Chapter Thirty


Methos was sagging in Duncan's arms, trembling with adrenaline or some damn thing, but someone was coming and they had to move now. Duncan eased him away and looked into his face. Blood was smeared and spattered all over it. Exhaustion, stress, maybe a combination of both – something clearly had him at the end of his tether.

"Methos?"

He blinked as if trying to clear his vision.

"There's a chopper coming. We have to get out of here."

Methos nodded, but he was far from back to himself. He took a step and staggered. Duncan rushed to grab him.

"Goddamn it," he grumbled weakly, sagging against him a little. "Give me a minute."

Duncan would have loved to, but the noise of the chopper was getting louder by the second and he wasn't sure they had a minute to spare.

"Pro'ly the cavalry anyway," Methos mumbled against Duncan's shirt.

"Methos, no one knows we're here," Duncan reminded him gently. God only knew how they were going to get out of there; the plane was almost out of fuel and unless there was some hidden around the airfield they were going to be taking the long way back to Zambia.

Methos said something that sounded like, "Mpande."

"Mpande's dead," Duncan whispered, holding Methos closer.

"Not exactly...."

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?" Duncan tipped Methos' head back so he could look at him.

"I lied. Tell me you're not surprised by this, MacLeod." Despite his exhaustion, there was still a glint of mischief in his eyes.

It took a moment to really sink in. Duncan frowned. "You might have said something."

"When?" he snapped. "It's not like I wasn't otherwise occupied."

"But still..." Duncan persisted.

"But nothing. Come on, I thought you said we needed to get out of here." Methos still looked like a strong breeze could knock him over, but he was sounding more like himself all the time.

And he was right.

Duncan wrapped an arm around Methos' shoulders and together they started back into the center of the airfield. Duncan glanced back once at the bloody pile of flesh and rags that had once been Allessandro, but there was really nothing to say.

***

The woman was where he'd left her, lying under the cover of the tarp, but she was looking far worse than she had even a short time before. Her skin had a sickly ashen cast to it and she barely opened her eyes as Duncan boosted himself over the side of the rooftop and came near.

"Kumari?" he said as he knelt beside her, picking up her rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. "We have to go, there's a chopper coming." He touched her arm; her skin was burning hot under his fingertips. "You're ill. Come on, I'll help you down." Whatever she'd done, she didn't deserve a slow death out here. If it was help that was coming, she'd have a better chance if they could get her to a hospital.

Her eyes widened with fear and Duncan found himself murmuring reassuringly as he eased the tarp away from her body. She made a small distressed sound like a trapped animal as he uncovered her and the faint smell of corruption wafted out. Not good at all. He shushed her and wrapped the canvas around her body instead. "I'm not going to hurt you," he told her as he lifted her up, wincing at the noise she made. "We need to get you down from here." The noise of the chopper was loud now and he was sure they'd see it coming over the tops of the trees any moment now.

Maneuvering the two of them down off the top of the shed was a hell of a lot harder than getting up there, but he made it down without jolting her too badly. At least he thought so until he looked down into her face and saw the sweat bubbling over her forehead and the pain graying the skin around her mouth. "Not long now," he promised as he hurried across to the hangar where he'd reluctantly left Methos.

The woman closed her eyes and didn't respond.

"How is she?" Methos asked as they came through the wide hangar door.

"Pretty bad." Duncan set her down on the floor near Methos. "I think the wounds are infected. Can you have a look?"

Methos still looked like he'd been through a meat grinder, with drying blood crusting all over him, but he was moving as easily as always when he shifted across to examine her. She flinched at his touch, but her eyes didn't open as he peeled the bloody tarp away and found the two gunshot wounds, covered with poultices of leaves, high on her abdomen.

"She's stopped the bleeding with these. I'm not keen on moving them just to see what's underneath when there's nothing I can do anyway," Methos said after a moment. He looked up, but his face was unreadable. "I think you're right about the infection though. But I don't think that's her biggest problem—"

Methos was about to say something else, but suddenly the air was shifting and roaring with the helicopter right on top of them. Duncan signaled him to stay back undercover and leaned out the door.

A very new, very large Huey helicopter was descending smoothly onto the field, the downdraft whipping the grass and trees almost flat. Duncan squinted, but he couldn't see who was inside through the tinted Plexiglas.

"The cavalry?" Methos shouted over the noise – from right beside him.

"Thought I told you to stay back. I can't see who it is. Get back under cover!"

Methos didn't move – stubborn bastard – and there was no more time to argue with him because the chopper was bumping down onto the ground, the doors opening almost immediately. Three men in dark fatigues moved out at double time, rifles in the ready position. And then a man Duncan recognized stepped out: Grant Montgomery, looking very different from the man in a Savile Row suit he'd been when Duncan had met him in London.

The other three men fanned out to secure the perimeter, forming a triangle around the Huey. Very serious, very professional. Very intriguing. Grant strode towards them, speaking into a headset microphone as he walked.

Duncan turned to Methos. "It's all right," he shouted over the thump of the rotors. "I know him." He jogged out to greet the new arrival. "Grant! What the hell are you doing here?"

Movement by the chopper caught his eye. Another man was easing himself slowly from the rear door. "Mpande!" Duncan called and ran to him. God, it was good to see him, alive and well – if a little battered around the edges. Duncan grabbed his hand and shook it. A little too enthusiastically, judging by Mpande's wince. Duncan eased off.

"Hey, ou maat," Mpande said, barely audible over the noise. "Howzit?" He looked past Duncan. "Hey, Doc. Thought you guys might need a hand."

Methos stopped beside Duncan, close enough for their shoulders to brush. "Glad to see you made it," he said.

"You too, man."

"Duncan?" A low English voice said behind them.

"Grant," Duncan said, turning to face him. "I don't know how you came to be here, but you're a sight for sore eyes." He could feel the unasked questions as Grant looked them up and down, taking in the blood that covered them both.

But all Grant said was: "Let's get you out of here then, MacLeod. I think explanations can wait until we're in the air."

Methos tapped his shoulder and tilted his head in the direction of the hangar.

"We've got an extra passenger to come yet, Grant. We could use a stretcher, if you've got one, and a hand from your men."

Grant looked puzzled but he snapped orders at two of the men who were guarding the perimeter. With the speed and efficiency of well-trained soldiers the world over, the men did as they were told, leaving Duncan wondering yet again who they were and what this enigmatic Englishman really was.

***

Mpande waited until they were in the air before he asked about the woman. She was lying very still on the stretcher in the back of the chopper and Duncan was watching Methos and one of the soldiers, who'd identified himself as a former medic, working on her. She hadn't spoken since they'd come on board and it wasn't looking good.

"Thought she was supposed to be dead," Mpande said unsympathetically.

"Will everyone please stop saying that?" Methos called from the floor.

"Sorry, Doc," Mpande called back. "So, Mac – what's the story?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Mpande, she's a strong woman. Maybe even strong enough to survive this."

An alarm on the portable monitor beeped long and loud. Duncan watched in silence as Methos and the medic worked quickly over her, hanging more intravenous fluids, injecting drugs and shocking her once, twice, three times with the small defibrillator while the medic squeezed a bag that forced air into her lungs. It went on a long time. Duncan watched the monitor's tiny screen, seeing the glowing yellow line spike with the shocks but never return to anything more than a saw-toothed undulation. Then it was flat.

Methos worked a little longer, but finally he looked up and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mac. She's gone. Too much internal bleeding, I think."

Duncan nodded. She'd been as much of a victim as any of them in this and no matter what harm she'd done them, he couldn't find it in himself to really condemn her. Even Mpande was silent beside him. Duncan looked up as Grant Montgomery made his way back from the front of the craft, settling in a seat near them. "We'll be landing at Lafabo soon." He turned to look at the dead woman's body on the stretcher. "Who was she?"

