To Be One Flesh
by Maxine Mayer

 

9/14/97


We wrestled with each other, my mouth pressed against his, our tongues entwined in a mirror image of our limbs, our naked flesh touching and pressing every possible place, our hands grasping at flesh - any flesh, all flesh - in an urgent effort to prolong the moments of passion beyond their time. He separated his mouth from mine and snaked his tongue out to lick my jaw, my neck, like a cat. He bit my shoulder, harder than play, gentler than reality, with the control that's second nature to him, accustomed as he is to loving Mortals, and women. I gripped his arms with greater violence than his, deliberately abandoning control, letting my nails pierce his flesh.

He slid down my body and gently took my now limp sex into his mouth, tonguing it, sucking it, prolonging the end. His hands rested on the hair surrounding my prick, his fingers made tiny circles on the skin beneath the short hairs. I gripped his head tightly with my thighs, viciously pulling on his long hair, tangling my fingers in his hair, wishing never to let go.

The need our love prompted - to be one, one body, one flesh, one person - drove us to try again and again to express our love through the body, the flesh. Again and again I was forced to know the reason the French call sexual union "the little death." No one understands love better than the French. Each time we tried to become one, the aftermath was that sadness, the "tristesse" which accompanies failure. Each time, we'd forget, and attempt it again, hopeful and passionate as children.

I wondered only, whether he knew now, what I'd just begun to let myself understand. The union - to be one flesh, one person - is impossible of achievement, by the flesh.


"What time is it?" I asked him, as I went to the refrigerator in his Seacouver flat above his dojo and took out a bottle of fruit juice. I downed a few gulps.

"Time to get dressed and get moving, I suppose," Duncan replied from where he stood by his bed, already stripping off the dirty sheets and putting on fresh ones. "You, too, Methos."

"If we dress, I can't look at your skin," I objected.

He sighed. "Okay. Whatever you want. I'll call Joe and tell him we're not coming."

I pushed away from the sink and put the juice back into the fridge. "No, you're right. It's time." I sang out in a mocking tone, 'Let the Chronicles show that Methos Valerius, Ancient of Ancients, and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, are lovers. Let no one object. Let no one say nay.' I agree, Dawson's gotta know. I just hope he's up for this - wouldn't want him to have a heart attack."

"Dawson's all right. He's been around. He might be surprised or shocked, because it's us, but he won't disapprove."

"Don't be so certain, Mac. There are other grounds for disapproval than moral ones."

"I don't know what you mean," Duncan stated in that way he has when he doesn't like what I've said. Pretends he doesn't know what I'm talking about, to give me time to explain, and himself time to come round.

I changed the subject. A discussion about vulnerability in the Game was definitely not on for today. "God, you're beautiful, Mac," I told him irrelevantly.

He dropped the sheet and glanced up at me then, turning so he faced me. From across the room he looked like a god, some dark ancient god I vaguely remembered from my youth. My heart tore again, with love of him, adoration. I wanted to worship, become one with the god I loved. Achieve union. Unachievable. It was the first time I'd admitted that thought before sex rather than after, since Duncan and I'd become lovers.

A sign.

His voice was low and cracked when he said, "Come away from behind the counter, Methos, and let me look at you."

I did as he asked, and we both stared. I swallowed, shook my head. "Enough, Mac." I ran my hand over my mouth, through my hair and down the back of my neck. I rubbed my neck, twisted my head, getting the kinks out. "We should dress. Talk to Dawson. It's time."

He nodded, his mood changing again. "Methos Valerius!" He said with a smile. "I love that name! Did you wear it for long?" He was on the move now, finding his clothes, dressing. Throwing off the longing and passion, doing "the right thing." I found something to wear and began to dress too.

"A couple centuries, at least. Don't remember exactly. But I was with them - the Romans - for a long time."

He chuckled. "It's hard to imagine - you, a soldier."

