Here it comes again, your dream-self thinks. It was the same dream, night after night, for two straight weeks. The locations were different, but it was always the same.

Tonight, you were standing in a grassy savannah, probably in Africa somewhere. With no distinguishing landmarks around you though, you weren't really sure where you were. It's caught somewhere between light and dark, shadows thrown everywhere. But you weren't afraid, oh no, never afraid. You knew that he was here somewhere. Your blood was beginning to start that slow burn, anticipation mixed in with need.

Lightning flashed.

Looking at the sky, you noticed that it came from everywhere and nowhere. Looking back down, you noticed that you were no longer standing on the savannah, but above it, looking out across the plains from a cliff.

He was there now, squatting near the very edge, unperturbed about the drop. He was dressed very briefly - a simple loincloth, like the kind you would see in National Geographic, but it was different. From your vantage point, your eyes could roam fully over his lean body, the shadows providing you with interesting contrasts and highlights. His hair was long, wild, but you couldn't see the color clearly. Like Psyche with Cupid, you could only see his body, never his face. That was okay with you though. You had the feeling you really didn't want to know.

So here you are, standing behind him, he crouched at the edge of the cliff, holding a - spear. Yes, that was it. The damn shadows almost prevented you from seeing it.

Lightning flashed.

A sudden thrill went through you, pooling low. You knew that he was powerful, that *he* was the one controlling the lightning. The thrill came from knowing that he desired you. Pure, unadulterated feminine power.

His whispered words in your ear made no sense to you, but they did. Like a running translation in your head, you simply knew what he had asked you in that strange tongue.

"Thrilling, isn't it?"

He had moved since you last saw him. He was no longer crouched over a cliff face, he was standing right behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of his body, pouring through your clothes, battering your skin with sensuality. You turned your head, almost straining for a better look, but the shadows covered him down to his shoulders, still leaving you wondering whose face he wore. The voice though, that brought you a vague feeling of familiarity.

His hand extended toward you, leaving you the choice to stay or go forward. He had offered you the choice for two weeks, and you had yet to refuse him. There really was no choice. You took his hand, letting him lead you from the cliff.

Lightning flashed.

You were being laid down onto several soft pelts that formed a bed of some sorts. The pelts themselves were softer than the finest silk, the ground hard beneath your back. As soon as he lowered himself next to - half over - you, you promptly forgot all about the hard ground beneath you, concentrating only on the feel of the hard body over you. His lips touched yours, once, shortly and feather-light. You didn't bother to open your eyes anymore. It was his little game to play, and you laid there knowing that he would be back for more. Licking your lips in anticipation, you didn't have to wait long. His lips once again met yours, hard and insistent. A flower to sunshine, you think as your lips part. He was giving you light that you weren't aware that you were missing.

It's been far too damn long since anyone has made you feel like this - long before you even started your training.

Allowing him to settle more firmly on top of you, you sigh happily, long disused feelings returning. Your fingers trail up his back, making him shiver and press into you. He doesn't seem to mind the odd feel of synthetic and cotton fabrics rubbing against his bare skin, but you're starting to. You want skin on skin, nothing in between. Your thought must have jumped from your brain to his, because in short order, his hands had found their way under your shirt and were gradually working up past your waistline, up over your ribs, and finally - *finally* - cupped your breasts through the lace of your bra. You audibly sigh in relief, only to suck it back in when he rubs the pads of his thumbs across your nipples, which instantly harden under his skillful fingers. You're both panting for breath and you can feel his arousal jutting into your thigh.

You heard birds chirping in the background, and you frowned. Birds shouldn't even be out at this time of the night. Then the feeling of the hard ground and soft pelts faded away, replaced by the softness of your mattress and the soft scratching of your cotton sheets.

Nearly screaming in frustration, your angry, bleary gaze lighted on your cell phone, the source of the interruption. It rang again. For a brief, wild second, you wanted to throw the damned thing against the nearest hard object, shattering it as it had shattered your dream. Then your brain cleared. Work and sleep had been your life for some time now, so there were very few people who would be calling you at this time of the night. You just hoped that the rookie you left in charge for the night wasn't calling because of an emergency.

Hitting the 'answer' button, you place the phone against your ear, barely stifling a world-weary sigh. You really have to start getting out more. "Thomas."

"The subject is moving."

Now you couldn't repress the sigh. "'The subject's' name is Methos. We at least owe him that much respect." Before the voice on the other end could object, you continued. "Now when you say moving, do you mean in the literal sense that he's packing already, or do you mean that he's just going to the bar for a beer?"