"Her name was Kumari Asenge, she was a Xhosa Sangoma," Methos said as he packed up the supplies he'd been using. His face had gone pale and he looked awful, Duncan realized suddenly.

"A UNITA captain called Allessandro shot her," Duncan added a little distractedly. There was a lot more he could have said, but she was dead and Allessandro was dead and there was not much point. He found himself wishing her peace, wherever she was. After a small silence he asked: "What are you doing here, Grant?"

The Englishman's eyes searched his for a moment. Then he said: "Grace and I were in Cape Town when we heard you were back. She wanted to come and make sure you were both all right. And then when you weren't, we thought perhaps I'd better come and retrieve you."

He was equivocating, Duncan could see that. "And..." he prompted.

Grant smiled broadly. "You're asking about all this," he said, gesturing around at the state-of-the-art helicopter and the men in black fatigues.

Duncan smiled back and waited for more.

"Did you never wonder who you were working for, MacLeod?" he asked, the smile never wavering.

"Millionaire philanthropists rarely send people on secret missions in foreign countries," Duncan said, by way of an answer. He'd had his suspicions, of course, but the opportunity had been too good to pass up. "So who do you really represent?"

"The name wouldn't mean anything to you, but we have a vested interest in seeing peace in Angola."

"And an end to the illegal diamond trade?" Methos put in with an edge to his voice.

Grant's smile flickered, just for a moment, but he covered it well. Not well enough for Duncan to miss it, or what it meant. "Yes," Grant said carefully. "We'd like to see the end of the illegal diamond trade. You must have seen how UNITA is using the funds it provides."

Duncan didn't miss the 'I told you so' look that Methos shot him. It didn't matter, he realized, the cause was a good one and if his work here had helped in even the smallest way to hasten peace in that sad country, then it didn't matter who was behind it, or why. "I've seen it," he said. The memories of the misery he'd seen would be a long time fading. It was for them that he'd come here, not whatever mysterious cartel Grant represented. And if he'd never come, Methos might have been lost forever.

The thought sent a bright, hot shaft of pain through his heart. The depth and scope of what he felt for Methos still frightened him, but faced with the alternative.... His eyes found his lover's face. Methos was watching him, an intense light in his beautiful eyes despite the exhaustion marking his face. Grant was still speaking, explaining the rest, Duncan realized absently, but he was only half-listening as he fell in love with Methos all over again.

***

Immortal presence woke Duncan from his exhausted dozing the minute the chopper hit the ground at Lafabo. Beside him, Methos stiffened and peered out the window, tension in every line of his body. Duncan laid a hand on his arm, whispering, "Grace."

Methos nodded and relaxed a fraction. But not entirely, Duncan noticed. He squeezed Methos' upper arm gently and held on as they stepped out of the helicopter into the long-shadowed afternoon sunlight. Grace was there in the front of the small crowd, almost dancing with delight as she ran forward to throw her arms around him. It was good to see her.

He hugged her, pulling her close with one arm, managing to hold onto Methos with the other. Fine tremors ran through the lean frame. He had to get Methos out of here quickly; even his great strength had its limits. He had a feeling Methos had just about reached his.

"Oh Duncan..." He could hear the tears in Grace's voice, but her smile was wide and genuine.

He patted her back. "It's good to see you, Grace. Thank you." He meant it too; he owed her a great deal. One day perhaps he could repay her.

"Don't I get one of those too?" Grant said from behind them

"Of course, my darling. You did wonderfully well."

She dashed across to her husband, leaving Duncan with his hand still curled around Methos' arm, feeling like he was all that was holding his lover upright. He leaned closer to speak into Methos' ear. "Are you okay?"

Methos' larynx bobbed in his throat. "Sure," he shrugged. "Never better."

Liar. "Yeah, right," Duncan whispered back. "Let's get out of here."

"That would be good," Methos answered through his teeth.

Then Daniel Mboku was there in front of them, his huge frame blocking their path. Duncan glared at him. "Do you mind?"

"I need to speak to both of you right away," Daniel said. His voice, his face, were stony, giving nothing away.

"Not now, Mboku," Duncan growled.

Daniel broadened his stance and placed his hands on his hips. "Yes, now. This is important"

"Not. Now," Duncan spat back. Daniel might well be a stubborn man, but he'd met his match this time. There was something up with Methos and until he was back to himself there was no way he needed more shit from anyone. Everything else could damn well wait. Anyone who thought otherwise would have to go through him first.

Grace dragged her husband over to them, still beaming and teary-eyed, completely oblivious to the tension. "I still think we should do something for them, Grant. After all they've been through.... The poor things need some peace and quiet after all they've been through. Don't you agree, Duncan?"

Dear Grace, still trying to mother the world. Only she could call two of the world's most dangerous Immortals 'poor things' and mean it. Duncan smiled at her as best he could, then turned to Daniel. "We'll have to talk about this later," he told him mildly, ignoring the flash of annoyance in the African's eyes. He slipped by and took Methos with him, half-listening to Grace's excited chatter as they put some distance between them and the crowd. And Daniel.

There were still some questions that needed answering. But they could wait. For now.

***

Duncan was hovering. And the strange thing was that right now Methos found himself not minding over much. That broad, strong hand holding onto his arm grounded him in some odd indefinable way that Methos was reluctant to give up. Coming back from the dark was always dangerous; it hurt like sunlight in the eyes after years in a cave. But it would pass, it always did.

Methos let himself be led away from the chopper pad and the crowd, barely registering all that was said. He'd been functioning on automatic since the... since Allessandro... and now even that was faltering. No one was better at putting on a good act than he was, but right now it was taking energy he just didn't have. He'd felt it all slipping away from the moment they'd come back to the relative safety of the camp.

"Be it ever so humble..." Duncan was saying and Methos realized they were standing in front of his quarters with Duncan's hand on the door handle.

Methos managed half a smile. Fuck, he was tired. Beyond tired. Duncan opened the door and Methos slipped free of his grasp and headed straight for the bed.

Duncan stopped him two steps away with his hands on Methos' waist. "You'll hate yourself in the morning—"

Methos' head snapped up and an angry comeback rushed to the tip of his tongue. He might be exhausted but—

"If you don't take a shower before you go to bed," Duncan went on. "Come on, I'll get your clothes."

"I can do it," Methos grumbled. He could too, he'd been putting one foot in front of the other for a bloody long time and he could damn well do it now. He made it as far as opening the lid of his trunk before pinpoints of light were dancing in front of his eyes and he felt himself swaying. Okay, so maybe he could use a little help. Then Duncan was there, propping him against the wall and collecting up towel, shirt, trousers and underwear from the meager selection in the trunk.

"Soap?"

Methos pointed vaguely in the direction of where he'd last tossed his shower kit. Duncan found it and then they were heading out, trekking over to the shower block. Why did everything have to be so damn far away from everything else, he wondered hazily. Damned inconsiderate. He stumbled again and Duncan caught him, pulling up close to a wide, warm chest. Ah, that was nice....

But Duncan was still moving, manhandling him instead of standing still and letting Methos rest properly. "Mac...."

"Almost there."

More walking, stopping and starting while Duncan got his things, then they were in the shower block. Bleach-smell crinkled his nose. Another cold wall to lean against while Duncan fiddled with the water. Methos started to lift his t-shirt over his head. It was stiff with something.... Methos felt himself shaking again, unable to stop it. He was sliding down, limbs gone to rubber, until strong hands were under his arms, lifting him up and tugging him close to Duncan's warmth.

