Kodak Ghosts

by Dr. Ruthless

Rated: Definite A, for M/M sex and violence.

Pairing: Methos and Anson and Philip, oh, my.

Disclaimer: Methos belongs to Panzer Rysher. Anson Greene and Philip Paget probably have perfectly good homes to go to, but I take much better care of them than their putative owners. Still, I am aware that they are another's intellectual property, and I am not making money from my use of the characters.

Beta: Thank you to Pic, Kozha and Frankie, all of whom helped to make this a far better story than it might have been.

Author's Notes:Following the demise of the NickZone's RPG, I wanted to follow this particular group of boys to where they might be heading. I love the way they interact.

Series: This follows on from "Snapshots."

Spoilers: I don't think so. If you find any, thwap me with a broom!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"I want to do that; teach me?"

Shrewd, fathomless eyes bored into Anson's, piercing through or so it seemed to the insecure little boy that lived within.

"Why d'you want to learn?" The deep voice sounded mildly amused, as usual. Methos was naked, having just stepped from the shower in McLeod's dojo, and although his face remained enigmatic, his body had recognized Anson at a cellular level and was rising to salute its lover.

"It looks so… polished," said Anson after a moment's pause to choose the word that he wanted, remembering the intricate movements as Methos had fenced with McLeod. "It's beautiful to see. I always wanted to do it as a kid. Please, Methos?"

Unfair! Anson stepped in, hands on the wiry, timeless body, and soft, warm lips persuading traitor flesh. Hot breath tickled against Methos' ear, and fingers that knew just where to linger and where to leave only a fleeting caress moved on his skin.

When McLeod peered around the door to find out what precisely was holding Methos up, the two of them were locked together, mouths joined. Rolling his eyes, McLeod departed, closing the door behind him with as little sound as he could manage.

Later much, much later when the three of them were sitting, comfortably ensconced in McLeod's kitchen, beer in hand, two looking well exercised, Methos laid aside his bottle and walked to stand behind Anson's chair. Smiling down fondly at him, he massaged Anson's shoulders.

"I'll teach you, love, but you have to promise that you won't get reckless, and that you'll wear a mask. You're not like me, more's the pity, so you won't heal from a serious wound."

A momentary shadow veiled the eager green eyes, before they lit up as Anson smiled brilliantly. His breath catching, Methos' heart thumped painfully as he gazed at his ephemeral love and tried to feel blessed instead of cursed.

A desultory discussion of swords and choices ensued. Methos had an Ivanhoe whilst McLeod favored the katana that he carried everywhere with him. With much good-natured wrangling, McLeod took Anson down into the dojo to give him his first lesson, leaving Methos to sit and stare, unseeing, and contemplate differences. Anson was never cold, mercurial in his changing passions but always vital, ever ensuring that there was a connection between them. Philip, the antithesis, was cold - distant and disturbing in his dealings with Methos, at least. Philip stayed with them, though Methos had no idea what it was that still held him, now that the compulsion that had gathered all the clones in the first place was gone. The mere fact of Methos' existence seemed to be a direct insult to the man, and Philip made no bones about showing it.

Sighing, Methos rose to join his mortal lover and his friend, but his thoughts remained with Philip. "Which of us is the bigger fool, Fate? He for behaving like a child, or I for caring?"

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A day later presented them with a sunny, golden afternoon. Drowsy bees tasted the clover that studded the lawn in the back yard. Anson, newly returned from work and eager for a lesson, was learning stances, adapting to them with grace, as though somehow the ability to fence had been programmed into his makeup. "He must have Douglas Fairbanks' genes," Methos mused silently.

Into this scene sauntered Philip, all silk and sarcasm. He walked up the path past the sparring men, wandered into the kitchen to dump his bulging briefcase next to the groceries and returned to stand on the patio, holding a bottle of Evian water straight from the fridge. The cold glass began to frost with condensation as he placed it primly on the table. Removing his jacket and bestowing it tidily over the chair back, he rolled up his sleeves and seated himself elegantly to observe the lesson, his face inscrutable as he raised the bottle of water to his lips.

There was breathless laughter from Anson, and amused, low conversation from Methos, who demonstrated his art with safely buttoned foils, showing how a sixte flowed into a quinte, and inviting his protégé to follow his movements.

Anson did, very creditably, over and over, until the two of them flowed side by side, bodies in harmony. Their movements flickered, held, and faded, twin candles to Philip's eyes.

As they finished, Methos dropped to the grass and lay spread-eagled, apparently pinned down by the weight of the sunshine. Anson pulled on a sweater and collapsed into a seat beside Philip, sweaty and glowing with happiness.

"Looking pretty good, man," said Philip, mostly because he knew it was expected, although it was plain that he cared for his double.

