His vision blurred as a tear grew in his eye and began its track down his cheek. He was totally shocked when a finger, attached to a strong hand, attached to a stranger, reached up and wiped it away.   By the time he realized what had happened, the man next to him had returned his attention to his almost empty glass of dark draft beer. 

Adam hadn’t even noticed that anyone was standing there, but now he carefully eyed the stranger beside him.  The man was short and blonde.  His hair was just long enough to turn into C-shaped curves that would probably produce waves and ringlets if it grew longer.  Adam lowered his eyes and checked out the man’s body.  The tight muscular body was easy to appraise because the man was wearing a very snug black T-shirt and a pair of soft faded jeans that appeared to be held together with threads and seams.  Joe had once told him that before he opened his club it had been a gay bar. Adam wondered if the man was not aware of the change

Again transforming from entertainer to bartender, Joe poured two glasses of beer, and placed one in front of Adam and the stranger.  Realizing that it was there, the man turned to Adam and said “Thank you.”

It was his first chance to see his face especially the bright blue eyes with tiny lines in the corners.  Despite his clothes, the man was not young; although he had a certain impish charm about him.  

“Better thank Joe.  He provides the beer.”

The man thanked Joe, took another slug of beer and turned to Adam. 

“He wrote the song about you, didn’t he?  He understands you very well.”

Adam was usually not at a loss for words.  He cursed the fact that he had stayed for the third set and now had to deal with a strange man with intentions that he did not want to interpret.  He turned the glass in his hands and tried not to look at the stranger.  Something about this man looked vaguely familiar; perhaps their paths had crossed sometime. Tonight, however, his memory, mixed and mottled by time and beer, was not the best for instant identification.  He was most grateful that at least the man was not an immortal.

“You must have loved her very much.”

“Joe’s the songwriter.”

“It’s easy to be a poet when you have such inspiration.”

“Listen, you don’t know me.  I don’t know you.”  Adam was not in a mood to make a new friend tonight.

“I’m sorry.  I should have introduced myself.  I’m Evan, Evan Hopewell.”

“The Hopewells were a tribe of Native Americans around the period that is now defined as the common era.  They were noted for their building of burial mounds.”  Adam wasn’t sure why he had said that.  If this man’s name were really Hopewell, he would surely know that; perhaps it was just his way of asking if it was really his name.

“You a history teacher?”

“At the university.”

“I was a teacher  -- once -- third grade.”  He indicated the logo on his shirt.  Adam misread the faded letters as Xena’s Christian Academy, which had made no sense, until he realized it must be Xenos.  “Now I’m a graduate student, again.  Library studies.  Can you imagine me as a librarian?”

“I’m sorry.  Are you in one of my classes?”

  *  *  *  *  *  *

Methos now realized that it was a totally foolish dream to expect that “civilization” would begin the moment he crossed the border into Greece.   He wasn’t sure what he had actually expected.  Enter a tavern and find the patrons discussing philosophy, mathematics, or drama?  Encounter roads lined with marble classical statues and tiny villages with paved streets and running water?  Find handsome young men ready to talk about poetry and pottery while making love?  True, anticipative thoughts such as those had crossed his mind as he had traveled the steppes, mountains and deserts; but he was quick to dismiss them as foolish dreams.  Now that he was there, he found small towns, noisy taverns, and men not that different than those of the rest of the world.  

He was coming to Greece to start a new life, and he relished the fact that he would have this unique opportunity.   The stay in the East had taught him to deal with evil -- the evil he once was.  It was up to him to channel his talents and opportunities in a new direction, and Greece was the best spot he could think of to start.  He would live as an ordinary man who had chosen as his goal the collection and protection of the world’s knowledge, while of course, going out of his way to avoid immortals intent on playing the game. 

The very first night he had been in the village a fight had broken out.  He was unsure what was being disputed, or if it was really actually rectified, as both groups had resumed their imbibing after a few chairs were upset and plates thrown.  All that he really had noticed was one man who had lifted his head from his ale, entered the fray, busted a few chops, and then returned to drinking.  The man seemed unaware that he was half the size of some of the other men in the bar but had convinced them, through his physical prowess, to emulate his actions and get drunk peacefully. 

