[NSFW] Adult stories !

[Nicholas Ward]

Since there isn't a [NSFW] thread yet: this is the place to post Highlander stories of an adult nature with or between your favourite characters.

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As a start: Your lips say yes by Keerawa


Tessa was startled by the sound of someone knocking on the barge door. She'd been lying in bed, trying to read, waiting for Duncan to return from a Challenge. The lamp was still on. The fire she'd lit, more for comfort than warmth, had burned down low. She must have dozed off.

Duncan wouldn't knock. For a moment she feared it was someone bringing news. But, no - she wasn't the wife of a policeman or soldier, to be brought bad news by kind strangers. If he were ever to lose a Challenge, he just wouldn't come home. The conclusion would be drawn over hours and days of waiting. The fear built up until she could barely breathe.

A voice called from outside. It was female, melodious, and quite, quite drunk. "Duncan. Oh, Duncaaaaan! Open up."

Tessa was suddenly furious. She threw aside the covers and strode to the entryway, pulling Duncan's silk robe tight around herself. She threw open the door and stared up the stairs at the intruder.

As Tessa's eyes adjusted to the darkness outside, she saw Amanda leaning against the door frame. She was wearing a tight-fitting black dress, with a slit cut up the side. Amanda had a tiny black Fendi purse clutched in her hands. Her hair was mussed, and her dark red lipstick smeared, as if she'd been kissing. She looked debauched.

"You." Tessa folded her arms across her chest.

"Tessa!" Amanda exclaimed. "Where's Duncan? I can't sense him. Am I that drunk?"

Tessa shook her head. This was the last thing she needed right now. "You may be that drunk, but Duncan isn't here right now."

Amanda blinked a few times. "Oh. Well, not to worry, dear, I can wait." She straightened up off the door frame and took the first step down.

Tessa stretched her arm across the stairway and braced it, blocking Amanda's path. "If you think I am inviting you into our home, you are mistaken."

Amanda peered down at her. "Why not? Darius told me that you let Grace stay over."

"You're no Grace."

Amanda took a graceful, sliding step down that was meant to duck her under Tessa's arm. Tessa was having none of it. She moved to stop Amanda and ended up having to catch the woman before she fell down the stairs.

Amanda gave a little gasp. "Well of course not." Amanda nuzzled into the fabric of Duncan's robe. The robe gaped open, baring Tessa's collarbone. Amanda flicked her tongue along the exposed skin. "I'm much more fun."

Tessa dropped her. Amanda slid to a boneless pile at the bottom of the stairs and laid there, shoulders shaking. Tessa cautiously walked down the handful of stairs and knelt to check on her.

Amanda lifted her head. She was laughing. "Feisty! No wonder Duncan likes you!" Amanda flipped over and stretched out on the floor. Her laughter gradually faded into a gentle chuckle. She seemed almost sober now.

"So, Duncan's out." Tessa nodded. "I can only think of two reasons that might be, and I don't think you'd put up with the first." Tessa sat back on her heels, face stiff.

Amanda reached a hand out to push back the hair that had fallen into Tessa's face. Her long fingers felt cool against Tessa's heated skin. "Waiting's not easy, I know. If you want me to leave, I will. But do you really want to be alone right now?"

"Yes," Tessa said fiercely.

Amanda smiled a secretive little smile. "Your lips say yes," she crooned, fingers gently tracing the edges of Tessa's mouth. "But the rest of you..." Her hand drifted along Tessa's cheekbone and down a tendon in her neck. Tessa found her breath catching as she stretched towards fingers that pulled away from her.

Amanda sat up against the bulkhead. She ran her hands through her hair. "I enjoy a good seduction," she said in a husky, intimate voice, "but I prefer a willing victim." Amanda cocked her head at Tessa. "So ... are you willing?"

Tessa closed her eyes, blocking out temptation. Her heart was pounding — part fear for Duncan, part lust. Her skin was so sensitive; she could almost feel the flicking firelight. She was wet, and the scent of the damp silk clamped between her thighs reminded her of Duncan. What if he never came home? God, she needed ...

Tessa looked up into Amanda's eager brown eyes. "I love Duncan," she said.

Amanda sighed happily, as if that were a sinful suggestion. "Of course we do," she replied, taking off her shoes and moving them to the side. Amanda held out a hand to Tessa. Tessa took it, and found herself pulled into Amanda's lap. Amanda's mouth was warm, and tasted of tequila and lipstick. Her tongue was never still. It teased Tessa's lips, dueled with her tongue, brushed along the sensitive skin below her ear.

Tessa was grasping Amanda's shoulders, holding them together, rocking against Amanda's hip. Amanda's hands reached down between them, skimmed along and around Tessa's breasts, everywhere but her nipples.

"Please," Tessa gasped.

"I thought you'd never ask," Amanda purred into her ear.

Tessa was pushed down onto the floor, robe open. A small, hot mouth was showering kisses over her skin, blazing a trail down her throat towards her right breast. Her skin was marked by traces of red from Amanda's lips. Amanda licked a tight circle around Tessa's nipple, and then retreated a few inches to blow gently over it. The sudden cold made her nipple even harder, and Tessa moaned.

Amanda jerked at the sound. She looked wildly up at Tessa's face for a moment, eyes dark, and then dived down to take Tessa's nipple in her mouth. Sucking, nibbling, gentle bites designed to drive Tessa out of her mind. Tessa's head knocked back against the floor as her hand found Amanda's hair. Her hips arched up into the empty air, needing more.

"Touchez-moi," Tessa begged.

"You want me to touch you? Where?" Amanda teased, nails scratching down Tessa's belly towards the damp curls below, almost hard enough to hurt. "Here?" She braced a hand between Tessa's thighs. Tessa rubbed frantically against Amanda's bare forearm.

"Mmmm, very nice," said Amanda. She bit her lip and bent down for a deep, wet kiss.

Then she sat back up, eyes roving over Tessa's naked body. Tessa, watching, felt every glance as a potential touch. She shuddered. Amanda moved the hand Tessa had pressed between her legs. Up over Tessa's clitoris. Down, two fingers pushing gently into her wet, open pussy. Up, caressing. Down, plunging in. Her other hand crept over to Tessa's untouched nipple. Just as Amanda's right hand rubbed hard across Tessa's clitoris, she began flicking that nipple. Then she was down, reaching deep inside. The twin sensations built, stronger and faster, sweet and, god, overwhelming. Tessa felt pinned between Amanda's moving hands, whirled through the steps of a wild dance to music only Amanda could hear. Too much, too much, she would fly apart. Amanda's fingers rippled deep inside her, and that was just like ... just exactly like …

"Duncan!" Tessa cried out, gasping, writhing, riding the rhythm of her body through her orgasm.

Amanda lifted her sopping wet hand to her lips and delicately licked her fingers. She shivered. "You are so beautiful when you come," Amanda whispered. One hand resting gently on Tessa's breast, she slid the other through the slit length of her dress into her lap. One strong hand motion. Another. One more and Amanda groaned, eyes closed, and then sagged down to the floor to snuggle up to Tessa.

They lay there quietly for a few minutes.

"Feeling better?" Amanda asked quietly.

Tessa nodded.

"I'm sure he'll be home soon." Amanda turned onto her back and stretched. "I should be going." She put on her shoes, stood up, and retrieved her purse from the corner where it had fallen. Amanda was at the top of the stairs when Tessa's voice reached out to her.

"Amanda … why?"

Amanda turned, tossed her head. He lips were pinched as she replied, "Maybe I just wanted a taste of what Duncan finds so irresistible." She laughed gaily, with a sound like breaking glass. "Don't worry, I won't be back in your lifetime."

Then she was gone into the night. Tessa stood up slowly, and went to take a shower.

[Haplo]

I would think any quickening would be Not Safe For Water....oops nevermind.

[Nicholas Ward]

I would think any quickening would be Not Safe For Water....oops nevermind.

I disagree.

[Nicholas Ward]

Another: Hay fever
Hay fever

A hot tub. Cory was talking about a hot tub. That he was probably going to try to get Amanda into as soon as possible, damn his eyes.