"Thanks, Phil. You should try it too. That would be neat." Anson reached for Philip's half empty water bottle and chugged it, gasping his satisfaction and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Are you kidding?" Incredulous amusement colored Philip's voice. "That's too Diana Ross and the Supremes for words. God, I can see it now." Philip shook his head. "There he'll be, front and center, with you and I for the girlie chorus. Thanks, but no thanks."

Methos was sprawled on the grass, apparently oblivious, eyes closed in an attitude of complete relaxation. He didn't stir as Philip got to his feet, collected his things and went into the house. Only after he'd disappeared from view did the soft, English voice float to where Anson sat, still gaping after Philip.

"Actually, love, I saw us more as Gladys Knight and the Pips."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Later, as dusk was dabbing away at the view, painting murky shadows, Philip emerged from his room and descended the wide, oak stair. Entering the kitchen, he found his room-mates bickering amicably over who would make what for dinner.

With a saturnine grin, Philip rummaged in the fridge for the groceries he'd brought home earlier, and set to work preparing a meal. With neat precision, he chopped onions, tomatoes, cilantro and garlic, sliced steak and threw it into the skillet to brown.

Methos and Anson gradually became aware of Philip's actions, the aroma of seared red meat, wine and garlic tickling their nostrils.

"What is it?" Anson asked, his predatory gaze studying the concoction that Philip was stirring.

"Wait," said Philip, rapping Anson's fingers with his wooden spoon as they stole out to filch a small but tasty piece of steak.

"Bastard," grinned Anson, grabbing a spatula and menacing his double. "On guard!"

Laughing, Philip assumed a creditable fencing stance, and they began to fight, both bodies taut and studied as they battled. Methos watched, missing nothing, only seeming to be lost in thought. With a flurry of motion and a yelp of surprise, the spatula flew away as Philip pressed Anson back against the counter.

"You've been holding out on me!" whispered Anson, suddenly yielding, arms slipping around Philip's neck. His voice turned intimate and smoky while his body slid seductively, his manner calculated to entice.

Philip laughed. He was well aware of the way Anson operated but rose to it anyway, the slight flush and sudden brightness of his eyes telling the tale of his arousal.

"There's no law that says I have to tell you everything," he rejoined, voice equally throaty, honey poured over gravel. His smile hinted of things untold, and Methos, very still and alert, willed himself invisible as he watched.

"Aww, c'mon. Don't be a killjoy…" Anson pressed warm lips to Philip's face, sliding over the rough cheek towards a mouth that was smiling wider.

"Pack it in, unless you want charcoal for dinner," said Philip, disengaging himself from his double and turning back to his cooking.

Warm arms slipped around Philip's waist, moist lips brushed the back of his neck, hot breath tickled his ear, and Anson's sultry voice pleaded, "Tell…" as fingers moved towards Philip's groin.

Laughing, exasperated, Philip dumped pasta into boiling water, added a little ground black pepper to his sauce and turned, suddenly embracing Anson.

"You're asking for it. Bed without supper is what you deserve."

"Sure, if you come with me," grinned Anson, unabashed. "Tell me where you learned to fence, and I'll leave you in peace."

Philip darted a look to where Methos was apparently lost in study of the tome he had with him. "I've been getting lessons from McLeod," he finally admitted. "Now, unless you want to go to bed hungry tonight, you'd better stop grabbing at my dick and let me get this finished."

With a final kiss, grope and pat, Anson relinquished his hold on Philip, moving instead to the fridge to find salad and wash it for their meal.

As they sat down to eat, Methos emerged from his extended reverie and joined the conversation, savoring the food and complimenting Philip on his culinary excellence. Philip merely nodded his acceptance of the praise, and once the meal was done, disappeared before Anson could corner him for any further amorous play.

When Methos later pulled Anson into his lap and began to stroke and kiss him, Anson seemed to have forgotten the interlude with Philip, turning to Methos to give as good as he got in the exchange of increasingly passionate caresses. Later still, glowing and sated, they made their way to bed, and neither man saw the single brooding glance that the other bent on Philip's closed door.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Days melted into one another. Late in June, Anson took the examinations for which he'd been studying along with fencing after work, and having done so was to be found underfoot. His usual sunny nature was subsumed by anxiety about whether he was good enough, and of course he knew that he wasn't could never be, as Philip's presence constantly reminded him - no matter how many pieces of paper he might collect to prove his worth. He was mortal and would grow old while his two housemates remained the same, and that was made more cutting by the resemblance between himself and Philip.

Despite everything, Anson was fencing well, and Methos had promoted him from foil to saber, delighting in the apparent ferocity his brooding young lover brought to the game.

That morning, Methos had gone with McLeod to collect some timber for renovations. Anson, clad in tattered T-shirt and cut-offs, was outside on the grass, working through some forms in an effort to stave off anxiety about the future an anxiety that he knew was meaningless to his two immortal roommates.

When Philip took a stance beside him and matched his movements, Anson didn't immediately comment, bound up as he was with the execution of his kata, but as they concluded the form, he turned to Philip, face lit from within by joy.