While he was impressed by the man’s firm body, Methos entertained no thought that he might be a warrior.  This was a farming village.  The muscle tone and golden glow was probably the result of tending crops in the hot sun or maybe working iron on a forge.   It had been a while since he had seen men with yellow-blonde hair and curls, which made the man stand out from the normal population. You could have dressed him in women’s clothes and he would have been beautiful . . . and with that thought, Methos realized that he’d probably really needed to find a woman and get laid.  A real woman.  

He’d found one easily.  Even the smallest villages had whores.  Celandina was moderately attractive, clean and possessed the skills he had come to expect of purchased women.  When she finished bring him to orgasm orally, he found it hard to resist asking her if she knew her name was a homophonic pun.  There were some things best kept to the halls of academia.   She made it clear that she would be available to him for as long as he chose to stay in the village.

It took him several days to develop the rapport necessary to ask about the blonde man.  Methos learned that his name was Iolaus and that he was a fairly recent widower raising a small child on his own.  He was right about the farmer/forge analysis of the first night and complimented himself on his perception.  Other stories were more perplexing including rumors that Iolaus had also been a thief and a whore on the streets of Corinth only to have then attended the finest military academy in Greece.  

He had heard stories about that academy; lead by a centaur, and the warriors it had produced including Jason of the Golden Fleece and the demi-god Hercules.  He had difficulty associating the small blonde man with these legendary heroes.  Still the way he handled himself on the fight earlier had been impressive.   He decided he would like to meet this man, although he was not entirely sure of his motivation.

*  *  *  *  *

“Pretty unlikely, I go to the University of Tennessee.”

“Fair stretch from here.”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Slumming at Joe’s?”

“Doing the things teachers can’t do at home.”

“By the way, this isn’t . . . that kind of bar.“

“I know.  Used to be though.  My copy of Out in Seacouver is a little dated. The music held me here.”

“Joe does that.  It’s how he sells more beer.”

“How did you . . .?”  Adam looked down the man’s body and Hopewell caught the drift of his glance.  “Guess, I over did it a bit on the clothes tonight. I was aiming for relaxed and comfortable, but this sort of approaches ‘available at stores everywhere’ doesn’t it.”  His smile was warm and genuine, but Adam was unsure as to whether the man was trying to pick him up.

“Showing your age with that comment, Hopewell.”  Adam smiled slightly and thought of the 1970’s.  “ Excuse me, just realized I haven’t introduced myself.  I’m Adam Pierson.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Pierson.”  Evan wiped his hand on the remains of the front of his jeans and extended it for Adam to shake.  “You can feel assured that right now I am just looking for some friendly conversation, perhaps some more good music, and a few more beers.”

“Unfortunately that was the last set.”

“We can still finish this beer . . . and talk.”

“Talk is all you going to get, that song WAS written about me.”

“I’d settle for just finishing the beer.”

*  *  *  * 

It was a terrible thing to do to a perfectly good sword, especially since the state of metalworking was not nearly as advanced in Greece as it was in the country where he had obtained it. Methos always traveled with a few extra swords, and he figured this one could best take the punishment he was about to inflict on it. He hoped that certainly he wouldn’t really need it here in Greece.  What he needed, however, was an excuse to meet the blacksmith Iolaus, other than sidling up to him in the tavern and buying him a beer.  Methos figured a broken sword would seem fairly plausible.   Though it required him to thrust the blade into a pile or rocks and twist the blade out of alignment.  At least he didn’t break the cutting-edge, a mere reheating and pounding should be sufficient to repair it.

“I’m a blacksmith, and not even a professional one, not a sword maker.”  Iolaus had said as he inspected the sword.  “Do a bit of work for locals, but I’ve never made anything like this.” 

“You can fix it though, right?  I’m traveling all the way to Athens, and I may need to use it along the way and in this state it is of very little use.”

“I’d hate to heat it and break the temper. A blade as fine as this one would need the skill of someone in Corinth or even Athens.   Perhaps even Haephestus himself.  You should wait.”

“You drop the name of a god quite casually.”

