. "Come on, let's get out of the rain." He guided her gently toward the Rover.

When they reached the vehicle Duncan made the mistake of turning his back on her. Bryn quietly bent down and picked up a piece of discarded wood. When MacLeod turned around to speak to her, she swung it. It cracked him on the side of his head, knocking him senseless.

"Forgive me Duncan," she whispered, turning to re-enter the theatre.

The Katana had been weighted and balanced for MacLeod's hand, not for Methos. Thus he spent the first several minutes of the fight simply playing defense and blocking DeWinter's attacks, trying to relax the feel of the sword in his hand. It was lighter than the Ivanhoe, thus requiring less strength. He often found himself swinging it wildly, unable to accurately gauge the force needed. So it was that when Bryn came upon the scene, the battle seemed very one sided.

Grunts of exertion, and the clang of metal meeting metal mixed with the roar of the rain, as outside, the heavens opened up. Bryn thought of MacLeod and wished she had taken the time to drag him into the Range Rover.

With a solid wall at his back, Methos knew he was quickly running out of space to retreat into. He parried and deflected DeWinter's blows, feeling more and more comfortable with the Katana.

DeWinter was suprised at the ease with which he had been able to dominate the fight. He laughed, "I've fought better mortals than you. What the hell have you been playing at for 5,000 years?"

Time to get on with this, thought Methos. He lunged forward, catching DeWinter off-guard and making him stumble backward, losing his balance. Catching his opponent in the stomach with his shoulder, Methos sent both of them flying across the stage and into the table.

The two tumbled over one another, each searching for the advantage. DeWinter brought his blade up defensively against Methos' sword, grunting with effort as he tried to throw him off. "That's more like it, at least give me a bit of competition. That way I'll be able to tell Bryn you were a worthy adversary," DeWinter breathed. He pushed with all his might, managing to force the old man backward and away from him. He caught Methos across the chest with his sword as he did so.

Methos groaned, his shoulders moving forward involuntarily with pain. He caught sight of DeWinter out of the corner of his eye, just managing to step backward in time to miss being completely ran through by the man's sword.

DeWinter turned and hurled himself at Methos, their bodies colliding and toppling to the floor. The two men rolled, each scrambling for a foothold. Methos slammed his forehead into DeWinter's nose, and a flow of blood cascaded down the man's face. He howled in pain. Methos released him and struggled to his feet, sword in hand.

From her vantage point at the back of the old theatre, Bryn watched in anguish. Now that she was there, she wasn't sure what she should do. She stayed on the peripheral, well aware that if she got any closer, both men would sense her.

Methos and DeWinter circled each other again, their breathing raspy and audible.

"So what drives a guy like you DeWinter, huh? What made you the psychopath you are? What was it? Were you picked on in school? Get one too many Mensa rejection letters? What?" Methos stalled, allowing himself time to catch his breath, knowing that DeWinter was doing the same thing.

"It's fun," DeWinter responded. "You should try it sometime. The fear in their eyes. That tone in their voice when they realize that you really are going to kill them. There's nothing like it. It's not the same with immortals, not even close. Do you know what it's like to look into their faces and know you are the last living thing they will ever see? That you hold the power of life and death, all in the flick of a sword?" He licked his lips and smiled. "Ah, I see you do. Intoxicating isn't it?"

"Yeah, like cyanide," Methos replied. He noticed a minute tensing in DeWinter's arm and a flicker in his eye. He was preparing to attack. Methos tightened his grip on his sword in anticipation.

DeWinter laughed, then lunged forward, the blade of his sword taking direct aim at Methos' head.

Methos blocked the move, countering with one of his own. DeWinter deflected it.

The two men stalked each other warily, then began again. DeWinter attacked, Methos deflected. Methos lunged, DeWinter parried. The exercise was repeated again and again, with no clear winner or loser. Joe, was right, Methos thought, this bastard *is* good.

Bryn continued to watch, holding her breath. Please, please don't let him die, she prayed. I can't lose him, not after losing Tara.

DeWinter continued to challenge aggressively, looking for any type of advantage. His earlier belief that this would be an easy kill had dissipated somewhat. Methos was proving harder and harder to defeat. He rarely made a mistake; not really that surprising given that he had had 5,000 years of practice. Any small error he did make was quickly corrected.

Advantage, when it came, favoured Methos. DeWinter lunged forward, landing heavily on his right foot. The wooden stage beneath his feet snapped, throwing him off-balance. His glance lowered as he struggled to prevent himself from sliding farther into the hole in the floor. It was all the invitation Methos needed. He raised his sword for the kill.

