Chasing Duncan
(A Queer Comedy in Thirteen Parts)

Part the First: In Which Methos Is Quite Diverted

Methos watched as Joe hit the button on his cellphone and grinned like a fool. Foolishness wasn't a stretch for him, Methos thought uncharitably, he seemed to manage it quite effortlessly. Of course it wasn't only Joe who was pissing him off lately; these days the whole world seemed specially designed to annoy the fuck out of him. Too long in one place, new heights of idiocy running rampant throughout the land, metal detectors in airports and so on and so forth. No Duncan MacLeod to keep life interesting. Just the usual plethora of vast annoyances. Maybe it was time to move on.

"Mac's on his way back," Joe announced.

Maybe moving on could wait a bit. Methos ignored his fool stomach doing back-flips and raised an eyebrow in lieu of expending the energy involved in actually asking the question. It didn't do to appear too eager.

"He'll be here on Tuesday." Joe snagged a couple of glasses and filled them with beer. "The thing with Taylor didn't work out, so he's coming back to Seacouver to live."

The name didn't ring any bells. Methos raised both eyebrows this time.

Joe took a long pull at his own beer, amusement all over his face. Methos waited, patience wearing thinner by the second. Joe took his sweet time about it, clearly enjoying making him squirm. Methos narrowed his eyes and waited, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the bar.

And waited.

And waited some more while Joe sucked down the last of his beer.

And waited a bit longer, watching Joe wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, all the while entertaining warm, fuzzy thoughts of torture and mayhem. Just because he was a retired Evil Overlord didn't mean he didn't still have skills.

Finally, he had to just come out and ask. "Who she?"

Joe chuckled. Bloody smug bastard. "She who?"

Methos suppressed the urge to smack him square on that smug grin. "Taylor."

"He."

"He who?" Much more of this and Abbott and Costello would be demanding royalties.

"Taylor."

Methos blinked. The triumphant look on Joe's face was definitely an excuse for grievous bodily harm."Taylor is a he. A person of the male persuasion." Methos rolled his eyes.  Joe had really gone too far this time. Did the man think he was born yesterday?

"Yup," Joe said, clearly enjoying himself far in excess of what became a Watcher and a gentleman. "I thought you knew."

Methos set his glass down carefully on the bar. "Let me get this straight -- if you'll pardon the pun -- Taylor, the same Taylor MacLeod moved half way across the world to be with, the same Taylor that's kept him isolated and incommunicado for a year in Bolivia, for fuck's sake, is a man."

"Yup."

"And this is Duncan MacLeod, we're talking about." Methos was fully aware he was over-reacting, but it'd been a slow year so far and he hadn't been this diverted in months. "Not some other random MacLeod."

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Methos tsked between his teeth and shook his head sadly. "Joseph, Joseph, have you been exceeding your recommended daily allowance of hallucinatory substances again?"

"Not this week." Joe's grin threatened to split his face.

Methos was having none of it. "Pull the other one; it plays Jingle Bells."

He stood, picked his coat up from the stool beside him, and strode out of the bar, still shaking his head. Bloody Dawson. As if MacLeod would have run off to Bolivia with a man. How gullible did Joe think he was anyway? But on the upside, MacLeod was on his way back and at least things wouldn't be so dull.


Part the Second: In Which There Is Blood and a Phone Call and an Invitation Is Issued

Methos was trimming his toenails when the phone rang. The promised lack of dullness had yet to materialize, despite MacLeod's return two whole days ago. A lesser man would have taken it personally. Methos, however, was made of sterner stuff and was compensating with an extensive pedicure.

The sudden burst of noise made him jab himself right under the big toenail. And of course the cordless wasn't where he'd left it, which, considering that he lived alone, was worrying, but that was low on his list of current concerns, what with all the bleeding and swearing and sofa cushion-tossing he needed to do at that very moment.

The phone turned up in a drawer. Briefly, he considered pitching the damned thing through a window rather than answering it. Only briefly, though. It just wasn't nearly as satisfying since he'd had the bulletproofing done.

But he did stab the 'talk' button with extreme vigor. Which was not quite as therapeutic as it might have been. "What?" he growled, peering down at his blood-smeared foot.

"Well, hello to you, too, Methos," Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod replied warmly. Methos heard the amusement in Duncan's voice and knew it was at his expense.

But he smiled anyway, because it really was good to have the big git back. "Back from the wilds of Bolivia, are we? Bring me any marching powder?"

He heard MacLeod snort down the phone. "Sure. 'A' grade Bolivian marching powder. That's what I'm calling about. I need you to come post my bail."

"Again?"

"'fraid so."

"I'm going to start charging you the going rate, you know."

"Don't I get the friends and family discount?"

That odd feeling in his stomach was definitely last night's shrimp dinner. Not anything else. "Maybe."

"Want to have a drink and discuss it?"

"Won't the guards have something to say about that?"

"I paid them off."

"Joe's? Half an hour?"

"Sure."


Part the Third: In Which There Is Beer and Jocularity

MacLeod looked different. That was the first thing that Methos noticed. Perhaps Dawson hadn't been yanking his chain after all. MacLeod had always been the prototypical metrosexual, at least in the years that Methos had known him, but there was something about him now that really screamed, 'Come and get it, boys!'  Maybe it was the glint of a gold nipple ring beneath the sheer black shirt he was wearing. Big, brown eyes looked up at him and blinked, slowly.

Methos looked him up and down, took in the whole package (including his package -- nicely framed in denim -- yum) and fell deeply and irretrievably in lust. Lust of the kind where consummation was a definite possibility. Lust of the 'oh baby, have I got something for you' kind. A hunka hunka burning lust. Or something like that.

Methos stopped his train of thought before it derailed him completely.

Whatever the hell it was, it was nothing like the low-level hum of lust that had been sitting somewhere equidistant between Methos' head and toes since the moment he'd met MacLeod. Well, maybe a little like it, but only if a candle was like the surface of the sun. Which led to the question, how had he missed this all along? Had his gaydar gone on vacation sometime in early 1995?

Apparently so.

Methos wondered what Amanda would have to say about it. Hell, what was he thinking? She probably knew already. Probably he was the last Immortal on Earth to find out that Duncan MacLeod liked snails as well as oysters. The thought pleased him very little. But what the fuck, he was all caught up now and while he wouldn't get to be the first guy to chase and catch MacLeod, he was damned sure he was going to be the last.

Methos had to restrain himself from a possessive growl. That might have been somewhat more obvious than he was ready to be. But really, he wondered, what the hell else was he waiting for? For once it looked like time, opportunity and circumstance were all on his side. And it was about bloody time.

Methos pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, just in case he was, you know, actually drooling, and made himself greet MacLeod like a regular friend and not someone who'd just realized he was extremely happy in his pants.

"I see they let you out," Methos said, managing a crooked grin.

Dawson was looking bemused, but Methos ignored him.

"I bribed the guards." MacLeod's smile could have lit the whole building. Damn, he was pretty.

"With what?" Methos couldn't help flicking his eyes up and down MacLeod's body one more time. Better than pretty, he looked utterly edible with his short dark hair curling softly and falling onto his forehead, his eyes crinkling with warmth and the thin fabric of his shirt revealing just enough of his tightly muscled torso to make Methos' mouth water. He did another subtle drool check. At least he hoped it was subtle. Of course it was, he'd invented subtle, hadn't he?

Well, okay, he hadn't, but he'd lived next door to the guy that did.

MacLeod just smiled even wider and moved a chair away from the table. "Have a seat."

Dawson had apparently been brushing up on his psychic bartending skills, or MacLeod had ordered for them when he'd felt Methos coming. Either way, beer arrived at their table and it was good. Proof of a higher power, almost.

Methos slid into the chair and picked up his glass, raising it in a toast. "To being single, drinking doubles, and seeing triple," he said. Okay, so he was being both oblique and pointed, but he was Methos -- it was expected.