"I beg your pardon, I was a general, not a foot soldier!" I pretended to be indignant. "I was invincible in battle! My expertise as a strategist was highly prized, sought after by many great military men."

"But you must have been a foot soldier once!" He laughed again. "I just can't imagine it!"

"I'll bite. What's so funny?"

"You're so - lazy! You love your comforts! How come you didn't simply tell the Romans to 'get someone in,' when they wanted you to fight!"

"Because I was the 'someone' they 'got in!' I was a mercenary, idiot! You must know I wouldn't fight for glory, or out of patriotism!"

"Didn't think of that," Duncan replied dismissively, then busied himself fussing with his clothes, choosing a sweater as carefully as I'd select a weapon.

I'd pissed him off again.

It was as if, when we were silent, when we made love, when we listened to music, or drank together, when we walked in the rain or ran in the sunshine, when we sparred with our foils or wrestled on the mat, our love made sense to him. Best of all, when we joined forces to fight off some Evil threat, our love made sense to him. But the moment we opened our mouths to talk to each other, nothing about our friendship - let alone this current bit of insanity, our sexual entanglement - made any sense to him at all.

I couldn't help agreeing but I kept it to myself. Duncan wasn't so thoughtful, or gracious. Barbarian!

He finished buckling his belt and took a look at me. I'd put on jeans and a sweater. "What?" I asked, when he continued to stare at me critically. "I didn't know this 'meet' was formal."

"It's not formal. But we're going to Joe's to talk about something serious. Don't you own a pair of slacks? Don't you have a shirt you could put on under that ratty sweater? Don't you have a different sweater?"

"Duncan MacLeod, are you out of your mind? I'm five thousand years old. You're gonna tell me how to dress?"

He sighed, exasperated. "Okay. Okay. I'm nervous. Sorry."

"You shouldn't be nervous, Mac. Dawson loves you. Whatever you do, he'd find a way to justify it, trust me. In the twinkling of an eye. Won't even know he's doing it."

"He loves you too. I couldn't even get him to admit that the Horsemen thing was dubious, let alone wrong. If he was your father, he couldn't have defended you more strongly."

"As you say. Anyway, my slacks are in my flat, I haven't got a clean shirt, and this is my favorite sweater. My 'lucky' sweater, if you will. I'm wearing it. You don't like it, lump it."

He grinned. "Every so often, Methos, you date yourself - badly."

"Well, we're none of us perfect. It's a perfectly good expression," I told him, adding pointedly, "if you don't like it, lump it!"


The Watcher - Mac's Watcher, Joe Dawson - stood behind the bar of his "tavern," as he liked to call the small nightclub cum restaurant cum bar he owned, and polished a glass with a dishcloth. This time of day, the place was empty. Hadn't opened yet.

I could see Joe was nervous, too. MacLeod had a way of making anybody nervous. I'd listened in when he'd called Dawson and set up the meet. From the phrases Mac used, Joe was justified in imagining that something was seriously wrong. With MacLeod, it could be anything from some Mortal in trouble, right on up to the Apocalypse. One never knew.

"Methos, MacLeod, good to see you! What'll you have?" Joe put down the glass he'd polished to a shine, and put his hand on the beer tap. "Beer for you, Methos?"

"Yeah."

"I'll have a scotch, Joe," MacLeod told his Watcher gloomily, and went to a table. I fetched my beer from the bar, grabbed a bottle of scotch and a couple glasses, and joined Mac. Dawson made his way around the bar, leaning heavily on his cane, I noticed. Probably in some pain today. He sat down with a thud. He didn't put his cane aside. Instead, he held on to it with a death grip, silently waiting to hear whatever Mac wanted him to know.

Duncan looked at me and I raised my hands in a gesture of refusal. "Oh no no no. This is your party, Mac. Joe's your Watcher. You tell him."

"Methos - please?" he pleaded. I shook my head. No way was I about to try to figure out the phrases Duncan would like this news to be couched in.