Mesmerized by what was going on, Bryn wandered closer than she had intended. It suddenly occurred to her that she was close enough for her presence to be felt. She hastily began to move back into the depths of the theatre. In her hurry, she stumbled clumsily over a pile of debris. Long pieces of wood had been wedged against one wall in order to keep it from falling. Bryn's arm caught the wooden supports, toppling them. Without the brace, the wall came down in a mighty crash. Bryn froze in horror.

The clatter and the buzz hit Methos as he started the downward cut, and he paused momentarily. Given the way it flickered, wavering in and out, Methos knew it was Bryn. Somehow she had gotten away from MacLeod, and was back in the building, heading his way. "Bryn!" he screamed. "NO! Stay away. Leave. Now." His eyes scanned the darkness for her, knowing that if he felt her, she couldn't be far away.

The momentary lapse in his concentration allowed DeWinter to reclaim his footing. He lunged forward, sword raised, catching Methos unaware. The dull sound of metal meeting flesh filled the air.

Bryn heard Methos shout at her but chose to ignore his commands. She gasped when she saw DeWinter's sword cut through Methos' belly. This couldn't be happening. A strangled cry escaped her lips as she watched her lover drop to his knees. His sword fell to his side and pain marked his face.

"Well, isn't this ironic," spat DeWinter, eyes blazing at the immortal knelt before him. "The woman you are trying to save will actually be the death of you. I must remember to thank her. If she hadn't shown up and distracted you, I think you might have had me." He flicked his sword across Methos' wrist, and he dropped the Katana. The sound of it hitting the ground echoed throughout the theatre. DeWinter viciously kicked it out of reach.

Bryn quietly crossed to the right side of the stage, darting between the piles of rubble. Suddenly a glint caught her eye. She looked up. DeWinter had his back to her. Silently she climbed the crumbling stairs to the stage.

"Are you watching Bryn?" DeWinter screamed into the nothingness. He couldn't feel her or see her, but he knew she was out there ... watching. "You won't want to miss what happens next. It's going to be one hell of a light show." His hollow laugh echoed through the theatre.

Bryn's movement caught Methos' eye. He watched her, knowing that it was too late. There was nothing she could do to prevent DeWinter from taking his head. Anger tore through him that he had failed her and now DeWinter would make her life a living hell. He prayed that MacLeod would see fit to break his promise of not taking the man's head. That the promise Duncan had made earlier to the ancient immortal, to protect Bryn if Methos were not successful in finishing DeWinter, would be the one he kept.

His gaze caught Bryn's as she stole silently across the stage, heading for the Ivanhoe. The farewell she saw in his eyes twisted her heart and pushed all rationale from her mind.

Bryn's scream was more primal than anything Methos could ever remember hearing. A guttural sound from the base of her soul that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and a shudder run the length of his spine. He watched, open mouthed, as she lunged forward, grabbed the sword and pirouetted in one graceful move. Her eyes focused on DeWinter. With another scream, she attacked, both hands on the hilt of the heavy sword lying on her shoulder.

The wail caught Stefan off guard. He hadn't expected her so near. Why hadn't he felt her? He turned toward Bryn, finding her almost on top of him. His eyes widened when he realized what she had in her hands and just how close to him she was. She was too close for him to bring his sword up with any degree of resistance. In his haste to move out of her way, he stumbled, clumsily twisting an ankle and dropping down on one knee.

"No!" Methos yelled, realizing it was already too late. He watched powerless as Bryn swung his sword like a baseball bat, slicing through the air, putting every ounce of her strength into it. The swing was wild, the force of it throwing Bryn forward. The lower part of the sword cut clean through DeWinter's neck, with the tip of the blade coming dangerously close to doing the same to Methos. He leaned back as far as he could, head turned slightly sideways, eyes screwed shut. He cringed as the razor-sharp edge of his own sword passed inches from his neck.

As she swung the blade, Bryn closed her eyes, flinching at the sound of a head hitting the floor. She opened them again, avoiding the headless body at her feet. She gave a sigh of relief at the sight of Methos, still alive, still breathing. She dropped the sword and moved toward him, halting suddenly as she caught the look in his eyes.

Methos looked up at her, fighting the urge to go to her and wrap her in his arms. Knowing that she didn't have a clue of what was about to happen to her, his first instinct was to protect her from spectral beating her body would take. But he couldn't. This was a journey all immortals traveled alone.

"Bryn, love ...," he began, rising to his feet. "Relax, love, okay? Just relax. You'll be fine. It will be easier if you relax, remember that. Don't fight it. I'll be here."

