Note also that I generally do not write linearly. So this won't necessarily start at the beginning (although it actually does at the moment, I think), wend its leisurely way through the scenes in order, and wind up at the end. There'll be sections skipped here and there, to be added later. If you think something's missing, it probably is. Oh yeah, I'll take the usual disclaimers, please, waiter. Nets
The buzz overtook the man lounging on the bed long seconds before the doorbell rang. Years of defensive instincts had the book dropping forgotten to the floor and a sword appearing in its place. Positioning himself carefully to one side of the door, dagger snug in its sheath at his back, he waited. This time a fist thundering on the door itself accompanied the bell. "Impatient, whichever immortal this is." The man smiled to himself as he shifted slightly in place. He wasn't about to open the door without knowing who was on the other side of it, and what they wanted. He particularly was not about to do it at two in the morning. Besides, such deliberate goading occasionally yielded a few interesting insights, should it come to a challenge. The pounding resumed, followed by the ringing of the doorbell yet again. An annoyed neighbour yelling down the hall resulted in the voice of the visitor himself. Recognition caused a rare moment of total surprise before he released his defensive posture and moved to open the door. "MacLeod. I don't suppose you just came by to drop off some beer?" As the larger man pushed by him, Methos sighed and closed the door. "Thought not." "Come on in, make yourself at home," he invited with a sweep of his arm. "No, of course you didn't wake me. Don't worry about it, it's only the middle of the bloody night after all." "Tell me," Methos continued sarcastically as he placed his sword carefully on a nearby table, "did you ever hear of that remarkable invention? Fairly new, only come about in the last century and a half. Amazing contraption; you speak into one end, and someone half-way around the world can hear you? Patented by a man called Bell. Speaking of which, am I ringing any bells here?" Methos watched with some amusement, and not a little irritation, as MacLeod ignored him, instead prowling wordlessly about his apartment. He stopped every now and then to pick up the odd book or artefact before dumping it on a handy surface a little further on his circuit of the room. He avoided looking directly at Methos as he roamed about, oddly silent. Deciding that this might be a while, Methos padded over to the fridge. Grabbing a beer, he hopped up onto the counter to watch the Highlander go through his paces.
Four beers later, MacLeod still circled the room. Still silent. Methos had long since abandoned the show, and now sprawled across the counter, headphones on and the book back in his hand. So far as he was concerned, Mac could go on like this all night. Curiosity had begun to get the better of him, but damned if he was going to start this conversation. Whatever was eating at the Highlander would eventually come out. No; if it was powerful enough to have driven Mac here, even after that cozy little fare-thee-well at the barge earlier, then it would doubtless come pouring out sooner or later. All he had to do was wait. Five thousand years had made Methos very good at waiting. He wasn't quite sure what finally drew his attention away from the book in front of him. But he looked up to find Mac looming over him, standing near enough that he couldn't quite believe they weren't touching. Mac still hadn't spoken a word, and he'd obviously abandoned pacing in favour of staring. Brown eyes watched him with an intensity Methos found unnerving. He frowned irritably up at the man before sliding off the other side of the counter, unsettled enough to want that barrier between them just now. Not that it served its purpose terribly well; MacLeod simply walked around it. No, walked wasn't quite the right word, Methos mused silently -- he stalked around it. Stalking Methos.... Carefully, Methos backed up, wondering what had brought this on, and what exactly this was. That intense gaze was still on him, eyes watching every move he made. Mesmerizing him.... Trying to read what was behind that stare had Methos forgetting about the wall he was backing into; and MacLeod had trapped him before Methos quite realised his danger. No room left to draw the dagger at his back.... Well, that left words. They'd always been his first defense, and his best. Mac had moved in so damned close.... The last time they'd been this near, there'd been a sword at his throat. They really should be touching... Methos would have loved to know how Mac accomplished that. He put on his best wide-eyed innocence look, already well aware it wouldn't work. "Was it something I said?" Five thousand years of self control barely stopped the flinch as Mac raised his hand, and Methos wondered idly whether the reaction had shown in his eyes. He did flinch when Mac's fingertips lightly grazed along his cheekbone, and this time he knew his panic had shown. "Mac--" "Shhhh." Mac's hand wrapped about his face, fingers caressing his ear, toying with strands of his hair. