Also, this story contains character death, offstage.

Summary: Methos, no longer Adam Pierson, finds that he can't let go of a certain someone.
Notes: This story takes place in 2003. It assumes that "Endgame" took place in 2002. I have no idea why I picked Canada to set it in. "Half A World Away" is by R.E.M.

"When a long journey is finished the weary soul wishes to find rest among one's books, or in the simple pleasures of life, or perhaps in the arms of a loved one. But more oft than not, the journey has led the soul to believe that there is more to the world than itself, and simple pleasures no longer hold the same delight."

I can no longer remember who said those words first, but I always think of them whenever I return to one of my hiding places, whether it is my cabin in Canada, where the land has not changed since the ice left ten thousand years ago, or the small hotel just outside of Paris, kept practically ever since Paris was a dot on a map, or the retreat in northern India, high in the mountains, where the yak roam the steep hills. It is in one of these places that I disappear, after a notorious death, or a notorious life, to re-emerge, like a butterfly, as a whole new person.

I never could quite get rid of Adam Pierson. For one thing, I did something I'd never done before, kept my friendships after a flitting. I simply could not bear to give Duncan MacLeod up -- and truth to tell, I rather liked Joe. For a mortal, he came close to understanding me, I think.

But I do not think he will understand this new persona I take on, starting today. Neither will Duncan, who never changes, who has been in essence the same person for four hundred years. Oh, beliefs, viewpoints, ideas, all may have changed, but HE is still the same person.

I don't work like that. I become my identities, playing into them and off of them. I submerge the self that I am, the self that is Methos, into the parts I play. The last time, it didn't work -- Scott Stanley, New York sales broker, simply didn't have the old spark. So I made my fortune in the Internet stock companies, and when they all decided that the boom was over in '01, I held onto a few, sold most, and retired to enjoy the wealth. I bought a nice house in London, and took a year off.

Unfortunately for Scott, he died in a plane crash in January of  '03, and the Immortal Methos was reported lost again. Not even Duncan knows where I am now. And I know they don't have a Watcher on me. They never could keep one. For all the fuck-ups I went through as Adam Pierson, I learned this one very important lesson -- watchers too are fallible, and if they can't keep up with you, they can't watch you.

And they'll never find me now. Duncan MacLeod himself would hardly recognize me, if I met him in a dark street. And it's quite likely that he is the only one who would care.

It shocked me, although it shouldn't have, (it never should, it always does) to learn that Joe is dying, in a hospital in Seacouver. I wished I could have done more for him, but maybe a good portion of Scott's stock winnings will ease his death. I can always earn more money.

Duncan came to see me about a month before Scott died, in my New York home. I was helping Joe out with a couple of things about that time, so Joe probably told him to come to me. Apparently the years just past haven't treated Mac all that well either. I heard that Connor, his cousin, is gone, don't know how though. It happened about the time that the Sanctuary was destroyed.

I never put much stock in the Sanctuary's safety anyway, and that was the ultimate reason why I never gave up the Game, I couldn't be sure it would be worth it.

We talked briefly. He said he'd been to Scotland lately. I told him I might be disappearing. We could have practically been perfect strangers who met on the street, for all the confidences we shared.

I didn't ask who the hell Jacob Kell was, nor inquire about Duncan's current love life, and he didn't even blink at the thought that, come a few months, I would be out of his life permanently, unless we met over a sword someday.

I hate to say it, but good God, I'll miss him.

I re-enter society carefully, as I always do. Ted Simmons' papers have been ready for the last seven years. He is twenty-three, brown-eyed, natural color of hair brown, but he never wears his hair natural. He is a musician, a rather bad one. He talks with a bit of a lisp, and usually wears dresses after dark. For all that, he's not as effeminate as it might sound.

I circle my mouth with lipstick, slowly. How long has it been since I've done this? There was the hippie streak back in the late sixties, and the brief stint as a rock star's groupie in the early seventies, what was his name again? Brian something? I shake my head, I can't remember, and it doesn't matter now anyway.

I've done the lipstick too heavy as I've been absorbed, and I wipe it off with a Kleenex and begin again. Once I go into that club, I am Ted Simmons, and I am there for one thing, to get laid.

Quebec, Canada, is a place that seems to be relatively Immortal-free, so I shouldn't have any trouble tonight. Of course, I have my sword, and I take a moment to bless the wonders of modern technology that enable me to also carry a gun, a very small one that won't kill but does a damn good job of stunning, with me everywhere, even on the dance floor.

The drive into town is uneventful. I've gotten myself a new car too, a pretty red convertible to go with Ted's current green hair. It looks Christmasy, I think.