She watched him with confusion as he backed away from her slowly. What was he talking about? It was then that she noticed the thick mist that rose from DeWinter's body. She gasped in horror as it came toward her, swirling around and enveloping her.

Methos closed his eyes, wishing this weren't about to happen. Wishing he could do this for her. But he couldn't. All he could do was stand helpless and watch her, dying inside at the horror on her face and the knowledge that it was only going to get much worse.

A blue, jagged bolt of lightening cut through Bryn's body, causing every muscle in it to tense. She screamed, more in fear than pain, but that soon changed. Soon she felt as if every nerve in her body were alive. She was dying. Being stabbed by a thousand unseen needles. Bearing a thousand children.

The second bolt knocked her completely off her feet, hurling her like a rag doll, slamming her into a wooden post. Around her, the remainder of the old theatre was beginning to disintegrate under the force of the assault. Wooden beams and fragments of plaster fell on every side of her.

Methos wondered how they missed falling on her. The sound was deafening, and most of that sound was coming from Bryn.

Images flickered through her mind, images of places she'd never been, people she'd never known. I'm dying, she thought. This is what it is like to die. Then she thought no more, simply slipping away into her mind, until the last jolt of electricity left her body. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing and gasping for breath, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Methos was beside her instantly, dropping to the floor and dragging her onto his lap, cursing himself as he did so. He should have waited, should have made sure that the quickening hadn't left behind more of Stefan than it did of Bryn. His fears abated when she curled up on his lap like a small kitten, whimpering. He hugged her against him, murmuring softly to her.

"Shhh, you're okay. I have you. You're safe. It's over." He wrapped her in his arms, laying one hand on the side of her head. He held her so tightly to his body that Bryn could hear his heart thundering in his chest. She found the sound comforting. For several long minutes, neither spoke.

Bryn lay exhausted in his arms, her body and mind numb. "I thought ... I thought I was dead," she finally managed. "What ... what did I do wrong?"

Methos smiled. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart. That was a quickening." He looked down at her, brushing the matted, blood-soaked hair from her face.

"That's supposed to happen?" she asked incredulously. "That will happen every time?"

He nodded, feeling her shudder.

They held each other silently for several more minutes.

"Methos," Bryn finally said, fighting back tears.

"Mmmm." He pressed his lips to her forehead, knowing instinctively what she was going to say.

She shifted herself to look him in the eyes. "I don't think I can do this. I don't *want* to do this. I don't *want* to be immortal," she said, gulping. Tears began to drop down her cheeks.

"I know, my love, I know. But that's what we are. What we will always be." Methos brushed the tears away gently.

"I don't ever want to do that again, okay?"

"Bryn ..."

"NO! Not ever, understand?"

He could see the O'Neill stubbornness start to creep back into her eyes, but he saw terror more than anything else. There would be a better time to debate the point. He could wait. "All right." Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her tenderly. "I love you," he told her as the kiss ended.

"I love you too," she replied. "Can we go home now?"

He nodded, moving her off his lap and onto the floor. He stood, hauling her up beside him.

Bryn groaned loudly. Every muscle in her body ached and screamed for attention. She flexed her shoulders tentatively.

"You okay?" Methos asked her, gently pulling her to him and wrapping one arm around her waist.

Bryn grimaced at him, "Yeah, I think so ... but I'd kill for a bath."

Methos slammed shut the door of the Rover and appraised the red brick building across the street. Almost a month had passed since he had last seen MacLeod in Bordeaux. If he had his choice, he wasn't sure he would have come back at all. But Bryn was here. And he'd fight the devil himself to be with her. In some ways I have, he thought to himself silently.

It had been six months since she had left with Amanda, seven since DeWinter's demise. At first, Methos had been unable to convince Bryn to even pick up a sword, much less begin to teach her how to use one. She had adamantly refused to learn how to fight. Methos had begged, pleaded, reasoned, threatened -- all to no avail. At one point he even went so far as to attack her, hoping to scare her into protecting herself. O'Neill stubbornness had won. Bryn simply stood her ground, glaring at him for a moment before stalking off to the spare bedroom, slamming the door in his face. She had refused to speak to him and hadn't come out until the next morning, at which time he had apologized profusely.

Then one day the inevitable had happened. She had run into someone. Bryn had been out shopping. Alone. She had felt the immortal presence and had hurried to get away from it. The man had followed her, confronting her when she foolishly tried to take a shortcut through an alley. Only the passing curiosity of a Seacouver police car had saved her. The officer had seen the man follow her into the alley and wanted to make sure she was all right. Bryn had fled home, completely terrified. The next day she approached Methos, quietly asking him to teach her.