"There's room for two more." Waggle of eyebrows, and Duncan tried not to choke at the invitation. Only Cory. The memory leaped up in him despite his best efforts to suppress it. * * *

Sun slanted in through the wide cracks in the barn wall, striping floor and hay and blankets, gilding every floating mote of dust. It was a sweet, warm, lazy summer afternoon, perfect, beautiful, and Duncan MacLeod wished he could just relax and enjoy it. Unfortunately, circumstances were conspiring against him; he was spending this perfect and beautiful afternoon cooped up in a rickety barn with a machine gun-wielding lunatic. The fact that the lunatic in question was not currently wielding anything more dangerous than a stalk of hay made no difference.

Duncan paced. It was a large barn, plenty of room for long strides. Amanda was bound to be back soon, and they could get out of here. He paced some more, grinding clods of dry earth under his heels. Amanda had gone shopping. Back soon was not a concept that applied here. He reached the wall and turned around. Amanda might be back in a few hours, or she might get herself arrested, or she might take up with the next featherbrained criminal who batted his lashes at her... no, one was enough. Had to be enough.

Coming to a stop, Duncan put all the frustration he felt into a single glare. "I'm not doing this again," he said firmly. "I'm not digging you up again."

Cory Raines lay draped gracefully over a striped blanket, straw between his teeth, hat down over his eyes, shirt-sleeves rolled up. In response to Duncan's glare, he shifted a little, shrugged a languid shoulder. "Oh, come on, Mackie boy! Would you leave Amanda and me in our coffins?"

"Amanda, no. You, in a heartbeat." And the sooner the better.

Cory pouted. Beautifully. Then he laughed and tilted his head back, losing his hat in the process, to drink from the ever-present silver flask before saying, "Aw, Mac. And here I thought you liked me." Cory got to his feet and brushed ineffectually at the hay clinging to his pants and shirt, then sauntered over to Duncan and held the flask out. "Come on. You need to relax."

"I need to have my head examined," Duncan muttered, but after a moment's hesitation he took the flask and drank. And spluttered. "Jesus, Cory!"

Cory grabbed his flask back before Duncan could drop it. "I guess it's an acquired taste."

Cheap moonshine. Duncan shook his head. "It's just right for you," he said and spat to one side. Not only did the man have no morals and no common sense, he had no taste in liquor.

Cory just laughed. "Hey, I didn't force you to drink it. Lemme help you get the taste out of your mouth."

"Don't tell me you've got Altoids," Duncan muttered.

"No," Cory said, leaning up against him, and kissed him. And that line about helping Duncan get the taste out of his mouth was a lie because Cory tasted of moonshine himself, sharp bite of alcohol and a strange underlying sweetness, something Duncan couldn't quite place and—

He gripped Cory by the shoulders and pushed him away into a stripe of sunshine. "What the hell are you doing?" Cory just cocked an eyebrow at him, and the sun raised reddish gleams in his dark hair, and Duncan had to admit it was a stupid question. "I don't even like you."

"But you think I'm attractive," Cory said matter-of-factly. "Anyway, we have to do something to pass the time till Amanda gets back."

"Yeah, well, it's not going to be that." The moment he let go of Cory's shoulders, the other immortal stepped in close again, with a glint in his eyes that said he had his own ideas about that. "No, Cory."

Of course, Duncan reflected, he'd been saying no, Cory at regular intervals since the moment they'd met, and it hadn't had any discernible effect. It didn't work this time either. It was like trying to talk to a cat. Or Amanda.

Cory just looked amused. "Has anyone ever told you you're kind of sexy when you do that?"

"When I do what?"

Cory kissed him again. Duncan spluttered. "That." Cory ran his hands over Duncan's shoulders and down his chest. Duncan growled. Was this what it meant to be an immortal and a warrior? Cooped up in a barn, fondled by a lunatic, a grinning half-drunk lunatic with sparkling eyes and a remarkably — pretty — mouth...

Oh, hell. What with one thing and another, he'd actually spent quite a lot of time hiding out in barns, and you had to make the time pass somehow. He grabbed Cory and kissed him back.

Long moments later, Cory looked at him with wide-eyed delight. "I still don't like you," Duncan said.

"Whatever you say, Mac," Cory agreed a little breathlessly. "In fact, why don't you show me again how much you don't like me?"

Two long steps for Duncan, with Cory moving backwards light on his feet like a drunk dancer, and they were tumbling onto straw and blanket, landing twisted closely together, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, and moonshine-flavored Cory actually tasted a lot better than just plain moonshine. Duncan curved a hand around the side of Cory's head, thumb brushing up against the ear and that raised a shiver. He rubbed his cheek against Cory's, feeling stubble catch and snag, both uncomfortable and erotic, then caught the lobe of Cory's ear between his teeth. Bit. Licked. Cory moaned and broke against Duncan like a wave, his whole body a caress.

Duncan pulled back. "You really want me to show you? I'm thinking I could do that by just getting up and walking away."

Cory's eyes, already darkened with excitement, turned almost pure black, with just the thinnest rim of green fire showing around the pupil. And still he smiled, not quite as insouciantly as before, but close enough, reached and grasped Duncan's cock in a grip almost more shocking for being so easily firm, his hand warm and promising even through cloth. "You'll have a better time if you stay here," he said huskily.

At first it was just that hand, stroking and petting and holding him captive, getting to him in such a simple and obvious way that he almost felt stupid. Then Cory rolled on top of him, and turned subtle. Hot breath against Duncan's neck, Cory's tongue exploring the hollow of his throat. Cory had the hands of a thief, skimming swiftly over Duncan's body and getting clothes out of the way with unnatural ease. In a very short time Duncan found himself naked under Cory's still-clothed weight, and Cory kept licking at him, seemingly at random, clavicle and breastbone, biceps, chin, the edge of a nipple, the tip of a finger when Duncan reached up to capture Cory's head.

Cory's hair was long enough to provide a good grip, and Duncan tugged him down into a kiss, held him close and rolled them over. He didn't have Cory's facility with buttons and fastenings, but then, he was in no hurry. Slow was good, one button at a time and careful attention paid to what was revealed. Duncan liked to taste his partners, to use his mouth at least as much as his hands. Cory tasted of moonshine and sweat and it should have been disgusting, but it wasn't. Cory gasped and moaned and cried out at every touch, the sounds running into each other while Duncan learned the details of the smooth chest, the ticklish navel, the soft hollow by the hipbone.

Out of his shirt and trousers, Cory was surprisingly well-muscled for all his lazy airs. Duncan had never seen him with a sword, didn't know if Cory even owned a sword, but the potential was there. Duncan ran a finger down the length of Cory's erection and got a whimper in response. Then they shifted and rolled, mock-wrestling, kissing, full-body kisses with tongues and cocks rubbing together. The sunstripes moved slowly over their skin as they moved in and out of each other's grip, a leisurely roll of muscle and touch, driven by Duncan's tongue and Cory's wickedly agile fingers.

Duncan had the sun in his eyes when Cory pushed him down on his back, held down his hips and began to lick his cock. Just plain licking, up and down and around, short firm swipes like a cat washing a kitten. It was good, and strangely relaxing; Duncan sank into an erotic haze, drifting like the dust motes, every swipe of Cory's tongue pushing him a tiny fraction higher.

Then he was abruptly jolted to a new level of awareness as Cory's mouth closed around him, took him in, completely, expertly, so that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his breathing grew short and labored. Duncan reached out and grabbed blindly, felt his palm and fingers sting as crushed straws dug into the skin, not offering him anything to hold on to. His hips pushed against the grip of Cory's hands.

For a moment he fought against it, trying to prolong the moment, to have more of this perfect wet heat, but tensing against became tensing towards and he surrendered to the feeling, arms flung wide, head back, mouth open. Sunlight was a blinding orange behind his closed lids as he came.

Trying to catch his breath again, Duncan breathed in dust and essence of hay and went into a coughing fit. When he stopped choking and opened his eyes, Cory was looking rather smugly at him. Duncan cleared his throat of the last hay with a cough that bordered on growl and pounced on the other man, slamming Cory down flat on his back, pinning Cory's nearest leg and arm. He rubbed a fingertip over the hollow of Cory's throat, raised a sound that was mostly pleasure.

Duncan trailed his hand along Cory's chest and stomach, touching lightly on nipples, along ribs, going slow now that he had Cory where he wanted him. He slid his hand down to the inside of Cory's thighs, stroked up and then drew his nails along the same path, over and over while Cory bucked under Duncan's weight, trying to move enough to get that hand where he wanted it. Satisfying, this; Duncan smiled to himself, watching the pretty, mobile face as Cory twisted under his touch.