Duncan knew he was defeated, that he couldn't get me to talk for him, so he started to speak for himself. "Dawson -"

"Yeah, Mac, what is it? You're scaring me. What's the problem? Somebody dying, or dead? What?"

"No." Duncan sighed heavily. "Nobody's dying or dead. That I know about."

"What, then? Spit it out, man! The suspense is killing me!" Dawson said with a grin.

"It's about Methos. And me."

"Yeah?"

"We're -" He stopped, couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"You're what?" Dawson seemed genuinely puzzled. After all the troubles we'd been through over the past year or two, MacLeod and I'd finally calmed down and settled into what seemed to be an easy alliance. The three of us - Joe included - had survived blows that seemed likely to destroy our friendship, but we'd come out winners, and we'd stayed together. I could see that Joe'd become complacent, happy with things as he believed they were. Poor guy. Wait till he heard this!

"We're -" Again, Duncan couldn't say the words.

I relented. I'd say them. Let the chips fall where they may. "We're lovers."

"What?" Joe screeched.

Duncan shot me a vicious glare. I shrugged. "I'm Immortal, Duncan, but even I don't have enough time to wait for you to find the words to tell him."

"Wait a minute, you two! Wait just a cotton pickin' minute!" Joe lifted a hand off his cane to shut us up. He shifted in his seat, undecided whether to look to me or to Duncan for answers. "What are you two telling me?"

"What Methos said, Joe. We're lovers, Methos and I. We're living together. Lovers." Duncan rattled it off without inflection, brutally. I knew when I heard how he spoke, how ugly it was to him, had always been to him, to be a man's lover. That was all he felt, all that mattered to him - that he was a man's lover. To him, it was uglier than even I'd dreamed it might be. I swallowed the pain of it, and watched the interplay between Joe and Duncan. Curious. Objective. In that instant of realization, I'd become an outsider again. Without friends or lover. Once again, alone.

However much Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod loved me, it wasn't enough to overcome how much he hated himself for loving me.

It wasn't enough for him. It sure as hell wasn't enough for me.

Union! I must have been out of my mind! We didn't even achieve tolerance! Acceptance! And I was stretching for some not-yet-experienced mystical union with the bugger! I must be out of my mind! And a fool!


I felt a roaring in my ears and gripped my beer glass tightly. I told myself that I was not going to faint. I didn't.

At last the roaring faded and I began to hear Duncan and Joe's conversation again. I listened closely.

"You really want me to put this in your Chronicles, Mac?" Dawson was asking. Apparently, he'd digested the news and accepted it, as I'd known he would. "You sure about this?" Ah, Joe knew MacLeod so well.

"Yes. I do. You don't need to make a big thing of it. But I want it in there. Just don't blow Methos' cover. Either say something about an unknown Immortal, or make up a name - say it's a Mortal."

"Mac, what's the point? If I'm gonna falsify the record anyway, lie about who it is, why put it in at all?" Joe asked.

"Because it's the truth about Duncan MacLeod!" Mac said. "That's why, Joe. You're supposed to be recording the truth about me, but you don't always know everything. This can be one more time you don't know all of it. But you know this much. That Duncan MacLeod has a male lover. So, put it in."

I interrupted. "Don't. Don't write it, Joe. It's not true."

"It is true, Methos!" Duncan stated passionately, turning on me.

"No. What's true is, Duncan MacLeod had a male lover, for a moment. Not any more." I flipped my wrist. "A bit like a one-night-stand. Not even worth mentioning."

Duncan stared at me, and Joe stared at both of us. I stood and lifted my beer for another sip.

"What are you doing, Methos?" Joe asked.

"I'm leaving."

"Methos -" Duncan cried.

"Don't try to stop me, Mac. This was a mistake. I thought so before we started. Now I'm certain."