Iolaus ignored his comment and continued “I believe you should purchase another sword for the journey and sell it when you get this one fixed.”

“What makes you think I want to spend that much money?”

“Because, if I try to fix this sword, I’ll charge you more than you can purchase a sword for in the village – and you’ll pay in advance with no guarantee that I can fix it.”

“You know seem to know more about swords than you claim to know blacksmithing.”

“I know a lot more about many things than I do blacksmithing, except unfortunately farming.”

“Word in the village is that you used to be a warrior.”

“There are lots of words about me in the village.”

“I’ve heard.”

“I’ve many things.  Right now I am trying to take my son from the age of three to the age of four, which is rather difficult alone.  Sometimes I think he’s a bigger monster than those I fought with . .

“Hercules?“

“I don’t know what you want, but if what you really ARE looking for is a sword to take with you to Athens, I do have an old one I can sell you.   It’s not this quality, but it will ward off a few bandits.”

“Thank you but I really . . . “ Methos swallowed hard and realized that he was about to reveal more than he usually did to this small blacksmith.  It was apparent that he was not an immortal, but what was he?  He didn’t buy it that he was just an ordinary villager.  There was something in the way he avoided the hints Methos had dropped.  This man was surely, about many things, as secretive as he was.  “ I will have to insist that if you sell it to me that you let me buy you a couple of ales at the tavern in the village.”

“I brew my own, my son’s off with his grand parents and we can drink them on my porch.  After I sell you a sword.”

*  *  *  *  *  *

Closing time was quickly approaching and Adam felt grateful that he could take his leave from this little man with dubious intentions.  Then a waitress appeared with a full pitcher of beer and announced it was from Joe and that although he was closing, they were welcome to stay and talk while he cleaned up.  Adam hid a scowl and continued listening as the man talked mostly about library school interspersed with positive comments about Joe’s music.

“Yea, it all went to hell in a handbasket when they adopted the Library of Congress system, I was always very partial to the Dewey decimal.”  Adam commented while looking over at Joe and making a displeased face.

“In the 1960’s there were those who insisted that you couldn’t catalog books on computers, boy would they be surprised.  Now for a great deal of research, especially on the undergraduate level, you don’t even need to hold the book.”

“And that is . . . supposed to be progress.”

“Keeps the undergraduates from getting their dirty little hands on the pages, or cutting the pictures of nudes out of art books.”

“Somehow a computer screen does not compare to vellum pages and leather covers.”

“You can’t always judge a book by its cover.  I’ve seen finely bound trash and profound statements in yellowed paperbacks.”

“Not to mention papyrus scrolls.”

“You have to be realistic. A thousand students fighting for the same copy of a reference book can be solved very easily with on-line access.  I do love old books though, especially those that pre-date Gutenberg.”

Adam was just about to invite the man to his apartment to see collection of old books, when he realized how it would be construed.   Concluding that perhaps the conversation had been carefully calculated by Hopewell to get into his bed, despite his numerous denials of interest; he his finished his glass and walked back to the bar to retrieve his coat.

*   *   *   *

They sat, drank ale and watched the sun set.  Neither of them talked much.  Both seemed to be wary of the other’s intentions and wondering if they were reading the situation correctly.  Methos did not really want to drink all this man’s patiently brewed beer; he would have preferred purchasing it in a tavern where the supply was not limited.  Still, he had to admit that he enjoyed the peaceful surrounds of his farm and the fact that he could relax for the first time in many years.

Methos’ thoughts were broken when he felt something in his lap biting at his garments in the most intimate of places, and realized it was a large brown goat.

“Now, Ares, behave yourself.  Go to the barn with your women and I’ll be there shortly.”

“You named your goat after the god of war?”

"Why not?  He’s as randy as the god.”

 “You don’t actually know Ares?”

 “Sure do, met him when I was a student.”

 “Why should I believe you?”

 “Truth is, I not only knew him; I knew him well.

 “You are full of shit – how well?  Don’t tell me you fucked him.”

 “Actually he fucked me, but I gave him a blow job,” a wide smile filled Iolaus’s impish face.

 “You ARE a whore, aren’t you?”