When he finally ran his fingers along Cory's erection, that drew a cry so startlingly loud that Duncan had to swallow it, take it into his own mouth. Cory latched on to him, claiming with lips and teeth and tongue, breathing and moaning into that kiss as Duncan began to stroke him. Fast, pushing the pace the way Cory had pushed him and Cory didn't even try to fight it, just flowed with it, arching up to fuck Duncan's hand shamelessly. Tongue fucking Duncan's mouth.

It was easy to feel the increase in tension, coil of steel springs under the skin, the hitched breathing, the frantic push and push and push again. Duncan could sense how it built, and he worked to help it, short quick strokes driving up, up, Cory shaking and wild-eyed, and Duncan sped up the motion of his hand and drew back just far enough to let Cory scream out his pleasure, coming hard and fast.

After that, it was very quiet in the barn. Cory's breathing slowed down. The drowsy buzzing of insects was muted and distant. Duncan rolled back a little, no longer pressing the other man down into blanket and hay.

"As long as we're clear on one thing," he said and rubbed his fingers over Cory's mouth.

"You don't like me?" Cory asked with a wide grin, licking his own come from Duncan's fingers.

"I don't like you," Duncan confirmed, and they kissed again, and lay silent together, drowsing. * * *

For one brief moment he regretted Richie's presence. Then he collected himself, forced a laugh. "You know what they say, two's company, and four is..." Cory's eyes gleamed, and there was that damn smile. Think before you speak, MacLeod, it saves trouble in the long run. "...not sanitary."

And then the moment was past.

[Nicholas Ward]

A Fashionable Love Affair by Angelise

[ 852 AD ]


“Amanda?”

“Yes, Rebecca?”

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing my swordsmanship.”

“Amanda?”

“Yes, Rebecca?”

“I do not believe what you’re doing qualifies as practicing.”

Amanda rolled over and smiled at her mentor and first female lover. “Are you sure, ’Becca?” she asked. Her grin widened at the slight pursing of lips that greeted the shortened form of her guardian’s name. “Would you not consider this a test of my skills?”

Rebecca fixed her student with a mock frown. “I do not believe so, my dear. Cutting the tie that holds a neckline together is not a skill most immortals will need to survive a challenge.”

“I beg to differ.” Amanda used the tip of her sword to pull free the ribbon on her lover’s chemise. “I believe this is a most useful skill.” She caught her breath when the garment slid off a shoulder and revealed the alabaster skin of one breast. “Just think of the distraction it would cause.” Amanda licked her lips in anticipation. “I know I’m distracted.”

Ignoring the naughty raven-haired nymph stretched out on the bed beside her, Rebecca lowered the manuscript she was studying and carefully placed it under the pillows behind her back. Once her beloved treasure was out of harm’s way she stretched her arms over her head, fully aware the movement showcased her slender beauty to its best advantage. “Are you truly distracted, my dear? If so, I will concede this is, indeed, a useful skill and will include it in future practices.”

Scrambling to her hands and feet, Amanda crawled across the bed to sit beside Rebecca, her gaze never wandering from the breast that had slipped free of the simple linen chemise. Despite her bravado, she was still somewhat timid about the ways of loving a woman. She sat as still as a doe, her hands slightly shaking where they lay in her lap. There was nothing more she wanted than to pleasure her mentor, to touch her soft warm skin and taste the pale pink nipples that stood proudly erect. Her lover was very sensitive there, and Amanda thrilled to hear the gasps of delight that escaped Rebecca’s control each time she nursed hungrily upon them.

“’Becca?”

Even though her body was trembling with a need that grew stronger with each passing minute, Amanda waited for her teacher to initiate their lovemaking. Playful teasing was one thing; intimacy with the woman who had rescued her from the streets was entirely something else. Amanda had vowed she would do nothing to jeopardize their relationship. She loved the beautiful immortal above all others and could only hope that she would, over time, earn the privilege of spending the rest of her life safely sheltered within the walls of Rebecca’s castle.

“Why so shy, my love?” Rebecca asked upon noticing her pupil’s hesitant manner. “Do you not know I love your teasing? That I crave the way you worship my body with your lips? That my breasts actually ache for your sweet kisses?” She reached out and tugged on a strand of Amanda’s long hair. “Come ease their pain, my child. Please.”

The soft-spoken plea was Amanda’s undoing, and she flowed forward, carefully pushing the chemise off and baring Rebecca’s upper body to her hungry gaze. “You are so beautiful, ’Becca, like an angel. Why would you, a true lady of nobility, a lady who deserves to be loved by one who shares the same refined blood, why would you allow someone like me---” A look of revulsion crossed her face as she glanced down at her hands, which were, once again, clasped tightly together in her lap. “Why would you allow a poor street urchin, a thief, a mere peasant to sully your exquisite beauty?”

Rebecca smoothed her hand over her student’s bent head and guided her to her bosom, sighing softly at the moist heat enveloping her nipple. “I have not always been a lady, young one. There was a time when I was just like you, a clever vagabond prowling the shadows for food and shelter.” She tilted her head and arched her back when sharp teeth lovingly tortured the sensitive bud. “I will never hold your past against you,” she promised before curling forward and burying her lips in the ebony strands that fell across Amanda’s thin shoulders.

Feeling suddenly overheated, Rebecca threw off the covers and gathered the skirt of her nightshift, leaving it bunched around her waist. Inquisitive fingers tickled their way inside her womanhood and collected the honeyed moisture that spilled forth the moment her bashful charge touched her with her mouth. Helplessly a moan broke free.

“You are very special to me, Amanda.” Rebecca struggled to catch her breath. “I will treasure our love for as long as I live.”

Hearing the simple declaration, Amanda felt a strange warmth invade her heart. No one had ever said such things during her young life, and immediately her starved soul latched onto the promise, tucking it away for safe keeping.

“Oh, ’Becca.”

Amanda intensified her lovemaking, quickly pushing her mentor in a shattering climax. “I love you, my angel,” she whispered to the breast sheltering Rebecca's generous heart. Her admission was uttered so quietly it barely breached the silence of the room. Nevertheless, it was heard, and an echo of her vow caressed her lips a heartbeat later, carried upon the wings of a tender kiss. Tears quickly spilled down her cheeks and caught in the curve of her tentative smile.

“Hold me. Love me,” she pleaded, stripping off her nightgown and tossing it to the floor. “Make me tremble as only you can.”

Dawn was slipping over the horizon by the time Amanda discovered the tie she had cut earlier with her sword. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she dangled the bright blue ribbon in the air, using its end to tease rose-tipped nipples.

“’Becca?” she softly called to lips that were still moist from shared morning kisses. “That skill I demonstrated last evening, the one with the sword?” A wicked smile spread across her waif-like face. “Could we practice it again tonight? Maybe even make it a nightly pursuit? You know, practice makes perfect. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

Amanda found herself pulled down on the bed and kissed senseless.

“You are incorrigible, my dear.”

“Yes, indeed, ’Becca. That’s me. Very, very incorrigible.”


[ 1585 ]


“’Becca, I swear I will stop visiting you if you don’t move back to the country. The stench of this city is bad enough but to have a whole bucket of swill dumped on top of my head is entirely more than I can tolerate!”

Amanda wrinkled her nose at the scattered refuse littering her new gown. The smell was simply awful. “If that old woman has ruined my---” She pulled free a rotten cabbage leaf caught on the crystal pendant hanging from a thin gold chain circling her neck. The crystal was a gift from Rebecca, given to her when she finished her training. “I’ve got a good mind to go back out there and lop off her head with my sword.” With a disgruntled snort, she tossed the cabbage leaf out the nearest open window.

Removing her fur-lined cape, she shook it fiercely before looking around the room. “’Becca?” Finding only servants, Amanda tucked the cape over her arm and ascended the main staircase in search of her longtime lover. “’Becca? Are you up here?” A muted voice answered, summoning her to the spacious bedchamber at the top of the stairs. “’Becca. Can you believe that woman next door had the audacity to--- what in heaven’s name are you wearing?”

Excusing the servant assisting her, Rebecca turned around and smiled lovingly at her former pupil. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of old lady Clayderman next door.”

Raising an eyebrow in question, Amanda glanced down at her stained outfit. “Such an acquaintance I could have done without.”

