Disclaimers: A little, uh, exploration of the Horsemen issue.... the characters do not belong to me. If you care to throw things, the direction in which to aim is tarshaan@moonlit-eyrie.com.
Rated: R, for m/m slash. Please recharge sense of humour before entering.

Methos snuggled deeper into the solid arms of his lover, wrapped warm about his back. "Mmmm," he mumbled, tucking his head beneath Duncan's chin and snuffling into his collarbone. "Tha' was wunnerf'l."

Duncan's hands never paused in their strokes down Methos' spine, even as his teeth worried his lower lip. He knew this wasn't exactly the best time to bring up the subject that had been on his mind for weeks now; but it was beginning to seem like there would never be a good time. And if he timed it right, he'd catch Methos in the three second interval between post-coital haze and outright sleep when his millennia of masks were down and the man was vulnerable. A muffled and sleepy 'whumph' from near his armpit reminded him that those three seconds of vulnerability were rapidly slipping away, and impulsively he decided to speak. "Methos."

No reply. Damn, he hadn't foreseen being ignored. What to do now? Gently, he nudged the relaxed mound of his lover with his chin. "Methos."

His only response was a sort of 'mmm eerrr' against his nipple. The vibrations rippled pleasantly through his body, even as he regarded the unresponsive lump of man in his arms with frustration. Sliding his hands back down his lover's spine, he parted his buttocks, the tip of one finger teasing the depths he'd plumbed so mercilessly mere minutes before. "Methos," he tried again, sliding his finger in.

The response this time was a definite grunt. Encouraged, Duncan tried again. "Methos. We have to talk."

Methos raised his head, grumpy and slightly sleep-befuddled eyes glaring daggers at Duncan even as his body responded to the man's caresses. "What, MacLeod?" he asked, wriggling his hips upward and onto the teasing finger. "You want another go?"

"No." Duncan withdrew his hands, ignoring his lover's displeased growl. "I said, we need to talk."

Methos dropped his head back onto Duncan's chest and let out a heartfelt groan. "Do we have to do this now?"

"Yes." Duncan said firmly, and sat up, dislodging Methos' limp form from his chest. "We do."

"Why?" Methos asked, plaintively, and the slight wince in his eyes was the only sign that perhaps he hadn't meant the word to sound quite as much of a whine as it had.

"Because," Duncan answered firmly, and reached for the glass of water from the bedside table.

"That's not much of a reason," Methos grumbled, sitting up himself and reaching for his sweats, currently in a crumpled heap on the floor beside the bed. "Damn it, if you're going to insist on bedtime conversations, we're doing it with milk and cookies."

Duncan was on the verge of objecting when his grumpy lover padded in front of him on his way to the kitchen. The subtle flex of muscles under smooth sweat-and-semen stained skin halted the words before they left his mouth, and instead he settled back to watch as Methos puttered about the kitchen, putting biscuits on a plate and grabbing a couple of glasses and the carton of milk from the fridge.

"So, MacLeod," Methos said, settling himself on the bed and taking a bite of a chocolate chip biscuit, "What's this tete-a-tete all about, then?"

Duncan jerked his mind back from contemplating the glimmer of chocolate on Methos' lip, and the soft swipe of his pink tongue, peeking out to capture it. "Huh?" He asked, not very originally.

"This Talk you say we need to have, Duncan. What's it about?" Methos repeated patiently, sounding very much like a man talking to a five year old.

"Oh, yeah." Duncan jerked his mind's leash again, hard. Wouldn't do to get distracted. This was serious stuff they were about to stumble into, after all. "I've, well, I've been doing a bit of reading lately, and--"

"Reading, MacLeod?" Methos interrupted, voice dangerously silky. Carefully, Duncan yanked his wandering attention away from what that tone was inspiring in his cock and back on course. "You woke me up to talk about what you've been reading?!"

This time, even Duncan's cock wasn't convinced the danger in the quiet voice was worth the sexual rush it provoked. Duncan hurriedly cleared his throat, and continued with his explanation. "As I was saying," he paused to glare down Methos' attempt to interrupt, "I've been doing a bit of reading lately. And it's brought home to me that maybe I reacted a little strongly to some recent events. I just wanted to tell you that. That I understand, I mean. It's okay."

Methos paused, glass of milk halfway to his mouth, and stared at his lover. "What are you talking about, MacLeod?" He darted a glance over to the bedside table, hoping that perhaps there would be a book there to provide him with a clue. If he left it to Duncan to explain, he might never get to sleep.