"I love you -"

"Don't even go there, MacLeod," I said coldly. But my fury - with him, and with myself - was tightly furled, like an unopened rose, inside. He'd never see it, I'd make certain of that. Never. "We're through. I'll let you know where to ship my dirty jeans."

I left the bar, braced for MacLeod to follow me. When I'd got far enough away that his aura was lost, I leaned against a parked car, burying my head in my arms. Unbelievable! I'd done it! I'd walked away from Duncan again, and he'd let me go. It was over. I was free. Thank the Lord!


I hailed a cab to take me to my own place, a bed-sitter near the river. The musty smell that greeted me when I unlocked the door spoke of how long it'd been since I'd slept there, since I'd come home at all. I'd been living at Mac's loft above the dojo for weeks.

I went to the bathroom and stripped off my clothes, showering quickly just to get the feel of him off me. Nothing spiritual about it - just a shower. I grabbed a container of orange juice out of the fridge and flopped onto my bed, still naked and damp. I sipped the juice slowly, not caring that it was sour, and let myself dry off in the cool air, welcoming the fresh feel of it on my skin. Then suddenly I was cold. Freezing. I put the juice on my end table and wrapped my quilt around me. I lay there shivering, too cold to get up and put on warm clothes, sweats, a sweater. What I'd done began to settle into my body - first my throat, then my stomach, then everywhere. No fury remained, only grief, bereavement, despair.

I was alone again. Utterly alone.

I closed my eyes but I couldn't drift off into sleep. The images bombarded me - of his body, his eyes, his hair, his mouth. Flashed in the darkness behind my eyelids in a chaotic series of pictures. No pattern. Like a discotheque light show. I tasted his skin. I heard his voice. Every tone. The voice that caressed and the voice that condemned. And I loved everything about his voice, his body, his soul. My heart wouldn't stop. Au contraire. It beat more strongly than ever. The roar of my heartbeat was like the roar of footballer fans, soccer fans, in a stadium, screaming in senseless cadence. Dun-can, Dun-can, Dun-can.

I was Immortal. How long would I survive, feeling thus? The truth was unthinkable. I'd survive forever.

Unimaginable. Unthinkable.

I finally let myself go and started to cry.


"Open up, Adam Pierson! Or I'll get the cops to break down the door!"

Dawson's banging and shouting finally penetrated the exhausted sleep I'd fallen into, after crying for what seemed like weeks, but couldn't have been more than a couple hours.

"Go away, Dawson!" I shouted. But I realized my voice hadn't risen above a whisper.

"Open up, Adam! Come on! I gotta talk to you!"

I was stiff and cold, balled up in my quilt like a baby. Naked. Too cold to move.

But I decided I'd better talk to Joe one last time. He'd never let me alone, if I didn't. He'd huff and he'd puff till he blew the door down. And I absolutely didn't want him hunting me, when I disappeared. That is, if I could ever work up the energy to disappear. Right now, I felt too weak to move.

"Okay, give me a minute," I said wearily, forcing myself to speak up.

He stopped banging and waited. Apparently, he'd heard me, so my voice still functioned. Good.

I dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater, not bothering with shoes and socks, and opened the door.

"It's about time!" Dawson told me, pushing me aside so he could get into the flat.

"Good to see you, too, Joe. Can I get you something to drink?" I followed the Watcher and smiled as he took in the room, which he'd never seen before, without comment, then chose a straightbacked kitchen chair to sit on.

"Yeah. You got any coffee?"

"Coming right up." I continued to banter with Joe as I made fresh coffee. "I see Mac told you where I live."

"I already knew. It's in the files. The Society's files, not the Immortal Chronicles," he added quickly, to reassure me that he still kept the secret of my Immortality from the Watchers.

"Of course. How stupid of me to forget. I wonder how many more mistakes I'll make before the final slip-up comes, and somebody takes my head," I added bitterly.

"You being a Watcher wasn't a mistake, Methos. It was a tragedy."

"Really?" Then I dropped the sarcasm. "Guess you're right. True enough. One should stick with one's own Kind."