Rebecca indicated the short sword Amanda had tucked in the folds of her gown. “Is that new, my dear?”

“Not really. I acquired it a few years ago.” Tossing her cape on the bed, Amanda approached her lover. “’Becca? Why are you wearing a man’s suit of clothing?”

Fingering the hilt of the sword, Rebecca ignored the question posed to her. “This sword has a very unique hilt. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one quite like it.”

“My opponent was exceedingly impressed with his manhood. Boasted the hilt was an exact replica.” Amanda unsheathed her sword and rapped it against the gold-embroidered brocade vest Rebecca was wearing. “As you well know, the male form holds no interest for me; therefore I did not waste my time verifying his claim.”

Kissing the older woman on the cheek, she demanded in a soft voice, “Now, ’Becca, would you please tell me why you’re attired in such a manner? Have you suddenly become overwhelmed with the need to be a man?”

“No, my love,” Rebecca answered with a chuckle. “I am quite happy being a woman. It’s the fashion I abhor.” She twirled around. “Is it not a grand suit to be wearing out on the streets of our fair city?”

Rebecca ran her hands down the sleeves of the red silk doublet she wore beneath her vest, pausing to trace the detailed beading on the wide cuffs that enclosed her slender wrists. “What do you think?”

“I think . . . .” Amanda took a moment to look at the beautifully crafted outfit. With a contemplative air, she walked a complete circle around Rebecca before stopping and leering at her suggestively. “I think your codpiece is quite impressive.”

Rebecca glanced down. “Oh my!” she exclaimed when she found a phallic-shaped sword hilt suggestively stroking the edges of her codpiece. “I do believe you are correct.” She raised her gaze and offered her own wicked smile. “Are you not curious as to what lies beneath? What makes it so impressive?”

“As curious as a cat.” Amanda stepped closer, forcing Rebecca to retreat. She laughed when her lover hit the wall behind her and let out a hushed gasp of surprise. “Maybe I should investigate?” Using the hilt of her sword, she lifted the padded covering and nudged the feminine territory it protected.

The blush of passion heightened the color in Rebecca’s cheeks as she struggled to gather her thoughts. “Curiosity has led . . . oh my . . . ummm . . . led to many great discoveries.” With teeth tugging relentlessly on her bottom lip, she shifted forward and moaned softly when a column of carved ivory brushed apart the folds that guarded the core of her femininity.

Amanda moved closer and nuzzled Rebecca’s neck while lazily stroking the hilt of her sword in and out of her lover’s body. “My curiosity knows no bounds. It may take me hours upon hours to satisfy it.”

“Never let it be said I denied you such satisfaction.” Rebecca thrust her hips forward and pleaded breathlessly. “Amanda, please. Oh, my love, please touch me, touch my breasts.”

Amanda lowered her head and unfastened Rebecca's vest using her teeth. She grinned when she saw how her lover’s nipples had drawn tight and were pushing against the silk fabric of her doublet. Moving the hilt of her sword deeper and faster, she captured one nipple with her mouth and began to torment it. Hearing the murmurs of broken phrases, of such that would make a priest blush, Amanda recognized Rebecca was close to climaxing. The need to tumble her noble lover over the edge, to make her surrender the nectar of her passion, overwhelmed her, and she sucked hard on Rebecca's breast, knowing full well this would be the one thing the woman could not resist.

“Amanda! Oh gods, yes!”

Tenderly laving the bud now covered with damp silk, Amanda lifted her head and made eye contact with the gasping immortal braced against the wall. “My heart is yours, ’Becca. Always,” she whispered huskily.

Her heartfelt promise triggered Rebecca's release, and a flood of liquid heat spilled forth. Amanda quickly removed her sword and replaced it with her hand. The cry of her name shattered the stillness but was quickly silenced when she claimed Rebecca's lips in a passionate kiss. The two of them then moved with practiced ease into an embrace that bespoke of their eternal love for each other.

Brushing away the damp strands of hair that obscured her mentor’s expressive eyes, Amanda smiled at Rebecca. “I do believe I like your new outfit. Maybe I should get one of my own.”

Trembling legs refused to hold her upright for one more second, and Rebecca slid down the wall behind her, landing on the floor in a most inelegant fashion. Laughing at her sudden weakness, she encouraged Amanda to join her by lightly smacking her on her bottom. “That’s an excellent idea, my love. We could both dress as men and travel around the continent for the next decade or so. See what mischief we can stir up.”

“Speaking of mischief . . . .” Amanda knelt beside Rebecca and tugged on the piece of clothing that had caught her attention upon first entering the room. “I believe my curiosity is about to get the best of me again, ’Becca. What should I do about that?”

Welcoming the fingers that petted her secret spot, Rebecca chuckled. “Here kitty, kitty."


[ 1840 ]


“Ow!”

“Hold still.”

“I said . . . Ow!”

“Quit being such a ninny, and suck it in.”

Looking over her shoulder, Amanda pinned her immortal companion with an indignant glare. “If I suck it in anymore, ’Becca, my lungs will be kissing my spine.”

Showing no pity, Rebecca simply smiled as she repeated her command, “Suck. It. In.”

Amanda reluctantly obeyed and took another deep breath. “Tell me again why I’m wearing this damn corset?”

“To make your waist smaller, my dear.”

Amanda pouted. “My waist is small enough, thank you.”

Rebecca began to tug in earnest on the ties that bound the corset tighter, forcing Amanda to grab for the bedpost she was standing next to. “Dammit, ’Becca!” she exclaimed. “Leave me a little room to breathe.”

“Breathing is rather overrated, my dear, don’t you think?” Rebecca spanned her companion’s waist with her hands. “There. Perfect.” She slowly walked around to face Amanda and traced the seams that ran up and down the whalebone corset. “Duncan will most certainly fall at your feet when he sees you at the ball tonight,” she declared while tucking inside the corset the crystal she’d given to her young student.

Amanda snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “That’s if I don’t fall down first from lack of air.” She slapped at the wandering hands that molded themselves to her bosom. “Why must I go to the ball with that boorish Scot? He’s such a do-gooder.” Amanda lifted her hand and gently caressed Rebecca's cheek. “Why don’t you come with me, instead? I’m sure your current companion can find something to do for a few hours.” She caught the older woman by the waist and pulled her into a tight embrace. “I’m only here for a few short days, ’Becca. Come with me to the ball. We’ll have such fun.”

Rebecca gave into the teeth nibbling their way up her neck and tilted back her head, a sigh of longing escaping her lips just before they were claimed in a bruising kiss of hunger. “I wish I could go with you, my love. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you these past few years.” Rebecca slid her hands down Amanda’s back and cupped her bottom. “The Duke is a most passionate lover, but sometimes I cannot but wish it was your mouth driving me insane, shattering me into a million pieces that only you know how to put back together.”

“I have missed you, too, ’Becca.” Amanda gripped Rebecca’s arms and prevented her from moving away. “Come to me tomorrow. We’ll spend the entire day together, doing whatever pleases you. We can go shopping, sightseeing or better yet, spend all day in bed loving each other until we drop from pure exhaustion.” The last suggestion was accompanied by a wicked smile and a naughty nudge of a knee between legs that parted without hesitation.

“Oh, my sweet child, you do so tempt me.” Rebecca pressed her forehead against Amanda’s. “Yes. Yes, I will join you tomorrow,” she whispered before pressing her mouth to the eyes that haunted her dreams on those nights when her body craved the soft touches that only a certain immortal could torture her with.

Pulling slightly away, her breath still mingling with that of her lover’s, Amanda grinned, “And what about the Duke? What will he think?”

Rebecca ran her fingers slowly down Amanda’s neck and along her bare, milky-white shoulders. “Henri will find some way to amuse himself. Maybe we should introduce him to Duncan?”

The name of her escort caused Amanda to look with distress at the nearest clock. “Oh damn! MacLeod will be here within the hour, and I’m still not dressed.”

Taking Rebecca's hand, she led her across the room to the rosewood armoire that stood with its doors flung wide open. “Here.” Amanda handed over a jewelry case before taking a seat at her dressing table. “There should be a garnet necklace and pair of earrings inside.”

Rebecca collected the desired pieces and admired the diamond and gemstone settings. “These are quite lovely. A gift from a new beau?”