The t-shirt was eased over his head and tossed away. Deft fingers undid his trousers and they slid to the floor. His boxers went the same way. He was still shaking, but Duncan was holding him tight, whispering something that sounded like reassurance against his neck. Gods, that felt wonderful.

Then warm water was cascading over them, and Methos found the strength to turn his face up into it. The warmth was good, Duncan's sure hands tending to him, even better. Slowly, the shaking began to ease. Without it, he felt liquid, boneless. He tucked his face into the curve of Duncan's neck and sagged against him. Damn, he loved this man.

And then the tears came. Like lightning out of a clear blue sky they struck without warning, quietly wracking his whole body with their intensity, though he didn't make a sound. It had been so close – so damned close. He could have lost this so easily today, one wrong move, one wrong word and either of them could have been dead. He could have lost everything that was important to him in one stroke of a madman's blade.

The same as it ever was....

The pain washed up and over him – knife-sharp and terrible – and he let it, accepting that this was the way it would be on this path he'd chosen. He had chosen. There would be pain and danger and uncertainty as there always was, but now perhaps he wouldn't always be facing it alone. Together they were stronger than apart. Time had proved it. The tears eased and he hauled in a deep cleansing breath and let it go.

For a long time they stood there, the water beating down over them. Slowly, Methos felt himself coming back, the tension fading away, drop by drop, touch by touch of Duncan's careful hands. Then Duncan was turning him gently and washing his back, the long, firm strokes of his hand infinitely soothing. Methos let himself sink into the sheer pleasure of it. Duncan's hand slid over his buttocks and between, slick with soap. Methos moaned, heat curling in his belly.

Suddenly Duncan was very close, pressing him up against the wall with wet lips on his neck and Methos realized for the first time that he was naked too – naked and very aroused behind him. He pressed back into Duncan's heat. "Fuck me." He rolled his spine so the press became a thrusting rhythm. "Now."

"God, Methos... We can't – not here," Duncan rasped. As if he wasn't standing naked behind Methos with his cock about to burst from wanting it.

Methos slipped around to face him, their skins sliding silkily against each other. With his back still to the wall he pulled Duncan closer, blindly seeking his mouth. "Yes. Here. Now."

"Anyone could walk in...." Weak, weak protest.

"I don't care." And he didn't, all he needed was Duncan, as close as he could get him, as soon as humanly possible. Let the whole damn camp watch if they wanted. "You think they don't know?" he whispered as he latched onto Duncan's lips, kissing him ravenously.

Duncan stepped back, breaking the kiss and holding Methos to stay right where he was. "I want you so much..." he breathed, "but not here. When we make love again, I want it to be just us, with a locked door between us and the rest of the world. Then," he leaned a fraction closer, "when you come screaming my name I'll be the only one to hear it."

Methos blinked at him and suppressed a whimper. That could work too. But every part of him from the neck down was still screaming now now now. Wisely, he didn't listen. He nodded and stepped away, hunting for the control that had slipped away so easily. Then exhaustion rolled over him again; it hadn't left, it was merely lurking like an unfed dog at the door. He staggered.

Duncan was there to catch him again. "Christ, Methos. You're dead on your feet. What's wrong?"

"Just a little tired. I'll be fine." He grabbed the towel off the hook on the wall as Duncan turned off the water. Even the towel felt heavy.

"If this is a 'little tired', I'd hate to see really beat," Duncan said, taking the towel from Methos' hands and drying him with it briskly as if he was trying to force the energy back into Methos' body. He could have told him it was pointless, that the only thing that would cure this bone-deep devastation was sleep and lots of it, but words were catching in his throat again and it was just too difficult.

***

It was fully dark when Duncan managed to get them both dressed and out the shower block door without Methos looking like he was going to kiss the concrete again. He wrapped his arm tighter around Methos' waist. Methos' arm was around Duncan's shoulders and he lurched like a drunk as Duncan steered them back in the direction of the staff quarters.

They were half-way there when a voice called out across the compound. "Mr. Mac! Mr. Mac!"

Agustinho. He was a good kid, but the last person Duncan wanted to see right now. In fact the only person he wanted to see right now was already standing next to him. He stopped as the young man ran up to them.

"Been lookin' for you, Mr. Mac," Agustinho said breathlessly. "Dr Mboku says he needs to see you straight away. You too, Doctor B."

Beside him he heard Methos sigh. "Sure, Agustinho. I'll head over there right away. But Dr Booker needs to get some sleep. Tell Dr Mboku Matthew will see him in the morning."

"No," Methos said, sounding a little clearer. "I'll come. I'm fine."

Every time he said that, Duncan believed it less. "You don't have to. You haven't slept properly in three weeks. You can barely stand up on your own."

Methos lifted his head and looked at him witheringly. "I. Will. Be. Fine." He turned towards Agustinho. "Tell Dr Mboku we will be there shortly."

The young African nodded. "Good to see you back again, man. You too, Doc." And then he was gone, haring off in the direction of the camp cafeteria.

Duncan exhaled slowly and looked up into the dark sky, willing away his frustration. "You don't have to come just because he wants you to."

There was that withering look again. "Do you know me at all, MacLeod?"

Point taken. "Sorry." Methos wasn't the only one who was exhausted. "What do you think he wants?" Duncan still hadn't shaken off his suspicions concerning Daniel Mboku. But time would tell, he supposed.

"No idea. Let's just get this over with so we can get to bed."

Now there was a thought to lighten his heart and speed his steps no matter what the destination. Arousal still burned at the edge of his senses, never too far away when Methos was close, but sharper now somehow.

"You know," he said, keeping his voice low as they walked between two of the camp's myriad outbuildings, making their way towards Daniel's office, "I think—"

Methos froze and Duncan didn't get to finish what he was going to say. "Hold on a minute," Methos said, suddenly gone very taut and alert beside him. He was peering intently across at one of the buildings and Duncan tried to see what had caught his eye. But all he could see was one of the small permanent structures, light burning brightly through painted out windows. Methos muttered something venomous and full of sibilance. The exhaustion seemed to leave him as if it had never been.
"What is it?" Duncan asked, following Methos as he crept up closer to the building.

"Keep your voice down," Methos hissed. "It's the morgue – and I just saw someone who doesn't belong there at all." Crouching low, he crept for the nearest window. Duncan followed him close behind.

Some of the paint that had been used to obscure the window had flaked away, leaving a small section that Methos was peering through. Duncan tried, but he couldn't get close enough to see what Methos was looking at.

"I knew it," he hissed.

"What?" Duncan whispered back.

But Methos was edging away, keeping low and making for the door. Duncan had no choice but to go with him. "Who is it?"

Methos turned on him. "Shhh!"

They were almost at the door, Duncan listened hard, but he couldn't hear anything that told him what the hell was going on inside the morgue. There was a rattle of metal that might have been instruments knocking against each other, but that wasn't very revealing. Methos darted forward as if to burst through the door. Duncan grabbed him and held him back, refusing to be cowed by Methos' furious glare.

"Wait," Duncan mouthed.

"No!" Methos mouthed back, plainly as mad as hell.

"Together!" Duncan shaped his mouth around the word so there could be no mistake.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Fine," he answered soundlessly.

Methos eased around to the far side of the door and Duncan stayed where he was, listening hard. He held up three fingers, signaling one, two, three. He had his hand on the door knob by three and then they were easing in, Methos managing to duck under Duncan's arm and be there a millisecond ahead of him.

This morgue wasn't anything fancy, nothing like ones he'd been in – one way or another – in the States. No gleaming stainless steel or elaborate fridges, just a big cold-storage area to keep the bodies from decomposing too much until they could be buried. Just a big cold, room.