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" His hand was warm against Methos' face, and he could almost taste the whisky on Mac's breath. "How many nights I've sat, watching you asleep on the couch--" "All of them?" Wise-cracks, Methos thought dazedly. That'll break him out of this-- this-- whatever this is. Mac's hand slid down and covered his mouth, but that was the only sign the Highlander had even heard his interruption. "How often I lay there and listened to you breathing. Dreaming.... When all I really wanted was to drag you into my bed with me and do -- this--" Another soft caress as Mac's hand slid behind Methos' head and tugged him forward the scant millimetres necessary to close the distance left between them. Their kiss was electric. Methos couldn't even begin to fight his response. Mac's hand dropped to the back of his neck and lingered there, tenderly kneading. Teeth nipped lightly at Methos' lips, followed by Mac's tongue, slipping into his mouth and exploring around like he was planning on setting up home there. "Why didn't you?" Methos asked, unsteady and a little breathless, when Mac finally allowed the kiss to end. "If you really wanted to all that much, then why didn't you?" "Why didn't you?" Mac countered. "I've seen you, watching me. So why didn't you?" he let the question hang in the air a moment, toying with the nape of Methos' neck. "Because of tomorrow," Mac added, leaning his forehead against Methos'. "I couldn't work out what would happen tomorrow, if ever we did. Couldn't decide what came next. Where we went from bed. I knew you wanted me, but not if you needed me. If you need me the way I need you, the way I need water, food, air.... "I knew," Mac continued softly, slipping his other hand between Methos and the wall, "that you'd be a taste I wouldn't forget, not ever. A sensation I would forever after crave. But I didn't know, couldn't know, if it was the same for you. Or what it would mean come morning. I couldn't figure out what happened next." "So you did nothing." Methos tried to ignore the heat of Mac's fingers trailing down his spine. Tried to think through the tangled web Mac's touch was creating in his mind. "Yup," Mac happily agreed, moving impossibly closer toward Methos. "'Til now." Methos turned his head, avoiding Mac's kiss. Undaunted, Mac nibbled on his ear, instead. "Why now?" "Don't ask why," Mac murmured. "Don't ask how. Don't ask what's next. Don't ask, Methos, just react. Just do. You see, I finally realised, today. I finally figured it out. Finally. Only took me four years," Mac's chuckle against his neck sent shivers of pleasure sparking along all of Methos' nerves. The sensation made mincemeat of his attempts to comprehend Mac's bizarre logic. "It finally came to me, tonight. That there is no tomorrow." "No tomorrow?" Methos asked, completely lost now. This was too much, too close to too many fantasies, too sudden. He was fighting a losing battle in trying to gain control of the conversation, and he knew it. Time was on Mac's side, just now. Mac nodded, and sucked briefly at the skin below Methos' ear. "There is no next," he went on, words slightly muffled by skin. "Nothing happens. There is nothing to wonder about, I don't have to worry about tomorrow, and neither do you, because I won't be here in the morning. So there is no tomorrow." Methos closed his eyes and tried once more to control his reactions. But mental distance was hard to achieve when he could feel Mac's erection pressing against his thigh. "And how many bottles of whisky did it take to arrive at this stunning conclusion, MacLeod?" "Just feel it, Methos." Mac commanded, completely ignoring the jibe. "Let's just do it. Not worry, not about today or tomorrow or next week. Or yesterday. Let's just climb into your bed and fuck the way we've both been wanting to, and let the rest go hang." He moved his attentions down to the other man's neck, ignoring the way Methos stood so stiffly in his arms. "Come on, Methos. You know you want to." Grinding his erection against Methos, he added "You surely cannot doubt that I want to. So let's just do it, and damn the consequences. For once, once in my life, I'm not thinking about anything but the moment, this moment, our moment. Anything but you, here, in my arms. The pleasure we'll both take in this...." "Not thinking is about right," Methos grumbled. It was impossible to ignore, he thought. The Highlander, wrapped so close about him. Touching off frissions of current in his skin. Scrambling his senses. Impossible to resist, impossible to hide, impossible not to give in. Impossible not to relax under the tongue tracing along the edge of his neck. Under the hands roughly kneading his back, occasionally dipping down beneath the waistband of his jeans. Impossible not to react to the teeth stealing bites. To the lips tasting him so thoroughly. Impossible to keep his own hands from wandering, sliding up under clothing in a frantic search for skin....