"Whoohoo!" he whooped. "Are we hot or what?"

Philip, elegant as ever despite his casual attire and recent exertions, aimed an affectionate punch at Anson's shoulder. "Looking good, bro."

"I'm glad you decided to learn. Methos was worried about you not being able to defend yourself if anyone came for your head." Still high on the rush, Anson prattled happily, seeing too late the shadow that had fallen over Philip, darkening his eyes and tightening his mouth.

"Guess that's it then," he said, obscurely.

"What do you mean?" Suddenly nervous, knowing he'd said the wrong thing, Anson resorted as he so often did to belligerence. "I wish you'd grow the fuck up and quit with this stupid bitching. He cares for you; he loves you."

Philip was grinning as he faced Anson, and it was not a kind expression. "Think so, huh? Too bad for him! He'd sell me out if it suited him you too, if it came to that. He's got no morals and no humanity in him."

"You don't know him. He's…" Whatever Anson was going to say was cut off by Philip.

"I don't want to know him. I don't want to please him, and I certainly don't want to put myself out for him."

Anson flared, his body bristling with fury, shoving into Philip's personal space until they were chest to chest, face to face. "What the fuck is your problem? He hasn't done anything except look out for you, and try to take care of you. He loves you; I love you."

Philip held his ground, arrogant and maddening, superior smile plastered to his face.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he said, with the air of someone refusing a candy or similar trifling gift.

Anson's color deepened, and he was drawing breath to say something that would take them into a quarrel from which their relationship might never recover, when they were saved, as it were, by the bell.

A tingle in the air caused Philip to lift his head and listen, gesturing for quiet. Somewhere at hand was another immortal, and Philip forgot the petty squabble instantly.

"Where's Methos?" Philip hissed.

"He went with McLeod over to Spokane said he'd be back later. He took the truck." Anson frowned. "Why? What's the matter?"

"Hush." Philip stooped, picked up his sword, the jangling, tin-foil-in-a-microwave sensation of an approaching immortal setting his nerves on edge. "There's someone hovering around; it's another of them; I can feel them."

A dark haired man, short and heavy set, appeared at the gate, and from Philip's expression it was plain that this was the disturbing presence he could feel. The newcomer was nondescript the sort of man that would pass one in a crowd without notice, save for disturbingly bright eyes that glittered in deep sockets. Anson smiled inquiringly, stepped forward to stand between the newcomer and Philip, well aware of where the visitor's attention would be focused.

"Looking for a Mr. Pierson," he said, his voice a heavily accented growl. "My name is Dafoe."

"Adam isn't here. He'll be back around seven this evening if you'd care to come back then." Anson stood beside his sword, point still driven into the grass, and Dafoe smiled with his mouth only.

"That's fine, mon ami. Tell Pierson that his friend his *old* friend Gervais Dafoe came to call." He studied Anson intently and then looked past him to Philip, who was standing cool and disdainful, sword in hand." "I will see you again," said Dafoe, "And it will be my pleasure. A bientot." He left, and it seemed to Anson that the sun was a little darker and the warmth had fled from the day.

"He was one of them," muttered Philip. "I could feel him coming."

"Methos thinks they'll come after you because you're a new immortal and likely to be an easy target."

Philip snorted. "Nobody does that any more. How many headless bodies have you seen mentioned in the news?" Philip sounded convinced by his own words. "Methos himself might, I guess, though I don't see why he'd bother, except that I believe he doesn't count the cost of anything he does. He's not the mild mannered guy you think he is."

"I wish…" Anson flopped into a chair and hugged himself, misery and strain on his face. "I wish you'd be nice."

Philip laughed, strode over to him and cupped the back of his head, stooping to kiss Anson soundly. "But if I were, we wouldn't need you, would we, little brother?"

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Saturday drew on, and the afternoon saw Anson ready to head out to the ballpark to watch the Mariners play. Philip was working, laptop open and papers spread over the table as he ploughed methodically through spreadsheets. He declined Anson's invitation with a smile and a murmur of thanks, watching him leave with an affectionate wave before turning back to his task.

The complexities of the insurance business were something that Philip tolerated for what they could bring him. He was a born salesman, but although he understood people well, he found that most of the time he didn't much like them. Used to being a loner and finding himself sucked into a strange triumvirate, he'd wriggled like a snake pinned down by a forked stick. The analogy amused Philip no end. He liked snakes and missed them, although not enough to go out and buy one.

Laying his pen aside, he lapsed into thought, his mind roaming. He'd been a healer, but even back then, when he healed, he'd done it for the things it brought him. He knew he could still do it if the need arose, and once in a while, when he looked at Anson, watching the behaviors that revealed the wounded soul inhabiting his double's body, he thought that some day, if the time was ever right, he'd lay his hands on Anson. He'd have done it already, save for the fact that it might bind the two of them even tighter together, and Anson didn't come single. As ever, it was the thought of that dark, brooding, quicksilver other that daunted Philip.

