Disclaimer: Children, what are you doing in here? This features angst and entertaining and disturbing graphic descriptions of men doing sexual things to each other. For fun. If you don’t like that sort of stuff, or know you are too young for it, go away.
Oh, and I don’t own any of these characters. I’m just borrowing them for a little storytelling. They are all owned by Rysher, and the rest of the people with the money. I don’t have any. I do, however, have an overactive sexual imagination and a good grasp of how to drive a plot home. Oh, dear, that didn’t come out quite right . . . oh, well.
When love’s gone
a tear on
a waste land
your pillow
– ‘A Waste Land,’ Boys and Girls, Bryan Ferry
Methos purred with satisfaction at the miserable weather outside. It was raining, ugly grey rain, heavy rain, the rain that completely justifies turning over and going right back to bed. So, Methos did exactly that. He snuggled up to Duncan’s warmth, took a deep breath, and promptly fell asleep.
Duncan, exhausted from staying up all night fighting with himself, slept well into the morning. He woke up around noon, and was surprised to discover that Methos was still deeply asleep beside him. He gently stroked Methos’ arm, trying to wake him up. He knew better than to shake his ancient lover; he woke up badly to that. “Time for up, sleepyhead.”
Methos made a small noise, and rolled over without opening his eyes.
“What? Come on, Methos, we have things to do today.”
“No. It’s raining. Sleep.” That was all Methos said before he pulled the covers up over his head and slipped back into sleep again.
Duncan stared at his lover, deep in comfortable slumber. They had a list of things that needed to be done today, but Duncan had no wish to do them alone. And after last night, he didn’t want to leave Methos alone.
Methos had gotten up at least five times during the night, to stand and stare out the window. Duncan knew that he wasn’t seeing downtown Seacouver, that his lover was seeing something vicious from his past. Each time he had come back to bed, holding onto Duncan like a lifeline. And all through the night, Duncan had struggled with himself, trying to give Methos time to work out his anger in silence, when all he wanted to do was hold his lover close and beg forgiveness for his friends.
Duncan half-rose in bed, sitting up to see the thick grey rain still falling steadily from the sky. Maybe Methos was right. Duncan considered. Aside from the basic cries of nature, there wasn’t really any good reason to force Methos out of bed. And if Methos could stay in bed all day.... Duncan lay back down again, and it felt warm and right to hold his lover tightly. He fell asleep again within moments.
“A gift,” said Kronos, and threw the bundle onto the bed where Methos lay, still and pale. Methos cracked open an eye, and favored his brother with a sweet smile, one that no one but Kronos knew or even thought cold Death capable of.
“What is it?” Methos asked curiously. Days before, Kronos had confessed his love for Methos, and since then, had done nothing but demonstrate over and over how very serious he was about earning, winning, and keeping Methos’ love. He picked up the package. It was wrapped in oiled leathers and a bloody tunic that was soaked with the foul grey rain. Methos opened it carefully, setting the leathers and the tunic aside to reveal a set of worn papyrus scrolls. Methos gasped, and opened the first one that fell into his hands.
I have no idea why I’m writing this, but I want to remember what has happened here, even if no one else cares...
Methos clutched the scrolls to his chest. “Kronos! Where did you find these?”
A light smile cracked the grim face at Methos’ attempt to hide his joy. “A monk. We’re only forbidden to kill each other on holy ground, you know.”
“And what made you think I would like them?” Even to his brother, Methos would not reveal that he had been foolish enough not only to make journals like these, but to lose them.
Kronos glanced outside the tent, making sure no one was listening before answering. “Before dying, the wicked monk told me of how he’d once had a slender, brown-eyed slave that cared nothing for the lord of the Christians, but only wanted,” here, Kronos paused, reached into his shirt, and pulled out another scroll, this one different from the others - rich vellum, carefully tended, swathed in blood-red velvet - “this slave only wanted to read books.” Kronos smiled. “He doesn’t sound very much like anyone I know, of course.”