With Dr Karen Vandermeer standing shocked by the side of one of the bodies.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she snarled, her eyes wide and furious.

"I could ask you the same thing," Methos shot back.

The doctor made a furtive movement with her hand and Duncan looked more closely at what she was doing. She was trying to cover the body again, but Duncan could see slender, black-skinned legs and feet sticking out from the unzipped body bag. She wasn't. Yes, she was. "I had some work to do," she lied gamely.

"So, did you find them?" Methos asked, his voice conversational and light.

She feigned confusion – prettily, but not well. "Find what?"

"The diamonds," Methos answered flatly.

She wrinkled her nose. "What diamonds?"

"Come on, Karen. You're up to your eyeballs in this mess. The late and unlamented Captain Allessandro was after the diamonds. The late Ms Asenge had the diamonds. And you are after them now. You knew Djube quite well, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "He was our pilot. Everyone knew him." Her eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at?"

"He was the courier, but he wasn't working on his own. Let me guess, you were the one getting the stones out of the country? Maybe to someone back home in Amsterdam? The family connections you're always boasting about? How am I doing?"

She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and shrugged. "You should write fiction. I'm sure there is a market for b-grade thrillers somewhere. You could write it in prison...." She compressed her lips and looked at him meaningfully.

Methos yawned. "And you'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you? It's your name on that idiotic autopsy report that accused me, after all. Just how did you manage that little fiction?"

Panic flashed in her eyes for the first time. "I don't have to explain anything to you," she blustered.

"Do it anyway, just to indulge us," Duncan said. She was breaking, just beginning to crack and it wouldn't be long now.

"Get out of here," she hissed. "I'm not telling you anything."

Duncan took a step towards her, just enough to edge up her discomfort a little.

She backed up, predictably, and a metal dish of instruments clattered to the floor. Stones bounced out with a sound like the first drops of a storm. They hit the floor and scattered, gleaming with the odd soapy sheen of uncut diamonds. She stared at them, frozen in place, her face white with shock. "I don't know where they came from. They aren't mine!" Her voice was growing more and more shrill with every word until she was almost shrieking. "You killed Djube, Booker, not me, and you're the only one going to prison!"

Duncan clapped his hands slowly, applauding the performance. "Nicely done, Dr Vandermeer. You should win an Oscar." He smiled at her, not at all sincerely. "But none of that explains why you're standing here, in the morgue, with the missing diamonds. You want to explain that?"

"Yes, I'd like to know that too," a deep voice rumbled harshly from the door. "Care to explain that, Dr Vandermeer?"

Duncan turned in time to see Daniel Mboku's big frame filling the doorway and the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

***

Hair whipped around Duncan's face as the police helicopter lifted from the ground, carrying Karen Vandermeer away. He squinted into the morning sunlight as he watched her disappear from view, heading for the cells in Lusaka. It had all come flooding out in the end, she was just a greedy woman, no criminal mastermind, and once her deceit had been exposed she'd been all too willing to talk. Not that it would save her. She would face charges and be held accountable for her part in all this mess, minor as it was. But it wouldn't change anything that had happened. The dead would still be dead and the damage could never be undone. She would have to live with that, as they all would.

It had been a long night. Between questioning Dr Vandermeer and explaining the whole story to a very unhappy Daniel Mboku and then giving his final report to Grant and ending their official association, it had been after one in the morning before they'd made it to bed.

Methos had taken about ten seconds to fall into a sleep as deep as a coma, but Duncan had been too keyed up. So he'd guarded Methos' sleep instead, holding him through the pre-dawn hours and as the room lightened with the sunrise, soothing him when the dreams came once more. Being soothed himself by the feel of his lover's long, hard body against his. Watching the dawn shadows play over the angles of Methos' face, highlighting his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, making deep shadows of the fan of his long eyelashes. Damn he was beautiful.

And now he was smiling, that beautiful open smile Duncan saw so rarely, his eyes lit with some inner magic that was purely Methos, and nothing else mattered. They were alive and together and the rest would sort itself out in the end. Of that he had no doubt.

Duncan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and together they walked away from the chopper pad. "We should go see how Mpande's doing," he said.

Methos nodded, but didn't say anything as they headed on over to the hospital.

They found Mpande out the back of the building, passing a hand-rolled cigarette back and forth with a giggling assistant nurse. It didn't take a genius to work out what they were smoking, even before he could smell it. The girl smiled at them crookedly and melted away as they approached.

"Hey, wena!" Mpande called. He still looked like hammered shit, livid swellings around his eyes and healing cuts and scrapes very pink against his dark skin, but his grin was wide and unforced. He held up the joint. "Smoke?" he asked with more than a little mischief in his eyes.

"Pass," Duncan smiled, refusing to be baited.

"Doc?"

"Sure." Methos took it and dragged greedily. Duncan blinked at him, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. "Lighten up, MacLeod," Methos said with a challenge in his eyes and the smoke drifting from his lips. Humor lurked around the corners of his tender mouth and Duncan found himself watching it closely, imagining....

"Was that the cops taking off?" Mpande asked, taking the joint back.

"Yeah," Duncan answered absently. "They took Dr Vandermeer with them."

"So it was her all along." Mpande shook his head and passed the joint back to Methos again. "Thought you said it was the big guy."

"Nope, wrong again," Methos sing-songed through a cloud of acrid smoke. He was way too tired to be doing this to himself. Duncan knew how exhausted he still was, no matter how much better he looked today. Which was probably better than Duncan looked – he hadn't slept at all. But he said nothing. "Daniel's just a regular pain in the arse, not a criminal one," Methos went on, taking another toke. "Cherchez la femme...."

Methos handed the joint back and leaned up against Duncan, back to chest, and it was all Duncan could do to concentrate enough to add, "She was using him to find out the information Djube needed to make the pick-ups. And to get leave whenever she had deliveries to make."

"How'd she get mixed up with that bastard Allessandro?" Mpande asked through his teeth as he held the smoke in. "Woman like that..."

"Djube—" Duncan began.

"Her family had been involved in the diamond trade for generations," Methos put in over the top of what Duncan had been about to say next. "She never made any secret of that. What she didn't say was that her father drank the business into bankruptcy. Or so the rumor goes." Methos shrugged with one shoulder. "When Djube dangled the cash in front of her, she must have thought all her Christmases had come at once. Silly bint."

"So...what? The pilot was UNITA then?" Mpande asked on a slow exhale.

Duncan shook his head. "Not that we could find out. She told us he hinted once that Allessandro was blackmailing him."

"She believe him?"

Methos snorted. "Karen's main concern is, was, and always will be Karen. She didn't give a damn why he was doing it, only that he kept on bringing her lots of lovely stones across the border and giving her lots of lovely cash."

"What d'you think, Doc?" Mpande asked. "Man was your friend."

Methos swiped the joint out of Mpande's hand and dragged deeply. "Who knows why anyone does anything?" He shrugged, gesturing with the joint. Ash fluttered over them, carried by the wind. "I have enough trouble knowing why I do things."

Yeah, right. Duncan didn't believe that for a second. He could see Mpande narrowing his eyes at Methos, as if he wanted to pursue it, but he never did.

Instead, he looked up at Duncan and asked, "So why'd you think Mboku was a part of it?"

"He saw Danny-boy pick up a package from one of the truck drivers," Methos jumped in and answered for him. "It didn't look right and somebody..." he drew the word out pointedly with smoke drifting out of his nostrils, "added two and two to make five."

"Hey!" Duncan said indignantly. "He stuffed it down his pants. What was I supposed to think? It was a fruitcake from his grandmother?"