Nothing like Christmas in August. I give myself a nervous once-over, flame-red dress, green hair, dark lipstick -- yes, I've got the typical fashion sense of a gay man, I congratulate myself. The shoes are high heels, killer to drive in so they're on the seat beside me, and I've sacrificed my leg hair for the sheer pantyhose. Incidentally, I used Nair for the first time ever, and holy FUCK it stings, though the effect is nice.

I've also practiced my voice for days, and I don't sound anything like the English Adam Pierson. Instead I have the high-pitched tones and lisp of your stereotypical gay man. I'm out to blend in this time around, and blending into the gay scene in Quebec means being as flamboyant as possible.

Ironic, but not the least of my intrigue. I pull up to the "Flaming Star," gather my purse and put my shoes on, blowing a kiss at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Fabulous, dahhling," I say to myself, and head into the club.

The scene inside is one that I've seen a thousand different times, in a hundred different cultures, and all of them look practically the same. Man seeks mate. Aggressively. Female or male, usually younger than oneself. It's never changed, the candles have been replaced by strobe lights, and the money changes hands afterwards, not before, but it's all basically the same.

"Teddy," I say to the first person who buys me a drink, when he shouts for my name over the music. He's dark-haired, wears it long, tall, wearing the tightest jeans possible, with just a spot of rouge on his cheeks. A middle-of-the-road kind of guy, obviously. The make-up wearing type who doesn't quite go as far as dresses.

"Evan," he returns. He looks rather like Duncan MacLeod, I think. The notion is incredibly arousing, because frankly the thought of fucking Mac has never occurred to me seriously, but suddenly it's there, and all bets are off.

"Haven't we met before?" he says. Oldest line in the book, but I'm willing. He's cute enough.

Inside of ten minutes we're bumping and grinding on the dance floor, inside of an hour we're doing the same dance in his apartment. It's good. It's really good, to be with a man again. I tend to alternate according to the personality of the man I'm playing, and fucking a man feels just this close to perfect about now.

I don't say anything when I come, I've learned over the long years not to. Who knows what could spill out? But I'm afraid the specter of Duncan was with me the whole night, and I'll confess that I *thought* his name, when I came.

"God, that was good," he says when it's all over. I get up from off the couch, where we'd ended up.

"You have no idea," I answer. And I gather my clothes and leave.

I have no reason to be *post coitus triste*, that I can see. It was a great lay, and my cover worked perfectly. He bought it, hook, line, and sinker, was certain that I was one hundred percent who I said I was. I have no reason to be sad.

But I am. Unaccountably. I miss...I want...Duncan MacLeod. I don't want to be Adam Pierson again, but I want Duncan back in my life. Not even to fuck him, just to...be there. Make sure he's doing all right. Steal his beer. Whack the psychopathic women he's loved before. Chatter over books and argue about the value of this or that piece of furniture.

It'd be nice if I could have him too, though. I could go out to gay clubs with him, and flirt with him, flaunt our relationship in the faces of the world. Wear dresses and makeup just for him.

I wonder if he fancies green hair and dark red lipstick. I'd go pink for you, Duncan, I whisper to nothing. Of course, though, I'd have to get a new car, if I did that. Red and hot pink simply do NOT mix.

Ah, I'm just too far gone in this role, enjoying it a bit too much. I don't feel assimilated, quite, yet. There's just a leetle more of Methos just below the surface, waiting to strike.

I slip out of the dress, hanging it up carefully. Wipe the smudged makeup, part mine, part his, from my face, then splash water rather carelessly to clean it all off. I hate sleeping in makeup, it's so...tarty.

Rub my face off on a dark towel, regardless of my girlish complexion. It'll grow back. Take a moment in front of the mirror to admire the sight of my own legs in high heels. Kick them off, and collapse into bed, naked, curling in on myself in that almost-fetal position I sleep in no matter what personality I've adopted. Tuck the pillow under my head, watch pictures of Duncan MacLeod in my head for a while, just smiling, and fall asleep.

A few days pass, and I'm settling in. I never pick the same guy to go home with, though Evan tried. Strangely, I always choose dark-haired men just a bit taller than me.

"It's a fetish," I tell my mirror one night after fucking-- and immediately burst out laughing at my own silliness. Crazy over Duncan MacLeod. The darling boy isn't even in the same country as me, far as I know, and still I pick out fucks that look like him.

I shake my head at myself. "Don't commit," I say sternly. "There can be only one." I turn away, and suddenly turn back, facing myself. "Would he love you like this?" I hiss to my reflection, makeup smudged, in the mirror.