Methos swallowed, and took the scroll. “Thank you.” Methos didn’t open it. He knew what it was.
“Trust is a hard thing to learn, brother, and a harder thing to teach.”
Methos nodded. He didn’t want to risk crying in front of Kronos. To be in love was one thing. This was something else, something deeper, something darker.
Kronos gestured to the pillows and blankets that made up the bed. “May I?” Methos nodded, and with a cheerful grin, Kronos kicked off his boots and slid under the covers next to Methos. “Mmm, warm.” He lay down, and made himself comfortable, wrapping one arm around his brother/lover. “Read to me, brother. Tell me a story.”
Duncan woke up to darkness and a cold bed. Methos was standing at the window again, wearing only a set of Duncan’s sweatpants. He was staring out into the rain, which had only paused during the day to return with greater strength for the night. “Methos?”
“Do you know what I hate most about this century?” Without waiting for an answer, Methos laughed softly. “Not hate, miss. I miss being able to fall into a decline. I miss having doctors and lovers fuss over you, certain that something is seriously wrong with you and that only love and bedrest can cure you.” Methos returned to the bed, and sat down with his back to MacLeod. “Ever since Freud, may all the gods damn the man and his cigars, everyone knows that an illness like that is all in your head. That there’s a cure, somewhere. That there’s something wrong with you, and you alone.”
Duncan refused to be shut out of his lover’s pain, and moved behind him, wrapping his arms around Methos, letting his hair fall like a curtain over the smaller man’s shoulders. Methos paused, but Duncan didn’t speak.
“There’s something wrong with me, MacLeod.”
“Thank god,” said Duncan softly. “It means no one will try to take you away from me.”
Methos laughed softly again. “I love you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”
Both men could feel Duncan’s heart skip a beat at Methos’ words. “I love hearin’ ya say that. I love the way your voice sounds.” Duncan leaned forward, and twisted a little so that he could see his lover’s face. “Marry me?”
Wind whipped the rain outside even harder against the windows. Methos stared into Duncan’s eyes.
“What did you just say?” Methos demanded.
“Marry me?” Duncan repeated. “Join ma’ clan.” Nervousness brought out his brogue. “Ya know. Marry.”
– ** –
Joe tapped his finger nervously against the dark oak of the bar. Amanda stared at him.
“Has he called?”
Joe shook his head. “Not yet.”
Amanda stared at Joe some more. “Florida?”
Joe sighed. “That’s where they went. Packed up in the middle of the night, and hopped a plane to the lovely swamplands of Florida.”
“Indians, maybe? Some old friend of Duncan’s?”
“I don’t know, Amanda! Stop asking me. All we can do is wait for Gardner to call. If she calls.”
“Why wouldn’t she call?”
Joe’s patience strained, trying to escape. “She might not see anything worth reporting.”
“Oh.” Amanda settled down, and sipped at her beer.
The phone rang, startling both mortal and Immortal. Joe answered the phone immediately. “Dawson here.”
“This is Rae Gardner, Mr. Dawson. I’ve just seen something, and I’m not sure how to handle it.” The young woman sounded panicky.
“Just calm down, Rae. Tell me what you saw.”
“Adam Pierson - and Duncan MacLeod - they - they - sir, they got married.”
The phone slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.
“Sir?”
Joe could hear Rae’s worried voice dimly, and he shook himself, trying to get back on track. He knelt clumsily, hampered by his stiff leg, and recovered the phone. He ignored Amanda’s shocked stare. “I’m here, Rae. Could you explain what you just said, please?”
“They got married, sir. They found an Onseola shaman, and they got married. They’re consummating the wedding right now.”
“Adam Pierson?” repeated Joe.
“Wasn’t he a Watcher, sir? Can he do that?”
“Apparently,” he said dryly.
“But, sir, to one of them?”