MacLeod lifted his glass and met Methos' eyes. The shot had hit home, but MacLeod didn't look upset by it. In fact the man appeared downright amused. It looked good on him. Methos drank most of his beer instead of drooling like an idiot.

"So the Watcher News Network has been on the job, has it?" MacLeod asked, raising an eyebrow in Joe's direction.

Joe managed to look slightly abashed. "He was here when you called." MacLeod kept looking at him. "Hey! I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret."

"You're a pair of old gossips," MacLeod said, leaning back in his chair and laughing at them.

"Well, I did hear that gay is the new black," Methos couldn't resist adding waspishly.

"Ha. Ha," MacLeod deadpanned. "I'm glad you find my life so amusing. What have you been doing with yours?"

"Just the usual…hanging out with rock stars and fucking supermodels -- or was that fucking rock stars and hanging out with supermodels? I can never keep that straight."

"Like you have more than a passing acquaintance with straight anyway," Joe sniped.

Methos narrowed his eyes and smiled sleepily. "What's wrong, Joseph? Feeling left out?" He sprawled deep in his chair and leaned back, letting his legs fall apart. "I could always show you what you've been missing."

"Pass," Joe replied with a rude snicker. "I'd only ruin you for all other men."

Methos felt his own smile sour on his lips as MacLeod laughed long and loud. There was something seriously wrong with the dynamics of this conversation, and it was past time that the position of Official Butt of All Jokes went back to MacLeod where it belonged.

He pointedly ignored Dawson and turned to MacLeod instead, leaning across the table on one elbow. "So," he purred, flicking a look up through his eyelashes and resurrecting the sleepy smile he'd wasted on that no-good excuse for a barkeep, "when are you going to take a crack at ruining me for all other men?"

MacLeod's eyes flew open and beer snorted out his nose, spraying Methos in a shower of slightly used Corona. The ensuing laughter shrivelled the last of Methos' good mood like a penis in a deep freeze. MacLeod threw his head back and brayed long and loud, tears streaming from his eyes. "Oh, Methos," he laughed between coughs, "if we put a blonde wig on you, you'd make a wonderful Marilyn Monroe."

That set Joe off and before Methos could say a word, the pair of them were braying like mules, laughing themselves stupid at his expense. He wiped the beer from his face with as much dignity as he could muster and pretended to laugh along with them.


Part the Fourth: In Which There Is Much Taking of Strong Drink and Thoughts of a Dire Nature

Clearly, a vastly different plan was in order, Methos thought while he slopped absinthe into an oversized cocktail glass. Something a little more complex than batting his eyelashes at MacLeod and doing his critically acclaimed Marilyn routine. Something with class and style. Something worthy of him.

Pity there was nothing coming to mind at that moment. God, he was such a prat. Who was he kidding? He sucked at this kind of thing. For a retired Evil Overlord, he sure was pitiful. Not a master plan in sight. Which was a shame, because that was just what this situation called for.

Methos swallowed more absinthe and contemplated the ceiling. What would an Evil Overlord do? The ceiling was singularly uninformative. Bugger it. Stupid ceiling.

Methos threw down some more absinthe and thought hard. Unfortunately, the only thing that immediately came to mind was stripping himself naked and letting MacLeod find him sprawled across his bed. Well, it had almost worked once before, hadn't it? And he hadn't even been naked that time. It was worth a thought….

Another swallow of absinthe and he was imagining how it would go. He'd let himself in while MacLeod was out and take all his clothes off. Maybe he'd even steal a shower, standing naked where Duncan stood naked every day, touching himself -- just a little. Not enough to get off, just enough to show his cock off to its best advantage. Oh yeah, that could work. He'd dry himself on Duncan's towel and the scent would be more than enough to keep him at least half-hard while he went into the bedroom and arranged himself with casual artistry all over Duncan's big bed.

And then Duncan would come home….  

And laugh himself stupid at the skinny old fool in his bed and his utter lack of subtlety.

Methos' fantasy dissolved miserably. That was a truly pathetic plan. Evil Overlords 'R' Us would throw him out on his scrawny arse for even contemplating something so lame. Maybe he could just ask him to dinner instead. Methos belched so loudly it echoed off the walls of his empty flat. Recycled aniseed taste filled his mouth, making him grimace. Fuck, the stuff really was vile.  But it never failed to get him good and shit-faced, which was the only reason he even had it in the house. He refilled his glass and tossed it down. Maybe by the end of the bottle he'd be ready to call him.

Yeah, he thought, a little muzzily, dinner could be a good start. Nice, non-threatening, simple. Like a date, even. He could do dating. Maybe he'd send him a bunch of flowers and a deftly worded invitation. Maybe some poetry. At that moment his train of thought screeched to a halt and his mouth dropped open in disbelief at the trainwreck that was his mind.

Dear Christ. He'd turned into a lesbian when he wasn't looking. Methos suppressed the urge to shriek and check that his dick was still attached (okay, so the suppression was less than successful, but he'd never tell). And while his equipment it was still there intact, the rest of him was dangerously close to turning into a lesbian stereotype. Next thing he'd be asking MacLeod to move in with him on their first date. He shuddered. No dinner, no flowers and definitely no poetry. No. No. No.

He'd been an Evil Overlord once, god damn it. For that matter, he'd been a god a couple of times too. Ruler of all he surveyed. Feared, loved and obeyed, etcetera etcetera etcetera…. Surely he still had the mojo to entice one reasonably attractive Scotsman into his bed? Or was he doomed like Frankenstein to wander the frozen tundra of his MacLeod-less, mojo-less existence forever?

Tears began to prickle his eyes until he jammed his thumb hard into his thigh. He could be more pathetic, but it'd be quite an effort.
 
It was all the absinthe's fault; that had to be it. Methos stuffed the cork in the bottle and hurled it in the general direction of the trash. He missed by a long shot. Christ, he was even throwing like a girl. He was never going to touch that shit again. Poisonous crap. It always got him in trouble.

Like now, when suddenly it occurred to him that maybe this whole story about MacLeod and his boyfriend was just a set-up and he was heading for another dose of public humiliation courtesy of Dawson and MacLeod. Maybe it really was just an elaborate con.

Nah…. Methos dismissed the thought. MacLeod was a lousy liar and Joe Dawson was worse. Neither of them had the skill to put one over on him. This was just the absinthe making him paranoid; damned stuff was worse than grass.

Methos glared at the bottle on the floor, and yawned widely. All of sudden he was too tired to keep his eyes open. Good thing the couch was long and comfortable, he thought as he collapsed into it. Maybe, he thought as consciousness faded, maybe the best plan was, as always, no plan at all. Maybe he'd wait for MacLeod to come to him.

Yeah, that could work.

 
Part the Fifth: In Which Unexpected Things Occur and Methos Is Most Perturbed

Clearly, a herd of buffalo had shit in his mouth. And rolled in it. Repeatedly. Before galloping over his head, entering his brain through his ear and taking up residence in his frontal lobe.

That was the only explanation for the way he was feeling. He took a deep breath and waited for the feeling to pass. It would, before long, but holy fuck, what was that smell? Something like one of the aforementioned buffalo had died. Last week.

Shit. Methos groaned, realizing the awful truth. It was him.

And the stench would be as immortal as he was if he didn't get his arse into a shower and fast. He managed to get as far as sitting upright on the sofa and had to pause for a moment until the room stopped swaying. That was it, no more absinthe for him. He hadn't even seen the green fairy.

He rubbed his hand over his face, puzzled when he encountered a peanut impressed deeply into the skin of his forehead. What the…? He hadn't even been eating peanuts last night. He flicked it away and thought no more of it. The morning was crappy enough without adding itinerant snack food to it.

Another painful shove got him to his feet and tottering in the direction of the shower. He was mere feet from watery salvation when the doorbell rang and Immortal presence knifed through his pounding skull. The pain was almost enough for him to wish for a merciful beheading.

But only almost.

