Instinct

The cutlass whizzed so quickly by Methos' ear, he heard the air sing in its wake. The stench of the old oil dump made his head swim and his eyes burn. Blinking desperately, he swung his Ivanhoe high overhead, gathering momentum for another assault. His opponent, sword held easily before him mirrored his actions, following his footwork.
 
Damn, this kid is good. He looked like nothing. Idiot! You look like nothing too, Methos berated himself, Focus fool, before this child takes your head.

The 'child' – a hulking six and a half foot, one hundred year old with the build and reach of a pro basketball player and deceptively childish features – had cornered Methos in an alley outside the dump giving him no option but to take up the challenge.

'Focus' became his mantra, centering his concentration to a diamond hard pin-prick of light. Deliberately slowing his breathing, pulling his control around himself like a shield, the answer came to him – a gift from his subconscious. Gradually Methos maneuvered the tall Immortal into position, patiently laying the trap. Then in two long strides, slashing down from the right slicing open the chest - revealing gleaming white bone under layers of yellow fat and bright red muscle - and then the left - opening the abdomen so that the glossy ropes of intestine bulged obscenely – then his opponent was down, his foot caught in the rotting floorboards under a leak in the ceiling. Kicking the cutlass away with an impatient booted foot Methos stepped in and with all the strength of his slender body, relieved the monster of his head.

In the seconds before the quickening took hold, the ancient immortal sensed the familiar buzz of MacLeod's presence. Smiling wearily, he surrendered to the overwhelming power of the lightening. His last thought came too late – the fuel dump was not an ideal place to release large amounts of uncontrolled electricity.

MacLeod could only watch in horror as the licking arcs ignited the fuel-soaked timber. Flames raced up the derelict walls, glowing bluely, an echo of the unfinished quickening holding his friend in its grasp. The final arc was still joining victor and vanquished when the first explosion blew both men off their feet. The blasts turned the building into a vision of hell. The pain of the quickening paled beside the horror of the flames now trying desperately to devour Methos. Duncan dived at him, ignoring the sparks lighting his hair, reaching Methos just in time to see the life drain out of the hazel eyes. Throwing him over his shoulder, the highlander crashed them both through the disintegrating wall and off the end of the dock into the icy water.

Methos was still dead when MacLeod, streaming water, carried him into the loft and tossed him on the bed.

"What were you thinking, old man? It's not like you to fight every hothead that comes your way."

With unaccustomed tenderness Mac reached out to brush the damp spikes of soft hair back from Methos' forehead, frowning at the blackened burns, then went to change out of his unsalvageable clothing. It wasn't like the old man to need this long to recover, he worried, the smoke and flame must have done more damage than it first appeared. He settled down on the side of the bed to wait.

After a little while, his natural inclination to action was too great and he set to removing the sodden black overcoat and the ruined sweater, following with the black boots still half full of water leaving unheeded puddles on the spotless floor. The jeans were a mess, they would have to go, and as the jeans came off the underwear did also. His sudden hissed intake of breath was his only outward reaction to the shocking truth of Methos' injuries. The worst burns covered his legs with a horrific geography of dry gray-black full-thickness burns like charcoal, interspersed with peeling pink-red partial thickness burns weeping clear lymph fluid. As his eyes roved over the patchwork of black and red marring the usually flawless skin, they skimmed across the quiescent shaft lying heavily against the marble cold thigh. Just as quickly he looked away, uncomfortable at taking advantage while the old guy was asleep. Nevertheless, the small stirring of his libido at the sight of all that unblemished perfection amid the horrific burns quickened his heartbeat. He removed the temptation by throwing a blanket over the unresponsive immortal.

Mac's mind wandered over the last five years since his life had become entangled with the enigma that was Methos. Since that first meeting the man had worked his way under his skin like a fish-hook, and to remove it now would be more pain than he could bear. Logically he knew Methos would eventually revive, but emotionally the wait was devastating. Then his reverie was shattered by the sudden return of the presence and his heart leapt. Methos returned to life coughing, gasping air into still healing lungs. Duncan handed him a glass of water, watching anxiously as the spasms subsided.

"I've always hated dying that way," he rasped, the quip belied by the shadows lurking behind his eyes.
 
"Thanks Mac," he whispered through a scorched throat, "Your timing is impeccable." His eyes slipped over the Scot's face, taking in the lines of worry and anxiety.

Well, well, well, I wonder if MacLeod realizes just how much his face reveals?

Suddenly uncomfortable, Duncan leapt up off the bed, fussing about straightening up, "So old man, what the hell was going on back there?
Who was the ape?"

"So stupid, I let him corner me in that alley. Same old tedious story – 'there can be only one' blah, blah, blah. Boasting about being one hundred years old – can you imagine it?" Methos trailed off wearily, dropping his forearm across his eyes. "He nearly took me, Mac," the ancient ground out, "The stupid, fucking 'child' nearly took me. His sword came so close to my neck I can feel it even now. I can't believe I was so fucking careless. No gun, no way out, no plan – just fucking stupidity. Some days I don't know how I've lived this long."

"You're being a little hard on yourself, aren't you? Everyone, even the great Methos, makes mistakes. You're old - not perfect."

" Thanks for the reminder MacLeod. I'm fully aware of my imperfections, I just don't expect them to get me killed."

"And they didn't, you might have come close but you've still got your head, right where you left it. All this is just the quickening settling. Come downstairs and practice. You haven't been working out with me much lately."

 Mac had begun to miss the company of the old immortal, who'd been conspicuously absent in recent weeks, with an intensity that disconcerted him.

"Not now Mac, I think I'll just get some sleep and let the rest of these burns heal," and to Duncan's astonishment, Methos rolled over in Mac's bed and fell instantly asleep.