A secret smile quickly appeared then disappeared from Amanda’s face. “You could say they were a gift.”

Knowing her lover’s penchant for thievery, Rebecca met Amanda’s eyes in the mirror. “Please tell me you didn’t---”

“’Becca, if you don’t want to know, don’t ask.”

Clamping down on the words of disapproval that quickly rose to her lips, Rebecca slipped the necklace around Amanda’s neck. “Garnets are the ideal gemstone for you, my love.” She picked up one of the earrings and held it against her lover’s cheek. “They go perfectly with your dark coloring.”

Amanda turned to kiss the fingers caressing her cheek. The sudden movement jostled Rebecca’s hand, causing her to drop the earring.

Rebecca watched the piece of jewelry disappear into the confines of the cream-colored corset. “Oops!”

Amanda looked up at her mentor and grinned. “You dropped it. You get it out.”

“If you insist.” Rebecca kissed the top of Amanda’s head as she slid two fingers between the younger woman’s breasts. “I can’t seem to reach it.”

“Dig deeper.” Amanda leaned back in her chair and pushed her chest out. “If you hadn’t tied this damn corset so tight.”

“Oh hush!” Gripping Amanda’s shoulder for leverage, Rebecca forced her fingers deeper inside. “Stop breathing. You’re crushing my fingers.”

“Your fingers? You’re smooshing my bosom! Rebecca!” Amanda’s eyes went wide when her breasts popped out of her corset.

“Got it!” Rebecca dangled the lost earring in front of Amanda’s face but her moment of triumph was cut short when she caught sight of her lover’s freed breasts. “Oh my!”

“Indeed.” Amanda couldn’t help rubbing the tender flesh beneath each breast. “God, ’Becca, you have no idea how good this feels.”

Rebecca cupped the nearest mound and gently massaged its supple fullness. “I guess we’ll have to start all over again with the corset. Lean forward and let me get at those ties in the back.” A small blade appeared out of nowhere and tapped her on the chin.

“Touch those ties and you die,” Amanda warned.

“But, sweetheart, we have to . . . .” Rebecca indicated the unfettered breasts.

Amanda lowered the blade she held in her hand. “Stuff ‘em, shove ‘em, push ‘em in. I don’t care how you do it, but you are NOT untying this damn corset. I’ve endured enough torture for one day.”

“Amanda.”

“’Becca.”

Rebecca recognized the stubborn tilt to Amanda’s chin and surrendered graciously. “I have no idea why I put up with you.”

Amanda did nothing to hide the huge grin of victory on her face nor the groan of appreciation that slipped past her lips when Rebecca began to play with her breasts. “You love me, pure and simple. That’s the only reason you put up with all my shenanigans.”

“That I do.” Rebecca slipped her arms around Amanda’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “That I most certainly do.”


[ 1994 ]


“Hello?”

“’Becca?”

“Amanda? Amanda, is that you?”

“Who else would call you in the middle of the night just to hear your sexy voice?”

Rebecca tucked the cordless phone under her chin and slipped from beneath the covers, shivering slightly when the night’s cold air touched her naked body. Glancing over her shoulder at her softly snoring husband, she reached for her robe and slipped it on. “No one but you, my dear. Where are you, Amanda? Are you coming for a visit?” Rebecca crossed the room silently, carefully closing the bedroom door before moving down the hall and into the library.

“I’m in Italy at the moment. There’s an exhibit at the Vatican I just *have* to see.”

“Amanda.”

“’Becca.”

“You will never change, my clever thief, will you?” Rebecca took a seat on the expensive leather couch John insisted on buying last fall. She could refuse that man nothing, just like a raven-haired nymph she knew.

“Where are you, ’Becca?”

“I’m in the library.” Tucking her legs beneath her, she tugged on the knitted afghan that rested on the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Any chance you’ll be coming to Paris soon? It’s been way too long since I last saw you and . . . .” Rebecca touched the crystal pendant that nestled between her breasts. It’s companion piece rested over the heart of the only woman she’d ever loved. “I miss you, Amanda.” Closing her eyes, she slid her hand inside her robe and tugged on her left nipple. “I truly miss you.”

“Same here. More than you know.” Amanda’s sigh of longing whispered over the phone line. “I wish I was there with you now, holding you, kissing you, making love to you. God, I miss you, ’Becca.” A burst of bawdy laughter nearly drowned out Amanda’s last words. “Hold on. Let me move somewhere quiet.”

A sudden hunger took hold of Rebecca, and she stretched out on the couch, pulling open her robe and exposing her nakedness to the shadows. “Amanda,” she whispered huskily as she moved her hands lower, smoothing them over her flat stomach. “I wish . . . .”

“Tell me. Tell me what you wish, ’Becca.”

Rebecca felt the heat of embarrassment rush to her cheeks. “I, I . . . .”

“Who’s the shy one now?” Amanda lowered her voice. “Where was that shyness when I saw you last? When I fucked you in the back of your Mercedes, wearing nothing but my leather bustier and strap-on?”

“Amanda! Your language!”

The younger immortal laughed wickedly. “Admit it, ’Becca. You love hearing me talk dirty. Just as much as you love seeing me in that leather outfit you bought me on our anniversary last year. It makes you hot, gets your cunt all wet.”

Rebecca bit down hard on her bottom lip in an attempt to strangle the moan that rose in the back of her throat. Her hands, on their own accord, crept down her sides and gripped her hips, digging in so hard as to leave bruises on her pale flesh.

“Your cunt’s wet right now, isn’t ’Becca? Wet because you’re remembering how good it felt in the back seat of that car. How good it felt to have your legs flung over my shoulders while I fucked you through the floor?”

“Amanda, please!”

“Ah, come on, babe. You loved that leather outfit, liked the way it hugged my body, you said. The skirt was so short my buttcheeks showed, and someone, I won’t name names, but a certain someone couldn’t resist grabbing me whenever I walked past.” Amanda laughed, her next words slightly breathless. “And what about those stiletto pumps of mine? Remember how you kissed and licked them as you begged me to take you again?

Rebecca finally surrendered to the power of her lover’s voice and moaned softly. “Amanda.”

“Touch yourself, ’Becca. Tease your clit with your fingernail, and pretend it’s my dick. Remember how I let it tickle your clit? Made you scream, if I remember right.”

Rebecca couldn’t resist lifting her hips in the air, trying to capture the sensation of a past memory. “I screamed. I couldn’t help it.”

Loving laughter greeted her admission. “Don’t be embarrassed, ’Becca. In fact, you should scream more often. Helps relieve stress.”

“Maybe I should scream for you tonight?”

“Oh, you’ll scream, ’Becca. You’ll definitely scream. Now, rub your clit with your finger. Pretend it’s my tongue. You know how I love licking your sweet spot.”

“Oh God!” Rebecca let one leg drop to the floor as she pushed a cushion beneath her bottom. “Your mouth,” she replied breathlessly, her fingers seeking out the place that ached for her lover’s unique touch. “When you, when you kiss me there, it . . . yes, yes, it . . . it drives me insane.”

“I know. And I love it when you get wild. Love it when I have to hold you down as I eat you. It turns me on to watch you lose control, the way you thrash your head back and forth, the way you pinch your tits and scream my name at the top of your lungs.”

Rebecca heard the rustle of clothing, the sound it makes when someone is in a hurry to get naked. “Yes, my love. Bare that beautiful body of yours.” The thought of Amanda nude, seeking her own pleasure caused the inferno in her loins to escalate even higher, and she pleaded, “Make yourself come, my love. Let me hear you as you climax.”

“Only--- dammit, I can’t breathe,” Amanda panted. “Only if you do it with me, ’Becca. I won’t do this alone.”

Rebecca slipped two fingers inside her vagina and began to stroke them in and out, making sure she brushed the heel of her palm against her clit with each pass. “Hurry, Amanda. I’m close, so close.”

“I’m right with you, ’Becca. Feel me kissing you, sucking your nipples, my fingers riding deep inside your cunt. So deep and so fast. Can you feel it, ’Becca? Tell me.”

Rebecca thrust her hips in the air, her fingers almost a blur as they moved in and out, their rhythm becoming erratic as her control began to unravel. “Yes. Your fingers. I feel them. Amanda, please.”

Amanda’s guttural moan welcomed her entreaty.