"Are you going to answer your door? I know you're in there," MacLeod called from the other side.

MacLeod. Of course it was. Why did objects of lust never show up unexpectedly when one was fragrant and fabulous and having a good hair day? Methos caught sight of his reflection in the glass of a nearby painting and winced. Jesus. The Hunchback of Notre Dame had nothing on him.

And MacLeod was knocking on the door now, which did nothing for Methos' head. He was, Methos realized, caught on the horns of a dilemma. Either he opened the door and exposed his hideous state (not to mention reek) to MacLeod, thereby killing any chance of fucking him this century, or he ignored MacLeod and let him go away thinking he didn't want to see him, also doing nothing for his chances of getting laid. And he did want to see MacLeod (and get laid). Really rather a lot. Just in about half an hour's time.

"I don't suppose you could come back in half an hour or so?" Methos tried, his hand on the bathroom door.

There was a moment of silence, then MacLeod chuckled, that deep, throaty laugh of his that was so goddamned sexy. Methos bit back a whimper.

"Got company, have you?" MacLeod asked through the door.

Light bulbs went off all over Methos' mind, startling the buffalo briefly. "Err…yeah. Now's really not a good time. Meet you later?"

"Joe's at one? You can fill me in on what you've been…up to." There was that laugh again. Methos' cock twitched.

"Sure," he managed to say with relative normality. "One is good."

MacLeod's presence faded and Methos leaned his head against the bathroom door, gently, so as not to disturb the buffalo still roaming about in there. One was not good, he realized with rising hysteria, one was very very bad. One had cerebral buffalo, an imaginary boyfriend, and a lunch date with an excessively handsome man. One was just slightly screwed. And not in a good way.

And one should stop thinking of oneself in the third person before the guys in the white suits came to drag one away, Methos thought as he finally made it into the cool, dim bathroom. Because one had places to go, people to do, and absolutely no time for a nervous breakdown.


Part the Sixth: Wherein There Is Hope. And Lunch

There had to be other places in Seacouver to go for lunch, Methos grumbled to himself as Joe smirked at him from behind the bar. MacLeod was already there, but then he'd known that before he walked through the door. Fortunately, his shower, about a gallon of water and Immortal healing had banished the buffalo, so MacLeod's presence wasn't quite as painful as it could have been. In fact, it sent a happy little thrill down his spine and into his pants. He caught MacLeod's eye across the room and grinned broadly.

Bloody Joe Dawson could go fuck himself; Methos had a date. With MacLeod. Even if MacLeod didn't exactly realize it was a date. And while Methos was fully aware of how pathetic that sounded, no one else was, which made it all right. He resisted the urge to flip Dawson off in favor of fixing his eyes on MacLeod's and strolling slowly toward him. Maybe Methos' hips twitched a little, but he'd never been averse to a little subtle strutting.

MacLeod's smile as Methos reached the table was worth every minute of his vile morning. He looked thoroughly delicious once again; incandescent with life and energy. Absurdly hot. And the outfit didn't do him any harm either. Tight in all the right places. Mm-mmm…. Methos slid into a chair and looked him over thoroughly. Not every occasion called for subtle.

"You're looking well," Methos said.

"It's a chronic condition." MacLeod's grin widened. "How's your friend?"

Methos blinked at him for a moment before he remembered. "Umm…less a friend than a casual acquaintance, really." Dear god, was he blushing? He was so going to be thrown out of Evil Overlords 'R' Us. An Evil Overlord never blushed.

MacLeod's smile curled into an amused smirk. He'd noticed, the bastard. "Boy or girl?"

Methos blinked at him. "Sorry, what?"

"The…casual acquaintance. Boy or girl? Surely you noticed at some point." MacLeod was laughing at him, the bastard.

Methos sent him the look of a thousand daggers. "Why do you care?"

"Just making conversation," MacLeod replied, laughter still glinting in his eyes.

"Well, can we converse about something else?"

"Touchy, aren't we?"

"You have no idea." Methos pitched his voice low and flicked a look at MacLeod that even the most oblivious man couldn't have missed.

The laughter on MacLeod's face didn't fade one bit. "I guess I don't."

There was definite flirtatiousness in that look. The low-level lust throbbing through him stepped up a notch. "That could always change," he said softly.

And then there was silence, the sort of Vast Awkward Silence that had doomed many a more promising date than this one. The waitress came and went, taking an order Methos couldn't remember giving. He cast about wildly for something to say, but all that would come out was,  "But, seriously, I like the new look."

MacLeod, the bastard, had the nerve to look relieved. "Glad you approve."

Approve? Hell, any more 'approval' and the table would be in danger of tipping over from the pole rising in his pants. The nipple ring wasn't visible today, but the rest of him remained sincerely gorgeous. Delicious. If this was what a year in Bolivia did for a guy, then maybe he should be heading there himself. He checked him out some more, shamelessly obvious in direct retaliation to MacLeod's reticence.

"Have I got something on my face?" MacLeod asked, amusement still flickering at the corners of his lovely mouth. "You're staring."

Methos felt his cheeks flame and shook his head. "It's nothing. You just look…different."

"Just the same old me, I'm afraid," MacLeod laughed. "You hungry?"

Methos resisted the urge to be horribly cliched and simply ordered some lunch. But the truth of it was that he was starving and not just for food. But he'd be buggered if he was telling MacLeod that. A man needed to keep some things to himself. Before long, lunch arrived, some complicated salad-ish thing that apparently was what he had ordered. And if it wasn't, then he had no idea what it was supposed to be. He started to eat it anyway.

Across the table, MacLeod was eating serenely, apparently oblivious to Methos' lustings. Damn, the man had a wonderful mouth. Just the thought of it sent sweet little shivers of anticipation down his spine. However, when all was said and done, anticipation was all very well, but satisfaction beat it hands down every time. It was just about time to get him some.

"I was sorry to hear about you and Tyler," Methos began when there were only odd pieces of some kind of brownish leaf matter left on his plate. He wasn't in the least bit sorry -- in fact he was goddamned overjoyed about it -- but it was as good an opening as any.

"Taylor," MacLeod corrected with a shrug. He laid his knife and fork down on his plate. "These things happen. We wanted different things. You know how it is."

Methos looked up to meet his eyes. "Yeah, I guess I do." He slanted an amused, narrow-eyed look at MacLeod. "Still hard to imagine you running off with a guy."

MacLeod stared at him, clearly restraining some unnecessarily rude laughter. "You're kidding, right?"

"Well, excuse me for being misled by the endless stream of women leaping into your bed ever since I've known you," Methos shot back.

MacLeod smirked. "Nice to know you're not as all-knowing as you make out."

"Hey, I'm just--"

"A guy," MacLeod finished for him, smiling like he knew something Methos didn't. "Yeah, I got that part."

And if that wasn't an invitation, Methos didn't know what was. "Okay," he said, "what d'you say we blow this joint and find something fun to do?" Images of various 'fun' things they could be doing in a matter of minutes ran through his head, but he squashed them ruthlessly. Now wasn't the time for that. Not just yet.

MacLeod nodded, smiling brilliantly, as if he knew what it did to Methos' insides and he didn't give a damn. "Yeah, fun sounds…good."

And in the end, the opportunity appeared when not even Methos could have predicted it. One minute they were walking out of Joe's and down the alley to take a shortcut to MacLeod's car, and the next minute some lunatic on a motorcycle was flying past, missing Methos by millimetres. MacLeod grabbed him with his big, hard hands and pulled him out of the way.

Methos let himself be pressed up against the wall and it wasn't too much of an effort to look shocked -- wide-eyed and vulnerable. It was a handy talent he'd picked up. Useful at times like this. He licked his lips and knew that MacLeod was watching. Anticipation beat a low pulse through his body.

"Thanks," Methos said, pleased with how husky his voice sounded. Their eyes met. Opportunity knocked too loud to ignore. Methos reached up and sank his fingers into the soft curls of MacLeod's hair, pulling him close enough to kiss.