 Shaking his head in faint amusement, the highlander drew the blanket up over the sleeping immortal and went downstairs to the dojo.
Slipping into the familiar routine of a kata, he tried to avoid the depressing thoughts spinning in his head.

He's never going to want me. Why would he? He doesn't even come around much anymore. One day he'll do one of his disappearing acts and I'll never see him again. God, I want him in my life... I want him... I need him.

He drove further disturbing thoughts out with a punishing routine that left him sweat-soaked and breathless. As he sank to the floor he sensed the welcome song of Methos' presence tickling along the base of his skull.

Methos stopped as he left the elevator - wearing only the jeans he'd 'borrowed' from MacLeod's wardrobe - forcing his face into an intentionally blank expression and his body into a casual slouch. He would not – could not – allow anything in his demeanor to convey what he was feeling. Internally he was blown away – stunned yet again by the sheer physical glory of this man. The sharply defined muscles, pumped from the recent exertion, slid smoothly under the flawless golden skin, and as he watched, MacLeod pushed a perfectly manicured hand through the curling sable waves of his hair. Methos allowed himself a fond chuckle at the small vanity.

Duncan turned towards him at the sound, a query in his raised eyebrow, "Something funny?"

"I think I'm ready to practice with you now."

"Now that I'm exhausted, you mean," Mac rose and took down a pair of swords from the bracket on the wall and tossed one to Methos.

"We don't always get to choose the time or the place. The bad guys don't generally respond to 'sorry I'm a bit tired, please come back tomorrow.'" He forced even more biting sarcasm into his tone than usual.

They circled one another, each immortal twirling his sword with a roll of a strong wrist. Methos went in hard, setting the pace with a series of vicious thrusts. The elder pulled no punches, using elements of several different fighting styles mixing them in a way Mac had never seen him use before. Duncan was pushed to parry the blows, forced onto the back foot, defending himself. Naked menace glittered in Methos' dark hazel eyes, sending a tiny frisson of fear down Mac's spine. This was the real Methos, this warrior, stripped to the waist, total concentration evident in every line of his finely drawn body. MacLeod's attention was distracted for a millisecond by a look of raw hunger in his opponent's eyes as they bored into his own.

Methos pounced on the lapse like a leopard on a gazelle, driving the highlander back until his back hit the wall, the old one's sword poised at his throat. Chests heaving, gasping for breath they glared at one another across the gleaming metal. Almost imperceptibly, something changed in Methos' expression. The menace bled away from his eyes, but the gaze was no less piercing for the departure. If anything, Duncan realized, it was growing stronger, searing him right to his soul. Laying him bare to the ancient. Breath caught in Duncan's throat - unable to read the emotions trapped within the gaze he swallowed nervously - then the moment was gone.  

Methos spun away, angrily hurling the sword into a corner, "How have you stayed alive a whole four hundred years?" He stalked off, heading upstairs to the loft.
 
Mac sank down the wall, eyes burning, head spinning, a hole in his gut where his stomach once was. "Idiot, fool, moron..." MacLeod quickly ran out of invectives to heap on his own head. He then tried banging the back of his head against the wall, but this also failed to change the facts. Once again he'd proven to Methos what a complete idiot he was. For the briefest of instants he thought that Methos might step over the line and kiss him and he was deeply disappointed that he had not. Shaking his head Duncan refused to continue with that train of thought and followed Methos up to the loft.

He found him, as if nothing had transpired between them, sprawled on the sofa downing a cold beer.

"Beer, MacLeod?" Methos offered dryly.

"Don't mind if I do," Mac returned in the same tone.

An uncomfortable silence telescoped endlessly. Mac stood in the kitchen placing the bench between them, nervously pulling at the beer. Methos maintained his studiously casual pose refusing to end Mac's discomfort by breaking the silence. Finally the Scot stumbled upon a safe subject and blurted out, "We should go back to the oil dump and look for your sword. I didn't have time to find it in the fire. The cops and the fire department should be gone by now."

"I'll need something to wear; it's a little chilly for the shirtless look," Methos rose and rifled through the dresser without waiting for a response.

 He slipped into a black sweater that matched the black jeans he'd already helped himself to, and turned to find the highlander watching him intently. Raking MacLeod with an arrogant sweep of his eyes he added, "I'll need a spare sword, too. I can't very well walk around naked." He was gratified to find the ripple of reaction flitting across Mac's face at his words.

"Sure, which one do you want? The claymore's probably the closest in weight to your Ivanhoe."

"Why not? I haven't had my hands around a Scottish blade in ages." It was all he could do not to laugh out loud at the blush that heated Mac's face at his words. He really shouldn't tease the highlander so mercilessly, but it was so much fun.

A short while later they arrived at the burned out building, a reeking heap of blackened boards and twisted metal drums all that remained.

"Talk about a needle in a haystack," Methos complained.

"Sorry. I had this strange notion you would rather I'd haul your scrawny ass out of the fire than worry about a sword."

"Yes, well my 'scrawny ass' thanks you, MacLeod, however leaving a bloodstained sword at the scene of a beheading is an invitation to trouble," Methos lectured impatiently.

"It should be around here somewhere, you were in the center of the building when you took his head." Duncan kicked aside rubble as he searched.

"Yes I do know where I was. Thank you very much," Methos snapped.

Trying to ignore his friend's unfathomable mood swings, Mac continued to search until a glimmer of silver light caught his eye.

"I think I've got it. Shit! It's still hot," he exclaimed, almost dropping it again. Other than some blackening caused by the fire the sword was unscathed and the old immortal accepted it gratefully.

"Come on, Mac, we'd better get out of here before anyone wonders what we're up to." Methos turned to head back to Mac's car.