Methos. The very name set Philip's teeth on edge and brought an acidic taste to his mouth. Something about Anson's lover made Philip's hackles rise every time they squared off against each other, cat and dog or, more appropriately, snake and mongoose. Philip knew, bone deep, that Methos the very concept of Methos - was wrong. He sensed the violence and cruelty that had lain at Methos' core for an eternity sensed them because they spoke to his own. Philip was cold, but Methos was colder, and somehow both of them had fallen into orbit around Anson, as if the heat he generated might warm them.

"In the beginning," said Philip, out loud, though there was nobody to hear him, "there was Chaos, Eros, and the Earth, and here we are still, bound together to play this silly game." If Methos were Chaos to his Eros, then Anson was the earthy warmth around which they both circled endlessly. He wondered once again what was the compulsion that held him bound to the other two, and how he'd ever be able to break it.

Unable now to complete his work, he laid aside his laptop. Taking his sword, Philip stepped outside to practice, thinking that by doing so he might be making Anson happy, although he wasn't sure why he should bother. He felt disjointed forever unprepared for the way his heart sped up when Anson was near.

Philip had never been in love, not him. That would be a weakness, and Philip didn't do weakness. Still, what he felt for either of his roommates was outside his control. He was fond enough of his vulnerable double, and the compulsion he'd had since those last days in DC showed no sign yet of wearing off. The need to be around Anson had been with him since the final battle had driven the aliens back from earth, and so here he was.

Methos was a different matter altogether. Philip didn't like anything about him. The constant buzz of Methos' presence that played on his skin whenever the immortal approached, affected him like a sickness. He watched Methos watching him, and knew that somehow he was being played. It baffled him, angered him, terrified him that he might somehow be a part of some plan that Methos had, but all the same, he couldn't leave.

In an effort to think no more, he worked out, arms and shoulders glistening with sweat as Philip gave it all he'd got. He was strong and well made more restrained in his movements than Anson, but then Anson threw himself into things body and soul. In contrast, Philip tended to prowl, catlike, around things before deigning to test them.

He paused at last, panting, to sip water, and was considering returning to his work when he again felt the prickling nearness of another immortal.

"Jesus," he snarled. "My fucking spidey sense is tingling!" Looking around warily, painfully aware that he was alone, and that he wasn't completely confident that the things he'd said to Anson earlier were true.

There was a monster under the bed after all. Santa Claus was real, oh, yes, Virginia, and he was carrying a claymore, because he wanted to put Philip's head in his sack of goodies.

Perversely, Philip wished that he'd made love to Anson before he left for the baseball game, rather than treating him like a pleasantly dim-witted younger relative. He resolved that when Anson came home, he would get the surprise of his life.

But first oh, Aesklepios! Philip had company, and he was not in Kansas any more, Toto fuck, no!

Dafoe opened the gate and stepped inside.

"Can I help you?" asked Philip, coldly comforted by the presence of his sword, although he suspected that it wouldn't matter in the end. His senses heightened and the day became a symphony of light and shade - ferns, roses, honeysuckle, hostas and sunlight sparkling on the green of the lawn. His nostrils were tickled by fragrant air and from somewhere within the house he heard a sound, although he had no time to wonder what might have fallen. He was face to face with the monster from beneath the bed, and he had to deal.

"Oh, yes, you can help me." Dafoe smiled, thick lips stretched taut over large teeth.

They look like worms, thought Philip. Those lips look just like worms. This is it. He's going to kill me.

Philip didn't want to die, not this way. He'd imagined that it would be Methos who killed him, finally disproving Anson's fuzzy, feel-good ideas of love and beauty. That would have been fitting, despite his professed dislike of the man, because Philip recognized in Methos the person that he might himself have become with five thousand years of practice. That was, after all, why Philip despised him, and that epiphany would get him precisely nowhere, thought Philip.

This boorish-looking Frenchman was a different kettle of fish. Philip wasn't going to lay down his sword for him. He only wished for a gun instead, and made a note to get one by hook or by crook, if he got out of this alive.

Snarling, Philip murmured a short prayer to Aesklepios, even though his memories were false, and the god was dead. Then he raised his sword.

Dafoe laughed. "Very good, m'sieur. You're a quick study. It's too bad that the pain of learning to wield a sword has been for nothing." He took his stance and waited.

In the beginning, Philip believed that he might stand a chance. His opponent seemed clumsy, and Philip was anything but, yet his difficulty in breaking through Dafoe's guard led him to conclude that Dafoe was toying with him, catlike. Much more accustomed to that role than that of mouse, Philip ground his teeth in anger, increasing his pace in an attempt to rush his assailant.