And then he kissed him.


Part the Seventh: Wherein There Is a Kiss, and the Ritual Quoting of the Python of Monty

Duncan's mouth was open, which made it easy for Methos to slip his tongue between those wondrous lips and taste him thoroughly. He pressed himself close to the front of Duncan's hard body and writhed, just a little. And, god, he tasted incredible. Methos' cock hardened. He hummed in the back of his throat and slid one hand down Duncan's back to his arse.

It was about then that he noticed Duncan wasn't kissing him back. Or rather he had been at first and now he…wasn't.

He dropped his hands to his sides and opened his eyes, more than a little reluctantly. MacLeod was looking at him, all sorts of questions in his eyes. Questions Methos would rather not have had to answer.

"I don't suppose 'I slipped' would cover it?" Methos tried.

MacLeod tilted his head to one side. "Not even part of it, old man." He stepped back, his eyes still on Methos'. "You want to tell me what that was about?"

Methos lounged back against the wall and feigned nonchalance. "Well, if you don't know by now, you've been doing something wrong for the last four hundred years."

MacLeod straightened and loomed over him, managing to look larger than he actually was. "Methos…" he growled.

Methos pushed away from the wall and looked at him eye to eye. That was much better. "I wanted to, so I did. An impulse. Don't make more of it than it is."

"Why now?"

Bloody MacLeod, always asking the questions Methos least wanted to answer. "It seemed like a good idea at the time?" He huffed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Listen, I'm sorry if I got the wrong end of the stick, but I'm not going to stand here and talk this to death. See you later, Mac." He slipped past MacLeod and headed off down the alley.

Or rather, he tried to.

MacLeod, it seemed, had other ideas, judging from the hand that clamped around his right arm and stopped him in his tracks. "Not so fast, Methos."

Methos spun on him, temper sparking, and tore his arm free. "What?" he snapped.

"Answer me three questions first. Is that too much to ask?"

Methos sighed and rolled his eyes. "As long as you don't want me to estimate the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow."

Amusement flickered in MacLeod's eyes. "Monty Python references won't save you now."

Methos raised an eyebrow at him. "Then what will?"

"Three honest answers, true or false."

"False," Methos quipped.

It was MacLeod's turn to roll his eyes. "Fine. We don't have to do this." He tugged at the waist of his trousers. Smoothed a ponytail that was no longer there. "I'll see you around." He spun on his heel and took off down the alley, leaving Methos stunned and gaping in his wake.

"Hey!" Methos called. "Just one minute, MacLeod." His temper was starting to get the better of him, which was never a good thing, but it was too late now. "Don't you go flouncing away from me!"

MacLeod stopped and turned on him. "I don't flounce."

"Of course not," Methos said quickly as he crossed the distance between them. "You stride off in an exceedingly manly fashion, but if I'd yelled that at you, you would have been halfway down the block before I'd finished."

"Point taken." The humor was back which meant he still had a chance to fix this. "Was there something else you wanted?"

Now there was a dangerous question. And he was about to put himself in the way of some more. He came to a halt an arm's length from where MacLeod stood. "Ask me," Methos said.

"You sure?"

"That counts as your first question."

"No, it doesn't," MacLeod protested.

"Yes, it does."

"No. It. Doesn't."

Methos sighed theatrically. He could have sworn he could see steam curling out of MacLeod's ears. "Okay, then, I'll give you a freebie out of the goodness of my heart."

MacLeod pursed his lips. "Thank you so much." He put his hands on his hips. "You drive me nuts, you know."

Methos gave him his best smile. "True."

There was the eye roll again. "And you're interested in me."

Honesty went against the grain, but after an internal struggle or three, Methos said, "True."

MacLeod didn't look as pleased as he might have. But then he didn't look exactly displeased either. "This is all because you found out about Taylor, isn't it?" he asked.

Damn it, now there was an unfair question. Because it wasn't -- not entirely -- it was more the forces of time and circumstance and desire aligning themselves to his benefit for once. Or so it had seemed at the time. Now, it seemed just like more of his crappy luck. And MacLeod was still waiting for his answer.

Methos licked his suddenly dry lips and replied at last, "True."

"And you think just because you date men and I date men that I'm just automatically going to fall into your bed."

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds pretty cold." Methos was babbling, something he tried very hard to avoid usually, but the truth was inescapable. "But it's not actually as simple as that."

"That wasn't true or false," MacLeod said.

"It's as close as you're going to get."

MacLeod squinted at him. "Is that so?"

Methos had to work hard not to clench his fists. Christ, MacLeod was an exasperating git. Methos let out a deep breath and met his eyes. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

MacLeod shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded him steadily. "You can say what you want."

"What I want?" Methos shot back, all too aware of the shrill edge to his voice. He took a step toward MacLeod, perversely pleased when he held his ground. "You've been flirting with me for years! How about you tell me what you want?"

"You first," MacLeod answered calmly.

"What I want," Methos said, pitching his voice deliberately low as he stepped in closer, "is you. Preferably naked and in my bed, although the location is negotiable. I want your hands and your mouth and your skin on mine." Duncan's face didn't change, but Methos could see his breathing quicken. "I want to spend days in bed driving you insane while you do the same to me." Another step and Duncan was still standing his ground, silent and unreadable. It was probably the lack of reaction that provoked Methos into finishing with: "And I want to know that this whole thing about Taylor isn't some game you and Dawson cooked up between you to make a fool of me."

An enigmatic smile curled Duncan's lips. "Is that what you think is going on?"

"I don't know." Methos rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Why don't you tell me?" He was digging himself in deeper with every word, but he just couldn't seem to stop. "None of this seems very like you at all."

"And you know me so well." The maddening smile didn't fade one bit.

"I thought I did."

"Am I in the habit of lying to you, in your vast experience of me?" The sarcasm was veiled, but definitely there.

"Well, no…but…but…."

"So, you want me, but you think I'll lie to you." Same smile, still maddening. "Maybe you need to think about this some more." The smile broadened, became truly infuriating. "Think I'll pass on anymore 'fun' for today, Methos. Maybe I'll see you later." And with that he strolled off down the alley toward the street, hands back in his pockets as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Which left Methos standing flatfooted and slightly dumbstruck in the middle of the alley. It was entirely possible, he thought, that he had just committed a rather large error in judgement. On that happy note, Methos slunk down the alleyway and took himself off home.

Part the Eighth: In Which there is Beer and Manly Banter

MacLeod, the prick, appeared disinclined to allow Methos to wallow in his humiliation by maintaining a respectful distance. No, instead of hiding himself away like anyone else would after an incident of that magnitude, MacLeod appeared on Methos' doorstep the very next night, armed with two six packs and an unrepentant smile. That was what was wrong with young people these days, Methos thought sourly. No sense of propriety.

Sometimes he really missed being a god so he could give some people the smiting they so richly deserved.

"Methos," MacLeod said with that I-know-something-you-don't-know grin that Methos was really starting to despise.

"MacLeod," Methos replied through the small gap between door and frame.

"Now we've established we know who we are, do you think you could let me in?" MacLeod hitched the six-packs higher on his hip. "I brought beer." The grin widened, became disgustingly appealing.

Methos gave up and let him in and pretended not to be annoyed. It was a good thing he'd had plenty of practice. MacLeod strode across the room as if he owned the place and deposited the beer -- good beer too, Methos couldn't help but notice -- on the kitchen counter. He pulled two free of their cardboard prison, knocked the tops off and held one out.

"Beer?"

Methos gave himself a swift mental kick in the arse and realized what he was looking at: Duncan MacLeod, gorgeous as ever, in his apartment, with beer and a smile that could make a man weak in the knees. Things could be worse. Things could definitely be a lot worse. He took the beer and decided that it was best he didn't think too hard about going to his knees just yet.