From Adam Pierson's journal: ----- He was gone when I woke this morning. Vanished into oblivion, and I really don't know why that surprised me so. He warned me, after all. Told me flat out that he wasn't going to be here in the morning. That that's the very reason he felt like he could hop into my bed in the first place. So why do I feel like he's torn my heart out, with me all unsuspecting, the unwitting victim of this encounter? Because he's Duncan MacLeod, of course. Duncan Macleod, who can barely conceive that anyone might want to run from an obligation, or a fight. Who treats his lovers with respect and care and, yes, with love. Who doesn't abandon them to a lonely bed before the dawn, doesn't run out on friends, doesn't leave anyone and everyone to wonder what it was they did, they said, they didn't. Doesn't leave with nary a goodbye in sight. ----- Damn him, why does it matter so, anyway? He's beautiful, but so what? Beauty is nothing, a passing fad, a way of measuring dependent on the day, the century, the second. Money, youth, luck. Beggars are never beautiful. I keep coming back here. Keep coming back to this point. To where I'm left staring at a page, trying to find the strength to leap, and a direction to leap in. To or away.... together or alone. Do I chase him, or do I let him go? Knowing that if I find the means to leave him be, it won't be real. Because I'll be back, sooner than I'd want, sooner than I'd like, sooner than I know how to bear. Whatever happens, whoever happens, I keep coming back. To him. The dawn's light is cold and gray, as simple and as complex as any relationship. Hard to remember, just now, that he was solid in my bed less than an hour ago. Hard to recall, that he was real, alive, a bit drunk and human, deep inside me body and mind, and very nearly soul. Hard to remember, that.... That if he hadn't left me here, I'd have likely left him.... you'd think after five thousand years I'd be better at handling fear. Surely, you'd think I wouldn't be worse.... but I've done the forever gig. Kronos isn't exactly an example to inspire confidence. No matter how different they may seem on the surface. ----- It's a joke, I swear. Throw a pretty boy at the old man, see how far we can make him fall. Bait the trap with honour and beauty, neither substantially more durable than the other. Lure him in with honesty and earnestness and the promise of a friendship not based on an ultimate lie. Then, when we're sure he's firmly on the hook, why don't we dig up the past? And just for kicks, let's throw in a demon or two. Hell, why not more while we're at it? An enemy or eight, a bad guy of the week, a chivalrous impulse or twenty. And then, just when he thinks he's lost it all, give him everything. Everything.... and make sure it's gone in the morning. Faery gold. That's what Duncan MacLeod is, faery gold. ----- Well, if I can't erase him from my mind, I can at least get the feel of him out of my body. With Adam Pierson's vulnerability, it shouldn't be too hard to find a willing accomplice. ----- Le Blues Bar, later that night
skip skip skip to come later Methos fights with himself for a while and eventually takes off after
Mac. This bit isn't written yet, but will hopefully be. Sooner or later
(Probably later, but not *too* later), he tracks him down, they reunite,
fall into bed, do what comes naturally "Methos" "Ummm?" "Next time I decide to run away...." Mac felt the tension strike his lover, and hugged him reassuringly closer, "I'll take you with me." Nothing. "Will you...." Mac paused, suddenly unsure. It had all seemed so clear a moment ago, but in the face of Methos' continuing silence he had to struggle to find words. "Can you... do the same?" No response. Methos was marble in his arms. Mac looked down slowly, terrified of what he might see in the beloved face. At least Methos hadn't jumped up or even so much as pulled away, he mused silently. His gaze took in his lover's mussed hair, moved lower. That had to be a good sign... didn't it? Moisture standing in the expressive eyes -- oh shit -- "Methos?" Mac couldn't keep the quaver out of his voice. Or stop the tremour that shook the fingertips brushing over Methos cheekbone. He couldn't seem to breathe... he caught the first tear to spill over, tasted it. "I -- what -- did -- oh, shit, no, don't," dismay in Mac's voice, as Methos buried his face in the crook of his neck. "No, Methos, please, don't cry...." Sobs wracked the too-thin frame in his arms and Mac dropped his head, to brush a kiss over his lover's hair. "Oh, Methos. Shhhh... it's okay. It's gonna be okay, really it is, anything you want, we can... just don't leave, I'm here now, it's