The strategy didn't work. Dafoe was older, stronger, and far more skilled. Philip was tempted to lay down his weapon and offer his neck just to end it, but something within him screamed that he still had things he'd left undone, and that this was neither the time nor the place.

As Dafoe knocked the sword from his sweat-slick hand, Philip heard a scream that might have come from his own lips. The sword point that pierced him, killing him for a second time, was cold and strangely painless as it took his life.

"Doesn't hurt," he husked, amazed, as bright blood bubbled to his lips, and he fell forward into a void of black velvet that smelled of roses.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Having arrived home after deciding part way through the mediocre game that he wanted to try explaining things to Philip, Anson had heard the sound of steel on steel and tiptoed to take a peek at the ongoing sparring match through the kitchen window. Horrified beyond belief by what was really going down out there on the sunlit lawn, Anson had grabbed his sword and dashed out.

"No! Oh, no you don't!"

Anger blazing white hot, Anson bore down on Dafoe just as he was winding up to take off Phil's head. Off balance, Dafoe turned, attempting to assume his guard, but it was too late. Irresistible force met immovable object; Anson struck once, a strong, clean blow that severed Dafoe's head. A mere blink of an eye later, Philip moaned, coughed and spluttered back to life.

Dafoe's headless trunk gushed blood before, as, and after it fell, drenching Anson and Philip. Anson stood, red and dripping, motionless. It was a baptism, he acknowledged. Anson had killed before, but this was different, necessary, and the blood was somehow an affirmation of that.

"My God, Philip." Anson dropped his sword and fell to his knees to embrace the man on the ground. Philip gasped as he struggled to climb out of the grim certainty that he was dead, dead and gone, all the way dead, just when he'd decided that there might be things about living that he valued.

Someone Philip felt he might truly learn to value had appeared, red and stinking, tears washing runnels down his cheeks. Anson reached out; Philip turned into his embrace. Entwined, they crouched, horrified, shocked and afraid of what had happened, and the quickening hit them. Lightning gathered in the sunlit yard, seethed from the neck of the fallen immortal, whirling, sparkling, seeking out both men as they cling together.

The quickening was beyond their experience. More than a light show, it swirled around Philip, poured into him, through him, making him shriek. Anson cried out too, a low, bubbling scream that seemed to last forever. Memories of lives he'd never lived swamped Philip, shook him loose from truths he'd always held to be self evident. Dafoe was vile, corruption and death had stalked alongside him for over a thousand years. Philip bore witness, taking the filth along with the light, and Anson came along for the ride, rocked and shaken by the soul-wrenching forces that played around them, a symphony of shattering glass and power strong enough to shiver the earth beneath them.

Holding on, Anson was galvanized by the crackling display, terrified that Philip might change or melt away if he let go. Tingling shocks rippled on his skin, prickled the back of his neck, and something inside of him seemed to tear. A door opened, and as the forces subsided and Anson opened his eyes, he knew that somehow he was different.

"I thought that he'd killed you," whispered Anson, when he could speak again.

"He did," replied Philip, still in shock, usual equilibrium gone with the wind.

"He was going to cut your head off. I saw him and I couldn't…"

Anson's distress was too much for Philip. He leant in and kissed him, mouth against mouth, a kiss sealed with Dafoe's blood.

It was the right thing to do. Anson's fear was soothed by the warmth of Philip's body and all the skill that he possessed. Tomorrow might be different, but at that moment Philip belonged to Anson. Anson had killed for him and by doing so had claimed him.

"What can we do with that?" Anson's words broke into Philip's reflections, and the sight of the "that" made him jump. For a moment, he'd forgotten the dead man.

"Find a garbage sack, put him in, then wait for Methos. He's sure to have a contingency plan. What does he do with all the bodies he racks up, anyway?"

"Fucked if I know." They held each other as though to part would hurt. Slowly separating, they studied each other. The blood crusted, blackened, and a halo of flies buzzed around them, drawn by Dafoe's delicious body fluids. "We'd better get that out of sight and clean ourselves up, and my God, I only just put that window in." The window in the back of the garage lay around them on the grass in glittering shards. Anson was suddenly practical, gruff even, as he attempted to avoid facing the images flashing inside his head, brought out of retirement from the deep recesses of his subconscious by the smell of the blood and the taste of it in his mouth.

Mommy!

Cold dead skin and eyes that stare sightless and accusing and mommy you shouldn't have, I never meant…

"Anson?" He stared vacantly at Philip as his double's voice cut in. "Come on, bro. We have to do this."

Together, they forced the body into a sack that was intended for garden refuse. Uncooperative, the body resisted being stuffed inside, but they finally managed and rolled it to the edge of the lawn. Lying beneath the azaleas and rhododendrons, it rapidly became the focus for whatever buzzing insects weren't bothering the two men.