Instead, he strolled over to the sofa and sprawled over one end, taking a long and excessively sensual swallow of his beer. He gestured to the other end of the sofa with the bottle. "Have a seat."

MacLeod inclined in his head in that half-courtly, half-mocking way of his and sank into the seat. Air whooshed out of the leather cushions and cooled the heat of Methos' face. MacLeod was watching him.

"So," Methos began, because the silence was beginning to irritate him, "to what do I owe the honor?"

"I thought we should talk."

Methos' stomach plummeted. No good could come of this. "Talk?" He raised an eyebrow. "We talked yesterday. I don't remember it with a great deal of fondness."

If anything, MacLeod's smile grew even more knowing -- and annoying. "You sure about that?"

Methos glared at him and drained a goodly portion of his beer. "We weren't talking then."

MacLeod's grin didn't waver. "No, we weren't."

Okay, if MacLeod wanted banter, he could do banter. Hell, he'd invented banter. Really. Regardless of what that hack Socrates said. "So," he began, "tell me about Taylor." Methos gave himself a severe mental kick. Lord, he really was pathetic. That wasn't banter. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but it sure as hell wasn't anything resembling any form of banter.

Fortunately, MacLeod didn't seem to notice, but he wasn’t smiling any more. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to tell me."

MacLeod closed his eyes and took a long drink. When he was finished, he kept his eyes on the bottle. "He's smart, very smart. Compassionate. Funny. Great dancer…." Duncan trailed off and picked at the beer label.

"Hot?" Methos put in, just to be perverse.

MacLeod looked up and his mouth twitched. "Yeah, hot. Why? You want his number?"

"Maybe." Methos grinned at him. "It's not like I'm getting any action around here."

MacLeod rolled his eyes and chuckled a little, finally.

"So," Methos said, "Do I get to hear why you left this paragon of hotness?"

The nascent good humor fled from MacLeod's face. "How long have you got?"

"Plenty of time." Methos stood, finishing his beer at the same time. "As long as you take me to dinner first."

That brought the smile back. MacLeod always was vulnerable to outright shamelessness. "And I suppose you know just the place, " he said, getting up from the sofa while Methos got his coat.

"Sure I do." He slid his hand under Duncan's elbow and walked him to the door. "You'll love it. It's Greek."


Part the Ninth: In Which Methos' Mouth Runs Away with Him

"I can't believe it's not semen," Methos said, poking at the creamy white fluid with a forefinger.

Duncan laughed so loud that people nearby stared in their direction. "If yours looks like tsatziki, then you've got bigger problems than I thought," he chuckled. "It's no' supposed to have lumps in it."

"But look," Methos insisted, holding up his finger as evidence and watching as the creamy yoghurt dripped from it. "Don't tell me you don't see the resemblance."

"Not in the slightest."

Methos stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked the tsatziki from it, slowly, with his eyes fixed firmly on Duncan's. They were both more than a little drunk, having ordered a bottle of retsina at the beginning of the meal, some ouzo during, and then there was some more ouzo.

Then there was some that said 'Kronos' on the label and that was when Methos knew that the gods were mocking him. He'd retaliated by drinking the bottle dry and ordering another. Because he was musing to himself about the unfairness of life in general and why there wasn't a liquor named after him, he almost missed the fact that Duncan was watching him closely. Very closely.

It hadn't taken him long to get with the program, though. Which had provoked the observation about the tsatziki. And consequently the finger-sucking. Possibly an unwise move, but what was done was done. And he'd certainly succeeded in keeping Duncan's attention.

Duncan was watching him with his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his teeth sunk into the plump flesh of his lower lip. Methos licked the rest of the tsatziki from his skin, his eyes still fixed on Duncan's.

"So, you wanted to know about Taylor," Duncan said softly. Methos' reverie shrivelled and died. He took his finger out of his mouth.

"No." Right now, really really not.

"Yes, you did," Duncan insisted. "You said so."

"I lied." Methos sent him his most appealing grin. "Want to spank me for it?"

"No."

"Spoilsport."

Duncan picked up the ouzo bottle. "Have another drink and stop being such a lunatic, Methos."

"That was flirtation -- not lunacy," Methos explained slowly, careful not to slur his words while he waited until his glass was filled. "There is a difference, you know." He sipped thoughtfully. "It seems to be a concept you have trouble with, seeing how many lunatics you've been involved with, but trust me, they are generally considered to be two very different animals." He was talking too much and talking rather a lot of crap, but he was at that point of drunkenness where he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to. "In fact, many of us go for centuries without dating -- let alone marrying -- anyone of questionable sanity." And he really should have stopped talking about three sentences ago, but it was as if he was standing outside himself and watching in growing horror. And still he couldn't stop. "Many of us actually regard lunacy as an impediment to romance, not an added incentive."

He could see the good mood evaporating from Duncan's face, but still he couldn't seem to shut himself up. "Flirtation, on the other hand, is generally held to be a good and necessary thing. Fun, even. Enjoyable to all parties concerned. A confirmation of one's own attractiveness, if you like. Of course some people are so vain that they don't need that, but for we lesser Immortals, it serves to remind us that we are not considered complete and utter trolls. I always--"

Duncan reached across the table and for a moment Methos thought he was going to slap him. Instead, he clamped his hand over Methos' mouth, shutting him up before he could babble anymore.

"I've always thought you were very attractive," Duncan told him, color blazing across his cheekbones. "Now, could you please shut up?"

Methos, because he was still drunk (and because he was chronically perverse) took the opportunity to lick Duncan's hand where it was pressed over his lips. Surprise widened Duncan's eyes, but he didn't move. Methos took this as A Good Sign and licked him again, longer and more lingering. This time Duncan groaned softly and removed his hand, laying it over one of Methos' where it rested on the table.

Duncan's hand was warm and damp with spit. Methos found it perversely erotic -- more so when Duncan's fingers closed around his own.

"I'm not going to sleep with you," Duncan said, his voice low and even.

Methos had to blink and run those words through his head a time or two to make sure he'd heard them right. He managed to resurrect a scrap of dignity and answered, "I wasn't aware I'd asked you to."

Duncan's mouth curled up at one corner. "Don't be coy, Methos. It doesn't suit you."

"And yet you're the one holding my hand," Methos reminded him, not without a certain amount of venom.

The hand was summarily removed. Methos closed his eyes and imagined Duncan nailing him to the wall. It distracted him nicely from the incipient humiliation. He opened his eyes to find Duncan watching him again, as close as ever. And what ever was written in the expression on his face, it sure as hell wasn't repugnance.

It looked a lot more like arousal.

Hah! It was all he could do to keep from singing, "Liar, liar, pants on fire."

Right about then, he noticed that the restaurant was emptying and all around them the staff were cleaning up (and apparently ignoring the floorshow in progress at table 13). Methos raised his eyebrows at Duncan. Time to make a move.

"I have beer at my place," Methos said.

"I know," Duncan replied. "I bought it."

Methos grinned at him and got up. "So, come home with me and drink your beer, Duncan MacLeod."

"I think we've both drunk enough."

Methos handed Duncan up from his seat. "You're really quite lovely when you're being pompous. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Duncan disengaged his hand and pulled out his cellphone. "I'm calling you a taxi."

"Call me what you like; you're still a hot piece." Methos went to goose him, but Duncan danced out of the way.

Before Duncan could dial the number, the cellphone trilled, some pretentious little classical tune that Methos couldn't put a name to. Something by Chopin, probably.

He caught the words, "Hello, Taylor," and the fact that all the laughter fled from Duncan's face before Duncan turned his back and walked outside.

Which left Methos to pay the check. He comforted himself with thoughts of how he was going to take it out of MacLeod's hide. But, judging by the look of thunder on MacLeod's face as he'd walked outside, it wouldn't be tonight. Tonight he was going to have to content himself with a taxi ride home alone and the company of his own right hand.

But tomorrow was another day.