You'd been Watching Methos too long - you're starting to develop his warped sense of humor.

"I believe he's going for the beer, ma'am."

Rookies, you think, with all of the mild contempt that goes with the word. You wonder how any of you survived through that first year, and painfully acknowledge that you wouldn't have survived if Joe and Methos hadn't come to your rescue. You almost - almost - tell him to follow Methos and call you at a reasonable hour with a progress report, but stop before you actually say it.

"All right. Head on to Le Blues, report in to Joe. I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

"Le Blues, ma'am? Shouldn't I follow him?"

You grin. Playing with your food. You've really been watching Methos for too long. "I suspect that he'll arrive at the bar shortly."

"What should I do if he shows up?"

"Enjoy the beer and hope that the old man is in a nostalgic mood. If not... well, I hope that you aren't easily embarrassed." Turning the phone off, you roll back over on the bed, savoring the last, lingering feeling of sleep, but almost cursing the heavy feeling of desire pooled deep within your belly. You considered taking care of it yourself, but know that you need to hurry if you want to get to the bar. You'd been training a few rookies to help with the task of Watching the worlds oldest - and most elusive - Immortal, but you didn't trust them alone just yet. Having Joe there as a buffer was help, but you wanted to be there yourself, to show the rookies that yes, it was okay to engage the old man in a conversation. Methos was the only one the Tribune really turned a blind eye upon in terms of interference, and even Dr. Zoll had to admit that the Chronicles were slowly getting straightened out because of yours - and Joe's - hard work. Joe was technically Dr. Zoll's superior, being the supervisor of the Methos Chronicles, but he, like you, reported into Dr. Zoll weekly.

Sighing deeply, you tossed your covers off, feeling your skin pucker as cool air sliced across it. Padding into your bathroom, you quickly washed up and tossed on some clothes - jeans and a black t-shirt. Getting into your car, you sped most of the way to Le Blues, getting there within your twenty-minute time frame. The doors were still open, letting the night breeze gently cool the bar. Looking around, you caught sight of Joe manning the bar. He waved to you, and then pointed you towards one of the booths along the wall. Methos, looking not at all tired, was sitting at the booth, nursing a beer, with Andrew, your rookie, sitting across from him, looking rather stiff.

Detouring to the bar for your already-poured glass of wine, you smile your thanks at Joe, but don't stop to chat. Taking your glass, you walk over to the booth, noticing the way Methos's eyes caught sight of you and didn't move. An echo of your dream rocketed through you, that feeling of power. It was, you decided, quite a heady sensation, knowing that you were the sole focus of a man's attention, even more so if that man was five thousand years plus. His gaze was magnetic, pulling you closer and closer, like a moth to a flame. Andrew looked at you as if you were his savior, and you guessed that the old man's humor was up to its usual standard.

"Andrew," you greeted. "Methos."

"Amy," Methos replied, his lips were curled up in a small smile. His long body was stretched out over half the booth seat, and you couldn't help the comparisons to a lazing cat. Setting down your wine on his side of the table, you slide effortlessly into the seat, solidly bumping into his legs. Instead of moving, he simply quirked an eyebrow as if asking you what you were doing.

"Come on, Old Man, move over."

"I'll have you know that I'm quite comfortable." You simply looked at him. "Why me?" he grumbled as he reluctantly made more room for you. "You really should learn more respect for your elders, too."

You smile. You've heard that argument hundreds of times. "Any more advice, *Grandfather*?"

His face screwed up as he was about to answer, but was interrupted by Joe. "Adam, will you quit torturing my Watchers?"

"But it's such fun, Joe. Besides," his thumb jerked towards you, "she started it."

"I did not!" you protest.

"Did so."

You can hear Joe sigh, even over the blare of the blues music that wound its way through the bar. "Sometimes, Adam, you remind me of a three-year old."

"Before this conversation degenerates to a three-year-old level," you ignore Methos's muttered comment that it already had and gesture to Andrew. "Meet Andrew Harris. He's going to be following you around for a while. Andrew, meet Adam Pierson, aka Methos, the world's oldest Immortal."

"Where are you going?" His face was scrunched up in consternation.

You raise your glass and take a sip of your wine, rolling it around on your tongue for a moment. "Me? Nowhere, unless Joe knows something that I don't. I'm just delegating authority."

He raised his beer in a toast. "Good for you."

"Um, won't we all be written up for associating with a known Immortal?"

Joe scratched a spot in his beard. "We could, but then the Tribune would have to write up everyone who came into contact with Adam Pierson while he was in the Watchers."

