The Predictive Value of Nouns

M…E…T...H…O…S… Methos wrote in long, looping letters, snickering as he pissed in the snow. He had enough left over to add a little daisy at the end, flicking a leaf shape as he grinned smugly at Duncan.

"Easy when you've only got one name," Duncan scoffed as he watched. "Now watch an expert do it." He unzipped and pulled out his dick, wincing a little at the cold. He wasn't about to be bested by a…by a…whatever Methos was. He aimed and was pleased he could keep his unsteadiness to a minor wobble.

The cold didn't help, but the five six packs of ale they'd demolished certainly did. D…U…N…C…A…N… he began confidently.

Methos gave a dismissive little snort.

Duncan ignored him. M…A…C…L…E…O…D… he went on.

Methos yawned and scratched his balls.

Duncan concentrated hard on squeezing out the rest  O…F…  T…H…E…  C…L…A…N…  M…A…C…L…E…O…D… and finished with a flourish. There, that ought to teach the old bastard a thing or two about…whatever the hell it was they were arguing about. He aimed a triumphant grin at Methos. "There. I win. Now let's get inside before m'dick freezes off."

Methos looked astoundingly unimpressed. Duncan thought about throwing a snowball at him, then decided it was more trouble than it was worth. Rather like some Immortals he could name. He staggered off in the direction of the cabin, tucking himself back in and zipping up as he went.  Methos' shoulder bumped his as they meandered up the steps and back into the warmth of the roaring fire.

"I could stand another drink," Methos announced brightly as he closed the door behind them. "Got any scotch?"

Duncan rolled his eyes at him. Whose house did he think he was in? Of course he had scotch. If only he could remember where it was. And what was Methos looking so cheery about anyway?

~~~

"MacLeod?" Someone was smacking him on the shoulder. He shrugged off the annoyance and nestled determinedly under the blanket. "Mac!" the voice insisted. "Wake up!"

Duncan squinted through one eye at the spiky-haired annoyance. "Wha?"

Methos crooked a finger and smiled lopsidedly. "Come with me."

Duncan pulled the blanket over his head.

Methos pulled it off again. "Come on, you lazy bugger. This won't take long."

Duncan opened both eyes. "What won't?" he growled.

"You'll see…" Methos sang.

Something was definitely up. His curiosity got the better of him. Duncan threw the blanket off and stood.

Then had to wait while the top of his head reattached itself to the rest of him. Ow. How much had they drunk, anyway?

Methos wandered out the cabin door and back down the steps, unzipping his jeans as he went.

"You know," Duncan said as he followed, "I've got a perfectly good bathroom indoors."

"Wait," Methos said, holding up one hand.

"And I've seen you take a piss before."

"Wait," Methos repeated, turning his eyes to his task.

Slowly the letters appeared in the snow, one at a time, clear and perfectly shaped. Duncan could only watch.

 M…E…T…H…O…S…O…L…I…E…S…   A…  L…E…K…O…   D…J…A…M…U…S…T…A…   Y…   B…W…E…Q…A…E…K…A…W…

And okay, that last couple of letters were a bit thin and straggly, but he had to admit it, that was still some damned impressive urination. But…hang on a second, he thought. "That's not your name," Duncan said with his hands on his hips. "That's just gibberish. It was supposed to be your name."

Methos regarded him with an air of injured dignity. "It is my name."

"It is not."

"Yes, it is," Methos insisted.

"You're making it up," Duncan shot back, patience wearing thin. "This is just another one of your games, Methos. I'm not falling for it this time -- I'm not that drunk."

Methos snorted.

He really was annoying when he made that sound. Duncan's hackles rose. "Tell me what it means, then. If it's your name you must know what it means. Weren't you all named for things back when dinosaurs roamed the earth?"

"I don't have to tell you what it means."

"Fine. But you lose," Duncan snapped at him. This was a ridiculous conversation and he was done with it. His arse was freezing and he couldn't feel his toes. And he had a sneaking suspicion he was still very very drunk. He turned around to go back in the house.

Then Methos was right beside him and he was still talking. "I don't lose because it is my name and it's longer than yours," he explained patiently. "Like some other things I could name."

"Now you're getting personal." He was on the verge of becoming deeply offended. "If it was really your name you would tell me what it meant."

Methos held the door open for him and ushered him through. "What does yours mean, then, MacLeod?"

"Dark warrior of the MacLeods," Duncan announced solemnly, then spoilt the effect by tripping over Methos' duffle bag.

"See? Now that wasn't so bad. Another drink?" Methos asked, innocent as a babe.

"You're not going to distract me by plying me with booze, old man," Duncan told him. "I'm going to find out what all that gobbledygook means."

"I can't believe you just used gobbledygook in a sentence," Methos said with a smirk. "And I don't think I'm nearly drunk enough for this conversation." He slipped through the kitchen as he spoke, gathering up the remaining full bottles like an alcoholic harvester.

Duncan took a beer from him and twisted off the top. "You will tell me one of these days."

Methos' eyebrows flickered. "Sure I will."