Done, Philip turned to Anson and saw him lapse into that strange fugue state again. Wordlessly, he took Anson's hand and led him to the deck, where he stripped them both, dumping their clothing into a filthy heap. Naked and bloody, Philip led the way to the bathroom, started the shower and stepped under it. Anson watched for a minute, blank eyed, but when Philip held out his hand, Anson took it. He joined Philip under the spray, gasping faintly as the warm water began to cascade over him.

Silently, they washed each other, trying to rid themselves of the taint of Dafoe, each continuing to apply soap long after the overt signs of blood have been swept down the drain.

"I can still smell it," whispered Anson at last. "I'll never be clean." The skin on his hands and face had turned red from scrubbing. Philip turned off the water and reached for him, petting and soothing, weird tingles shooting through his fingers when he stroked the back of Anson's neck.

"I owe you my life, little brother," murmured Philip. "Thank you." The non-sequitur seemed to be what Anson needed, because he lowered his hands and looked to Philip who motioned for them to leave the shower, and the blood, behind.

Anson passed him a towel, took one for himself, and wiped away the droplets of moisture that studded his skin. Philip watched, wanting Anson, needing to exorcise the afternoon's events in his own way.

They'd shared a bed before, these two, but that had been then, and this was now. A buddy thing had become solemn, serious, a pact. Philip felt a little shaky at the thought of what they'd already shared but had no choice but to go forward.

He didn't say anything; he didn't have to; his body said it all for him as it produced a standing ovation for Anson's fine form. Anson seemed remote, lost in a shadowy world of his own, haunted by mothers and blood. Looking at him, Philip knew that it was time.

He stepped forward, removed the towel from unresisting fingers, set it aside and reached to cup Anson's cheek.

"Come on back here with me; you did nothing wrong."

Anson flinched, then focused on Philip, his shocky eyes showing more black than green.

"I killed him," whispered Anson.

"For me." Philip sounded fierce, exultant. "That's gotta mean something. It's symbolic."

"Ya think?" Anson tried a small smile; it was a little loose around the edges at first, but slowly grew to fit the face wearing it, until Philip stepped in to cover it with his unsmiling lips.

Philip felt a faint but definite tingle as their bodies touched a minor fizzing, like, but unlike the immie rush that he got from another of his kind. He knew that Anson was causing it, and by the shudder and gasp from the man in his arms, Anson felt it too. It was emanating from Anson, unless Philip had suddenly become one whole hell of a lot better kisser than he'd ever previously been.

They'd been content with simple frottage on the odd occasion that they'd fucked, but that was no longer enough. Philip wanted more; he was aching for Anson, wanted to feel him with every cell, wanted to possess and be possessed to love him - though he'd never say that word out loud to anyone.

Anson was elsewhere. He could feel Philip, but there was a tingling, jangling something he'd never known before that was getting in the way. He reached for Philip blindly, unspoken need shaking his body.

"It's all right," whispered Philip. Anson's confusion had become palpable; Philip saw the hazy images that flickered around him. Dead woman, crying child, and too much blood. "It's all right, come here."

There were no further words. Their mouths locked together; their bodies strained, tense and fierce as a shared vibration shuddered through them. Philip knew that it was coming from Anson, but he had no idea why.

Anson was slowly beating back the force that seemed to fill him, trying to prevent it from clouding his senses to the exclusion of Philip and everything else. Physical contact with his double seemed to be the only way he could get the other under control.

Pulling Philip with him, Anson went in search of a bed. Oddly, it was Philip's room he chose. Breast to breast, they kissed, passions growing urgent as they sank down on Philip's bed to lie entwined.

Anson took the lead, desperate as he wriggled down, mouth traveling over Philip's body until he could take the other's penis between his lips. Philip gasped as Anson sucked him deep, fingers curling in the cap of velvety hair even as he tried to stop his inner eye from seeing all the things Anson was fighting, the ghosts he was trying to escape.

The god stirred within Philip in a way that it hadn't done since the night he'd healed Denise. He was filled a human Leyden jar crackling with the power to heal, the need to make broken things whole. As his flesh was drawn into Anson's throat, the god sparked in his fingertips, the serpent stirred within him. Embracing something that he thought had gone forever, Philip willed the force to enter Anson, there to heal whatever it might find.

Rolling Anson over, Philip spread him, groping frantically to find the place. Pushing without mercy, Philip drove himself in past serpents and mothers and guilt and pain until it was just Anson and himself, joined in a perfect sweetness that drew up Philip's balls and dragged a moan from him.

Anson's cock was pressed to the bedclothes, but Philip reached for it anyway to grope and squeeze, and heard a hiss of breath that told him Anson was close to finishing.

They were fucking, and it was fucking good teetering on the brink. Philip was waiting for Anson, because to time this just right was a task he'd set himself. He could see into Anson from the strangely remote height that he'd attained the bruised soul, and the things that had been done to him. The sadness, horror and regret were there for Philip's viewing, and then Anson was coming, his ass clasping and dragging around Philip's dick.