Andrew looked at Methos with wide-eyed wonder. You stifle a smile, hiding it behind your glass. Looks like the ancient one just received more ammunition, you think to yourself.

One glass of wine.

You're feeling much more relaxed now. Andrew went back to the loft he shared with the other two Watchers under your command a little while ago, and Joe took his place across from you both. He and Methos are talking about something, but you're not really listening to the conversation. Mike set another glass of wine in front of you, collecting your previous glass and the three beer bottles in front of Methos. You look over and see that Mike also brought over a fresh round for everyone. Good chap, you think. Lifting you glass to your lips, you tune back into the conversation at hand.

Two glasses of wine.

You aren't even tipsy, but the wine has been amplified the fact that you've barely gotten three good hours of rest. You're stifling yawns every other minute now, and the weariness has crept up on you. Joe and Methos are still talking, but the bar is starting to empty out. Methos has stopped trying to sprawl all over the seat and is leaned over the table slightly, sitting close to you. You close your eyes for a moment, savoring the feel of the heat spilling off of his body. You really need to get out more, you think. Then you slip into a light doze.

"Amy?" You're shaken slightly. "Amy?"

You blink your eyes open and see that the bar is empty, aside from Joe counting the money behind the bar. Methos is pressed close against you, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder, and you notice his hand on your thigh. You don't say anything about his hand. It's been far too long, and even though he is your Immortal, you're supposed to remain objective about him, and all that, it's just been too damn long.

"I fell asleep?" you ask. You can feel his smile.

"Yeah. You were going to have knots in your neck if you kept sleeping like that, so I enlisted my shoulder."

"Thanks," you yawn, meaning it. You stretch, carefully, so as not to dislodge his hand. He notices that, and you don't miss his tiny indrawn breath. He probably did it unthinking, and was just now becoming aware of your thigh under his long-fingered hand. It tightened just a fraction, but it was enough to have you sucking in your own breath. Your head rose up just enough to meet his eyes. Once you saw the green-gold orbs, you immediately lost yourself in them. Desire, affection, fear, and power all combined in his eyes to turn into an interesting mixture that could only belong to Methos.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and it felt as though the preceding lightning had crawled all over your skin.

"They weren't predicting any storms for tonight," Joe mused. You heard him only because of the silence prevailing in the bar. You blinked, and the magic of his gaze was broken. Now his eyes were somewhat aloof and amused, but they still held unimaginable power in them.

"Weather forecasts are still highly inaccurate, Joe," he said, blinking also.

"Tell me about it. Even with all the damn satellites all over the world, weathermen still can't see a damn storm coming." You hear him mutter something about Paris in springtime and affectionately roll your eyes. Thunder rumbled again, quieter than the first roll, almost as if the storm decided to form after the lightning had already flashed. You knew that you should be getting home immediately, the springtime thunderstorms could either provide a gentle mist or a deluge. You didn't want to be driving along the cobblestone streets along the Seine if it was going to be a deluge. In fact, with sleep still trying to claim you, you weren't sure if you should be driving at all.

You were about to ask Joe if you could stay on the couch until the morning, but Methos's hand tightened imperceptibly on your leg, halting your words. Looking over at him, you raised an eyebrow.

"I'll drive you home. I don't want you falling asleep at the wheel and driving right into the river."

"Gotten used to having me around, haven't you?"

"You could say that. Besides, it would take forever for me to break in a new Watcher."

Neither of you commented on the desire running rampant between you, or what might or might not happen once inside your apartment. It was simply understood.

You slid out of the seat, barely restraining a moan when his hand slid off accordingly. You bid Joe good night and wait for Methos in the covered doorway. You could see the storm clouds brewing and the hazy sheet of rain off in the distance.

Lighting flashed off in the distance, crawling over the clouds towards the bar.

"Thrilling isn't it?"

The words were in English, but you immediately thought of your dream. As you turned, you wondered for a brief second if they would continue. Then your eyes were on him, his whipcord lean body leaning against the door, his eyes burning.

"Yes, it is."

You don't quite remember how you made it to your car, much less your apartment, but you were there suddenly, Methos standing a bit nervously in the doorway. You wonder how he can be nervous, considering all the times he had been married, but you walk up to him and pull him inside. He gets the hint right then and closes the door a little forcefully with his foot.

Desire built to a crescendo and you were tearing clothing, leaving it in your wake in the rush to get to your bed. And you still didn't even make it there. He simply lifted you against the wall and took you there. Your naked legs wrapped around his equally naked hips and your back arched against the cooled wall.