“’Becca,” Amanda whispered. “My mouth is on your clit. I’m licking it, sucking it, teasing it with my teeth. I can’t help it; your taste is so addictive.” The younger immortal’s breathing grew harsh. “You’re coming, ’Becca. Your hips are bucking in the air, and it’s all I can do to keep my mouth on your clit. My whole hand nearly slips inside you, and this makes you scream. Makes you spill your honey, and the taste of it pushes me over the edge. I mount you; shove our cunts against each other. We come together, our arms wrapped around each other, our mouths devouring our cries. Damn it, ’Becca, I’m coming!”

Shoving a pillow in her mouth, Rebecca screamed Amanda’s name over and over while writhing helplessly on the couch. An explosive orgasm ripped through her body, and it was all she could do to hold the phone to her ear so that she could listen as the love of her life surrendered to the passion of her own climax.

Moments later, exhausted beyond belief, Rebecca rolled free of the sweaty confines of the leather couch and slipped to the floor, sinking into the plushness of the rug that cushioned her trembling body. Fighting for breath, she fumbled for the phone that had fallen from her hand and pressed it to her ear. “Amanda? Amanda?”

“’Becca,” her former pupil whispered hoarsely. “’Becca, that was… oh, ’Becca.”

The sound of hushed crying could be heard. Concerned, Rebecca pulled her robe closed and sat up. “Amanda? What’s wrong?”

“I need you, my angel. Need you so much. Can I, can I come see you?”

Time flew backwards, and Rebecca saw the waif-like face that would forever call to her soul. “Yes, Amanda. Come home.” She grasped the crystal that hung from her neck and looked out the library’s darkened windows at the ancient ruins of her castle. “I love you, Amanda.”

“As I love you, noble lady.”

A silence that spoke of centuries-old familiarity settled between the two women. Finally Amanda’s voice whispered over the phone.

“’Becca?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Just to let you know, I’m bringing that leather outfit with me when I come to visit.”

Rebecca smiled. “I’ll clean out the backseat of the Mercedes. Hurry home, my child.”

[Nicholas Ward]

A Good Thing--By Aristide


//Lifetimes upon lifetimes of privation and want can embed some strange habits into a person.//

Methos smiled at the thought, acknowledging the wry truth of it even as his hand slipped surreptitiously into the warm paper bag and fetched out another morsel of superb bread.

Two streets down from his new apartment there was a tiny bakery run by a huge and indistinguishable family of Italians, and Methos often succumbed to the lure of their golden, crusty loaves when he passed that way. To his amusement, he found that he was never able to make it home with an intact loaf--he had to nibble.

It was one thing to give in to temptation-- a familiar dynamic, the very one that led him to buy the bread in the first place. This other compulsion was different, older; something implacable and insistent that demanded that the good opportunities, the good things, be enjoyed before some unknown calamity happened along and took it all away from him.

It was, he considered, a similar principle to that which dictated that a camel will drink whenever water was offered, regardless of thirst; an evolutionary imperative-- and what was he, after all, but the cumulative manifestation of five thousand years’ worth of evolving durability? Yes, true, he currently lived in a world of relative peace and absolute plenty, but still… the bread was an excellent thing, a sustaining thing, the staff of life… and so, he nibbled. Every time.

Which was why, when the buzz hit him in the exact same moment that he heard a familiar voice singing from behind the closed door to his apartment; when the singing stopped and his door flew open and a tidy shape hurtled into his arms; he was unable to offer or return any immediate greeting-- his mouth was full of very good bread.

“Methos!” Amanda hugged him and his bag of purchases so fiercely that the delicate loaf was squashed flat between them. “You must have missed me terribly-- I bet you did-- Oh, it’s so good to see you…”

Somehow, Methos forced the mechanics of peristalsis, swallowed his mouthful despite the fact that Amanda squeezed him so hard that there wasn’t much option about where it could go.

“ ‘Manda,” he managed dryly, “good to see you too. Get off me-- you’ve squished my bread.”

Her face turned up from his chest and she blinked incredulously. “Your …bread.”

He nodded.

She blinked again. “I haven’t seen you for three months, and all you can think about is your bread?”

Methos scowled, and kissed her nose with mock-disapproval. “You shouldn’t thwart my bread instincts-- it interrupts my evolutionary process.”

Her eyes narrowed warily, and he saw her nostrils flare a bit-- no doubt olfactory research into the state of his sobriety. He smiled.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Well, Methos, you don’t smell drunk--”

“Never mind,” he interrupted mellowly, holding her close, resigning his bread to its pulped fate, “a baguette and a bagatelle, and the value of both sacrificed to this momentous occasion. It is good to see you.”

Her lips opened warm beneath his, her body folded to him easily-- a compact bundle of accommodating welcome in his arms; sweet. He tasted wine-- his best wine… He growled, a low sound of contradictory but inextricable aggravation and delight. Amanda. Beautiful, passionate, infuriating Amanda; profligate vixen, maddening Goddess…

When his bakery bag slipped from beneath his arm and thudded unceremoniously to the dusty floor of the hallway, he didn’t even notice.

---

“So,” he began, now warm and fed and comfortable in the familiar embrace of his favorite chair, “what brings you here? Are you in trouble?”

Amanda rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Oh yes, Methos-- I’m pregnant and Duncan refuses to do the honorable-- I want you to force him at sword-point to make an honest woman of me.”

Methos choked, suffering and sputtering under the uneasy combination of a mouthful of beer and a bellyful of laughter. “You got me,” he gasped out when he could. “Oh, that hurts…” Eventually he swallowed, composing himself. “Amanda, Mac’s a wonderfully skilled man, and I’ve seen him do some incredible things, but there’s a world of difference between the incredible and the impossible.”

“Bastard,” Amanda replied mildly, smiling at him over the top of her wine glass, “if I didn’t need your help I’d make you pay for that.”

“Ah-- now it all comes out. You break into my new apartment, wreck my bread, guzzle my good wine, and then have the temerity to ask for my help. I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t pop by to give me a piece of your mind-- you’d probably have burned the bloody place to the ground.”

Amanda delved into her purse, pawing, muttering. “I know I have that guy’s gold lighter in here somewhere…”

Methos waved her off. “Okay, Amanda, enough. Out with it. You want my help…”

“I do.” Bright, brilliant smile; charming smile, fetching smile. Methos braced himself.

“It’s Duncan’s birthday next week,” she chirped briskly, setting her wine firmly on the low table next to her chair, “and I want to give him something truly spectacular. Something staggering--”

“Mm-hmm. And this priceless item which you can’t obtain without my help-- the Hope diamond?-- no, too gauche-- how about the Kashmirine Garnet? Perhaps the entire Picasso exhibit at--”

Now Amanda waved *him* off, tossing her head impatiently. “Wrong, wrong and wrong, Methos. I said spectacular, not felonious. I want to give him us.”

Methos waited patiently, sure that there must be more to that statement. He maintained calm, he breathed, he blinked; and in his mind he flashed back to 1929, to the first time he ever rode a roller coaster. The serene, dizzying drop in his stomach was the same, exactly the same…

Apparently, there was no more to that statement. He blinked again. “Us?”

Amanda nodded happily. “Yes, my darling idiot, us. You’ve got to admit, Methos, it’s the very last thing he’d expect--”

Methos shifted slightly in his chair, stomach still fluttering madly. “Oh, I admit that Amanda-- although now that I think about it, finding out that you’ve lost your mind is probably going to be a bigger surprise. He’s always thought you to be pretty solidly nailed together--”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Methos.” He prickled at the sight of her flashing eyes-- he’d always found that to be her most appealing look: DeathThreat Amanda. “I haven’t lost my mind. It’s a perfect gift-- he loved it last time--”

Methos cleared his throat loudly, cutting her off. “Come on, Amanda-- yes, okay, he got through it last time, until he woke up naked with me in his arms. After which, if you’ll recall, he got very quiet. After which, I’m sure you remember, he successfully resisted both of our attempts to jolly him along, to talk about it, to get him to do anything other than stare at the floor and brood. And after that, in case you’ve forgotten, I stayed away while he gave you the cool shoulder for an entire week-- a week during which you plagued me continually, whingeing on about it.”

Amanda favored him with a lofty, disdainful sniff. “I do not whinge on about things. You’re the one who was so morose that you couldn’t find your way out of a bottle for a week…”

Methos nodded firmly, staring hard and resolute into her eyes. “Yes, and I’ve no desire to do it again. So go steal him something breathtaking, Amanda, and leave me out of it.”