Mpande sniggered, his head lolling back loosely. "So what was it really, man?"

"Letters from his wives," Methos giggled. "Karen was going through his mail so he was picking it up straight from the truck."

"He didn't tell her he was married?" Mpande shook his head. "Man can dig his grave with his own umthondo," he said as he grabbed his crotch and sniggered again. Methos laughed, low down and dirty. Even Duncan smiled a little; it wasn't hard to translate the crude Zulu.

But in odd way, Duncan felt sorry for Daniel; Karen had used him, lied to him and put his professional position in jeopardy. All Daniel was guilty of was a poor choice of lover and Duncan could relate to that.

But not this time.

This time he'd found the real thing – or it had found him – and he was in for the long haul, no matter what games Methos played to test him. Methos was watching him through his eyelashes, that challenge still there, daring him to say something. Instead, he slid a hand around Methos' waist and rested it on his hip, surreptitiously easing a thumb under Methos' shirt to stroke the fine, soft skin. Gold-green eyes widened and Duncan's whole body hummed with wanting him.

He knew what Methos was up to, still thinking he could push Duncan's buttons and have him react in a predictable way. It wouldn't hurt to prove him wrong once in a while. Keep him on his toes. He looked back at Mpande. "When are they letting you go?"

Mpande sighed. "Coupla days, tomorrow maybe. Not soon enough."

"Going home?" Methos asked through a cloud of smoke, passing the joint back again. Duncan's nose twitched at the smoke, but it didn't bother him enough to make him let Methos go. He slipped his thumb inside the waistband of Methos' trousers, tracing the sharp arch of his hipbone. Methos went a little more pliant against him.

Mpande nodded and leaned back against the building. "Yebo," he sighed. "What you guys gonna do?"

Duncan wished he knew. Aside from taking his lover somewhere very private and fucking until their hearts stopped, Duncan had no idea what was going to happen next. Daniel had made it pretty clear they weren't particularly welcome at Lafabo anymore. He didn't take very kindly to secret agendas and staff who made a habit of disappearing. Even if it wasn't their fault. He shrugged, about to answer when a voice echoed from behind them, closely followed by Immortal presence. "Duncan!" It was Grace, calling to him as she hurried over. "I'm so glad I found you."

"Morning, Grace," Methos said, his voice husky and low, shivering through Duncan and making his cock twitch. Wherever they went – it had better be soon.

"Adam, dear, how are you? Duncan, you look so tired." A frown creased her sweet face, banished in an instant with a conspiratorial grin. "But I think I have just the cure for you – both of you. A little gift from Grant and me, if you like."

***

A few hours later they were in Namibia, leaving Grace and Grant's helicopter in Swakopmund to drive themselves further down the coast to Grace's little hideaway by the sea. It was drier and cooler here, despite the desert that seemed to march right up to the beach in endless rolling dunes. The road wound along jagged cliffs of red and brown and gold. Duncan drove and Methos dozed beside him, as relaxed as a cat in the sun. Duncan didn't disturb him until he pulled the rental car to a halt. Holy ground tingled the soles of his feet; this place had been sacred to the Bushmen since before Methos was born.

Now it was theirs – a refuge of sorts.

"Methos...we're here."

The beach-house was nothing special; pale, weathered wood topped by shingles silvered with age, but Duncan could see why Grace was so fond of it. It sat high on a cliff top looking out at the bay, nothing around for miles. The beach stretched out into infinity below the cliffs, pale gold edged with pale green, darkening to the deeper green of the Benguela current further out. At either side of the house's wide verandah native olive trees nodded in the strong sea breeze. Duncan could taste the salt on his tongue as he stepped out of the rental car, taking it all in. It was perfect – perfect isolation.

And just what the doctor ordered.

Methos was grinning broadly when Duncan looked over at him, the breeze ruffling his silky hair, making him look young and carefree. All Duncan wanted was to keep that look on his face as long as he possibly could. "Come on," he said. "Let's look inside."

They grabbed their bags out of the trunk and headed on into the house. Inside it was just as simple and unpretentious as the outside, all pale colors and scrubbed woods. One big room and a bathroom, not unlike any number of his living spaces before, Duncan realized. And perfect for their needs right now.

"It's beautiful," Duncan said as he set his bag down on the floor and wandered over to the fridge to see what Grace's housekeeper had left them. It was well stocked, more than enough to last them the week until she came again, and plenty of good South African beer. He bent over and snagged two icy bottles of Castle from the bottom shelf.

There was a loud clattering behind him and he spun around, startled, and almost dropped the beer. What the hell?

Methos was crouched over, scrabbling through a bottom drawer in the kitchen area. Before Duncan could ask him what exactly he was up to, Methos made a small eureka! sound and held something up with a triumphant grin.

A hammer and a handful of long nails.

"Methos? What are you doing?" Duncan asked, watching his lover stride to the front door. He set the beer down and went over to him.
"Nailing the door shut," Methos answered as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

"Why?" Duncan asked carefully as Methos began to hammer the nails into the doorframe.

"Because, if we get interrupted one more time, I – will – go – quietly – insane," he said, punctuating his words with hammer blows.

Duncan could only watch, grinning helplessly. He didn't dare suggest that perhaps it was too late to worry about Methos' sanity. Besides, he was starting to wish he'd thought of it first.

But Methos just went on talking, hammering nails up and down the door frame, bending low and giving Duncan an excellent view of his very fine ass as he said, "I figure on holy ground in the middle of nowhere with the door nailed shut we might just have an even chance of having some time to ourselves." Methos knocked in the final nail and turned around, his smile impish and utterly endearing. "You with me?"

Duncan plucked the hammer away and pulled his lover into his arms, a rush of sentiment flooding up, the love he felt consuming everything else. He meant it too, whatever the future brought, he would not allow it to separate him from this man ever again. "Always, Methos, always."

Methos buried his face in the crook of Duncan's neck murmuring, "Big sap." But Duncan could hear the emotion in his voice. Duncan held him tighter and rested his cheek on a broad shoulder. "So we're really going to do this," Methos whispered, his breath warm as it feathered over Duncan's skin. "You and me...together...the whole insanity...."

Duncan could hear what Methos was asking. He could hear the trace of fear too, disguised as it was. It was no small thing for them to promise this to each other. Whatever this was between them, it was far more than sex, more than friendship, more than dangerous. Love. There was so much against it: the world, the Game, the ever-present threat of the Gathering.... It was insanity.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Yes. Yes, we are," Duncan answered him softly. "I don't want to be without you again."

Methos straightened and looked at him, his eyes very bright. "No..." he breathed. He was silent for a moment, and Duncan could see him working himself up to say something more. He waited, his arms loose around Methos' waist. "However long we have, no matter whether it's one lifetime or a hundred... If we didn't do this, I would...regret it." He flashed a small smile. "And I've enough regrets, I think."

Something large and very light expanded inside Duncan's chest and he could only pull Methos close and answer him with his mouth and hands and body, the only eloquence he had.

It would be all right. They would make it all right.

The time for fear had passed, Duncan knew, fear hadn't saved anyone, would never save anyone. Love and faith would carry them forward – were the only things that could carry them forward. And he wanted to move forward, to live his life with this beautiful, contrary, complicated man at his side, whole and unafraid. He walked Methos to the bed and lay him down in the sunlight spilling over the covers through the wide, tall windows.

Methos sprawled beneath him, languid and smiling with the sunlight striking reddish highlights in his dark hair. Duncan couldn't remember wanting anyone so much. Need curled through him, hot and sweet, drawing everything inside him together tightly. It had nowhere to go but out into the man waiting so still in his arms, his expressive lips curled at the corners, and his eyes watchful and bright. In a rush the dam broke and Duncan couldn't wait another moment, sinking into Methos' mouth with searing relief that was like coming home.