Off in the distance, you could still hear thunder rumbling, almost a solid wall of sound as the storm moved closer.

Dragging your nails up his back seemed to spur him on, so you did it again and again until you felt your body come apart, split in two. Your orgasmic shout was barely heard over the thunder that seemed to be settled directly outside your apartment. You felt him stiffen against you as you were floating back down from your post-orgasmic bliss. His moan vibrated into you, and then the loudest crash of thunder yet echoed throughout the hallway.

You were both breathing hard, and you felt the weariness start to seep into your bones. The two, three hours worth of sleep you had actually gotten was practically negated by the admittedly fantastic hard and fast sex you just had. Your hands slid through his short hair, pulling it up into spikes, as you waited for him to come back to his senses.

When he finally released you from the wall, you think that you surprised him by pulling him down the rest of the way to your bedroom. But he didn't try any of the unnecessary "are you sure" preliminaries - just crawled into bed with you and spooned up against your back.

"Stay," you whispered just before you succumbed to the weariness.

"I will."

You almost breathed a sigh of relief when the dreamscape you were rudely awakened from rematerialized in your mind. The bed of pelts was still there, though empty of its previous occupant. It somehow didn't bother you at all that you were waiting for a man in your dreams to appear when another was sharing your bed.

It didn't occur to you that they were the same man until he reappeared, dressed in the loincloth, looking a bit confused. Then he looked at you in the eye, eyes that you could now see clearly - the burning green-hazel-gold searing through all of your defenses. And it looked as if all of the pieces were finally falling into place for him.

"It's been you," he said, to the accompaniment of a distant rumble of thunder.

It never occurred to you that he could never see your face. You just assumed that you were playing Psyche to his Eros. You looked up to the sky, reflexively checking the weather, as if you were truly outside, before coming back to his face. You felt no shame, no violation, because every night he had offered you a choice, a choice you had made yourself.

"I didn't know that you could control lightning," you said.

"I didn't either until about three nights ago."

You remembered - a large temple, covered in icons of others doing exactly what you did, the roof partially open, and all the while you could see lightning arching across the sky.

"So where are we?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I've recognized every other place from my memories, but this is a new one."

"So don't think about it."

Lightning flashed.

"We're in Africa. Ten... thousand years ago," he finished in a whisper.

You looked at him, worried now. He had gone deathly white. Leading him over to the pelts, you helped him lie down, and then lay down beside him, offering him your warmth. His arm curled around you, and you could feel him fighting to stay there, fighting against memories. You kissed his forehead.

"We both need sleep, Methos. Don't fight it - or your memories. They'll sort themselves out."

"You're too young to be saying those things," he muttered, amused. But he followed your advice. You felt his body slump down in a battled unconsciousness. You placed your head on his shoulder and found your way into a more blissful sleep.

When you woke, it wasn't to your dreamscape; it was in your soft bed, the cotton sheets softly scratching against the length of your naked body. He was still unconscious beside you, so you laid your head against his chest and simply let the beating of his heart, the oldest human heart, lull you into a half-asleep, half-awake doze.

You weren't sure how long it had been since you had woken up when you felt him begin to stir, but you kept your head where it was and felt his body respond instinctively to yours. You raised your head so you were looking at his face and saw his eyes blink open sleepily.

"Get it all sorted out?" you ask.

"I did."

"Any interesting tidbits to share?"

He smiled. "Later. Right now I've got a naked woman that's been sharing my history in my arms."

Your leg ran up his. "And what are you going to do about that?" You were almost surprised at the saucy tone.

He didn't speak, just rolled you on top of him, straddling his thighs, and then dragged your head up for a kiss. It was a long, very through kiss, one neither of you indulged in the night before. It was different, but at the same time, pleasantly familiar. It wasn't a lazy kiss by any means; it was making your blood heat faster than it ever had before. Your hand reached down to wrap itself around his arousal and he broke off the kiss, hissing his pleasure. Raising yourself up, you steadied both him and yourself with your hands, and then brought yourself down in one resounding move. His back arched along with yours, and it honestly made you even wetter knowing that it was you doing this to him, giving him this amount of pleasure. Your nails bit into his shoulders as you rose and fell, like a ship at sea. Rolling your hips to get the maximum amount of friction, you were off, pushing up, him pulling you down, until just like before, your body came apart with such a force you wondered if you could survive it. You felt him reach his own competition and you fell atop him, head nestled between his shoulder and neck.

"We'll have to do this again," you mutter.

You felt him smile. "Yes, we will."

-fini.