"I'll drop you at your place then, shall I?" Duncan offered as he settled behind the wheel of his T-bird.

"Fine." Methos replied shortly.

Not long after they pulled up outside Methos' building. He didn't get out immediately, instead he turned to look at his friend, "Come in?"

"Sure, why not?" Duncan's instincts whispered as if he stood on the edge of a great precipice, something life changing was in the wind.

As they entered the apartment Duncan was struck by how little of the personality of the resident it revealed. Aside from the books – and there were hundreds of them – it was bland, displaying none of the eclectic art and furniture Mac had admired in Methos' place in Paris.
This was definitely Adam Pierson territory, the mild mannered watcher would be right at home here. This wasn't the home of the Methos he knew (and if he was truthful – loved). Duncan knew that was something that Methos didn't understand. His constant slipping into 'Adam mode' when they were together proved that. What Mac had come to think of as the 'real' Methos was all too infrequently seen and usually only when Mac had pissed him off royally. Or when they sparred like today – he recalled with an internal shudder. It wasn't Adam Pierson who fascinated him, drawing him in like the proverbial moth to the flame time and time again – no it was Methos, that mercurial, temperamental, complex individual.

Methos passed him a beer without asking and they sat facing each other on the pair of sofas in front of the cold fireplace.

"You want to tell me what's going on, old man?"

"It's nothing really, just a bit of post-quickening, post-revival weirdness. It'll pass, it always does."

"It's more than that and we both know it," Duncan's innate honesty wouldn't let him hide from the truth any longer, he inhaled deeply and dived off the edge of the precipice. "There's something between us, I feel it and I think you do, too."

"So what if there is? And I'm not saying you're right, by the way." The hazel eyes refused to meet his.

"So I think it's time it came out in the open. We're just hurting each other like this. It can't go on – I can't go on. I need to know, Methos, do you? Could you? Could you feel the way about me that I feel about you?"

Methos was stunned at the sudden confession and even more shocked at the question. How could Duncan doubt his appeal? How could he believe that anyone in his right mind wouldn't want him? The truly amazing part was that, if he understood correctly, Duncan actually wanted him in return. In his wildest dreams Methos had never really believed that MacLeod would come to this point. Yet here they were, the late afternoon sunlight gilding the plain room to beauty, tension humming in the air, discussing a relationship that ten minutes ago he would
have bet serious money would never happen. Well, never say never. At the same time he wondered if Mac completely realized what he was getting himself into.

"How can you not know how I feel about you? I've wanted you every minute of every hour of every day for the last five years," Methos replied in a voice thick with emotion.

"I wasn't ready to know it, not then. Even now it scares the hell out of me. You're not exactly any guy, Methos."

"That's precisely what I am, MacLeod, just a guy," and suddenly the lines of his body changed and he was Adam again – smaller, more diffident, an ingenuous expression plastered all over his face.

"Don't do that – you don't have to be him with me!" Mac almost shouted, seeing the 'real' Methos slipping further out of his reach.

"Don't do what?" 'Adam' asked mildly.

"Don't diminish yourself – don't put on 'Adam Pierson mild mannered watcher' with me. It's not him I want, it's Methos – the warrior, the schemer, the survivor, the lover." His voice broke over the last words and he stopped, heart racing in the passion of the outburst.

"You might think you do, MacLeod, but you don't know him very well. He's not that much of a prize." He paused, a brief flash of pain crossing his features, "Do you know the tale of the fox and the viper?" Without waiting for an answer he went on, "The fox was down by the river one morning, hunting for his breakfast. He was a good fox, as foxes go, and always tried to do the right thing – help out his neighbors and so on – you know the type. Anyway, he was walking along and ran into a viper sunning himself on a rock. He said, 'Hello, Viper,' and would have passed on by if the viper hadn't said, 'Hello, Fox, would you like to help me out? I need to get across the river to the other side. I can't swim, you see, but I could ride on your back.'"

"Well the fox, even though he had a tendency to be a little naïve, was not stupid, he knew what vipers were like.

'How do I know you won't bite me and kill me?'

'If I bit you while we were crossing the river we would both drown and what would be the sense in that?'

And the fox was so struck by the eminent reason of the reply that he agreed immediately to take the viper across the river on his back.
The viper climbed on and the fox began to swim. Eventually they reached the other side, but instead of slithering off the fox's back, the viper opened his mouth and sank his fangs deep into the fox's shoulder. As he lay dying all the fox could ask was, 'Why? Why did you bite me?'
The viper looked at him, having never heard such a stupid question, 'You knew what I was when you took me on. It is the nature of the viper to bite.' And so the fox died – a victim of his better nature."

Methos' words hung in the air for several moments and an uncomfortable silence arose.

"You're not a viper, Methos," Duncan spoke at last.

"You're missing the point Highlander, I will hurt you. If you persist in this – what ever this is – I will hurt you. There's no avoiding it. It is my nature." His accent became even more clipped over the last sentence, his lips drawing back ferally.

"I don't accept that," MacLeod blurted out.

"Yes, well you've had trouble accepting what I am for a long time now, haven't you?" Methos' voice grew even colder.

"I do accept you – good and bad, light and dark, past and present. I just don't know how to make you believe it!" Passion roughened MacLeod's voice to a rasp and he grasped the beer bottle so tightly it shattered in his hand. The mood broken, he leapt up, blood streaming from the wound where several large shards protruded.

"Gods, MacLeod, I can't take you anywhere. Quick, into the kitchen and stop bleeding on my floor."

Holding the injured limb tenderly, Methos quickly found some forceps and removed all the pieces, washing away the blood even as the rivulets of lightening ran across the broad palm. The wounds healed with the burning sensation so familiar that Duncan rarely even noticed it anymore, but this time it tripped a mental switch.