It was time.

Philip let himself go, and the serpent left with his ejaculate, pouring into his lover and riding the waves of bliss that radiated from the tip of his cock to flicker along his spine. Orgasm was a starburst, a supernova, a timeless moment. While the world turned gray, he collapsed onto Anson's back.

Done.

They slept both boys gone somewhere pleasant, smiling, still joined. The sky was purple-orange and the sun a mere memory when they began at last to stir.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A sound below, and Philip was suddenly alert, peeling himself away from Anson's bare body. Swiftly pulling on underwear and shorts he descended to face Methos.

In the kitchen, Methos drank the inevitable beer as he thumbed through a pile of take-out menus. As Philip entered the room, he turned and smiled, shrewd eyes cataloguing the bare feet and naked torso.

"A friend of yours came by today."

"Oh?" A single eyebrow arched in inquiry, and it was obvious that Philip was resisting the urge to grind his teeth.

"Yeah. He was sorry to have missed you. We were kind of sorry he missed you, too."

"Is he coming back? Who was it?" Methos appeared interested in a vague way, settling on a Thai menu and reaching for the phone.

"His name was Dafoe, and no, he won't be coming back. We were waiting to ask you what you do with them once you've cut off their heads." Philip's tone was conversational, but Methos whipped around to face him. Take-out was forgotten as he gripped Philip by the arms.

"What have you done?" he hissed.

"Take your hands off me, old man," said Philip, silkily, looking pointedly at the offending fingers. Methos relinquished his hold and stepped backward, hands raised and palms out.

"Anson? Tell me Anson's okay." There was pain in the fathomless eyes, anxiety tightening the fine-grained skin and hunching the strong shoulders.

"He's alive and sleeping. Don't know if that makes him okay. He saved my life, you know, but something happened. And there's a dead body in the back yard that we thought you might help us dispose of." Philip was walking away as he spoke, forcing Methos to follow as he led the way through the fragrant twilight to the refuse sack resting ominously among the flowers.

"Are you saying that *Anson* killed Dafoe?" Methos seemed startled, amber eyes narrowed as he pondered the possible implications.

"Yup, Dafoe had bested me. I was dead, and he was about to take my head when Anson charged in like the cavalry in the Wild West. He caught Dafoe off-guard and killed him." Philip reached the dead immortal in two more paces and stopped so abruptly that Methos almost bumped into him, so absorbed in his own thoughts had he become.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"We didn't miss you apart from the info on what to do with the body," responded Philip, unkindly," And you can tell me all about that now."

"You said Anson was sleeping that something happened." Methos was carefully avoiding getting into it with Philip. He chose his words very precisely, and his eyes bled fear for his lover from their dark centers. "Tell me?"

Philip glared, challenge in his stance, and then nodded. Later, perhaps, but not now.

"It was like the wrath of God. Some kind of electrical storm thing seemed to start up just as I was coming to. Anson was kneeling, holding on to me, and it went to ground through the pair of us, or that's what it felt like. I don't know what the fuck happened, but it did something to him. Ever since, he's been giving off this weird kind of vibe. Not only that but…" Philip paused, frowning as he recalled the moment when the world had turned strange. "It filled me charged me up and let me heal him. Fuck, it *made* me heal him. I could see all the emotional pain inside him."

"A quickening," said Methos thoughtfully. "You took a quickening, and it sounds like Anson took it along with you. As a mortal, it shouldn't have had any effect on him. This is strange. You say that he's got some sort of vibration happening around him?"

"That's what it feels like a low level hum like a power station with a bunch of transformers." They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Philip watched Methos narrowly. Much as he disliked the man or whatever the hell he was Philip acknowledged that there were times when Methos proved useful, and right now was one of those particularly golden, Kodak moments. Besides, Philip knew that whoever and whatever the dark being might be, he loved Anson Greene. For Philip, that was his only saving grace.

Moments passed, and each somehow knew when the other was ready. Wordlessly, they stooped to gather the corpse and manhandle the plastic sack over to the pick-up truck that was parked beside the gate.

"I want to check on Anson." Methos turned to go back to the house.

"He's in my bed." Philip watched the wiry body flinch, and smiled savagely, leaning against the truck to survey the motionless shape in its bed. Moments later, Methos returned and hopped into the cab.

"Let's go."

He'd started the engine before Philip realized that he was barefoot. He called out and ran to the house for shoes and a T-shirt. As he climbed hurriedly into the truck to ride shotgun, Methos put away his cell phone.

"Where are you taking it?" The question was dragged out of Philip. His reactions to blood, sex, death and healing were all buzzing within him, and he felt disturbed that he had to leave Anson behind while worried sick about him.