Duncan, meanwhile, just looked at him as if he were daft. "The Horsemen, of course," he replied, as though to a young child.

"The Horse--" Methos choked on his milk, coughing. "You woke me up to tell me you'd been doing reading about the Horsemen?!"

"Yes," Duncan nodded, earnestly. "Quite a lot of reading, actually. Quite a fascinating period in history, when you really get in to it. Uh, yes, well," he hurriedly moved on, as Methos' stare became less and less focussed, more and more irate and confused, "as I said, I've been doing some reading. And I think that maybe I overreacted before. You know, when I found out. It's just that Cassandra made it sound all sound so personal, you know? Well, for her, I suppose it was. But, really, I've got some perspective, now. Got some distance, did some research; and I do think I understand, now."

"You understand?" Methos sputtered, spreading cookie crumbs across the silk sheets. Duncan winced at the mess, before reminding himself he should concentrate on the conversation: it was important, after all.

"Well, yes. It was rather a brutal period of history, after all. Raiding bands were common... it makes sense that you'd fall in with one, sooner or later. And that you'd band together with immortals, too, I suppose: after all, the mortals then went in for dismembering in a big way; and I'm sure enough of them could have been a danger to you. It's only logical that you'd band together for protection. And then, why, to keep them from attacking you in ever larger numbers, of course you needed to create a legend. Mortals have always been rather leery of dealing with the supernatural, legends and myths and such like. It's okay, you know. I do understand. Those books were really rather informative...." Duncan trailed off, suddenly aware that Methos was staring at him as though he'd lost his mind.

"It was a rather brutal period of history?" Methos parrotted, stunned. "Raiding bands were common? Common? Are you calling us common?"

"Now, now, Methos," Duncan started, raising a hand to soothe his irate lover, "it's all right, you know. You don't need to be upset. I just wanted you to know that I finally realised the Horsemen really weren't all that terrible. Not for the time and place in which they reigned."

"Not that terrible?" Methos sputtered, still staring incredulously at his lover. "I was Death, MacLeod!"

"Yes, yes, I know," Duncan said hurriedly, taking the glass of milk from his enraged lover before it went the way of the cookie crumbs and spattered all over the bed, "You killed. You told me."

"Yes, I killed, MacLeod!" Methos roared, outrage getting the better of his shock. "And I didn't do it because I had to. I didn't do it for money. I didn't do it for--"

"Yes, I know," Duncan interrupted, shushing his sputtering lover. "You didn't do it for greed. You didn't do it for power. You did it because you liked it, right?" Methos nodded, temporarily speechless, and Duncan smiled happily. "You've told me all that before, you know," he said, confidingly. "But it's okay, Methos. Really. The world was different; you were different. The times were different. It was acceptable behaviour then, if not exactly encouraged."

Methos drew back, staring in vague horror at the strange man muttering in his bed. "Duncan," he began, somewhat uncertainly, "are you feeling all right?"

"Of course," Duncan went blithely on, "it helped in the lunch department, too, I bet. Let you compete for limited resources, and all that. And I bet it was wonderfully safe, not having to worry about stray immortals coming along and taking your head; or, worse, mortals deciding to cut it off and have your quickening be lost forever. And I daresay, after two thousand years in such a harsh world, you'd a few experiences you quite enjoyed getting revenge for, too. I do wish you had found another way to survive; but given the state of the world back then, I can't say I blame you for turning to raiding for your livelihood."

"Damn it, MacLeod, aren't you listening?!?" Methos roared, his temper snapping like a dry twig. "I TOLD you, I didn't do it for any of that! None of it mattered! It was nothing! All NOTHING! I did it because I LIKED it!"

"There, there," Duncan said, patting his distressed lover on the back. "It's okay, Methos; I told you."

"And I told you," Methos growled, "that I did it because I liked it."

"Oh, be reasonable will you, Methos?" Duncan asked, rolling his eyes. "You were a Horsemen for a thousand years. You didn't spend every minute of that thousand years liking what you were doing. The very thought is just plain ridiculous. I mean, come on--nobody, not even an immortal, is that single-minded about anything, ever."

"B--b--b--" Methos spluttered.