Her lips pursed. He knew that she hated it whenever she talked herself into a corner-- he had to struggle not to grin, despite the small silver blossoms of pain that threatened behind his temples. Maybe now she’d give up and go away so that he could take his nascent headache, his incipient erection, and his bittersweet memories off to the warm solitude of the shower.

No such luck. Amanda never admitted defeat easily-- it was one of her most endearing (and most frustrating) traits.

“Meee-thos…” she murmured, amazing him with the new-found knowledge that there was such a thing as a silky whine, “don’t be so cross.”

She slithered from her prim position on the couch down to her knees in one sinuous, boneless slide, and crept leisurely towards him. “You know he loved it, Methos. We all did. He was just scared, that’s all--”

“And now you want to scare him again, is that it?”

His voice stopped her approach, but she only smiled at him, smiled as graciously as if he’d paid her a lavish compliment.

“You let me worry about that.”

---

Amanda imparted her plan in a warm, glowy whisper, looking the whole time as if she was utterly unaware of the picture she made curled so innocently at his feet with her hands and chin propped on his knee-- an ingenuous schoolgirl in her off hours, narrating dirty stories without a single blush.

Amazing, really; that he could actually get hooked by something like that. Amazing. He didn’t know whether to order her out of his house or fall on her like the dirty old man that she seemed to want him to be.

“You’re mad, Amanda. He’s not going to go along with it.”

Amanda rolled her eyes, as world-weary as all of her young years could make her. “You men-- none of you have any faith. It’s terribly sad, Methos-- without me around to inspire you, none of you would ever get anything accomplished.”

Methos regarded her testily. “I believe the word you meant to use was ‘incite’, Amanda, not ‘inspire’. The only thing you ‘inspire’ me to do, is to paddle your deserving bottom.”

Amanda smiled, unperturbed, and leaned against him so that the swell of her breasts under the silky material of her blouse grazed innocently against the knees of his jeans. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘squeeze’, Methos. Not ‘paddle’.”

Methos tried to hold on to his irascible expression, but it was damn difficult when she knew that he loved that perfume… “Paddle,” he insisted, drawing his brows together with effort.

Still smiling, Amanda swarmed into his lap, captured his hands, and pulled them behind her to rest upon the part in question. “I still think it’s ‘squeeze’.” She encouraged him with a demonstration. “Or maybe ‘stroke’…”

Methos teetered, losing the thread of significance, of why it was so very important that he not give in to this. “Stroke,” he echoed mindlessly, suiting the action to the word.

“Or maybe-- ah!--not ‘paddle’, but another ‘P’ word altogether, Methos…”

“ ‘P’ words are good,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat, “I like ‘P’ words…”

“Like pull--ohgod--or maybe-- plunder--”

“Pants!” Methos growled. “Why are you wearing these damn pants?”

“Pants isn’t the ‘P’ word I had in mind…”

“Uh-uh. Better get ‘em off you, then-- Mmm…”

“Mmm-- ‘M’ word, Methos; quick!”

“Mmmfuckingmarvelous…”

“Good choice-- Oh, that’s better… A general embargo on pants altogether--”

“Leave the pants out of it, Amanda… Christ, you’re lovely--”

“Eee!--not the ear, I’m ticklish. Methos!…”

“Mmm.”

Things got a little vague at that point, what with the moaning and rough demands for words of one kind or another. Methos attempted to keep himself under sufficient control, knowing his tendency to be slightly more vulnerable to fervent and foolish promises under certain circumstances; but in the lost, dazzled moments when he dripped with sweat and trembled with strain, working her hard against a wall with her legs a vise around him, he may have slipped.

She said he did, afterwards; when she’d stopped shrieking and had removed her fingernails from the tender flesh of his shoulderblades. And who was he, anyway, to doubt the word of a lady?

Or even Amanda, for that matter.

---

As Methos drove through the dark Paris streets towards the barge, he marveled over the fact that even after five thousand years of life he could still be led around by his ‘P’ word. He’d left behind his perfectly toasty and comfortable apartment, his plentiful beer supply and an intriguingly trashy novel about space aliens and ancient civilizations--guaranteed snicker material--to pile out into the bitter, gnawing cold towards an assignation that would probably turn out to be an exercise in futility.

Amanda’s scheme was simple enough--she’d told Methos that she planned to ask Duncan to turn himself over to her for one night, to let her use the inventive stretch of her imagination to provide him with an evening of rare sensual delights, a birthday present no other could give him.

“You will, of course, remind him that you’re significantly older than he is.”

It had been his only comment. Her smiled response was delightfully wicked. “Of course. You know he always falls for that age and experience line.”

Methos smiled in subtle agreement. Indeed.

Amanda did not plan to inform Duncan of Methos’ involvement. “If I tell him I’ve invited you, he’ll balk. If you just show up and join in, he’ll have to say no to your face.” Her sharp, lacquered fingernail absently traced a Shakti pattern on the knee of his jeans. “I’m betting he won’t.”

Methos wasn’t so sure. Last time, Mac’s wary nervousness had given way only under the extreme duress of denied satisfaction--a bloody inferno of passion when loosed, yes; but damn hard to get to. And the quiet, the coolness afterwards… he must be mad, for going along with this…

And yet--how could he not? Methos tingled with anticipation as he drove, vacillating dizzily between a biting dread that Mac might repudiate him on sight, and a memory-fed blaze of desire--Duncan moving over him, inside him, dark with pleasure and an unsuspected need for closeness… his mouth, that feeding, open, full-lipped mouth… Methos shivered. How could he not, indeed?

He surfaced dreamily into dual realizations: first of all, that his penis was so hard that it hurt; and second, that he was here, at the barge, only minutes away from the answer to the question that had him strung on opposite poles of intensity. Immediately there were two distinct options before him, provided with near-molecular clarity by the ruthless part of his mind whose job it was to offer him alternatives: he could take his duffel-bag and destiny in hand, walk down there and risk what there was to be risked; or he could take himself in hand, and jerk off while imagining what Duncan and Amanda must be up to by now, and then drive himself home.

There was an interval of wry amusement, almost humility, as he looked back and forth from his duffel bag in the passenger seat to the hard tent in his jeans, chewing his lip speculatively; and wondered what in the hell five thousand years of experience was worth when he still had to undergo moments like this.

He took the duffel/destiny option. After all, nothing ventured…

---

The ambiance of the room enveloped him intimately as soon as Amanda let him inside. She offered only a softly worded ‘welcome’, accompanied by a finger to his lips to caution him to silence.

Soft music, soft light, deep warmth emanating from the fire that crackled with lively coziness in the depths of the stove--an immediate impression of comfort and indulgence. His cheeks and ears tingled pleasantly, and he almost expected to see himself steam from the change away from the frigid air outside. As his eyes adjusted he began to pick out details; candles and incense burners; Amanda closing the door behind him, lovely in a short, open robe of midnight blue silk and nothing else; and, of course, the piece de resistance, the lucky birthday boy; Duncan MacLeod.

Looking fairly concerned about all this. But still, Methos had to admit, looking quite devastating anyway.

Methos didn’t blame him for the apparent wariness--Duncan was, after all, blinded and gagged with two lengths of some silver-grey fabric, stripped naked, dewed with sweat, and tied to a sturdy wooden chair; each ankle secured to one of the front legs, hands bound behind the chair-back. Mac would know that another Immortal had entered the room and that Amanda had issued a welcome, but nothing more--plenty of uncertainty to justify those tight, rigid muscles and that knotted brow.

Methos smiled. He turned to Amanda, who was watching him eagerly, waiting for his response.

//Well I’ll be damned// he mouthed at her silently.

//But of course// she smiled back, obviously pleased.

“Duncan,” Amanda began soothingly while she waved at Methos to unburden himself, “I’ve invited a friend to help me tonight--we won’t hurt you, and we won’t do anything you don’t want. Do you accept? Nod yes, or shake your head no.”

Methos paused in the act of twisting out of his coat, watching, his breath held unconsciously. Duncan hesitated; his head turned to the side as if listening intently. Methos felt his heart pound, agitation that didn’t die away when Duncan shrugged and uttered a few muffled syllables.