"Learning is good, Methos. When you stop learning, you're dead."

"Well, it seems I'm very much alive. Because I don't seem to be able to put one foot in front of the other without learning some new idiocy of which I'm capable."

"Loving Mac's not a mistake, Methos -"

"No, it's a tragedy," I retorted seriously.

"It's a goddam blessing, Adam Pierson, and you damn well know it!"

I stared at Joe, astonished at his rejoinder. Finally, I asked, "You really believe that, don't you?"

"I sure as hell do!" Then, "Where's that coffee?"

"Coming up!"

I served him in my best cup, a treasure I'd found in a flea market in London several years back. I wondered if he'd notice.

"Hmm. Coffee's good. Nice cup. Sevres china, ain't it?"

I grinned. "Right you are! You never cease to amaze me, Joe."

"I wish I didn't need to say the same about you, Methos."

"Back to 'Methos,' are we?"

"It's your real name, pal. But sometimes I forget. You were Adam Pierson for a long time."

"But I've been Methos a lot longer."

"So I see." He took another swallow of coffee and put the cup down. "Just exactly what do you think you're doing, Methos? You trying to drive him nuts again?"

"Joe, please, you don't know what you're talking about -"

"I know MacLeod loves you. I can't imagine why. But he does. You think he'd even dream of fucking around with a man he didn't love? Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod? With an Immortal? In plain sight, on his home turf? I can't even conceive of it! But he loves you way beyond what he's felt for anybody else - that's a fact, Jack. So I'm asking you again, Methos - what the hell do you think you're doing now?"

"I'm getting right away from this life. You're wrong about MacLeod. He doesn't love me. He's - bewitched. It's not love, it's sorcery."

"You gotta be kidding!" Joe told me, exploding.

"I'm not kidding. I thought he loved me, as I do him. I believed it. Otherwise, I never would have let this happen to begin with. That much I'm sure you know. But today, when we were talking to you, I realized I'd been wrong. He doesn't love me, doesn't even begin to know the meaning of the word, in this context. I can't go on. Can't pretend that what he feels for me and what I feel for him are the same. Comparable. Similar."

"Blah blah blah."

"It's not funny, Joe. I've lived five thousand years. I cannot count the number of men and women I've been in love with. But there was nothing like this. Never. I won't let what I feel for Mac be - diminished - by proximity to what he feels for me."

"Which is?"

"Lust, Joe. Lust. Fascination. Mortal love."

"Mortal love? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Just what I say. He's as close to Mortal as any Immortal I've ever known. It's who he is." I lifted my hands. "It's why the Watcher Society hopes he'll survive the Game, be the One, in the End. It's - beautiful."

"So, if he's so beautiful, what's the problem?"

"So. So he's not capable of anything different. He's not capable of Immortal love."

Joe shook his head. "You're one sonuvabitch, Methos, you know that? Who the hell do you think you are, the Archangel Gabriel? Old as you are, you're lucky to feel anything at all! With your history, you telling me you've got the nerve to look down your nose at Mac's capacity to love?"

"I'm not looking down my nose at it, Joe. I'm just describing it. It's a question of transcendence, and union. It's - mystical - if you will. He's fucking. I'm making love. There's a difference."

"You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Maybe so. But what I'm talking about is real. It's not important that an asshole's telling it to you. It's true, no matter who says it."

Joe took another sip of his coffee. I could see he was trying to calm down. If he were Immortal, we'd be outside fighting by this time, swords clanging in the night breeze, he was so furious with me.

Finally, he said, "Let me see if I got this right. You love Mac. He loves you. But the quality of his feelings doesn't quite measure up to yours. But you still love him."

"Of course," I replied simply.

"Sure, of course. That's your point. Your love is Immortal. His is - transitory, unworthy of you."

"I'm not making a quality judgment, Joe. I'm not blaming him -"

"Oh no, of course not, not you!" he interrupted sarcastically.