I see the face of Methos-who-is-also-Teddy staring back at me. I haven't taken off my little black dress yet, and it clings tight to my chest, outlining my nipples, still hard from the sex earlier and the cool of the ride home.

My face. The nose still the same -- thought about surgery or something, as it's one of my major liabilities, but decided against it. I like my nose. Eyes colored with green contacts tonight, glittering out of my face. Lipstick smeared across my mouth, very dark red. Neon green hair, in spikes.

I have no idea. He'd be shocked, yes, but surely he would know that there's more to someone than appearance.

Briefly, I wonder what his reaction would have been had I met him for the first time like this, instead of the mild-mannered Watcher I was playing at.

I breathe in hard, and put the thought away for another night. I begin to take off my earrings, but only get one off before I suddenly can't look at myself in the mirror anymore. I stalk away, kicking off my high heels as I walk, and grab a beer from the fridge. Collapse on the couch, and attempt to analyze what's going on, sounds like a plan.

What is it? He couldn't even be your friend, Methos you fool, so why think he would possibly be your lover? I talk to myself, yes, but it's long been established that my brain isn't always where it should be, especially when it comes to beautiful people.

And Mac is beautiful, no question about that. I'll never get enough of his smile, and when he wore his hair long -- I had so many fantasies about that hair.

I wanted our friendship. I fought for it with everything I had in me, sometimes literally. I killed Silas for you, MacLeod! It's not everyone I'd do that for. There are sudden tears springing near the surface now. I choke them back. My name may be Teddy, but that doesn't give me license to cry on a whim.

So at first I was treated like a mixture of sweet young innocent Adam and the ancient who the long-suffering MacLeod would put up with. Then I was treated like the dust underneath MacLeod's feet, because of the Horsemen. Then I was pushed away and pushed away, until a visit from the Highlander was a rare thing indeed.

And now, I don't even know where he is. So why am I still pursuing this silly love thing?

In spite of five thousand years of living in my head, I have no answer. I only know I miss him and I wish he were someone who would accept me for who I am.

Much to my amazement, the next week saw me hired as a singer in the Flaming Star. I'd done a little backup singing in the seventies, where singing tended to be more screaming than melody, but since then, had never played or sung anything -- my personas didn't need it. I wondered which of the guys I'd fucked had pulled the strings to get me in.

It turned out to be Evan. Apparently he had taken quite a fancy to me, and since his uncle owned the place, he had insisted that I get the job. I was indifferent about it, but he acted as though he had done me a great favor, and turned up to my first rehearsal to go over what I was to sing.

I was wearing no makeup and ordinary clothes that morning for the rehearsal, and that in itself was a bit of a shock to the dark-haired young man. I suppose he thought I slept in my dresses and only took them off to fuck.

"No Barba Stresiand," I insisted to him. "I'll go crazy if I have to sing any of her songs."

"But Barba's the greatest," he protested. "A true classic."

"Right up there with disco," I retorted, letting a bit of the Methos underneath sneak out.

He wilted like a flower, poor kid. And I got to sing my own songs, along with a few by Elton John, Queen, and R.E.M.

That night when I sung, I started off with one of my own rather ironic creations, "This Silly Love Thing."

And when I got to the end of the song, I looked out at the audience, really looked out at them, and realized that they were paying attention. I was singing: "this silly love thing is really dumb/this silly love thing is just no fun/this silly love thing has got to go/this silly love thing" -- and as I paused dramatically, flung a silver-clad arm out at the audience, gasped out the last rhyme "Ah, but OH NO!" -- I felt the shiver of Immortal presence.

I kept my composure, calm, cool, collected and immediately swung into another of my own songs.

"There's a man in the back," I sang. "And he looks really hot."

Almost as if on cue, Duncan MacLeod walked in.

I tried not to drop the microphone, barely succeeding, and continued. "He thinks he loves me, but I think NOT!"

The crowd went crazy clapping for me. And I've yet to figure out why. They were just silly rhymes set to music, that's all.

After two more of my songs, the band and I went on a short break. I collapsed in the small lounge area backstage, trying to keep a feel for where Duncan was in the building. As I thought, he was coming closer. I got myself prepared, for any eventuality. It was quite possible he had recognized me, but just as likely that he hadn't.

He didn't say anything as he approached, just looked at me as though he were sizing me up. For the first time, I felt what it must be to be a possible enemy of Duncan's. Not a good feeling.

I broke the silence. "Teddy Simmons, and I'm not into the taking heads thing, unless I have to. Have a drink?"