~~~

"Tell me what it means," Duncan asked over breakfast.

"Tell me what it means," he asked through the steamy heat of the shower (Methos kicked him out shortly after that).

"Tell me what it means," he asked when Methos threatened to take a sword to him.

"Tell me what it means," he insisted as Methos chased him around the lake.

"Tell me what it means?" he begged as he let Methos catch him and tumble him to the ground.

"Tell me what it means!" he demanded afterward.

But Methos never did.

He must have asked the same question a hundred times a day for the next three days, but he only ever got the same maddening smile and the same infuriatingly negative response each time. There was nothing else for it; he was going to have to pull out the big guns. No matter how much he hated to do it. He had no other choice.

Late that night when he was standing at the window contemplating the moonlight on the snowdrifts, long, warm fingers slid under the waistband at the back of his sweatpants, stroking, fondling his bare butt. Oh, that was nice, especially when Methos slid one finger between his cheeks. Then Duncan remembered The Plan. No! This wasn't in The Plan. He pulled away and tugged his pants back into place. "Sorry, Methos, I have a headache."

"A headache," Methos repeated.

"Yes."

"You have a headache."

"Yes."

"You're a man and an Immortal and you're using a headache to get out of sex."

"Yes," Duncan answered simply. Methos wasn't the only one who could do maddening.

Methos snuggled up behind him and traced a fingertip around Duncan's left nipple. "Is this part of some half-arsed plot to make me tell you the meaning of my name?" Soft lips brushed the back of his neck.

Duncan hauled himself away from the six foot definition of temptation, though it was not easy. "No! I mean, yes. It's not half-arsed." He folded his arms over his chest and turned to face him. "I don't know why you have to make this so har--"

Methos' eyes flicked downwards.

"--difficult for both of us. You could just tell me what I want to know and then we could go have lots and lots of hot, sweaty sex. Simple. You know you want to." He smiled his best smile, then turned away, pausing on his way out of the room to bend over and pick up a book from the floor.

As he walked out the door, he heard the unmistakeable sound of Methos' teeth grinding.

~~~

The following day, after he woke on the couch, Duncan put his fine Immortal memory to work. He cut down an old cardboard box from the attic, found a black marker pen in the kitchen junk drawer and got down to it. It didn't take long.

When he was done, he had a crude sign with 'Methosolies a Leko Djamusta y Bweqaekaw' written on it in letters six inches high. He hoped he'd remembered it right, decided he had, and carried it upstairs to the bedroom where his obdurate lover lay sleeping.

"Methos…." Duncan blew gently into his ear. "Methos…."

The long body stirred and shifted. Duncan moved the sign to where Methos would see it the minute he opened his eyes.

"You awake?" Duncan let his lips brush the curve of Methos' ear.

"Mmm…."

"Open your eyes," Duncan whispered.

Finally, Methos did. He took one look at his 'name' emblazoned all over something that once held last century's long johns and a seriously undignified squeak escaped his mouth. Once he'd finished looking mortified, he leapt out of the bed and knocked the card out of Duncan's hands.

"All right!" he yelled. "That's enough! I'll tell you what it fucking-well means, if you'll just fucking drop it. Okay?"

"Fucking okay," Duncan answered happily.

Methos threw his hands up. "Urghh! You really are disgustingly stubborn, you know that."

"I prefer to call it tightly focused."

Hazel eyes rolled. But no answer was yet forthcoming.

"The name?" Duncan prodded.

"You have to remember that I came from an extremely literal people, MacLeod," Methos began in his very best lecturer's voice.

"I thought you didn't remember where you come from."

"I lied, okay? Mind if I get back to the story?"

"Please do."

"My people tended to take things as they found them. Literally."

"I get you. Literally and figuratively. Now go on."

"We, none of us, know the circumstances of our birth," Methos intoned solemnly. "But the circumstances of how I was found were immortalized, so to speak, in the giving of my name."

He was back in lecture-mode and Duncan gave him the 'wind it up' gesture. "Come on, Methos."

"Scrawny Big-nosed Boy We Found Under a Rock on the Fourth Day of the New Moon," Methos rattled off so fast Duncan almost missed it. But only almost.

He let it sink in for a moment. Thought about it some. Then the laughter bubbled up inside him, far too much to be contained by mere Immortal flesh and it burst out of him in huge roaring gusts.

Methos appeared unamused.

Eventually, Duncan brought himself somewhat under control, though the laughter still giggled out of him in fits and starts. "Scrawny Big-nosed Boy We Found Under a Rock on the Fourth Day of the New Moon," he repeated when he could. "It could be worse." Laughter was still making him twitch.

"Worse?" Methos replied disbelievingly. "How the fuck could it be worse?"

"I was sure you were going to tell me it meant 'Really Annoying Boy Who Never Shuts Up."

Methos dived at him, knocking him backwards into the bed, but he had a smile on his face at last.

"That was my nickname."

The end

With thanks to Athena and Macgeorge for the beta reading. I couldn't have done this without the crazed influence of Evil Dr Em, who kept me up way too late one night.

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