"Joe, please understand, this is not something I want to do. It's something I must do. I cannot stay with him, after realizing the way he feels about us."

"He's still a little confused about the male-male thing, is that it?"

"A little confused! Please, Dawson, don't make jokes." I sighed. "It doesn't matter whether or not you understand. Just go back to Mac, tell him you tried, but I wouldn't listen. You're off the hook."

"I was never on the hook, Methos. MacLeod didn't send me to talk to you. I'm not here for his sake. I'm here for yours."

"What'd you mean?"

"Just what I said. You leave MacLeod, and you're the one in trouble. He'll get over it. They're lining up outside his dojo, waiting to take your place. He survived Tessa's death, Anne's defection. I can't count how many others. And that's just while I've been his Watcher. He'll survive you." He paused. "It's you I'm worried about. Not Mac."

"I think we can safely say that I'm a survivor of sorts, too," I told him, not liking what I was hearing.

"You've never been called on to survive this."

"What?"

"Like you said, you've never loved anybody the way you love Mac. You sure you wanna try surviving that, all by yourself, all alone? Me, I'd hang on to what I had for dear life. I wouldn't give it up, even if it only lasted ten minutes. Even if it was only lust, or fascination." He raised an eyebrow. "Even if it was only 'Mortal' love."

"Well, that's you, Joe, not me."

"You sure about that - Adam?" he asked, pointedly using my Watcher name. "Helluva lot of 'Mortal' in you, too, friend. Lots of room for suffering in Adam Pierson. Right down there in the mud with the rest of us 'Mortals,' too."

"Joe -"

"That's my name!"

"Joe, you don't understand." I was exasperated.

Dawson stood and braced himself with his cane. "No, you don't understand, pal! You're doing the wrong thing. Period. End of discussion. Don't leave him, Methos. Not even for a day. It'll kill him. It won't do you much good either. You've got five thousand years of regrets on your conscience. But they won't hold a candle to this one, believe me. Don't do it."

Then he left my flat as quickly as he could, with his bum legs and cane. To Mortal eyes, Joe Dawson was a pathetic cripple. To mine, he was a gallant Warrior. I envied him his courage.


I packed quickly. I always travel light. This time, I was in too much turmoil even to bother with my usual ritual leave-taking. I didn't cancel anything, or notify anybody, that I was outta here for good. When I got wherever I was going, would be time enough for that.

The phone rang while I was holstering my sword in my coat. I nearly dropped the weapon, the terrifying ring seemed so loud in the silence of my flat.

I knew it was him. MacLeod. Had to be. I took a deep breath and answered the phone.

"Pierson here."

"It's me, Methos. Duncan."

"I know."

"Look, I just want to tell you, I'm not going to try to stop you, or find you, if you leave. I don't want you to go. I'm asking you not to go. But if that's what you want to do, you can leave at your own pace. You don't need to run. I won't stand in your way."

I bit back the retort that rose to my lips, didn't taunt him with his nobility. Instead I replied, "Thanks, Mac. I appreciate it."

He didn't say anything for a bit. Then he asked, "Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

"No."

He cleared his throat. "We had plans for the weekend. Maybe, if we just do things - go to a ballgame, take in a concert, that kind of thing - maybe you'll feel different about it. If you give yourself a little time to reconsider."

"MacLeod -"

"Okay. Okay. Whatever you want. Be careful out there, friend. God's speed." He hung up.

I stood there with the phone in my hand, swallowing hard. Tears running down my face. Sadder than I remember ever being, short of somebody's death.

So beautiful. He was so beautiful. I loved him. Inside and out. I loved him.

Worthy of my love? I thought he wasn't worthy of my love - Duncan MacLeod, with his simple, childlike, 'Mortal' love? I chuckled through my tears.

Maybe they were lined up outside his door, ready to take my place, as Joe put it. But I knew very well how long it would be before he opened that door again. He'd suffer alone, for a very long time, without a whimper. Because of me. Because he loved me.