He nodded, sitting down on the lounge couch, and I poured him a Scotch, without even thinking about it, and handed it to him. When our fingers brushed, he looked up.

"Thanks," he said, and his voice sounded tired. "I'm Duncan MacLeod, and I'd rather not do the taking heads thing either."

I nodded and sat down beside him, lifting my own glass. "Truce, then?"

He clinked his glass against mine. "Truce."

We sat in silence for a moment, then he looked over at me. "You're probably wondering why I'm in here."

I nodded, for truth to tell, I was.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and turned toward me. "A good friend of mine just died. Another good friend. A mortal this time, but one close to me, and it hurts. I had to get away."

He looked me in the eyes. "Something called me to Canada. I don't know why I came here. And then I felt the buzz outside, came in, and saw you, up there on stage, and you reminded me of someone I used to know. I had to meet you."

I furrowed my brow. "I remind you of someone?" I asked, even while my heart was remembering Joe, Joe whose death it must be that MacLeod was referring to.

He smiled, vaguely. "He was so alive, like you, always ironic and sarcastic." His smile got brighter as he went on. "And his nose was just like yours."

"It's always the nose!" I laughed, almost forgetting for the moment that Duncan did not recognize me.

"I like your nose," Duncan said, laughing now with me. He reached out a hand, and just like he had painted my nose with the brush so long ago, he brushed a hand across it.

With that touch, the chemistry exploded between us. I was literally tingling in my silver and green dress, in very interesting places. I reached up, not thinking, grabbed his wrist, and kissed his fingers.

He shivered, visibly, and almost roughly pulled me to him with his free hand. Our mouths met, crashing together fiercely. We were kissing, finally kissing, and it was so perfect, so right. For the moment I didn't care that he didn't know me.

Just then -- of course just then! -- the band came out of their little room, talking loudly. We had to get back on stage.

I drew back, smiling foolishly at him. "I can't go on stage like this!" I was laughing, and he was laughing with me.

"Oh, yes you can," he said. Evil man. "We'll continue this later."

My mouth dropped open, and I nodded. He gave me a little push, and I fairly ran onto the stage.

The rest of the set passed in a daze for me. Somewhere in the vague fog of cloudy arousal, anticipation, worry that he would change his mind, I was singing my songs and other songs, laughing at the requests for Barba that came from a few patrons.

In this mix of all these emotions, it finally began to sink in that Joe was dead. And in my last song, a cover of R.E.M's "Half A World Away," it was Joe's death that brought the tears to my eyes. Life and death. It was the way it always was, but sometimes death just hurt.

"The storm, it came up strong," I sang. "It shook the trees and blew away our fear. You couldn't leave me here." I looked out into the crowd and saw them all quiet, even the ones who were totally drunk, listening.

"This could be the saddest dusk I've ever seen," I sang finally, slow. "I turn to the miracle of my life. My mind is racing, as it always will. My hand's tired, my heart aches. I'm half a world away."

The lights went down, and I placed the microphone on the stand as applause broke out.

When I met up with MacLeod, about twenty minutes later on the stage where we were tearing down, he said nothing, just pulled me into his arms like he had a right to.

"That last song was sung as though you'd just lost someone too." He held me away from him, a bit, to look into my eyes. "Have you?"

I swallowed. "You might say that."

We left together. I volunteered to drive, since his car was back at his hotel.

For the first time the whole evening, I had a chance to think of just what was happening to my conception of Duncan MacLeod. My ideas of him suddenly lay shattered in the dust. If he wasn't one hundred percent heterosexual, he was a very different person than I had thought.

And we were going to have sex. Sex, with Duncan MacLeod. I could not restrain the shivers that broke out over my body at that. To keep my mind off of what was going to happen, I started teasing him.

"You know, you could be doing something incredibly dangerous by letting me drive you out to the middle of nowhere."

He turned toward, and was that laughter in his eyes? "I don't think so," he said. "There's something about you that seems okay to me."

"Aside from the obvious," I snickered.

"Yes, aside from that," he said, casting a smouldering glance at me that made me nearly drive off the road, park, and have my way with him.

I restrained myself, and a few minutes later we got to my humble abode.

"Want a beer?" I said, flipping on the kitchen light as we came in the back door.

"Sure," he said. I gestured toward the fridge and started taking off my earrings, in front of the mirror.

I watched him in the mirror behind me, admiring the way he moved. It wasn't as though I'd never seen him walk before -- hell, we'd sparred -- I knew what he moved like, but for the first time I really allowed myself to watch.