"You know Methos, the healing hurts, sometimes it hurts like hell, but we wouldn't forego it – would we?"

Ah, MacLeod, if you're determined to do this insane thing I don't know if I've got the will to resist much longer, Methos thought, a twinge of sadness stabbing his heart.

"You let me take care of my pain and I'll let you take care of yours," Duncan finished as he turned to face him.

Raising the hand he still held to his lips That's it, I surrender.  Methos whispered, "What if I want to take care of you?"

Lowering his face he took Duncan's breath away by placing his mouth over the newly healed skin, teasing the sensitized nerves with tiny flickers of tongue.

Duncan was mesmerized.

Time and space were compressed into the three square feet where they stood. Every sensation in Mac's body was concentrated in the palm of his hand, on the heated tongue tickling along the lines of life and fortune.  After a long while or an instant, he slowly lifted the hand, catching Methos under the jaw and raising the angular face to his. Eyes locked, their mouths met for the first time. Methos had the odd brief sensation of homecoming – a rightness – a perfect fit. Slowly they savored the moment, tasting, exploring with exquisite care all the planes and surfaces of each other's mouth. Passion building, Methos' hands crept up to cradle Duncan's face, long fingers stroking the soft skin below his ears. Bodies pressed together, the kiss refused to end. Greedy hands grasped at hair, shoulders and backs. Legs entwined and hips ground together but the kiss went on. Tongues duelled like rapiers, lips slid over lips enclosing deep moans of pleasure. A step and half a turn saw Methos' back pressed against the kitchen bench, increasing the heat and friction between the grinding hips. His hands slipped down Duncan's throat to his chest blindly unbuttoning the silk shirt, baring the solid wall of muscle. Mac growled as he lifted the sweater from Methos' whipcord lean frame, forcing the kiss to break finally. With reverent, feather-light touches his fingers explored the elegant lines of muscle and sinew, gazing with something akin to awe at the revealed torso, as pale and perfect as a marble god.

"God, Methos, you are beautiful," he rasped.

"Look who's talking," Methos replied in a gravel voice, his eyes boring into Duncan's.

Suddenly uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny MacLeod ducked his head to sample the tender flesh of the ivory neck. Methos moaned softly and melted into the solid warmth, voluptuously molding his body to every curve of the highlander's.

"Unless you want our first time to on my kitchen bench, we might consider adjourning to the bedroom," he whispered as MacLeod feasted greedily on his neck.

"Mmm, good idea," he managed between bites.

Eventually they stumbled into the bedroom, an ungainly many-legged creature prone to bumping into walls and moaning with ecstasy. Still joined they fell onto the wide, soft bed. With sudden desperation they clawed at their remaining clothes, a stray fly button pinging off the ceiling unnoticed. They paused in a frozen moment, drinking in the sight and sound of one another's body, breath coming in ragged gasps. As if by agreement they moved together, fitting their bodies as closely as possible. In a tangled, breathless blur hands and mouths, arms and legs grasped and grappled, stroked and gentled, teased and tantalized and drove each other into a frenzy of desire and need. Then the moment was upon them, Methos sitting up between Duncan's legs, the question clear in his eyes.

"Yes. Now. Please." Duncan was barely coherent in his desperation.

Without replying, Methos reached for the small bottle of oil beside the bed, savoring the hunger on Mac's face as he watched his every move. Pouring a little oil into his palm he warmed it and coated his fingers in it before slipping one long, pale digit through the tight puckered opening, his mouth quirked into a half smile at the answering moans. A second, then a third followed, Mac's need became a frantic all-encompassing universe.

"Methos!"

Withdrawing the fingers with a final ripple across the prostate he eased into the tight passage, working his way in deeply.
 
"God, Mac!"

Unable to wait another second, he began to move, slowly, infinitesimally building to the crescendo. Mac could only ride the waves of pleasure coursing through his system. Methos was so close to his own completion that when MacLeod arched and cried out, his semen spilling out over his belly, the contractions of the tight muscles tipped him over the edge, fireworks exploding in his brain. Panting heavily he collapsed forward, nestling in against Mac's side.

Basking in the afterglow of gluttonous satiation, they soon slept – in the way of men everywhere – together but separate, content to have their own space but always in reach. And they did reach, time and again – unable to still the desire that arose at every touch. With the desperation of addicts they fed from one another, ravenously drinking in the taste and touch until they were no longer sure where one ended and the other began. The morning sun was an unwelcome guest in their private universe, forcing their notice. A miasma of sweat and sex hung in the air, intensifying as the sun warmed the room. MacLeod, as always, woke first, languidly stretching and rolling towards his lover.
 
Methos, my lover, he thought with an odd mix of wonder and satisfaction.

 Brushing the sweat-damp spikes away from the smooth forehead, he studied the face of the man (he loved). He looked so young as he slept, even younger than he must have been the first time he died. This train of thought led him to think of the vast difference in their ages, leading him to feel insecure all over again.

Enough brooding, idiot, time to get moving. Action being preferable to thought, every time.

"Come on sleepyhead, time to wake up," he whispered in the old guy's ear.

Methos shivered and blinked.

"After five years haven't you learned never to wake me at the crack of dawn? Or is it that you don't like your head where it is?" Methos affected his best evil hiss, but was unable to completely hide the amused glint in his eyes.

"It's been tried before," Mac returned evenly.

"Get over here you great barbarian – what time is it anyway?" He pulled Duncan down to him, pushing a hand into the dark, silky tangle.

"Time we had a shower, or hadn't you noticed the rather - pungent aroma in here?"

"Mmm... now you mention it I could be persuaded to join you."

"Join me? I think that's how we got in this state in the first place," Mac chuckled.