All Methos' stillness seemed to burn away beneath the force of Duncan's kiss. In seconds he was writhing, trembling, struggling to shed his clothes and tear at Duncan's at the same time. A rush of need to possess, to mark, to own him tore through Duncan, ratcheting higher with every square inch of skin that was bared. Methos turned his head aside and groaned, deep and long, and Duncan slid lower, fastening his teeth to the side of Methos' neck. Sweet, sweat-salted flesh slipped into his mouth with the rhythm of his lips. Bruises bloomed on the pale skin, following the path of the terrible wounds that still haunted him. He'd come so close – too many times – to losing this. Never again. Never.

Methos' hands were everywhere, greedy and predatory, dragging Duncan's shirt away, sliding beneath his pants to clutch at his ass. Duncan bit him again, harder this time, just to feel Methos arch and gasp beneath him. He worked a hand between them, finding the thick ridge of Methos' cock and releasing it with a tug that sent a button flying off to clatter unremarked onto the floor. Hard, humid flesh sprang into his hand. Methos made a desperate noise and thrust into the curl of Duncan's fingers. Blindly, Duncan found his mouth again, sucking on his tongue to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Fluid surged against his wrist and trickled warmly between his fingers.

Somehow his pants were open and he struggled out of them impatiently, kicking free with a sound he'd never heard himself make. Entirely appropriate, he thought distantly, sliding the kiss from Methos' delectable lips back to his equally delectable neck, Methos had always made him do things, say things, fuck, want things he'd never considered before. Methos' hands tunneled into Duncan's hair, holding him in place: a non-verbal right there that he wouldn't dream of disagreeing with. God, Methos' skin was beautiful – addictive – there was no way he could ever get enough of this.

"Fuck me," Methos growled.

"Get your damn pants off," Duncan growled back, punctuating with another bite.

And in a shimmy of pale muscle the pants were gone, kicked into the tangle of covers growing at the end of the bed and forgotten in the instant it took Methos to say, "Better?" with a look slanted along his cheekbone.

Oh yes.

Long, strong legs wound themselves around his waist, dragging him flush against Methos' lovely up-tilted ass. Suddenly, he was right where he needed to be, the smallest of movements and he’d be inside – and Methos was moving against him, writhing, urging him in low, husky tones to hurry. Time later to draw it out, to make it long and slow and beautiful, now all he wanted – all he needed – was to be inside Methos, to claim him in every way he knew how. He slicked his cock with spit and pushed – sank – into him.

Methos gasped and arched and spasmed around Duncan's cock, needy noises tumbling from his mouth. Heat scorched him. They were moving in synch now, Methos' narrow hips rocking up to meet every thrust, taking him deeper and deeper. He needed this, needed to be deep inside him, so deep they could never be apart again; so deep Methos would never forget it, no matter what happened when they went back to the real world.

But for now this was as real as it got; Methos' ragged voice demanding it harder and faster and right there, Duncan, every part of him straining and surging and pushing them further and further towards the edge and Christ, Methos was so fucking beautiful with his arms stretched back, bracing, with his hands wound through the black iron of the bed frame until his knuckles turned white and the finely turned muscles of his arms bulged with the effort. So damn beautiful spread out like feast he could never get enough of with his chest heaving for breath and long thighs sweat-soaked and rough around his waist. He hooked his arms beneath Methos' knees and spread him wider, driving in deeper, just to hear him wail, feel him push back into the force of it.

Utterly perfect with Methos' supple body curling up to meet his, soaking up the violent desperation of his need. Accepting it. Loving it with a ragged fuck, yes, and his heels digging into Duncan's back, spurring him on to take him faster, harder. Sweating and hanging on to control by the barest thread, by the will to wring every damn thing he could out of this one moment they'd managed to steal. Spinning out every gasp and sigh, every drop of sweat and pre-come, every muttered curse and slap of skin on skin. Every expression in Methos' ageless eyes. Watching him. Loving him.

Duncan's orgasm curled up from his toes, burning – searing – everything in its path. Lightning in the blood pounding in his head, like every Quickening he'd ever taken spiking along his spine, waiting for the moment he would explode.

And then Methos gasped, dragging in a long, shuddering breath. Arched his back. Sank down on Duncan's cock one last time and came in a torrent of liquid syllables, his ass clenching impossibly tight. Too much, too tight, too hard, too deep, too good. Too. Fucking. Good.

Duncan slammed into Methos one last time with everything inside him pulled taut and he spilled, long and loudly, into his lover's body. Strong arms came around him as he fell, holding him tight as he fought for breath, dropping his forehead onto the heaving muscle of Methos' chest.

"Methos?" Duncan began, because he couldn't just let this go without saying something.

"Shh…" Long hands traced hieroglyphics across his back. "Later."

Duncan smiled and kissed the hollow of Methos' chest. Yes, later. They had a later now, Duncan thought as he slipped out of Methos' body and into the tangle of his arms. There had been plenty of times when he'd doubted they would even live long enough to come together like this. Now they were here and whatever happened next, they would face it together. Together. The thought made him smile again as he stroked the sweaty disorder of Methos' hair away from his face and watched him fall asleep in the long, cool afternoon shadows that drifted over them both.

***

Methos woke with his head pillowed on warm, sleek skin that rose and fell in gentle rhythm beneath his cheek. Not alone, and the tiny scrap of fear that had been lurking at the back of his mind – a razor-edged memory of waking to tangled, empty sheets and a far too informative note – faded away as if it had never been.

He opened his eyes just a little and found that he was sprawled haphazardly all over Duncan, who was in turn sprawled face down over much of the bed and apparently still fast asleep. Well, he would be after yesterday. It had been incredible; he could almost feel Duncan moving inside him even now. A low, satisfied sound rumbled out of Methos' chest, breath feathering over his lover's back and raising gooseflesh. Methos smoothed a hand across it, stroking it until it relaxed again.

The broad back under his chest moved a little as Duncan gave a slow, sensuous wriggle. "Mmm...am I still asleep?" he mumbled.

"Yes," Methos whispered, opening his mouth to taste the salty-sweet skin, licking and biting softly over the curve of Duncan's shoulder. "Be quiet and let me have you."

"Mmm...." Duncan wriggled again, burrowing into the wide, soft bed.

Quite accidentally, Methos thought with a smirk, the movement had the added effect of spreading Duncan's lovely thighs further apart. He rose up on one elbow and traced one finger lightly down the length of Duncan's spine, from the nape of his neck, slowly down to the neat little curve where it tucked into his backside. And up again, touching just the center of Duncan's spine, nothing else, his finger slipping slowly over each indented vertebra as Methos admired the beauty of Duncan's back. He wanted to watch it for a long time. From the width of his shoulders to the narrowness of his waist and the curved perfection of his ass, Duncan's back was quite delicious. Too delicious not to spend a little more time on....

Methos leaned down and began to retrace the path of his finger with his lips and tongue, tasting smooth, golden skin slowly and patiently. Duncan was definitely awake now, the little humming sound was back and if he wasn't mistaken, that small rocking he could feel was Duncan rubbing his cock against the mattress. Methos sank his teeth a little deeper into Duncan's nape and a quick shudder met his touch.

"Love your back..." Methos whispered against the valley between Duncan's shoulder blades as he shifted to lie on top of him, his nipples brushing against his lover's skin and hardening quickly.

Duncan chuckled, sounding somewhere between amused and salacious. "You think my back's good – you should try my front..." he said and went to roll over.