"Anyway," he added, overriding his lover's attempted interjection, "you expect me to believe you enjoyed every minute of it? Oh, the adrenaline rush from the raids themselves, I'll grant you that. But what about the bugs? The sand in unpleasant places. The stink of blood all over everything, always. The limited access to water. The lack of challenge - it must have gotten boring, pillaging unarmed village after unarmed village. Here," Duncan said, solicitously patting Methos on the back as he choked. "Have a drink." He passed the milk over, watched as Methos took a gulp, and then another. "That's better now, isn't it?"

Methos nodded and began speaking calmly enough, although his fingers were white-knuckled about the glass in his hand. "Duncan," he said, terribly gently. "We were evil. Don't you get it? It wasn't the times; it wasn't within the societal norm; it wasn't acceptable behaviour; it wasn't even for safety. I became a Horsemen for one reason and one reason only: because I liked it. I stayed a Horsemen for that very same reason. It's as simple as that, Duncan. I liked it. There is no more. Anything else is just something you've made up to make my past 'okay', in some PC fashion. I'm sorry, but, much as I'd love to tell you I was some wishy-washy before-my-time New Age guy who fell in with bad company; I wasn't. I was evil. We were evil. Do you understand me?"

"Methos," Duncan said, shaking his head. "I don't understand this urge you have to paint yourself all in dark colours. The world is grey; not black and white. Some periods in history are greyer than others, and that was one of them. It's as simple as that. You weren't a nice guy, by any means, but you weren't exactly the embodiment of all evil, either."

"Duncan," Methos said, his patience wearing thin, "I was DEATH," he spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word, spacing them for maximum impact. "I raided. I looted. I raped. I murdered."

"Oh, come on, Methos," Duncan said, starting to get a little annoyed with his lover's continuing density. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I'm capable of coming to my own conclusions about what was acceptable behaviour for the times and what wasn't. Besides, 'rape', 'murder' -- those terms as we use them today don't really apply, do they? The language has changed; the culture too. I know you lived through it; but, really, get over yourself. There's plenty of evidence to suggest that the Horsemen weren't nearly as terrible as you like to make out."

Methos glared at his lover, thin lips pressed even thinner together. "Damnit, MacLeod, listen to me," he thundered, eyes boring a hole into his lover's skull. At least, that was the intended effect. Duncan, if anything, just looked slightly amused. "I'm telling you, we were sheer EVIL. The worst this world has ever seen. The worst it will ever see. The standards of the time were nothing compared to us; we weren't in a war, we weren't an army. We were just four guys out for kicks; nothing less. We killed when we felt like it, casually, the way you might eat a chicken for dinner. We terrorised whole continents, and we didn't get anything out of it except pleasure and satisfaction. We destroyed whole tribes; entire cultures lost to the sands of time for our amusement. We were evil, MacLeod. Evil."

Duncan sighed. "If you say so, dear," he said, and began to brush the crumbs out of the bed in preparation for sleeping.

Methos, enraged, grabbed his shoulder. "I killed, MacLeod," he hissed, right up in Duncan's face. "And I didn't just kill one. I didn't just kill a hundred. I killed a thousand. I killed ten thousand!" He sat back in triumph, glaring hard-eyed at his lover. When no response was forthcoming, he reached for his glass of milk and took a victory swallow.

"You know, you keep telling me that, Methos," Duncan said, at last. "But have you ever actually thought about it?" Methos' eyes narrowed in a murderous glare, but Duncan went on oblivious. "You were a Horsemen for a thousand years, you've said so yourself. Ten thousand--that's less than one a month. Christ, I've averaged better than that over the past four or five years, you know. Pretty pathetic score for a terrorist, don't you think?"

Methos' eyes narrowed even further, into tiny slits, furiously concentrating all his ire intense on his lover's face. His body was drawn taut as a bow, all scrunched up muscle and tense posture. He radiated danger, and a smart man would have backed away. Especially when he hissed, the words full of venom and promising havoc, "I was Death, MacLeod."

Duncan, however, found that no matter how much fury and frustration his lover was radiating; no matter how silky and dangerous his voice--he simply couldn't take a man with a milk moustache seriously as a threat. "Face it, Methos," he replied, grabbing a pillow and plumping it, before flopping full-length on the bed and pulling the covers up over himself.

"Death was a wuss."

Many many thanks to Gayle for the picture. And caption credits variously to Sleeps With Coyotes and Rhi. Thanks, guys :-). Caption suggestions cheerfully taken at tarshaan@moonlit-eyrie.com.