 “You suspected that when you came here.  And while you are thinking ‘I bent my good sword for what I could have gotten for asking’ . . . ‘or paying’ . . . you’re wrong on both counts.  I may be poor, but I don’t do that anymore.”

 “I’m sorry . . . ”

 “Sorry you misjudged me, or sorry you intentionally broke your sword?”

 “How do you know I broke my sword intentionally?”

“Unless you drove it accidentally into a stone wall and twisted, I don’t think it would have bent like that.  I’ve never seen such a strong blade.  Where did you get it?”

“I got that sword in Babylon, but it’s not my good sword.  You should see the one I got in the East.  It weighs half as much and is twice as sharp.”

“I’ve heard stories about the way they fight in the East.”

“They’re true.  Remind me to show you a few moves later.   They’ll do you a lot of good in fights, especially when the opponents are large and slow.  After . . . “

“After what?”

“After we go inside and do what we’ve both wanted to do since we first saw each other.”

“What?”

“Oh yea, like you don’t know?  I suggest you go feed your goats first – and if you still can’t figure it out, ask Ares.  I’ll be waiting.”

*   *   *   *   *

“Boy, you’re not very friendly tonight, Methos.”

“Adam, Joe.  Adam.”  He directed his eyes to the man still setting at the table with the half empty pitcher and full glass of beer.

“It’s OK,” Joe smiled wryly, “he knows who you are.   Sure the hell floored me when he asked me if you were Methos.”

“He what?”

“You heard me.  I made some comment that he was probably looking for the bar that used to be here, and he told me he’d realized that.  Then he looked around and asked me if the guy at the end of the bar was named Methos.”

“And you . . .”

“Told him your name was Adam Pierson.  But he says he knows you, from way back.”

“He’s not an immortal, Joe.”

“Maybe way back is 1978, but even then he’d wonder why you haven’t aged at all.”

“Good genes . . . vitamins . . . Oil of Olay.”

“Forget it, Adam, he knows you.  I suggest you go back and find out why he stayed.  The guy gave up getting laid for you.”

“He said it was because of your music.”

“Gee thanks, but get back there anyway and find out what he has to tell you.”

*   *   *   *   *

“Wow, with moves like that you could be an immortal.”  Iolaus said as he looked up with his big blue eyes, his damp blonde curls clinging to his face, almost, but not quite spent from sexual activity.

“What?”  Methos had felt no buzz from this man but wondered if because of his association with gods, Iolaus could sense some indication of his immortality.

“I said you’re good in bed. How many times do I have to say it to you?” 

“Sorry.  You’re good, too.  If Ares hasn’t fucked you, he should; he’d make you one of his special warriors.”  Methos was familiar with the warrior legend.

“I already am – I thought by now I would have convinced you.”  This Iolaus could be very persuasive.

“That’s what Celandina told me in the village, but I didn’t really believe her.”

“What else did that swallow girl tell you?”

“What?”

“Did she tell you her name was a pun?” 

Methos wrinkled his nose.  “She made the name up?”

“Her real name is Hydra.  I can’t imagine what her mother was thinking.  I helped her come up with her ‘street’ name, and considering her oral prowess, think I did a damn good job.”

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“Is that your way of saying you want to fuck again?”

“Eventually, but I think we need to talk, too.  There is something that is bothering me.”

“You read minds?”

“Not really, but I do notice when someone calls me another man’s name while we are fucking.”

“What . . . I don’t even know your name . . . you didn’t tell me.”

“And you fucked me anyway . . . and you said you weren’t a whore.”  Methos looked him in the eye and smiled, to let him know he was only teasing.

“What did I call you?”

“Hercules.”

“Oh, damn. . .”

*   *   *   *   *

Adam looked around the bar.  There was no one there but Joe, who seemed to be preoccupied giving the counter top a shine that would rival the boots of a marine.  He walked over to the small man and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him to his feet.

“Who are you?” Adam asked.

“I told you my made-up name; you told me yours.  I kept thinking you should remember sometime, but you don’t have any clue, do you?”

“I know you asked Joe if my name was Methos.  Who are you?”

“I hope it’s because of all the beer you’ve drunk . . .”