"Very punny, MacLeod, go on then, out you go." Methos swatted Duncan's ass as he climbed out of the bed.

Now that is one of the superior backsides of the western world. "Lead on, MacLeod."

Duncan groaned at the truly dreadful pun and headed for the bathroom.

It took a freezing blast from the empty water heater to drive them from their steamy sanctuary, flushed and glowing pinkly.

"Here's one that's yours anyway, Mac." Methos tossed him a sweater from the drawer.

"I wondered where this one had gone. Have you taken to stealing my wardrobe along with my heart?" The words were out before he could censor them.

Methos noticed the panicked look that flashed across the highlander's face, "Your heart, Duncan? You stole mine years ago, surely you know that?" Stepping in close, he slipped his hands up to clasp either side of Duncan's face. "When I said you were too important to lose, I meant you were too important to me. I love you, MacLeod. Isn't that the strangest thing you ever heard?"

"Strange? No, I think it's just about perfect – you see I love you too, old man," there was a tremor in his voice that betrayed his vulnerability as his hands settled on Methos' narrow hips.

MacLeod's stomach lurched like he was on a roller coaster, his head spun and his throat grew tight – this was all happening so fast. The implications of loving Methos were so huge, so life-changing, so awe inspiring, that the concept seemed almost too big to fit in his head.

Methos could see the conflict race across Duncan's saturnine features and it tore his heart in two. He wasn't ready for this – for him. He was a fool to have laid his feelings open like this. A self-mocking grin escaped out one side of his expressive mouth. Better to tough it out, not let Mac see the width and depth of his pain.

"It's not too late to write this all off to experience, you know. No harm, no foul as it were." His attempt at lightness fell as flat as his spirits and his voice, no matter how carefully he reined it in, held the tremor of his agony.

"Dear God, Methos, don't you listen to me? I love you. It scares the hell out of me – yes – a lot of the time you scare the hell out of me. This is moving really quickly, a day ago we were to all intents just friends – now look at us. But I love you, with everything I am and everything I have. So unless you want out, I think we're stuck with each other," Mac's bass tones scraped over the last words as emotion thickened his voice.

Slipping his hands up the well-muscled back, he pulled Methos close, hugging him fiercely, inordinately pleased when the gesture was returned with an equal amount of passion. With very little effort on MacLeod's part they fell onto the bed, the air escaping from Methos' lungs with a grunt as Duncan's weight landed on top of him. Their eyes locked together as Mac leaned in and with the lightest of touches captured his lover's mouth. With feather-light caresses he teased the responses from the mobile lips. His tongue flicked gently along the outline and slowly dipped inside. Methos groaned, deep inside, as Mac traced the satiny interior of his mouth. Methos’ elegant hands swept over the firm muscles of MacLeod's back to rest in his damply curling hair. The highlander continued to feast sensuously on his lover's hot mouth and as the passion sparked between them, Methos pulled Duncan down, increasing the pressure. Their swollen groins ground against each other throwing yet more fuel on the fire. Suddenly the need to touch skin became an overwhelming obsession and with a frenzied clutching of hands their clothing was torn aside, baring the soap-fragrant surfaces to hands and mouths.

Slithering his long golden body down his lover's pale one Mac paused at the flat coppery nipples, drawing one in, sucking strongly, grazing teeth over the pebbled tissue. Methos inhaled sharply as pleasure washed over him and his back arched off the bed. Mac's hand covered the other nipple tweaking it firmly before drifting down to where Methos' cock waited impatiently. Grasping it below the weeping head he stroked it slowly, feeling the pulsing beat in the vein beneath his hand. Fire racing through his blood, Methos thrust up into his lover's hand, body stiffening, toes curling as pleasure drove conscious thought away. Mac's clever fingers were relentlessly drawing the fevered responses until he was desperate. "Gods, Mac – no more."

"Do you want me to stop?" He replied, a teasing glint in his eyes.

 "Do and I will kill you," Methos rasped out through gritted teeth.

"What do you want then?" Duncan rumbled against the curve of his neck.

"Fuck! I want to fuck you now," he gasped.

"What's that? You want to fuck my mouth? Your wish is my command," Duncan's silken whisper dripped with carnality.

 His tongue traced the sensitive slit and over the glans, tasting the salty fluid, then took the reddened cock deep into his throat, sucking hard until his lips met the coarse curls gathered at the base. With infinite patience he reversed the motion, swirling his tongue around the gently flared head. As the mouth Methos had always fantasized over continued to take him to the edge, he thrust up off the bed rushing towards a climax. A square tipped finger insinuated itself against his anus, Methos moaned desperately, lifting his knees to his shoulders to encourage the access. The sensation of the finger as it finally entered him sent him arching off the bed again. Then as the head of his cock was drawn deeply into the silken throat, he came, the rushing in his ears drowning out the wild cries as Duncan swallowed every drop.

 When he was again capable of coherent speech, he murmured, "When did you learn to do that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mac replied slyly, as he moved to meet Methos' eyes, "Now shh," he whispered, dropping hot, wet kisses down the length of the muscled torso.

Methos’ arousal soon returned and he was moaning and writhing against his lover.

"It has to be now, Mac," he begged in a graveled voice turning over onto his side as Mac reached for the lubricant.

Duncan worked the oil into the tiny orifice, grinning ferally at the gasp that escaped Methos. Slowly, in minute increments he pushed his length inside, relishing the tight, hot sensation. He reached forward to wrap his hand around Methos' neglected cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts until they were both shaking. Blood pounding in his ears, he pulled back almost all the way out before beginning a steady rhythm that soon had them lost in a maelstrom of delight.  They came on the sound of each other's name, the intensity strangely quiet. Together they lay, drained and limp, spooned against one another, reluctant to let go.