Part the Tenth: Wherein there is Introspection and a Phone Call

Methos was working out. He was also working on the mess that was his pathetic pursuit of MacLeod, but he was sure that to the rest of the gym it looked like he was just another guy building up his glutes running on the treadmill. Sure, the gym was as boring as batshit, but it beat running outdoors with all the hassles of kamikaze challengers and weapons concealment.

And it gave him time to think.

It also gave him killer gluteals, washboard abs, and the admiration of random strangers, male and female, and that was never a bad thing.

What it wasn't giving him was Duncan MacLeod, naked, oiled and begging to be fucked. But it would, it was only a matter of time and the application of the right enticement. Of course he still had no idea what that would be. But age and guile…yada yada yada….

Who was he kidding? He had nothing.

Damn it, what was wrong with him? He'd seduced plenty of people, hell, he'd had them lined up around the block, begging to be seduced. Well, not exactly lined up, but close to it. It was almost enough to make a man wish for simpler times, times when you could just ride up and throw someone over your saddle and ride off into the sunset with them. And they used to thank you for it, too.

Well, not always, but she'd get over it eventually.

Probably.

One thing was clear; everything he'd tried so far was a big fat bust. Pathetic.

And probably riding up on a horse and throwing MacLeod over the pommel of his saddle wasn't exactly the right approach, but it was an interesting fantasy nonetheless. Oh, yeah…. Methos lost himself in contemplation of the possibilities. The two of them alone, Duncan naked and glistening with sweat and utterly at his mercy, looking at him with those big, brown eyes full of desire as he waited for him to undress, to cover him with his body and fuck 'til their brains oozed out. He was so lost in the fantasy that he wasn't really concentrating on what he was doing.

He should have been concentrating on what he was doing.

It only took one misstep, one slip of the foot and he was crashing, flying backwards, shrieking unmanfully as he tumbled to the floor, arms and legs akimbo. The room spun and swayed, lurching sickeningly. He lay there, bleeding and bruised, looking up the circle of bemused faces that had gathered to witness his abject humiliation. But none of them offered to help him as he dragged himself up from the floor and limped away. Bastards. It wasn't like clumsiness was contagious, god damn it. If he'd had a tail it would have been between his legs.

Probably, it was time to find a new gym.

***

The phone was ringing when he got home. His first thought was to ignore the damned thing, his second thought was that it might be MacLeod, and his third thought was that if he didn't get the door open soon he was going to miss the call altogether and the first two questions would be moot.

It was MacLeod, according to the screen on the phone, and certain parts of Methos did a happy little dance. Memories of public humiliation evaporated in the heat of unrequited lust.

"House of Pain - how may I torture you?"

MacLeod chuckled. "You have caller ID, don't you?"

"Curses. Foiled again," he answered in a bad accent. "But the offer's still open."

"Ha. Ha. You really are a lunatic, Methos." There was a smile in his voice and Methos made himself comfortable on the sofa so he could enjoy it properly.

"Was there a reason you called, or was it just for the sparkling repartee?"

"A little of both."

Methos waited. One beat, then two. "And…?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to come with me--"

"Yes."

"You don't know where I'm going yet."

"Oh, were you going somewhere?"

"Methos…" Duncan growled in a voice that did delightful things to Methos' libido. Visions of Duncan pushing him down onto his bed and growling at him just like that before he pounced flashed through his mind. And MacLeod was still talking to him. "…art gallery. Say six o'clock?"

"Sure, why not," Methos replied, with no actual idea what he'd just agreed to, but not caring a hell of a whole lot. "You can pick me up," he added, ending the call before he could hear any protests. He grinned to himself as he set down the phone. Baiting MacLeod was such fun. And if he had his way, he was going to have a lot more fun before the night was done.


Part the Eleventh: In Which There Is Art, Miscellaneous Body Parts and a Kiss

"It looks like a penis etched on a sardine can," Methos said close by Duncan's ear. Around them the gallery buzzed with the sort of pretentious conversation that usually sent Methos fleeing for the door. But he was enduring it, if just for the pleasure of teasing Duncan.

Duncan chuckled and turned to him with a small smile, not moving away at all. "That's because it is a penis etched on a sardine can." His breath puffed, warm and humid, against Methos' face. Parts of him tingled most pleasantly.

"I like it," Methos said. "It's very…tumescent, in a post-modern, deconstructionist kind of way."

Laughter snorted quietly out Duncan's nose and he walked on along the display. Methos followed him, sidling up close and tucking his hand under Duncan's arm. "Ass," Duncan muttered with an indulgent grin.

"No, that's an ass," Methos replied, pointing at a similar sardine can, this one with a shapely, clearly male backside carved into the curled-back lid. "Reminds me a little of someone I know, actually." He leaned back and made a big deal of checking out Duncan's butt. "Yep. Very like."

"It is not."

Methos straightened up and looked him in the eye, one brow raised. "Care to put your money where your mouth is?"

"My mouth?" A matching eyebrow and a crooked smile. "Or my ass?"

Good grief. Was that flirting? Methos pressed close, laid a hand on Duncan's hip. "I'll take either," he whispered.

"I bet you would," Duncan whispered back. "But you're not going to." He stepped away. "Come on, we haven't looked at the rest of the exhibit yet."

Methos gritted his teeth and reminded himself that once he had made legions cower The thought squared his shoulders and lifted his chin as he went stalking after MacLeod.

He found him serenely perusing the artworks, stopped before a wall of leaves painted on banknotes.

"Hey! I designed that!" Methos said, pointing to a picture based on a single note.

"You did not," Duncan told him calmly, as if he was talking to an over-imaginative five-year-old.

Methos looked at him, eyes wide and innocent as he could make them. "Yes, I did."

"You designed the Iraqi dinar."

"Well, not all of them. Just the hundred dinar one. It was a favor for a friend."

Duncan rolled his eyes. "I suppose you're going to tell me Saddam Hussein posed for it too."

"Of course not. He sent me an official portrait to work from."

Duncan chuckled. "You're full of it, Methos. Come on, let's go before someone overhears and takes you seriously."

"Why wouldn't they take me seriously?" Methos wanted to know as he followed Duncan down past a case of pale, beaded things that looked like human organs floating in the air. "I'm completely serious. Of course that was what Saddam was always saying in those days too. Chatty guy, always talk, talk, talk. Just as well he sent a portrait. Hard to get the mouth right when the subject won't shut it. Though Leonardo always managed somehow. But then, he was a genius."

Duncan stopped in his tracks and spun to face him, patience blown away by a burst of exasperation. "You're certifiable!" he burst out, arms flailing, his face a wonderful melange of annoyance and amusement. "How is it you're still alive?"

The gallery went quiet around them, black-clad connoisseurs of modern art stopping to stare at the domestic melodrama unfolding before them.  Methos ignored them and walked right up to MacLeod, eyes fixed on his face. He didn't stop until he was inches from MacLeod's chest.

"Because," he breathed, letting his eyes drift down to Duncan's mouth. "I give a killer blowjob."

And then he kissed him. Methos pressed himself along Duncan's front and grabbed his face in both hands, sealing his mouth over Duncan's lips, easing them open with his tongue. He hadn't meant to do it, but there he was, kissing Duncan long and slow and deep, reveling in the taste of him with his fingers buried in his hair and his body molding itself to the delicious contours of Duncan's. Lust throbbed through him, echoing like a far-off bass beat.

He eased off slowly, inching back, finishing with a lick and a nibble to the plump curve of Duncan's lower lip. Sometime during the kiss, warm, strong hands had come to rest on his waist and they didn't move when he lifted his head and opened his eyes at last.

"Don't ask me to be sorry," Methos said in a raspy whisper. He took his hands from Duncan's hair with a final rub of fingertips along the tense place at Duncan's temples.

Duncan was watching him, unreadably quiet, with his color high and his breath coming quickly. "People are staring," he said at last. He didn't look all that upset about it.

"Then we should go somewhere private and stop scandalizing the population at large, don't you think?"