Methos held him still and pressed the smirk his smile had become against the slope that led into the small of Duncan's back. "Do shut up, MacLeod. All in good time," he told him, unable to keep the love and tenderness from mixing into his tone. "Now...where was I?

"Having me?" Duncan answered with a break in his voice that hadn't been there before.

"Ahhh, yes," Methos said, in the tones of someone who has remembered something wonderful. Which, of course, he had. The naked need in Duncan's voice only served to remind him how far they had come; all the pain and hardship leading them here, finally here together.

He spent a long, long time on the small of Duncan's back, delicately tonguing each indentation of backbone, mapping each curve and hollow of muscle. The humming that vibrated through Duncan's skin grew louder with every minute, growing to a low moan as Methos finally moved lower and Duncan spread his legs wide, drawing his knees up by his sides. The movement served to open him up to Methos' touch, revealing puckered rose-brown, the potent heaviness of his balls hanging below.

Methos heard Duncan's low, soft moan as he stroked, featherlight, along the cleft and a tremor ran through the golden skin under his hands. Duncan tilted his hips up further, making an offering of himself, begging with his body. On another man, at another time, the posture might have appeared submissive – debasing – but now, all Methos could see was the mirror image of his own need and it was exactly right.

He bent his head to taste the tender flesh, lightly, teasingly at first, while his hands smoothed out over Duncan's back, steadying, soothing him as the shudders rippled under his skin. Pushing deeper, muscle gripped hard around his tongue and he flicked the tip against the softness beyond. Duncan was panting now, ragged trembling breaths punctuated by small, gasping moans. He began to rock back, tiny movements, slowly, gently fucking himself on Methos' tongue.

Methos moved with him, the gentle motion becoming a small, concentrated dance. He could feel the effort of Duncan's restraint in the trembling of the strong muscles beneath his hands as they smoothed over his taut buttocks. He firmed his tongue and quickened the motion and heard Duncan gasp in response. The rocking stilled, there was a shuffling sound above his head as Duncan shifted slightly, and something hard and cool was bumped against Methos' shoulder before it fell to the bed. With a last swirling, sucking kiss over Duncan's opening, Methos pulled away to pick up the object. He knew what it was before he even saw it.

It was the bottle of suntan oil; the same oil Duncan had picked up in the store in Swakopmund on their way here, fixing Methos with a burning look as he lifted it from the shelf. He'd wanted to do exactly this then, too. The sweet scent of coconuts filled the air around them as he opened the bottle and drizzled a glossy slick down the center of Duncan's ass. Fingertips dragged the trail of oil down Duncan's cleft, skimming over his entrance and continuing on between his legs to cup his balls and smooth over the slippery hardness of his cock.

Duncan pushed forward into the gentle touch, lifting his own hand to join Methos', fingers slick with oil slipping silkily over each other as they stroked the length of the long shaft. Methos steadied himself with a hand in the small of Duncan's back, the tip of his cock brushing his lover's thigh moistly as lust flushed hot through his body. For a long time he simply enjoyed the sensation of skin slipping over skin, slick with oil and hot with anticipation. At last, with a single lingeringly wet kiss to the center of Duncan's back, Methos slid his hand away from his lover's, brushing back over his balls a second time and skimming up to pause once more at his entrance.

His middle finger paused there, circling, teasing, gently resisting Duncan's unspoken invitation to come inside as he bore down and opened to him. He was trembling now, strong muscles shaking beneath golden skin as he held himself taut and silent, but for the deep, breathy moans escaping his throat. Duncan was holding himself back, but he wouldn't be for long. At last, Methos circled once more around the small opening and pushed inside, headed unerringly for the spot that never failed to break Duncan's restraint.

It worked. Duncan's head dropped back and he groaned out loud, a deep, rough exhalation of sound and breath and fuckmefuckmefuckme that burned down Methos' spine. They were breathing in time now, it seemed, two halves of the same desire. All Duncan's restraint had flown away and he writhed and begged while Methos' finger pleasured him and his own hand worked at his cock.

Methos added a little more oil and again sought out the small gland, rubbing over it gently, the sounds of Duncan's pleasure only adding to his own.

"Methos...please!"

So Methos pleased Duncan – and himself – by rising up on his knees and sinking deep inside him in a single smooth thrust. Suddenly there was not enough air in the room and Methos had to gasp for breath. White hot fire was shooting through every part of him, sharper and more intense than any Quickening.

"Wait...."

Methos stilled and stroked long, soothing patterns along his lover's back. "Are you all right? What is it?"

"Come down here...you're too far away...want you close...."

Methos chuckled, part relief and part pure carnality, as he pulled a rumpled pillow from the top of their bed and pushed it beneath Duncan's hips, then sank down to cover him with the full length of his body, locking their arms tight – holding Duncan tight.

"Mmm...much better..." Duncan murmured with another little wriggle.

It was too, so much better with the close press of chest to back, his cock thrust deep inside blissfully tight heat and his face buried in the raw silk tangle of curls at Duncan's nape. His teeth sought out tender skin as his hips thrust and circled in a slow, easy rotation. Duncan shuddered and moaned, wrapping his calves over Methos'.

Now they were locked together, body to body, as close as they could be. Methos stilled for a moment and closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. While he was still luxuriating, Duncan grew restless and needy beneath him, pressing his hips up and back in blatant invitation. Methos met the movement with his own and pushed Duncan back against the mattress with another long, slow rotation of his pelvis, harder this time.

"Fuck, Methos...do that again," Duncan panted, his fingers digging into Methos' arm.

"This?" Another slow circle of his hips.

"Yes...again...."

So Methos did, again and again until Duncan was desperate beneath him, breath hitching in his throat, bucking into each exquisitely slow circling motion. Muscles clenching around his cock. And then it was too much to hold back, the need inside him too intense and Methos broke the rhythm and thrust in hard.

"God, Methos, harder..."

Methos slipped his hands up under Duncan's shoulders, gripping tightly, gaining the extra leverage he needed to push in hard again and again. "Like this?"

"Yes...."

But Methos wanted more, he wanted to watch every expression on that beautiful face, every flex of muscle as it responded to his touch, every twitch of that exquisite cock as it spilled over Duncan's belly. He stilled, whispering into the ear close by his mouth, "Roll over, I want to see you." He was lying so close he felt the breath catch in Duncan's throat. Dropping a lingering kiss on his lover's neck, Methos slid backwards and pulled out, hissing slightly as his cock left Duncan's heat.

Duncan flipped over in an instant and reached for Methos, spreading his legs wide. Methos was on him and in him in a heartbeat. Then the wildness took over them both and there was no more time for teasing, no more restraint, nothing but pure, unrestrained lust. Love. Methos held Duncan close, bending him back on himself with strong legs draped over his shoulders, and drove into the sweat-slicked body, with every thrust sinking deeper, wanting to sink inside the skin of this man he loved beyond sense and reason.

Methos looked up and found Duncan's eyes upon him, hot and intense – mesmerizing – and sank into that gaze, so connected in the moment that when Duncan arched his back and groaned with his climax, it was almost a shock. Methos thrust in hard and followed him over the edge. Tiny points of light floated through his vision as the spasms wracked his body and he emptied himself into his lover.

His breath still rough, Methos slipped out and collapsed into Duncan's arms, arranging himself along Duncan's side with limbs gone boneless. He lay still for a long time, learning to breathe again, listening to Duncan's heart slowing beneath his ear. He could smell sex and coconuts, overlaid with sweat, which possibly shouldn't have been as enticing as it was but, go figure, right now it smelt wonderful. He turned his face up to Duncan's and had his grin kissed for his efforts.