“Let me see your arm.”  Adam checked both wrists and they were not tattooed.  Hopewell was not a watcher.

“And you work for whom?”  Adam tried again.

Adam then realized that if this man worked for a secret agency or an immortal seeking his head, he would have wanted him to leave.  A dark alley would better suit these agendas than in the “lights up” after hours of Joe’s.

“Come at me.”

“What?”

“Grab for my shirt.”  Adam wasn’t sure why he even tried.  The next thing he knew he was on the floor, with Evan Hopewell sitting on his chest with a huge smile on his face.  He hoped Joe hadn’t been looking.

“No one’s used that move for years.”  Which he thought, might make it perfect to try on Duncan.  “Where did you learn that?”

“From you, you must be really drunk or completely loony.”

“When.”

“Greece, over two thousand years ago.”

“But you’re not . . . “

“Not in your sense, I don’t go around chopping off heads and playing some stupid game.  I just quietly live forever.   Just like there are lions and tigers and panthers . . . “

“No way.”

“Way.”

“Iolaus?”

“In the flesh.”

The small man jumped up and pulled Adam to his feet and then he hugged him.  He looked over and saw Joe with a puzzled look on his face.

“It’s OK, Joe.  He’s an old friend.” 

“You’ve had way to much to drink Pierson, do you want me to call you a cab.”

“Thanks.”

For the time being they just stood there holding each other and feeling the indication of what might transpire the during the rest of the night grow between them. 

*  *  *  *

“I can’t believe I called you ‘Hercules’.”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Iolaus could do nothing but nod his head.

“Tell me about it.”

“Why?”

“Because when you jump in bed with a strange man and then call out another man’s name, there is certainly something bothering you.  I find talking helps.”

“I love him.  Have since we were kids.  We’ve never done . . . much . . . and even then he didn’t like it.   I think he loves me like a brother . . . a best friend . . . and now he’s married.”

“You were married, too.”

“Yea, he was gone, I met this girl what made me feel wonderful and decided. . . “

“Know that feeling.  I’ve had a few wives myself.”

“A few.”

“I don’t know, lost count when I reached 30.”

“You have a Harem.”

“No, they die.”

“Rather quickly, I’d say.”

“Maybe I’m just very old?”

“I’d believe it as quickly as you did when I said I fucked Ares.  But I proved that didn’t I.”

“I could prove this, too, but wouldn’t you rather tell me about Hercules.”

The little man talked and talked.  He cried and sobbed and Methos pulled him close and let him cry until tears ran down his chest.   He didn’t think he had ever experienced so much pain brought on by love.   It even made him hurt inside and that hadn’t happened since his fifteenth wife had left him to join the amazons and wouldn’t take him with her to watch.   Then he realized that even his own jokes were not alleviating the pain he was sharing and just held Iolaus tightly. 

“You have to go to him.”  It was all he could say.  There were no wise cracks, no profound rules of the universe, no words of prophets or philosophers . . . with these two souls it was enough that the love existed.  Methos felt dirty that had used this man for orgasms he could have gotten anywhere and felt that he needed to repay him with something. 

“Tomorrow, Iolaus, I am going to teach you to fight like they do in the East.  You’ll want to go show Hercules, use it to break the ice, then tell him what you told me.”

“I can’t, he has a wife and three children who he loves with all his heart.  I can’t confuse him or hurt them; it wouldn’t be right.”

“Then just go and tell him how much he means to you.  How you value him as a friend, how you want to share his life, then show him what I taught you and beat his ass.  He’ll be impressed.”  Methos tried to hold Iolaus’s blue eyes in his view, but the small man kept turning his head.  He hoped Iolaus realized that, while he was serious about telling Hercules, this was supposed to be a joke.  “But he has to know how you feel about him.”

“I think he knows, but he can’t return it.”

“He will -- eventually.”  The pause seemed to go on forever, as Methos ran the dialog through his mind.  The conversation could have stopped there, or it could have gone on.  “By the way, what we were talking about earlier.  I am an immortal. My name is Methos, and once I was one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“So now, not only are you an immortal, you’re a special immortal.  I bet you were death!” 