                                              
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"Did I tell you I bought a yacht?" Mac asked as they walked down the street to Joe's.

"What on earth for?" Methos replied with barely concealed horror.

"I've wanted one for a long time. I was thinking of buying one a few years ago with Richie..." His voice trailed off, remembering. "Anyway
I heard about this one a few weeks ago and it was perfect. She's called 'Phoenix'. Quite a coincidence, don't you think? The immortal bird that rises from the ashes renewed and young each time."

"Yes I do know the story. I think I was in China once or twice in my life," his clipped tones dripped sarcasm.

They entered the room, claiming a pair of stools at the bar.

"Hey you two, how's things?" Joe automatically pushed a beer in front of Methos and a shot of single malt in front of MacLeod.

"Are we really that predictable?" Methos raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Always," Joe laughed.

It was all the lovers could do not to burst out laughing, they looked into each other's eyes, heated color creeping along cheeks and ears. The ever-observant watcher didn't miss a thing.

"No, you two? You're kidding? Well I'll be damned," he turned to Duncan, "You sure you know what you're getting into?"

"Joe, don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"Each to their own. Another drink to celebrate?"

Comforted by their friend's easy acceptance of their changed relationship, they spent the rest of the afternoon at the bar, conveniently avoiding the contentious issue of the yacht.

As Joe served at the opposite end of the bar, Methos recalled their earlier conversation and asked, "He didn't look at all surprised about this," and he waved his hand between them, "now why do you think that was?"

MacLeod had the good grace to look a little embarrassed, "Not everything Joe sees goes into my chronicle. It's an uh, arrangement we came to so my chronicle doesn't read like the letters section of Playboy. No men and only about half the women."

"MacLeod you never cease to surprise me," he smiled with genuine pleasure, lines like sunrays forming at the corners of his eyes. Then the whole of MacLeod's meaning hit him, "Men, what men?"

A teasing smile played about the highlander's lush mouth, "Do you want to tell me about all your past lovers?"

Methos was all innocence, "Another drink?"

                                           
*********************************

"Come with me, Methos, you'll love it, " Duncan urged.

"Mac you know how I feel about boats. Don't ask me to do this." Methos was immovable.

"Just come out for the day. I mean it's been what, twelve hundred years? Boats have improved somewhat since then." Duncan was being his most charmingly persuasive, "It'll be great – just us, no one else for miles and miles. No worrying about surprise challengers. Sunshine, warmth, peace and quiet, what more could you want?"

"A solid floor under my feet? Terra firma all around? No threat of sinking? All of the above?" Methos was determined to resist MacLeod's
charm.

"Just come out for a couple of hours, for me? If you hate it we'll come straight back in, I promise." For good measure he added the eyelash batting that usually was so effective when persuading lovers.

"Don't bother, MacLeod, I am impervious to such shallow tricks."

"Fine. Well what can I do then? I really want you to come."

"Well as enticing as that sounds, I'll have to pass," Methos' tone was icy.

"You are so stubborn," MacLeod flung at him in sudden anger.

"Look who's talking," Methos returned childishly.

"You have no sense of adventure, you never try anything new," Mac accused.

"I tried you, only you turned out to be not so new after all," Methos hissed spitefully.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mac was outraged.

"Nothing, Mr My Life Is an Open Book," Methos stood and flung his arms wide.

"That's rich coming from you," Duncan rose too, his chair clattering to the floor behind him.

"I've never pretended to be an open book," Methos snapped, snatching up his coat.

"No, well you've pretended to be everything else!" MacLeod roared.

"Well how about I stop pretending to be interested in this conversation!" Slamming the elevator gate behind him Methos stormed out, seething with white-hot rage.

"Bloody stubborn, mule-headed Scot!"

"Bloody stubborn old fool!" Duncan was incensed. He moved angrily around the loft, erasing traces of Methos' presence.

Not so new! What was that supposed to mean? Did the old guy seriously expect him to be some blushing virgin?

MacLeod was just slamming a 'Methos sweater' into a drawer when a buzz hit, momentarily disorienting him. The realizations that it was
not Methos, and that his sword was in his coat by the door, came almost simultaneously.

"Shit!" Still, maybe it was Amanda.

The door imploded. Okay, not Amanda. And the doorway was filled with an unfamiliar male shape.

"Where is he? Where's that other bastard?" He bellowed, brandishing a saber.

Duncan darted forward, snagging the katana from the coat stand, "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. If you're in my house you must be looking for me," and he tapped the saber with the tip of the katana.

"I'm Peter Christie, the boy the other one killed was my friend. Someone's head's gunna roll - may as well be yours!" Stepping fully into the room, he waited in a standard fighting stance.

"Come on, then – you want to talk or do you want to fight?" MacLeod raised the katana above his head, the tip pointing at Christie. He beckoned with a rolling wave, "What are you waiting for?"

The battle, once joined, was short but intense. Christie scored early with a few hits to Duncan's upper body and arm but his rage-fuelled attack was no match for the highlander's strength and skill. Blocking an overly ambitious thrust with a blow to the shoulder of Christie's sword arm, Duncan slid his left hand to the wrist of the challenger and turned almost as if they were dancing. A sharp reverse elbow to
Christie's mid-section causing him to double over in agony, making it easy for Duncan to finish him with a short back-handed strike to the face. With an economy of motion born of tens of thousands of hours of practice, Mac disarmed the challenger and with a solid back-swing took his head cleanly.

The things I do for you Methos, he thought, contemplating the damage a quickening would do to the loft.