The fool would probably stay celibate, because he loved me. Well, maybe not that.

But suffer he would, and gladly, for a long long time.

Because he loved me. 'Mortal' love, indeed!

I was the fool, not he.


"Methos!" Duncan said, unlocking the side door I always liked to use when I came to his dojo.

"Yep. It's me," I replied, shifting a bag of groceries from one arm to the other as I walked past him and took off my coat. "Want a beer?"

"You staying?"

"Do you want a beer?" I repeated, going to the fridge and putting the six-pack inside. I left the rest of the groceries on the counter, still in the bag.

"No. You staying?"

"If you'll have me," I mumbled, my hands shaking as I flipped the cap off a bottle. I put it down before I dropped it.

"What happened? What'd I do? Yes, I'll have you. Any terms you like. But Joe won't tell me anything. I know he visited you, but he won't explain."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Mac. I just - lost it, is all."

"How?"

"It's hard to explain." I went to the couch and sat down, then stood up again and went back to get my beer. My hands were still shaking.

"Try." He sat in his favorite chair. He was staring at me, I knew, but I couldn't meet his eyes.

"I'm a fool," I told him, finally, sitting down on the sofa again.

"Details."

"I get - a little sloppy - now and again. Let my religious mania take over."

"How?"

"Duncan, you once asked me to see you as you are, not as you used to be. Or as I want you to be."

"I remember."

"I'm sure you do."

"So? Come on, Methos, talk to me. Then we won't need to talk about it again, if you don't want to."

"Nobody wants to be put on a pedestal - it's a long fall down."

"Yes?"

"I didn't like it, when you did it to me."

"This is about the Horsemen, then?"

"No. It's about love. About - worship. Adoration."

"I don't get it."

"I don't know if I can explain it. We're Immortal, Mac. But we're still flesh and blood. Still - human - if you will."

"Get to the point. You're gonna explain sooner or later. So - hit it."

"It's the nature of the beast - the human beast - to long for something more. To desire something more. It's what makes us human. That we want to worship something better than we are, some - god."

"I'm no god, Methos," MacLeod said with a frown.

"I know that. But loving you as I do - I want the kind of union, mystical oneness - that transcends flesh and blood. I seek it - we seek it - in sex. But it's not there."

"Of course not. How could it be?" he asked, astonished I'd even imagine such a thing.

"You knew?"

"Methos - I'm four hundred years old. What you're talking about - it's impossible while we live in our bodies. That kind of oneness - if it exists at all - is of a different kind. It can't happen while we're in the flesh."

"Well, I forgot," I said sheepishly, glancing up at him for the first time.

"You were gonna leave me because you and I can't get past our bodies?"

"No, I was gonna leave you because I thought you hated trying, with our bodies," I replied quickly. If I didn't say it fast, get it out, I never would.

"I don't understand. Why would you think that?" He was genuinely bewildered.

"The way you spoke to Joe about what we - about our sexual love - with such contempt. I knew you hated it. Hated being with a man - me - that way."

"I hated talking about it to Dawson. I hated the necessity for setting the record straight. I hated the fact that there are records about us at all."

"It didn't sound like that to me."

"So. You're after transcendence, and you thought I couldn't even accept the flesh."

"Bright boy."

He sighed. "Is it enough for me to tell you that you're wrong?"

"No."

"How about if I show you how wrong you are? Hmm?"

"Well -" I drawled.

"You are wrong, Methos. I love you. Everything about you. About us. Especially the flesh."

"Well, we're none of us perfect," I said.

"Wrong again," he told me with a smile, crossing to where I sat on the couch. "You're perfect! Never a dull moment, with you around! Let me show you how wrong you are."

"Anything to pass the time," I replied, grinning.

He wrapped himself around me and held me tightly. "That's true. Anything at all to pass the time."

 


End