*  *  *   *  *

Adam thought he had sobered up in the cab, but he couldn’t get his key in the door.  Evan took the keys and eventually figured out that you had to turn the key one way to open the bolt lock, and then the other way to open the door.  

“Shall I make some coffee?”  Evan called as Adam was already in the bathroom.

“No, there’s beer in the fridge.”

“Exactly what you need.”

“You don’t really intend for me to fuck you sober.”

“First of all, Methos, I’m not here for sex.”

“Would have surprised me.”

“Shut up.  I’m here to tell you something.”

“Yea, that I’ve got the biggest cock and nicest ass . . . “ Methos had hobbled out of the bathroom with his jeans around his ankles and almost fell over.  He kicked them off and slumped down on the couch.

“You are drunk.  I’m making the coffee.  You sure as hell need it.”

“Why did you come to . . . stay at . . . Joe’s?  What ARE you doing here?”

“I said I wanted to talk.”

“Who says I want to listen?”

“Obviously, you don’t, but you will.  But first, go put on some clothes.  Do you know how hard it is to talk to someone naked from the waist down, not to mention a cock about to get real excited.”

“I . . . I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I want to talk, get dressed.”

Methos made a face.  Rather than trying to wrestle with the jeans again, he returned to his room and put on a pair of running shorts.

Evan handed him a cup of far too strong and too hot coffee.  Evan had taken a seat beside him on the couch and was helping him transfer the coffee from the cup to his mouth.  He felt like a fool.

“Let me tell you, Methos, that the reason I didn’t come here for sex is not that you aren’t hot.  I still remember those days in Greece. I can’t believe how little you’ve changed.   I just know I don’t like being called by someone else’s name.  I’m not sure I could handle it as gracefully as you did.”

The details of those nights so long ago suddenly became clearer.  Methos remembered the two of them drinking beer, practicing fighting moves – hand-to-hand and with swords – and rolling around in each other’s arms.  He had found it most refreshing to train someone not involved in the game but still eager to learn the various fighting styles of the world.  Even though he was convinced Iolaus was totally in love with Hercules, he enjoyed his company and the orgasms he shared.   He had told Iolaus the whole story of immortals, one of the few humans with whom he had ever confided.  

“Methos, tell me about . . .”

“Her name was Alexa and I knew she was dying . . .”

“Not about her, about him.”

“What?”

“The man you’re REALLY in love with.  The man you felt you had to run from so you found this dying woman because you knew she would fill up your heart and mind and keep you from thinking about him.  Right?  Didn’t work, did it?  Never does.”

“You read minds?”

“I read you. . . Careful don’t spill that hot coffee on . . .  Damn, you are, hot Methos.”

Methos was now too drunk even look at Evan/Iolaus.  He tried to focus his eyes off in the distance at  . . . he had no idea . . . maybe a crack in the plaster wall.

“How many wives have you had now?”

“Sixty-eight,” said a disassociate voice.

“Bet you didn’t even count the other lovers – male and female.”

"Did you?”

 “No . . . “ Iolaus paused and began again, “Still, you’ve never been in love with a fellow immortal, have you?  You’re afraid.  Forever is a long time.  But believe me, it goes by in a heart beat.”

 His focus was getting closer; now he was concentrating on the fingerprints on the coffee table. 

 “Yes, Hercules is an immortal, too.  My kind, not yours.  We’ve been together 2000 years  -- which is nothing, I know, for you because you were older than that when I met you. But for most others it’s a significant chunk of time.  It’s been off and on.  The big guy has mood problems and an over developed sense of right and wrong . . .

 “Sounds familiar.  We’re not in love with the same guy, are we?” 

 “Nope.  Yours is Duncan MacLeod.”

 “What, how do you know?”

 “I’m a librarian remember.  I found this interesting book someone had picked up in France.  It was said to be a book of fables about the oldest man in the world.  I read it and suddenly I recognized that it was about you.  That stupid Four Horseman story again.”

 “But it IS true.”

 “Sure it is.  Anyway, I did a little more research, hacked into a few computers, and the next thing I knew I was reading about Adam Pierson and Duncan MacLeod.”

 “You what?”