Unfortunately for the loft the quickening was huge. The windows imploded, light bulbs exploded, and every appliance in the place fused in a swirling, chaotic whirlwind of power. Duncan was knocked to the floor, rigors contorting his body, his back arched in a parody of pleasure. When, at last, the tremors ceased he dragged himself up and surveyed the damage with a groan. The whole apartment was trashed and there was a headless corpse in a massive pool of blood that was rapidly soaking into the floorboards.

"Shit," was his dispirited comment as he considered the job ahead.

After he had disposed of the body, Duncan was in no mood to go back to the disaster in the loft. Instead he pulled the T-bird up in front of Joe's. For once as he walked into the bar no immortal presence assailed him. He checked and the bar was indeed open, so he walked through the door and slumped at the bar.

"Jesus, who died?" Joe wisecracked.

"Guy called Peter Christie, you know him?" Joe shook his head. "He broke into the loft looking for Methos. Apparently the guy he took out the other day was Christie's friend."

"Sheeit!  So why didn't Methos fight him?"

"Joe, Methos is gone again." The desolation was all too apparent in his eyes. "We had a, uh, bit of an argument. He hasn't been here, has he?" The casual expression he was trying for was spectacularly unsuccessful.

"I'm sorry Mac, I haven't seen him. So where did you end up fighting Christie – not the loft, surely."

"He didn't give me much choice."

Joe whistled, "What's it look like now?"

"Pretty much how you'd expect – like a bomb hit it."

"It's pretty late, do you want to stay at my place tonight?" Joe offered.

 "No, it's okay Joe, I thought I'd sleep on the yacht. I've got a few things to work out and it's quiet out there at the marina. Thanks anyway." He rose and left, a defeated cast to his normally confident stride.

Aboard the yacht, Duncan lay on the narrow berth gazing up at the stars through the open hatch. The gentle movement of the ocean failed to comfort him, the soft breeze through the portholes did nothing to soothe his torment. Methos filled his mind and soul with turmoil until he didn't know which way was up.

Meanwhile Methos, feeling a little guilty about the argument, headed back to the loft to try to mend the rift. The sight that greeted him turned his heart to ice. The wrecked apartment and the oxidizing bloodstain could only be the result of a quickening, but whose? He turned on his heel and headed for the only person who would know the truth – Joe.

 A short, wild drive saw him pounding on Joe's door frantically, shouting, "Come on Dawson! Let me in!"

Finally the door opened, "Jesus, Methos! What the hell are you doing here at this hour?"

"I've just been to MacLeod's. What happened? Is he alive?"

Joe turned his wheelchair to let him come in, "Mac's fine. Someone came looking for a fight and he had to oblige."

"So where is he, Joe?" Methos' patience was not extensive at the best of times.

Joe looked at the haggard features of his old friend, so clearly traumatized by the recent events. "He's out at the yacht, Methos. He was pretty torn up about the fight you guys had. What'd you say to him, anyway?"

"It was stupid. He was being stubborn and pushy and I over-reacted. Gods Joe! What am I going to do? I knew this would happen. I told him if we did this he would get hurt. It's hell to be right all the time." He slouched deeply in a chair, almost disappearing into the voluminous folds of his coat, looking as dejected as Joe had ever seen him.

"Do you love him?" Joe asked simply, cutting through all the bullshit.

"Yeah, Joe. I love him at least as much as I've ever been capable of loving anyone. The length and depth and breadth of my soul and all that romantic nonsense." The off-hand tone he affected wasn't fooling anyone, the bleakness in his eyes reflected his true state of mind.

"Go then, go and tell him. He loves you, you know."

It was fortunate that Methos encountered no traffic police on his wild drive to the marina as the fines would have put quite a dent in even his considerable financial resources. He screeched to a halt and leapt out of the car. Hands shoved deep in his pockets holding the warmth of his coat against his frozen body, he walked quickly through the marina, searching for a twinge of Mac's buzz. He found the boat before he came in range of the presence. He paused, feeling a tremor of apprehension, then it was gone and calm certainty filled him. Stepping lightly onto the deck he called out, "Duncan?"

"You never call me that," MacLeod answered smiling tiredly, "Come aboard, Methos, you look like hell."

"Thanks," he replied, dryly, "I'm considerably better now then I was. Do you know what I thought when I saw the loft? I thought you were dead. I thought you died hating me," he flung the words at the Scot passionately.
 
The desolation in the dark hazel eyes almost brought MacLeod undone.

"I'm sorry, I just couldn't stay there. I didn't think you'd be back – after the fight and all. I've never hated you – I could never hate you." MacLeod was pale under his tanned skin, there were dark shadows under the poignant brown eyes.

"You have before," Methos whispered.

"That wasn't hate, Methos, that was pride – my own stupid vanity. I thought because I loved you I knew everything you were. I couldn't deal with it when I was wrong. I rejected you then when I should have been there for you. Did I ever tell you how much I regret that? I handled the whole Horsemen thing badly and hurt you in the process. I had no business judging you. Now here we are again and I'm doing the same thing once more. The way you've survived five thousand years with heart and mind intact is one of the things I admire most about you. I shouldn't have thrown it back at you. Everything you've been, everything you've done, has brought you to me as you are now. How could I change that?"

"It's not your fault – we each do what we're given to do. You were reacting just as 'Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod' would always react. You are what you are, just as I am. The question is, can we be what we are and be together. We've already hurt each other  - just as I told you we would. Are you prepared to go through that time and again? Because I don't know if I am. I love you but I can only be what I am, I can't be your version of me." He turned away, unwilling to show any more vulnerability.

"Methos, I've only ever wanted you to be what you are. It's driven me insane to see you pretending, putting on Adam Pierson because you think I'll find him more acceptable somehow. It's you I love, Methos, not him. Do you trust me enough to be yourself with me? Or am I kidding myself, should I just walk away now before we have nothing left to salvage – not even our friendship?" Mac could barely breathe for the tension gathering in his chest.