Beer in hand, he wandered over to me and placed his hand over mine, where it was lying idle on the dresser. "You okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah," I answered. "Better than." And suddenly I was turning into his arms and he was kissing me, and the world tasted of beer and Duncan MacLeod, and everything was perfect.

Well, almost perfect. He set the beer can down to wrap his arms around me, and I started to pull at his shirt, trying to unbutton it without removing my hands from his ass.

Totally failing at that, I walked him backward into the darkened bedroom, still kissing him. As I was a little more comfortable in the dark, I breathed a sigh of relief, pulled his shirt out of his pants, pushed him down onto the bed (he did not resist at all) and started unbuttoning.

I've always loved undressing people. Everyone I have made love to is so different and yet the same. So many react in the same ways, but what may be a wonderful spot for one person may leave the next cold. It's like a new game every time, a voyage of discovery.

Duncan liked having his nipples bitten, lightly. He was also extremely sensitive in the neck area, but what Immortal isn't?

By the time he was undressed, we were both hard, both gasping against each other. I was still wearing my dress, though somewhere along the line shoes and hose had gone by the wayside.

"I think," he said, "I like that dress. I don't want to rip it."

I saw the look in his eyes, and pulled the dress off, quickly. Climbed back onto the bed next to him, and cuddled in, fingers wandering over the soft skin of his side. From the gasp, I figured I'd discovered another hot spot.

Duncan didn't give me much time to explore it though. Almost instantly, his own fingers went wandering over my body, and much to my surprise, went straight for my cock.

Duncan MacLeod's hand on my cock. The reality was so much better than the fantasy. I threw my head back and groaned.

Left him open to attack. His mouth immediately fastened on my neck. The stimulation of both neck and cock was so wonderful as to be almost painful. I was panting and gasping, hoping he'd stop before he came, praying he wouldn't.

My prayers were answered. His face over mine, my eyes locked on his was all it took, in the end. "Duncan...waited so long," I gasped out, not knowing what I was saying, all my vaunted control completely gone. Then his face turned into a thousand tiny sparks, and it was as if the universe exploded into Duncan's hand.

It could have been hours before I could move again. It was, at any rate, a few minutes, for Duncan lay beside me, spooned up behind me, just watching me.

"It's been a while since I've seen anything as beautiful as that," he said, a hand moving in slow caresses over my thigh.

"Mmmm," I declaimed, pushing back into him, trying to get more of his hands and body on mine.

He was still hard, and his cock slid between my thighs as though it were made to fit there. His hand wrapped around my ribcage. I was slowly hardening again, but it wasn't something that was urgent, just a low hum of interest.

We moved together, Duncan and I, as though we were one being. Gently, without haste. His orgasm washed through both of us like an ocean wave on a calm day. We drifted into it together, and then, as though it were perfectly natural to lie with him like this, we drifted together into sleep.

Consciousness came with the light, sneaking in slowly. I woke up happy for the first time in weeks. Duncan was still asleep, beside me, one hand still wrapped around my body.

I disentangled myself from his clinging hold, and moved to the other side of the bed, resting my head on my hand and watching him sleep. For the moment I had almost forgotten that he had never recognized me last night, but almost certainly would now.

And he did. Opened his eyes, looked at me, shook his head, and woke all the way up, suddenly.

"Methos?" And the tone of his voice held such a strange mixture of hope, confusion, and anger that it cannot be expressed. I merely nodded, for answer.

He sat up in the bed, looked over at me again, and dropped his head into his hands.

"Methos," he said again, as though he were trying out the name. "I slept with Methos."

I was trying very hard not to laugh at his confusion. "You didn't recognize me!" I pointed.

He raised his head. "You should have said something."

I shook my head. "And run the chance of losing last night?"

He looked at me again, at my hair and the remnants of my lipstick smeared over my face. "Pardon me while my thoughts about you get rearranged," he said.

"I know the feeling," I answered. "It was quite a shock to find Duncan MacLeod kissing me."

He laughed, for the first time that morning. "Oh, and why would that be?"

"I always thought you were totally straight," I told him.

"And I always thought you were," he answered.

"Oh, come on, MacLeod," I said, scooting closer to him. "I lived in ancient Greece, for pity's sake."

"But you adopt the dominant culture," he said.

"And you've never had any other dominant culture!" I retorted.

"I can learn better," he said, and shut me up, quite effectively, in the best way possible.

That was about the end of the discussion. It sounds tremendously cliched to say we settled down into a domestic existence after that, so I won't.

But I will say one thing that is even more cliched: we lived...happily (arguments over Duncan's hairstyle notwithstanding) ever after.

END