 “You’d be surprised what those watchers talk about in their private E-mails, especially your friend Joe Dawson.  I thought I was in a parallel universe. The story was enthralling, if frustrating.  I concluded that I had to find you and tell you what you told me low so long ago.  You have to tell him how you feel.”

 “No.  I can’t.”

 “If I did, you can.   Go and tell him how much he means to you.  How you value him as a friend, how you want to share his life, then show him what you taught me and beat his ass.  He’ll be impressed.  Worked for me . . . eventually.”

 Methos laughed a little.  He realized that Evan was getting up, preparing to leave; and as he walked toward the door, he seemed to be fading away.

“I died once, Methos.  Really died.  Stabbed in the heart.  I encountered the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and you weren’t one of them.”

“I bet you met Michael, too.  I never cared for his version.”  Methos realized he had said that last statement to the air.  Duncan didn’t know about the Horsemen either, and he wondered if he should tell him that before he went into the love and desire part.

*  * *

Adam had awoken that morning with a nasty hangover.  Not the physical kind, for immortals those required consumption of vast amounts of somewhat lethal mixtures of alcohol, but the kind that comes from knowing you talked too much and did things you should not have done.   He wondered how much Joe had seen, what he understood and what he had just guessed.  You never were sure with Joe – watchers were well trained at what they should look for and see. 

He was grateful he had some time to think before MacLeod returned to town at the end of the week.  Even though he realized they had to talk, he speculated how it would go.  He’d tell him they needed some time to talk and Mac would agree and set an appointment.

This was not the way Adam had wanted it to go.  Set an appointment – like they were going to discuss retirement plans or stock holdings.   He wanted to look at Mac and smile, a big smile and watch as his brown eyes twinkled as Iolaus’s blue ones had.   He’d never heard the complete story of the talk Iolaus had had with Hercules, but he was certain it didn’t happen at a set appointment.  Maybe that was the whole secret – talking required private, personal time.  

Come to think of it, telling Mac that he loved him would be the easy part.   It was the rest of the story, the part that Mac couldn’t possibly understand that was going to be difficult.  When it became THAT time in a relationship, Adam usually just left.  He had left Mac’s life several times already, but he always came back.  That had to tell him something.  The question was whether he could tell Mac the rest. 

He was surprised to see MacLeod standing at the bar and worried that something had caused him to cut his trip short.

“Hear you had an interesting encounter last night?”  Mac was smiling and didn’t look particularly troubled.  Methos quickly dismissed the thought that his friend had returned because he had missed him.

“Sort of . . . exactly, how much did Joe tell you?”

“Enough.”

“Yea.”

“Told me how his gay guy was coming on to you . . . how the two of you stayed long after closing.  Talking.  Said you handled him fairly well until you slipped and fell and he had to send you home in a cab.”

Adam relived the scenario and wondered about Joe’s edited version, realizing that the explanation might have been what Joe actually saw.

“He told you I fell?”

“Total pratfall. Sorry, I missed it.”

“Lucky . . . it couldn’t have looked pretty.”

“I hear your ‘friend’ was pretty, pretty though.”  Duncan teased. 

Adam toyed with the full glass of beer Joe had sat in front of him.  Mac was certainly giving him the opportunities.

“I don’t need this.”  He paused, took a sip, and smiled.  “Mac. . .”

“Yea.”

“Think we could take some time next week and maybe  . . .”

“I think it is absolutely necessary. “

“You do?”

“You need to set up a work out routine.  You drink too much. You’re completely out of shape.  I can’t believe you slipped and fell last night.  You need to practice your fighting skills.  I’ll be glad to help.”

“Actually, I was thinking we could just needed to take some time and talk. But come to think of it, I have some old moves I haven’t used in years.  I could dust them off and use them to . . . ”

“Know what, Methos, we could go talk now.”

“Afraid I might whoop your ass, right?”

“Maybe?  And maybe I want to hear the real story about what happened last night.” 

“What?  Why?”

“Maybe because I always wondered if Methos was interested in men.”

Methos was surprised when Mac threw his arm casually over his shoulder and led him out of the bar.  He was certain Mac’s eyes were twinkling.

McJude

May 18, 2004