Duncan said nothing, but took Methos by the hand and led him out of the gallery and into the night, pausing only to collect their coats. The cloakroom boy winked at them.

Methos winked back.


Part the Twelfth: Wherein There Are Unexpected Developments

 
The cool night air helped clear his head a little, but truthfully, not all that much. Not when Duncan had him by the hand and was leading him through the parking lot toward what promised to be a stellar sexual experience. Of course, it would have been better if they hadn't parked so damn far away. But Duncan was giving off pheromones like a vapor trail behind him, and it was all Methos could do to stop himself from dragging him down between the parked cars and going for it on the asphalt.

He was this close to giving in to the urge when the buzz hit. Bloody hell. God damn it. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Of all the times for another Immortal to heave into range. It appeared the gods weren't finished mocking him. Well, the gods could all go fuck themselves. Without lube. Methos pulled out his sword and prepared to lay waste to whichever Immortal dickhead it was that dared to put himself between Methos and fucking Duncan MacLeod.

A scrawny, leather-clad form emerged out of the darkness. And then another. Two of them. For fuck's sake. Duncan put himself directly in front of Methos and held out his arm to keep him there.

"You've got to be kidding," Methos muttered, knocking Duncan's arm out of his way. He got a growl in return for his efforts, but he ignored it.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan announced with such gravitas that Methos almost snickered. Almost.

"Bully for you, mate." The first Immortal drew his sword. "Sid, Sid Vicious, here for your head-lopping pleasure. Or mine, anyway."

"This is a gag, right?" Methos said, raising his blade.

"Nah…he's for real," the other Immortal put in, turning bloodshot eyes on Methos.

"And I suppose you're Johnny Rotten?"

"What do you reckon?" the Immortal answered, launching himself at Methos, while the other went at Duncan.

Bloody hell, for once the punk kids really were…punk kids. Scrawny, tattooed, punks. Complete with Mohawk haircuts -- razorblades and safety pins decorating various parts of their anatomies. Methos sighed. How very 1978. He deflected the blow and stepped back, moving out of the swinging arc of Duncan's katana. It'd put a real damper on their evening if Duncan managed to accidentally behead him and not the punks.

The kid swung like he was brandishing a baseball bat, not a broadsword, all brute strength and no style. Still, if there were points for trying, he'd be scoring well. Sadly for him, this was not kindergarten. Methos, on the other hand, was biding his time, waiting for an opening so he could permanently shorten this relic from the seventies and get back to getting properly laid -- or improperly, either one being entirely acceptable.

Methos blocked a clumsy thrust, enveloped the blade, pushed it aside and swept his sword point across the kid's skinny gut. Air and pain ooofed out of him and he doubled over. Methos went for the cut to his neck, but the kid threw himself to one side and all he caught was one stringy shoulder. Blood flowed and the punk swore, retaliating with a swing that went high and wild.

Methos blocked him again, pushing the kid's blade up and away, immediately bringing his own down and back, thrusting in before the kid could counter. The blade sank deep into the kid's stomach and his broadsword clattered to the pavement. Methos needed a boot to the punk's gut to release his own blade; it came free with a sucking, squelching noise, resistant at first, then slipping out easily. Blood spattered, black in the moonlight.

He lifted his sword high, anger and thwarted lust giving strength to the backswing. Then he was turning, swinging the blade down and into the kid's neck, feeling the brief scrape of metal against bone and then nothing. Nothing but the dull bounce of the kid's empty head hitting the ground like a discarded melon. And then the dead quiet, like the silence after a fart in an elevator, while he waited for the Quickening to begin.

He caught a brief flash of Duncan and the other kid, still fighting, and then the storm hit. Lightning, sharp white and superheated, hit him like an electrical enema, spearing through him. It was nasty, but at least it was brief, kind of like about twelve of his marriages. And then it was over, leaving him drained and horny, gasping and sweating all at the same time.

And Duncan was still going with Sid, Methos noticed with a flash of annoyance. What the hell was taking him so long?

"God damn it, MacLeod!" Methos grumbled, largely to himself. "This isn't synchronized swimming. There aren't any points for style."

Duncan, the smug bastard, shot him an over-confident grin. "Sure there are." He ran up onto the hood of a nearby Chevy and flipped backwards off it, sailing over the punk kid's head. The kid was too slow, seemingly confused by Duncan's antics. Methos stifled a laugh. The katana was a blur of silver light coming in fast and horizontal, aiming right for the punk's neck.

And then going all the way through with a perfectly judged cut that sent the kid's head flying up, spinning on a random axis with the Mohawk acting like a fin. Meanwhile, Duncan, being Duncan, had landed lightly and effortlessly, flicking the blood from his blade and planting it firmly into the ground. Sweat slicked his face below the wild disorder of his hair and his shirt was torn across the chest, revealing his pierced nipple.

It was probably a symptom of Methos' own perverseness that he'd never found Duncan hotter or wanted him more than he had at that very moment. And that was really saying something. His entire body felt like one giant erection.

Then the mist was crawling up Duncan's legs, wrapping around his hips and making him groan like it was a mouth on his cock. It was probably quite stupid to be jealous of a Quickening, Methos thought absently. But he was too busy lusting to care while drinking in the sight of Duncan bucking and swaying and bracing himself against the lightning when it struck. It didn't take long, but when it was over Duncan was on all fours and breathing heavy on the ground. Fucking beautiful. Methos pushed up from his crouch and went to him with lust fizzing in his veins like good champagne.

He reached down and pulled Duncan to his feet, tugging him in close by the lapels of his coat. Duncan's cock was a thick, hard ridge that did interesting things to the exquisite tailoring of his pants. Methos slipped one hand down to it, rubbing gently, stroking the outlines with his fingers. Breath hissed through Duncan's teeth.

Methos smirked. "Still sure you're not interested?"

Duncan grabbed him and shoved him up against the side of a nearby SUV. Before Methos could draw breath Duncan was all over him, kissing him hard and fast with his leg snugged up between Methos' thighs, his hands around Methos' wrists, pressing them down by his sides. Methos needed to remind himself quite sternly that an Evil Overlord never came in his pants.

Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over and Duncan was staring into his eyes, their faces mere inches apart, his voice a low growl as he replied, "Damn, you're annoying."

"But you're coming home with me." Methos' hips rocked against Duncan's thigh.

"Hell, yeah."


Part the Thirteenth: Wherein There Is a Meeting of the Minds and Other Things

It had taken them long enough to get here, Methos thought to himself, an overdose of anticipation making him impatient. What with having to dispose of the dead punks and then drive back to Methos' apartment (seeing as he'd won the 'my place or yours' argument without even trying), he'd been waiting at least an hour with his cock straining and his balls slowly turning indigo.

But they were here now, standing in Methos' entry hall hanging up their coats, suddenly awkward and silent. For a moment he didn't know what to do with his arms and legs and felt that if he looked down he'd see Oversized Novelty Hands where his own hands should have been. Idiot. Fuck that for a joke. Methos lifted his eyes to find Duncan watching him, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. A sharp spike of desire made the awkwardness easy to slough. Methos smiled and went to him.

He hooked a finger into the remains of Duncan's shirt and grinned. He started walking backwards, leading him toward the bedroom. "Come into my parlour…."

"Said the spider to the fly," Duncan finished for him.

"Indeed." Methos gave him his best smile.

The back of his knees hit the bed and he let himself fall back onto it, taking Duncan with him. Duncan landed on top of him, right where Methos wanted him to be. Their faces were a breath apart.

"Will you hurt me?" Methos asked hopefully.

Duncan stroked his face. "No."

Methos arched up and flipped them so he was on top. "Can I hurt you?"

"No!"

Methos bent down and bit him at the base of his throat. "You sure?" He bit him again. "Not even a little?"

Suddenly, he was on his back once more, Duncan looming large and hot-eyed on top of him. "I said no, you lunatic. Now shut up and kiss me."