A week later, he approached Amanda, reluctantly admitting that he was more than likely not the best one to be Bryn's teacher. He smiled at the memory of the few lessons they had had together and just where those lessons had led. Not that he was complaining.

Bryn had left with Amanda, muttering furiously about being sent off to a convent like a wayward child. He could still see her angry, tear-stained face through the window of the Explorer as they drove away. Amanda had insisted he give them six months, during which time he was to stay away completely. She had coolly informed him that she didn't need him second- guessing her methods and suggesting better ways to do things, as he was sometimes apt to do. He had reluctantly agreed and apart from the very occasional phone call, he hadn't seen or spoken to Bryn since, a fact that had damn near broken his heart as well as his sanity. He'd missed her, more than he cared to acknowledge even to himself.

Six months! It again crossed his mind just how much Bryn might have changed in that time, how much her feelings might have changed. He swallowed the swift sensation of panic rising in his gut, praying it wasn't true. There were times during the past six months that thoughts of her had been his only link to rationality. She was the only thing that had kept him from sinking back into a darkness he didn't want to think about, even in hindsight.

Methos took a deep breath and began to walk toward the dojo, wondering what type of welcome he would get from MacLeod. As his foot hit the opposite sidewalk, he picked up the buzz. The subject of his thoughts came through the door. The old man stopped, as did MacLeod, each silently appraising the other, seeing each other through new eyes.

"I was wondering if you'd show up," MacLeod finally said.

"IF?" Methos snorted.

"Well, all right, 'when' then."

Neither moved. MacLeod at the top of the steps, Methos at the bottom.

"Where've you been? I haven't seen you for weeks," MacLeod asked mildly. Despite himself, he had worried about his friend, trying to rationalize that it was simply because he didn't want to have to break it to Bryn on her return that Methos was dead.

Methos shrugged. "Around." He looked down, absently rolling a small rock around with the toe of his shoe. "I thought I should stay away for awhile."

MacLeod nodded but said nothing.

An uncomfortable silence fell, the air heavy with unanswered questions and unspoken explanations.

"Is she here?" Methos asked eventually. Joe had been the one to track him down and relay the message that Bryn was coming home.

"Yeah, she's here." Bryn and Amanda had arrived several hours ago. Evading Bryn's questions as to where exactly Methos was had not been easy. That she had expected the old man there when she arrived had been apparent, as had her disappointment that no one knew where he was.

"How is she?" Methos couldn't help himself from asking.

"She looks great. She seems happy." MacLeod paused, looking away for a moment. "And she's been expecting you."

The taste of panic disappeared, and Methos grinned. "Then I really shouldn't keep her waiting, should I?" He bounded up the steps, two at a time.

MacLeod's hand grabbed his shoulder as he moved by, stopping him in his tracks.

Methos turned his head and met the Scot's gaze. For one brief second, he almost thought MacLeod was going to deny him entrance to the dojo.

"Are you going to tell her?" asked MacLeod. The sooner the question was asked and answered, the easier his mind would be. Bryn had a right to know what she shared her bed with.

Methos shuffled uncomfortably, saying nothing. It was a controversy he had wrestled with his own conscience about. MacLeod wasn't going to like the answer.

"Methos?" MacLeod's voice deepened.

Methos snorted. "What? Tell her that Stefan DeWinter was a saint compared to me? Tell her that the man she's slept with..." He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell her that the man she loves ... raped and murdered thousands of people? I don't think so!" He shook his head vehemently. "Would you?"

"YES! I would."

Silence.

"Methos, if you don't tell her, someone else will," MacLeod warned.

The elder immortal's eyes narrowed warningly. "You wouldn't."

MacLeod shook his head. "No, I wouldn't. And neither would Joe. But don't forget who's still out there."

"How can I forget," Methos murmured, rubbing the back of his neck absently. "Bryn won't run into Cassandra, I'll make sure of that."

"I hope for your sake you're right," answered MacLeod.

Yeah, me too, thought Methos.

"Methos, it will catch up to you again eventually," MacLeod warned. "It did once, it will again."

"Yeah, well, it took a few thousand years the first time didn't it? I consider those pretty good odds. Now, if you don't mind ..." Methos looked pointedly at MacLeod's hand, still gripping his shoulder.

MacLeod sighed. "She's alone. Amanda left about 2 hours ago to do some shopping. I'm going to pick her up and rescue what's left of my credit. I'll be about an hour." With that he removed his hand and walked down the steps.