"I don't know the answer to that, I want so desperately to trust you, to let you into all the dark places in my soul but some of them terrify even me – how can I expect you to accept them? How can I ask you to accept what I fought to accept myself? So I re-invent myself, and let the past lie. If you're looking for full disclosure, you'll have to look elsewhere – I don't play that game." The shutters were back in the hazel eyes.

"I don't need to know anything you don't want to tell me, Methos, and all I've ever wanted is for you to be yourself, to let me love you. Although I could have done without the 'not so new' crack." Duncan gave a wry little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as he tried to lighten the mood.
 
I'm sorry I was such a spiteful shit about your past, I'm the absolute last person who should ever do that. I get a little possessive when I fall desperately in love, not that it's any excuse. I just had this vision of you sometime in the future, writing me off as another in your long list of conquests. It made me slightly crazed." Methos smiled ironically.

"You were never a 'conquest', Methos. I don't have the words to tell you how far from that you are. Whatever I've had with anyone else, it's not what I feel for you. I'm sorry too, I knew you hated boats –“

"It was never about the boat, really, Mac. I thought you realized that. How do you think I got to this country two hundred years ago – walk?" Methos turned to face him fully.

"Then what the hell was it about?" MacLeod's disbelieving tone reverberated through the tiny space.

"It was about you – you're so overwhelming. I feel that if I don't draw a line around myself, between what I will and will not do, I'll be submerged. Do you know how easy it would be for me to lose myself in you? To forget myself and my life and live your life. Do you have any idea how seductive that is? To wrap myself in your codes and your honor and your habits and your way of life and pretend they're mine? It's so tantalizingly seductive my heart aches with wanting it, but it's like a drug, MacLeod, I want it desperately even though I know it'll kill me. The only way I've survived this long with any shred of mental health remaining is that whichever persona I adopted, whatever profession I took on, whatever relationship I went into, is that they were mine. I chose them and re-invented myself to fit into them but inside I was still Methos, the sum of all of them. I'm afraid that if I let myself love you the way you want me to I'll lose that and all I'll be is the man who loves Duncan MacLeod. I can't let that happen," he finished on a broken whisper.

"Christ, Methos. I had no idea. All I know is that I love you and I wouldn't change you for anything. I keep saying it but you're not listening to me. I want you to be who you are, what you are. Who you are now is the person I love. Don't idealize what I am, there's plenty of dark places in my soul, you know that better than anyone. We are both yin and yang – not one or the other. But I think we bring light  to each other's dark – we fit...we balance...I think we can work."
 
He looked exhausted and as Methos watched he swayed a little on his feet. Methos went to him, placing his hands on the wide shoulders,
"Enough talk, you're out on your feet, come and lie down."

Methos guided Duncan to the berth, laying him down and would have walked away but the Scot wouldn't release Methos' arm.

"Come, lie with me, you're just as exhausted and your hands are frozen as always."

He moved over in the narrow bunk pulling Methos down and enfolding him in his arms. They slept deeply, not waking until the sunlight pouring through the skylight was too strong to ignore.

Methos woke, blinking at the bright light assaulting his eyes. He turned in the circle of Duncan's arms, the movement enough to wake the highlander, "Hey, you," he whispered pressing a kiss into that beautiful mouth.

"Hey, yourself. How are you feeling this morning?" MacLeod's dark eyes searched his lover's face for the truth.

"I believe I'll live, how about you?" Methos' long fingers crept up to caress Duncan's stubbled jaw.  
 
"Better, definitely better." Mac's eyes fluttered closed as the fingers moved to stroke the sensitive nape of his neck.

"What were we fighting about? It can't have been as important as this, can it?" Methos made a little sound in the back of his throat as Mac's arms tightened around him.
 
"Nothing's as important as this. I still think I'll sell the yacht, though," Duncan offered.

"No, it is important to you. I saw the way your eyes lit up when you talked about it, I couldn't take it away from you now. Keep it – sail it – I'll be waiting for you when you get back. Besides," he added with an impish grin, "There'll be all that great re-union sex to look forward to."

Duncan smiled into his love's eyes briefly before growing serious, " You do know that you're so much more to me than that, don't you? Damn, Methos, you're a miracle. You have to know how much I love you."

"Maybe I trust sex more than I trust love. Love invariably leads to pain."

"When are you finally going to believe that you deserve to be happy? That you are capable of happiness? That I wouldn't change a single thing about you? That we're strong enough to withstand whatever hurts we inflict on each other? We are you know. Together there's nothing that can touch us if we don't let it. Don't you feel that? When we're here like this I feel like I could love you like this for the rest of time."

Well, old man, decision time – stay or walk away – safety or risk – love or loneliness – yes or no. Methos stared deeply into the warm brown gaze, glowing with emotion and the world righted itself suddenly, clicking into place. Yes.
 
"I don't know about the rest of time, Duncan, but right here, right now? Yes I think it'll be all right, not easy, but all right," and he smiled, that rare wonderful smile that lit his eyes and his heart.


                                                                     
To Be Continued in  Better Be Home Soon   Back to Contents

Instinct

Crowded House.

(Tim and Neil Finn)

I lit the match, I lit the match
I saw another monster turn to ash
Felt the burning lifting from my back
Do you recognize the nervous twitch?
That exposes the weakness of the myth?
 
When your turn comes round and the light goes on
And you feel your attraction begin
Your instinct can't be wrong
 
Separate the fiction from the fact
I've been a little slow to react
But it's nearly time to flick the switch
And I'm hangin' by a single stitch
Laughin' at the stony face of gloom    
 
When your turn comes round and the light goes on
And you feel your attraction to him
Your instinct can't be wrong

Words used without permission.