okay...." Mac rocked back and forth, Methos secure in his arms. "It's okay...." Since the words spilling incoherently from his lips just seemed to strengthen the sobs, Mac gave up talking. Concentrated instead on soothing his lover, still cradled so tightly in his arms. Half-unconciously, he started to croon some long-forgotten lullabye. Slowly, the sobs eased. For a long time after, Mac simply held on to Methos, too scared to say anything, or even stop rocking, back and forth and back again. Unsure of what had set Methos off, or how to deal with it now he'd cried himself out. A few pathetic sounding sniffles sent Mac groping for a tissue, a handkerchief, anything to hand his lover. Once the aftermath had been cleared away, or mostly so, he risked a word, brushing tenderly over Methos' ear. "Better?" Methos smiled shyly, his clear gaze meeting Mac's worried one. "It's okay, Mac. I'm okay." "You're sure?" "Yeah." One last sniff accompanied Methos' nod. "Really." "Uh-huh." A grin, lightning-quick. "What, you don't believe me? I'm hurt, Mac. Wounded to the core." A sneak attack from the man in his arms, and Methos won the unexpected tussle. Mac found himself pinned beneath his lover and tickled unmercifully. Clever fingers darted across his stomach, down his sides, made a fast foray to the soles of his feet. He squirmed, laughing helplessly under the assault. Laughing too hard to free himself, and, watching the sheer devilment on Methos' face, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to. Finally, breathless and still laughing, Mac called him off. "Pax!" He looked up, letting his gaze caress the man above him. Taking in the flushed skin, the mussed hair, the merry gleam in his eyes... sweat traced a path down the sinewy torso and he watced it's progress, mouth suddenly dry. "Beautiful," he murmured, and watched the colour bloom high on sculptured cheekbones. Mac raised a hand, let his fingers graze his lover's face. Watched, transfixed, as a bead of sweat trailed along that long nose... he wanted to taste it with an intensity that surprised him. Wanted to taste him... all of him. With a jolt, he remembered the tear he'd licked earlier, and couldn't stop himself asking soberly, "Really okay?" Methos' expression turned serious. "Yes." He ducked his head, suddenly embarassed. Searched for words to give his friend. Looking up, he met Mac's eyes. "It's just... have you ever wanted something, Mac, so damn bad. And lost it, just after you thought you'd finally gotten it? Something you really wanted, maybe even needed, gone almost before you realised you'd found it. And then had to look, again. Hoping against hope, that it wasn't too late. That it wasn't really gone at all, just -- just misplaced. "Finding you were right -- that your hope wasn't misplaced, that what you needed so desperately is not truly gone after all, and you can have it. That can be...." Methos trailed off, for once lost for words. "It hurts." The words were quiet as Mac finished the thought for him. Mac's eyes gone dark and unreadable. "Lord above, how it hurts. Is that...." he looked away, gulped a breath. "Is that what I did to you?" He flinched as he asked the question, already knowing the answer. "Mac--" "No." He raised his fingers to his lips, blocked Methos' attempt at reassurance. "I never meant to. I wouldn't -- I didn't -- you do know that. Don't you?" Agony so clear in the dark eyes. "I do now." Methos flicked out his tongue, caressing the fingers still resting against his lips. Forgiveness implicit in the action. Mac's smile was bittersweet. "I do understand, you know. You have to put up walls, to keep going. To function. Have to deny so much, to keep faith. Knocking them down again... allowing yourself to remember all the possibilities, to think of the future.... God." He stared up at his lover in wonder, awestruck. Stunned yet again by Methos' courage, by his strength. His determination. "You amaze me, you know that?" He reached up, cupped his hand behind Methos' neck. Pulling it down, and with it his lover, he couldn't stop his smile. Didn't even try. "Do you know, I think I've finally figured out why it is I've been so miserable these last months. These last months without you."Mac pressed his lips lightly to Methos', but wouldn't let his lover deepen the kiss. Instead he brushed his lips across Methos' forehead, his cheeks, his eyes. Caressed his throat, his neck. And finally allowed himself to speak the words that had been hovering on his tongue since the moment he'd laid eyes on Methos. "God, how I love you."
Comments?
Tell me.
Graphics by
No link currently available; I'll gladly correct that if anyone has a URL. Thanks! |