"Oh, one more thing." MacLeod stopped and turned back toward the entrance. "If you ever play Bryn like you play the rest of us..." The sentence remained unfinished, MacLeod's stare filling in the blanks. Green eyes locked with dark brown ones, MacLeod breaking away first with a fleeting nod before turning.

Methos sighed deeply. You still don't get how I feel about her, do you MacLeod? He stuffed his hands into his pockets and let his head roll back slightly, eyes closed, collecting himself. After a moment he turned and entered the dojo.

The sound hit him before her thin aura did. Music. Irish music. Loud, melodic, lilting. He knew the song, had seen her dance the piece several times. But that had been three years ago, almost four now. He pushed open the second set of doors, coming to a dead stop under the frame, his breath catching.

She was dancing.

Her eyes were closed, a slight smile on her lips. She bounced from flat foot to toe point, movements light and mellifluous. Feet moved at a furious pace, each motion perfectly controlled and executed. Ankles crossed tightly as knees slide from side to side at what should have been an impossible angle, only she made it look as easy as blinking.

She danced in complete unison with the melody, the dancer and the music an extension of the same soul. It was a soft, silvery piece that evoked images of carefree days and happiness. Methos swallowed the ball of emotion rising in his throat. I am getting to be a sentimental old fool. Somehow the thought didn't bother him as much as it should have.

Bryn's face reflected a composure and serenity Methos envied. Kicks high and effortless, turns smooth and graceful, she completed each step as if four years and Stefan DeWinter had never happened.

Her hair was longer, past her shoulder blades, reminding him of how she had looked when he had first seen her. Other than that there was no real physical change about her. She looked as she had six months ago, as she would for the rest of her life.

The realities of life slipped away as Methos watched her, spellbound. I want to watch her do this for the rest of my life. He was reminded every so often by the tightness in his chest that filling his lungs with air was a requirement of living.

The music finished and she stood with her back toward him. Bryn knew he was there. She had felt him but had pushed it away, letting the music drive the feeling to the back of her mind. She had lived for and dreaded this moment for weeks, not knowing what she would do if he rejected her.

Bryn hesitated before turning, taking a deep breath to try to steady her thundering heart. She faced him, but kept her eyes firmly on the floor. Slowly her gaze rose, sweeping over every inch of him.

Their eyes met, and he saw the reservation. It suddenly occurred to him that the thoughts and doubts that had plagued his mind and disrupted his sleep had crept up on her too. Just as suddenly, he knew that everything would be all right.

They stared at each other, both feeling shy and awkward. Not knowing what to say, Methos simply held out his arms, catching Bryn as she flew into them. He swung her around, burying his face in her hair.

Bryn hugged him fiercely. She had missed him more than she thought possible, hardly sleeping the last few nights, afraid that after six months, he wouldn't want her anymore. The look on his face and the words he whispered to her erased her fears.

Methos rained soft, slow kisses on her ear, her forehead, her cheek, before finally capturing her mouth possessively with his. The kiss deepened and he rediscovered her taste and her sweetness. He moaned in delight at the texture of her tongue rubbing provocatively against his. One hand threaded into her hair, the other held her tightly against him.

The kiss was deep and wet, and Bryn felt her knees weaken at its implication. He still loves me.

Finally, after several long minutes and with great reluctance, Methos slowly released her. He held her at arm's length so that he could study her. "I've missed you," he murmured, running one finger down the side of her face.

Bryn blushed under his scrutiny, smiling at his words. "And I've missed you."

She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face into his chest, drinking in the scent that she had dreamed of for months.

"You're dancing ...," Methos began, kissing the top of her head.

"Mmmm. It's not perfect. It never will be. But it's enough." Bryn's voice still carried a twinge of regret. "I've been working on it, and it is getting better."

"Looked damn good from where I was standing."

She pulled away abruptly. "Where were you? I've been waiting," she scolded, giving him a stern expression. She had expected him when she arrived. Panic had set in when he hadn't been there, and despite MacLeod's insistence that he would come, she had spent a fretful few hours.

Methos laughed. "Sorry, being on time isn't one of my strong points." He took her face in his hands, kissing her thoroughly. His hand moved around her, hauling her up against him, feeling himself grow hard as he did so.

"Well, what are your strong points then?" Bryn breathed when the kiss ended. She looked mischievously into his eyes. The state of his body had not gone unnoticed.

Methos grinned at her wickedly. "Hmmm. Not sure." He kissed her again, lingering over the soft, gentle sensation. "Why don't we go home and see what we can come up with?"

Bryn raised her eyebrows and flashed him a playful grin.

Together they left the dojo, turning off the lights and locking the door behind them.

The end.