Methos took that as a provisional 'no' and did as he was told. For once. But Duncan better not get used to it, he thought, chuckling into the kiss.

Duncan pushed up and sat back, straddling Methos' hips, his fingers busy with the buttons of Methos' shirt. "Do I even want to know what you're laughing about?"

Methos wriggled out of the shirt and tossed it on the floor. "Probably not." He reached up and curled his fingers into the tear in the front of Duncan's shirt. He gave one sharp tug and the fabric tore leaving more hole than shirt. "I've always wanted to do that." He wet his lips. "Among other things."

"That so?" Duncan shucked the shirt. "Wanna show me?"

"Well, there was this for a start…." Methos reached up and fingered the nipple piercing, hooking his fingertip through the small hoop and pulling gently. Duncan hissed and folded in on himself. Methos tugged again, then pushed back to rub his fingertip over the taut nipple. Duncan shuddered and moaned.

Methos curled up from the bed and pushed him backwards, following him down. "Someone really knew what they were doing, piercing you here," he whispered, right before he closed his lips over it.

"Glad you--" Methos bit him-- "approve…oh, God." He trailed off into incoherence while Methos tormented him some more.

The embargo on causing Duncan pain seemed to have fallen by the wayside, Methos noticed. He didn't mention it. Instead, he bit and sucked at the pierced nipple, pushing the tip of his tongue through the small gold hoop, while his fingers twisted and tugged at the other nipple, over and over again, wondering all the while if he could make Duncan come just from this. By the way Duncan was writhing and arching into it, he probably could. But that could wait for some other time.

Because he had other plans for this time. Lots of them.

However, Duncan still had his pants on. For that matter, so did he. God damn it, they both still had their shoes on, too. Methos had been trying to toe his off, forgetting entirely that he was wearing boots. When he finally remembered, the only thing for it was to roll off Duncan and sit up and take them off the old-fashioned way.

Duncan growled when Methos lifted his mouth away and sat up.

Methos turned and growled back at him. "Don't just lie there. Make yourself useful and get those damned pants off."

"You're a lot pushier than I imagined," Duncan bitched while he skinned out of his pants.

Methos kicked his own pants away and dived back on top of him. "You've imagined me like this?" he gloated, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice.

Duncan wrapped his arms around him, smiling so widely his eyes crinkled. Seriously gorgeous. "Once or twice," he conceded.

Methos pressed his hips down in one long, slow, circling grind, finishing with an excessively wet lick up the side of Duncan's neck. "Only once or twice? I think I should be offended." Duncan's earlobe was just too tempting not to nibble, so he did.

"Methos…." His voice cracked when Methos slid a hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Duncan's cock.  

"Yes?" Methos affected his most innocent of all expressions while he stroked him a little harder.

Duncan spread his legs and brought his knees up either side of Methos' thighs. Raised his hips and rocked into Methos' touch, while his big, hot hands slid down to Methos' ass. His breath was coming fast and shallow. "Dying here."

"Already?" Okay, so he was being a lot meaner than a guy in his position really had a right to be, but Duncan would get over it. Soon, anyway.

Duncan thrust up into Methos' hand. "Yes." He arched his neck and moaned softly. Damn, he really was beautiful.

"Can I fuck you?" Methos whispered into his ear.

Duncan's hands tightened on his ass and he thrust up again, moaning, "If you don't I might have to go looking for my sword."

Which would take most of the fun out of things. So he lunged for the bedside drawer, fumbled around for the lube, while Duncan did his best to distract him with his hands in a dozen places at once, rubbing, stroking, teasing. Madness beckoned. He no sooner had the lube in his hand then Duncan was dragging him back on top, kissing him deeply with a lot of tongue, feeling him up with what felt like about eight hands. Then, without Methos quite being sure how it happened, the sneaky beast had lifted the bottle from his grasp and in a heartbeat a big, rough hand was slathering his cock with lube.

Which left his hands free to push Duncan's legs apart and spread him open. Another shift, a small adjustment of hips and hands and he was right there, paused at Duncan's hole, his heart hammering in his chest and his balls aching with need. He opened his eyes and chanced a look up into Duncan's face. His teeth were sunk into his bottom lip and a fine sheen of sweat glossed his skin. Beyond gorgeous. There was nothing left but to push his aching cock into him.

Duncan's hips bucked up to meet him and Methos slid past the tight grip into silky heat and god how could he have ever thought there was any way this was going to be anything other than insane and out of control between them?  What an idiot he was. Completely at the mercy of his dick and this gorgeous, deeply irritating, confoundingly compelling man. He was so screwed.

In every sense of the word.

And in all the times he'd imagined fucking Duncan MacLeod, Methos had never thought he'd be so noisy. But pouring out of that delicious mouth was an endless stream of moans and groans and some gorgeously filthy encouragement, exhorting him to fuck him harder, deeper, faster. Not that Methos needed any encouragement. In fact, much more encouragement and this was going to be over far too quickly.

He knelt back onto his haunches, still buried deep inside Duncan, still fucking him but slowing it down, letting himself feel the voluptuous heat of every stroke. And from there he could see everything, watch the thrust of his cock into Duncan's ass, the tension in the muscles of his belly, the rapid lift of his chest as he gasped for breath. And his mouth, dear god, that mouth, wet and open and the stuff of a thousand wet dreams. He pushed Duncan's knees back towards his shoulders and fucked him faster.

Then Duncan was arching and crying out and clamping down on Methos' cock, coming so beautifully all Methos could do was let go and follow him. Shuddering and shoving himself impossibly deep inside Duncan's body, Methos came hard, pumping out the contents of his balls and a goodly portion of his sanity.

Which probably explained the goofy look he just knew was plastered all over his face when he finally pulled enough brain cells into order to slip out of Duncan's ass and collapse into his arms. Duncan wrapped his arms around him and held him close. Which was…nice. Methos considered making a snide remark about not being his girlfriend, then decided it was more trouble than it was worth. He sighed and laid his head on Duncan's hairy chest. Also nice.

Of course then his bloody brain was working again and a thought struck him, giving him a moment of most un-Evil Overlordian self-doubt. Maybe this was all just a moment of Quickening-induced horniness and Duncan would be descending into patented Celtic brood mode any moment now. And that would be dull as well as uncomfortable. He raised his head and looked Duncan in the eye. "What made you change your mind?"

Duncan smiled sleepily. "Who says I did?"

Methos squinted at him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you just spend the last week telling me you weren't going to sleep with me?"

"I didn't notice any sleeping."

Methos rolled his eyes. Infuriating git. "Fine. You told me -- repeatedly, I might add -- that you weren't ever going to engage in acts of sexual congress with me. Whatever happened to Duncan MacLeod: renowned boyscout and man of his word?"

Laughter spluttered out of Duncan's mouth. "You're impossible." He pulled Methos down for kiss that did nothing for his thought processes. "You get what you want and you're still not satisfied."

"There's satisfied and then there's satisfied. So, give. Was this all because of that Quickening?"

"I could ask you the same thing. You took one too."

Methos growled under his breath. "And I could take another one."

Duncan's grin turned entirely too smug for comfort. "Relax, Methos. We both got what we wanted." He wrapped one hand around the back of Methos' neck and drew him closer, stopping just short of kissing distance. "You're the one who likes to play games. I was just letting you chase me until I caught you."

"I knew you were up to something.,"

Duncan stroked the back of Methos' neck and smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Mmm...sure you did."

"But Taylor was real, right?"  He was beginning to see where this was going and it wasn't good.

"Yes, Methos, there really is a Taylor." Duncan sighed and chuckled under his breath. "Somewhere."  He brushed his thumb over Methos' lower lip, his eyes going dark and hot. "Now,  hush and come here, I want you some more."

For about two seconds Methos thought about going all vengeful and godlike on Duncan's arse, then decided there were plenty of other things he wanted to do to it a hell of a lot more. In life a man needed to keep his priorities straight, even if nothing else was.

The End

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