Disclaimer: Unsurprisingly, they still aren't mine. Their conversation, however, is. Alphabet fic. Humour fic. All comments and bad jokes to tarshaan@moonlit-eyrie.com.
"Another dent," MacLeod announced gloomily, staring at the unresponsive back of his unfairly -- or so MacLeod was inclined to believe -- inattentive lover's head.
Yawning, MacLeod pondered this latest non-sequiter from his lover, furiously trying to make some -- any -- sense of the strange statement -- what language was it in, anyway? Xeroxed copies of Methos' latest find fluttered in the breeze, and Methos grabbed them just in time to prevent a game of 'catch' with the wind, as MacLeod finally gave forth with an uninspired, "Huh?"
"Word association," Methos explained, flipping the topmost page to the bottom and securing the entire stack with a rock before finally looking at his confused lover -- and about time, too, MacLeod decided, by now in a decidedly peevish mood. "Very old game," Methos went on, oblivious, "you say a word, I answer with the first thing to come to mind; you must have heard of it. Uh, yes," he hurriedly overrode MacLeod's half-begun protestations of confusion, "well, you said 'Arthur Dent', so naturally I responded with 'Zaphod Beeblebrox'."
There was that word again, MacLeod thought disconsolately, eyeing his lover's evident pride with disgust -- he still had no idea what Methos was blathering about. "So?" he asked resolutely, returning his attention to the new dent in his beloved Thunderbird and hoping this time Methos would take the hint and give him some well-deserved comfort -- preferably of the horizontal variety.
"Relatively speaking," Methos continued blithely, obviously completely oblivious to MacLeod's latest woe, "it's a perfectly rational response; both, of course, inhabiting the same excellent books--"
Quicker than thought, MacLeod ducked one flailing arm, only to find his nose in rather close contact with a neighbouring tree branch. Pouring it on for all he was worth, he gave a long suffering, if rather overly dramatic, sigh and waved a finger coated with blood from his freshly broken nose in Methos' face; maybe this would finally get him the attention he so clearly deserved and which his heretofore-oblivious lover was so cruelly denying him. Offput by the carnadine digit wavering hypnotically under his nose, coupled with the blank incomprehension badly hidden behind MacLeod's best kicked puppy look, Methos broke off his diatribe.
"Never mind," he sighed, coming to the not-so-surprising conclusion that he and his lover were talking at cross-purposes -- a far from rare event.
MacLeod tried to clean up the blood on his face, and only succeeded in smearing it further around his now healed nose, provoking another sigh from his beleagured lover. Looting pockets for a handkerchief and coming up empty, he contemplated his options. Keeping MacLeod from getting himself any messier seemed a gargantuan task, right now. Jury-rigging a jeep for a trek across the Sahara, Methos thought rather melodramatically, would be simpler.
Inspiration struck, and a wicked grin forced its way onto Methos' visage. He leant forward slowly, enjoying the faint look of alarm his mischievous expression was inspiring in the back of MacLeod's eyes. "Going in for the kill," he thought, still feeling somewhat melodramatic. Fantasies chased each other through his head as he stared at his blood-covered lover. Evil thoughts abounded as he licked his lips. Dropping his head to the level of his lover's, he ran his tongue cat-like over MacLeod's face, at the same time dropping a hand onto his lover's crotch. Continuing in this manner, he slowly and thoroughly cleaned off all the blood, kneading his lover's groin as he did so.
"Better," he told a moaning MacLeod, before removing himself from his lover's grasp and turning back to his abandoned book, "let me know if you need to clean up again, will you?"
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