"Oh, I thought that we'd make McLeod a present of it. He's far more used to disposing of bodies than I am these days at any rate," returned Methos, voice silken and eyes half-lidded with lazy amusement. He knew better than actually to smile at Philip. That brooding gentleman didn't rise to the smaller bait, merely nodding and reaching to turn on the stereo, then flinching away as a barrage of thrash metal blasted out.

"How the hell can you listen to that stuff?" Music was a neutral topic, and therefore safe.

"I suppose you're going to tell me that you'd rather listen to Schubert or Chopin?" said Methos, grumpily, ejecting the CD.

"Count Basie, actually or Dave Brubeck. D'you have anything intelligent at all in your collection?" Philip dripped acid with every word, and Methos indicated the case that held his current musical choices. He breathed a sigh of relief when Philip examined the choices, seemingly intrigued by every item. Methos took the opportunity to sink back into that place where he was alone with his thoughts, not reacting when Philip selected Ry Cooder to fill the cab with music.

They drove in silence save for the music and as they drew up outside the dojo, Philip looked up in surprise. "You weren't kidding about bringing it to McLeod?"

"I never kid," says Methos loftily. "Being very old and wise as I am, it would be bad form to jest about something so distasteful." His face was bland, and Philip stared at him for a moment, attempting to read him. Suddenly realizing what the other man was doing, Philip shrugged and turned away, discomfited. It didn't matter what Philip did, or who he was, Methos had been there before him, and did it better with the single exception of the healing touch, and that, thought Philip, was enough.

Fucker's just had more practice, he told himself, as he saw the little half-smile Methos permitted himself. He got a kick out of needling Philip, but the smile broadened into something else, something more genuine, as he caught sight of McLeod striding down the sidewalk.

"McLeod," he yelled through the open window of the truck.

Duncan McLeod raised his eyebrows in inquiry as his friend hopped down from the cab of the truck.

"Good to see you, Mac. I've got a problem only you can solve." Methos clapped an arm around McLeod's shoulders with easy familiarity, and led him over to where Philip was only now opening the passenger door. "Philip has taken his first head, and he's reluctant to leave the remains on our compost heap. We thought that you could give us some pointers. Where do you put yours?"

McLeod blinked, momentarily nonplussed. "Who was it?"

"Dafoe. His name was Dafoe, and I…" Philip began all over again to deny that he'd been the one who killed the man, but paused as McLeod's eyes opened wide and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

"You're kidding. That bastard was sniffing around here? I remember back in the seventeenth cent."

"McLeod?" Methos' voice halted the reminiscence and dragged Duncan back to the present. "I'd love to hear your story when I don't have a body in my truck. What do you suggest?"

"Did you bring a shovel?" At Methos' slight nod, McLeod checked his watch. "Come on, then. I'll show you."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A couple of hours later, the pickup backed into their driveway once more. The front of the house was in darkness, but they could see that there was a light shining from the kitchen. Both men were tired and sweaty, covered in the dirt that they'd accumulated during their endeavors, but for once they seemed to be in accord and weren't bickering as they hurried up onto the deck.

There were creatures in the darkness both could feel them. Moths fluttered around the screen door, and as the two men approached it, they noticed the disturbing ‘zing' emanating from within. "That's what I mean," said Philip, and Methos looked at him, utterly stunned.

"Do you know what this is? What you've done?" The questions were asked in tones of wonder, and Philip stopped, caught Methos' shoulder to whirl him around.

"Tell me. What is it? What have I done?" From the tension, Philip could tell that whatever this was, it wasn't small and wouldn't be forgotten lightly. Methos smiled and pulled Philip in against him in a hug that crushed him momentarily. Gaping, astonished, Philip was released before he could draw the breath to protest.

"Somehow, you've turned it on for him. He's going to be one of us. How did you do it?"

"I told you that freaky light show…" He said no more, because Methos had seized his ears, was kissing him, joy in his face that eclipsed any show of annoyance Philip might make. When Methos thrust Philip forward into the kitchen, they found Anson lounging, eating a huge sandwich and beaming at them with his feet up on the table.

"Hi, guys. Where've you been?" mumbled Anson around a mouthful of assorted foodstuffs. Swinging his legs down, he rose, supple and glossy in the warm electric light.

"How do you feel?" Philip was transfixed. Anson was shining, more solid and real than he had ever been. Behind him, he sensed that Methos had stopped breathing, hearing the little catch in his throat as he faced his lover.

It was over in a moment. Anson kissed them both hello, the vibrations tingling off his satin skin as he moved glided sensual and liquid, perfect in his newfound state.

"I feel great," grinned Anson. "That sleep did something for me. Feel better than ever." He wound his arms around Methos, pressing himself against the man, who lifted trembling fingers to touch his face.

"You're one of us, Anson. Do you know?"

"I don't understand." An uneasy light appeared in Anson's eyes.

"You've somehow become a pre-immortal." Methos smiled. Hell, even Philip was smiling.

"Really?" Anson laughed, and then froze. "So all I have to do now is die?"

End

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

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