Duncan's mouth was soft and his body hard. Methos fully appreciated both, nibbling delicately at Duncan's lips and pressing himself firmly against his side. He should have been satiated, should have been unable to even think about more sex, but Duncan was beautiful and his and the foreseeable future spread out before them with nothing else to do but please themselves.

Damn. That was a wonderful thought. He trailed his fingers over Duncan's stomach, through the slippery come slicking his skin. And lower, painting it over his cock while he kissed him again, longer and deeper than before. The flesh in his hand lengthened and swelled encouragingly. Some days it was good to be an Immortal.

He kissed his way down the hard muscles of Duncan's chest and stomach, taking his time, nibbling at smooth skin, taut nipples, counting each ridged stomach muscle and paying them all equal attention and feeling them twitch beneath his tongue. He smoothed his hands down Duncan's sides, stopping at his hips and slipping lower to lick every trace of come from his skin.

Beneath him, Duncan shivered.

Methos lifted his head and smiled. "Cold?"

"Not...exactly," Duncan purred, tilting his cock up into Methos' chest.

"Hedonist," Methos chuckled, shifting lower still.

"I'm not the only one."

He was right about that. Methos' face was inches from Duncan's cock now – fully hard again, not that this was a shock. Methos puffed a breath over the straining flesh, laughing softly when it jumped.

Duncan propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at him. "Having fun down there?"

Methos held his gaze and licked a long, wet stripe up the length of Duncan's cock. "Yes, thanks." He grinned and kissed the tip, dipping his tongue into the slit. "It's pretty."

"Pretty?" Duncan's voice was full of outrage, feigned of course, judging by the way his eyes crinkled up.

"Pretty," Methos repeated unrepentantly. He opened his mouth wide and swallowed Duncan whole. Hot, hard flesh slid down his throat, salty with the last orgasm. He lifted his head and let it slide out with an obscenely wet pop. "Pretty."

Duncan growled, low and delicious. "I'll give you pretty."

Legs locked around his hips, muscles surging beneath him, then Methos found himself flipped on his back, Duncan arched above him. Methos was instantly, blindingly hard, gazing up at Duncan's cock jutting inches from his mouth. Not pretty, really, beautiful, and very much too far away.

Methos growled, lifting his open mouth towards it. Desire was a taste imagined on his tongue.

Muscles flexed in Duncan's hips, enough for him to reach the tip of his tongue to Duncan's cock, but no more.

"You sure now?" Duncan teased, his voice still liquid gravel.

Methos turned his head away and let himself go limp; two could play that game. "Maybe I've changed my mind...."

Slick hardness nudged his cheek. "Really?"

"Or not," Methos smiled and turned towards it, opening his mouth wide to take Duncan in. He went deep on the first thrust. Gods, that was good. He could feel the wildness rising in Duncan again; feel his need in the taut muscles under his hands.

The long, hot length of flesh slid over his tongue, stretched his lips, nudged his throat, made him hunger for more. He sucked at it greedily, swallowing hard, devouring Duncan until crisp curls tickled his nose, musky with arousal. Above him, Duncan thrust long and slow and deep, fucking his mouth with a kind of lazy savagery that made Methos' cock ache with need.

This was what he'd missed, what he'd been looking for all this time, a lover who could give as he took, no holding back – nothing hidden at all. Honest need, honest desire – out in the open where anyone could see it. He was tired of hiding in the shadows. Methos curled the tip of his tongue just beneath the head of Duncan's cock and felt him shudder in the thrust. Methos' cock twitched. He could come just from this.

Duncan was arched above him, still thrusting, hard muscles bunching under Methos' hands as he smoothed his hands over Duncan's butt. His hands roamed restlessly over the sleek skin, fingertips stroking his cleft, skimming down to his thighs. Precum jetted down his throat and he swallowed reflexively. He was breathing in Duncan, spice and musk, sweet coconut and sex, incredibly, unbelievably arousing.

Methos gave himself up to it, every part of himself pliant and open – except the part that strained and ached for release. He would never get enough of this – not if they both lived another five thousand years and fucked every day of their lives. Never. A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with sex as he thought of how close they'd come to not having it at all.

Above him, Duncan shifted, sliding his cock free from Methos' lips. It was full and dark and glistening and Methos curled up to follow it. Big hot hands grasped his shoulders and pushed him back down. He had his mouth open to protest when he realized what Duncan was doing and wisely lay back and let it happen.

Duncan's grin was smug and very white as he impaled himself on Methos' cock. Slick flesh enveloped him. Fuck, it was good. Duncan was rising and falling above him, beautiful, needy, greedy sounds pouring out of his lovely mouth. Methos' hips were bucking up uncontrollably – he needed to be inside all that searing heat – couldn't bear to be without it for the smallest second. And Duncan was fucking himself harder and faster on Methos' cock.

Duncan's heavy cock bobbed and swayed in front of him and Methos couldn't help but reach for it, but his hands were batted away and caught up in Duncan's own. He looked up into Duncan's eyes, saw him shake his head.

"I want it to last," Duncan growled, grinding down again.

Oh yes... Methos squeezed the hands that held his, capable, gentle hands as they held him down, held him steady – held him safe – meeting the grip with all the strength of his own. The searing slick hardsoft of Duncan's body was lighting fire up and down Methos' spine with every undulation.

So fucking good. Beyond good – beyond any words in any language having Duncan like this. His toes curling, muscles clenching, heart racing in counterpoint to the gasping of his breath, he could feel his orgasm building from the soles of his feet upwards. He grabbed Duncan's hips and drove himself in hard. Then the fire was shooting through him, burning through his body, burning away anything and everything but this moment and the beautiful creature shouting and coming above him – with him.

"Duncan!" Methos yelled as the last of the flames licked over him, making him arch and gasp for breath. Random shudders rocked his body, even when he thought it was over. It felt like an age until the orgasm was done with him.

"I told you you'd scream my name when you came," Duncan panted.

Methos looked up and saw a broad grin spread across Duncan's face. For some reason the look was contagious and Methos found himself grinning like a fool. And then he was laughing like he hadn't laughed in years and Duncan was laughing with him, rocking the bed with the force of their hilarity. Duncan collapsed forward into Methos' arms, still shaking with laughter as he rolled onto his side and gathered him close.

"Oh, Methos..." Duncan chuckled. "I do love you."

Methos stopped laughing and propped himself up on one elbow so he could look into Duncan's face. Duncan was still laughing, but it faded as their eyes met. Even for a man of words, these ones were hard. "Love you too."

"You'd better." Duncan folded him in his arms and held him tight.

"Mad Scot," Methos muttered into Duncan's neck.

"Takes one to know one."

"I'm not a bloody Scot – you take that back!" Methos laughed and punctuated the point by poking Duncan in the ribs.

"Ow! All right! I'll concede on the Scot part if you'll concede you're mad."

"I'd have to be, wouldn't I?"

"Why? Because you love me?"

"I'm going to regret having told you that – I can see it now."

Duncan let him go and mimed pulling the petals off a flower. "He loves me, he loves me lots...."

Methos whacked him hard with a pillow. "You're certifiable." And a big, hairy ham.

Before Methos could take another breath, Duncan pounced, pinning him flat on his back. "And you love me for it." Duncan grinned and wriggled his eyebrows.

Methos couldn't help the broad smile that spread across his face – didn't want to. "Yes, I love you. Though I'm sure it means I need my bloody head read." He looked up into Duncan's face and all the silliness faded. He reached up and stroked the hair out of Duncan's eyes. "I do, you know."

Duncan kissed him, very gently, on the mouth and said, "Yeah, I know."

It was a long, long time before they made it out of bed.


The End

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