He was about to speak, would have spoken if Amanda’s hand hadn’t covered his mouth. She pulled restlessly at his sweater, telling him without words to take it off; then walked away towards the small, cleared area where Mac was sweating out the unexpected risks associated with his birthday present. Methos watched, mesmerized, his hands lazy with the slow removal of his own clothing while Amanda slipped silently out of her robe, straddled Duncan’s corded thighs and settled her bare bottom onto his lap.

“I’ve been warming him up, so to speak,” she murmured proudly, running her hands slowly through his hair, down to his barely shivering shoulders, “and he’s been very, very good so far, haven’t you, love?”

Methos flushed hot with response as he watched Amanda wrap around Mac and bend down to his face, tracing sundered lips with the tip of her tongue. Duncan strained towards her, a liquid, uncertain, but undoubtedly desperate noise filtering past the gag. Methos’ hands paused on the button of his jeans, wracked with a shudder of arousal so profound that he forced himself to be still for a moment, lest he give in to the overwhelming urge to rush over there and just…

“My friend is watching us now, Duncan,” Amanda purred, “looking at how beautiful you are like this, wanting you. You like to be looked at, don’t you?”

Apparently Duncan did, but was none too comfortable with it. His normally olive skin bloomed crimson, but his shifting, restless, straining limbs told a different story. Lovely.

Methos stripped off his boxers and stood, naked and painfully erect, his nipples tight despite the heat of the room. Amanda waved him towards them and he obeyed automatically--his body moved towards the promise of fulfillment, even as his mind cautioned that he might be putting his clothes on and fleeing in one hell of a hurry in just a few moments.

Amanda rose from Duncan’s lap and circled around to the back of the chair as her hands fluttered over the bared, damp muscles of Duncan’s chest, at once soothing and tantalizing without gratification. The Highlander shivered, tilted his head once more in that listening attitude, evidently aware of Methos’ approach even though his steps were as silent as he could make them.

Methos stopped in front of the bound man, glad to look his fill without fear of what Duncan might read in his eyes. This vulnerable, aroused, unsure picture before him rocked him with lust so severe that he swayed where he stood; it was all he could do to keep from sinking to his knees and taking Duncan’s swollen, leaking erection as deep into his throat as he could get it. He could almost taste the slick salt fluid, memory and desire fused to a perfect tonal hum of want.

Amanda’s hands were busy, and then she slipped the fabric muffle teasingly from between Duncan’s lips. The resulting gasps for air and halting words thrilled Methos--Mac was beautiful gagged, true enough; but who could resist the pleasure of that dark, emotional voice?

“Amanda,” --gasp-- “I’m not sure about this--why don’t you--”

Instinct and need led him down, brought him against those suddenly available lips without another thought. His head swam. It had been too long--too long just thinking about what it had been like to kiss and bite those soft lips, a memory hoarded and brought out only during moments of grave necessity… So now Methos licked and nuzzled, kissed and devoured and fed. His hands came to cup smooth, new-shaven cheeks; the better to tilt this captive, this utterly desirable Highlander into a position where his mouth might be accessed fully… such a warm, soft tongue…

Duncan froze under his touch, rigid and gasping and startled; silent until a tremor broke through the lock on his limbs, and then only giving voice to a shocked moan.

This might be it--this could very well be all he was going to get. The moment of determination was too close for Methos to pull away lightly, so he sucked hungrily on Duncan’s tongue until his own body quivered, until he knew that one more second of this crazy indulgence was going to make him come. His chest heaved when he pulled away, but he forced himself to breathe quietly.

“Methos…”

Duncan spoke the word with absolute certainty, but there was no certainty echoed in his posture--he shrank away, back into Amanda’s calming hands. Methos saw her about to speak, shook his head silently. He wanted Duncan to take or leave him on his own merits this time, not because of any of Amanda’s cajoling promises.

“Happy birthday, Mac.” Methos gave in and went to his knees, limiting himself strictly to only one soft touch of either hand on Duncan’s tense thighs. “You know why I’m here.”

He didn’t expect to say that. Apparently, Mac didn’t expect to hear it--he tensed further. Methos took a breath, and resumed. “I want to be here, Duncan; but I’ll go if you want me to. I’m not going to give you any present you don’t feel like taking.”

He watched Duncan swallow, traced out the visible flutter of a speeding pulse under increasingly damp skin.

“I… I don’t…” The Highlander’s voice was hoarse and full of tension, Methos could almost hear Duncan talking himself out of it.

“Wait,” he interjected, his own voice as calm as he could make it. “Let me refresh your memory, Mac--this one thing, and then you can decide.”

He didn’t wait for a response--to wait was to risk the possibility of thought for both of them. Instead he slid forward, relished the touch of flesh under his hands that was bound and stripped for the purposes of pleasure--heady stuff, indeed--and slid his open, eager mouth around Duncan’s erection.

“Oh my…” Amanda’s soft words penetrated through even past the noise of his own thundering heartbeat pounding in his ears. Methos opened and sank down, catching the slippery evidence of arousal with his tongue as he plunged lower, feeding that place in himself that hungered. His own moan was stifled, but Duncan’s ripped through him like fire; so deep that it vibrated through the flesh stretching him. Oh--this was consuming him, sure enough; slow, languid strokes in and out of his practiced throat, sucking and swallowing and all the time wanting more--if Duncan sent him away after this, he’d have to toss off for a solid week before he’d be able to walk…

Duncan’s hips lifted towards him in wonderful, greedy rhythm, punctuated by grunts and sighs from above that seemed the fulfillment of every heated fantasy he’d ever had. Methos breathed in the taste/scent of musk and hot desire, liquefying slowly into a boneless, mindless mass devoted only to the pleasure of the beautiful man twisting beneath him.

“Give it up, Duncan.” Amanda’s voice floated distantly to his ears, hazily demanding. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t love fucking his mouth. Is he hot, when he takes you deep like that?”

Duncan shuddered fiercely, flamed Methos’ nerves again with another staggering groan. The thrusts into his mouth speeded slightly.

“Too bad you can’t see this, love; too bad you can’t watch him take you in. You could make him come, you know--if I gave you your hands you’d grab for him, wouldn’t you? You’d grab him and hold his head and get as deep inside as you possibly could, right? That would do it, Duncan, that would just make him explode…”

Duncan came in his mouth with a choked, pleasured howl, his body bucking so hard that for a moment Methos thought the chair would splinter and break. He held on, his hands tight on the Highlander’s thighs while he drank deep of the salt-bitter essence of ecstasy, feeling his own body tremble on the edge. His cock throbbed hard, sympathetic to the one that pulsed out pleasure into his mouth in measured doses, liquid heat that burned through his system like individual electric shocks.

In the end, however, he kept himself from erupting through force of will--even now he was uncertain, even now he didn’t know which way Duncan would go. He locked down on his body’s incessant demands, sucked his slow and gentle way off of the half-erect shaft in his mouth, and finally looked up.

Duncan’s chest heaved, now flushed a deep and dusky rose, and the grey blindfold had been sweated dark with free-flowing perspiration. Methos heated with equal, sudden measures of pride and dread--he’d done that, brought Mac to that lovely place of carnal satiation; now if only he could be sure that he’d be staying…

“Okay, Duncan?” His lips moved before the thought was even fully expressed, a compound question asked in the simplest terms. He found himself holding his breath again.

“Jesus,” Duncan’s voice was low, faint and breathless. “Methos, that was… Okay?” A throaty half-groan blew warm air over Methos’ forehead, followed by a dark chuckle, “I dunno, maybe if you… convinced me, somehow…”

The words were lost, buried under further chuckling and Amanda’s loud but somehow dainty snort of incredulity--Methos didn’t, couldn’t join in the laughter, however, but limited himself to a sigh of debilitated relief as he lowered his hot face onto Duncan’s relaxed thigh.

---

Amanda had brought plenty of the long, soft strips of grey fabric--a rather dismaying amount, actually; enough to tie up a whole battalion of Highlanders. Methos wondered idly what exactly she’d had in mind as he selected two at random, then turned to where Amanda was ruining her silk robe by using it to wipe the sweat from Duncan’s face.

“Put the gag back, Amanda.” His stern tone reverberated through the room, and both Duncan and Amanda tensed--Amanda with evident excitement, Duncan with something that looked a lot more like uneasiness. Amanda did as he’d asked quickly, looking toward him with wicked curiosity when she wasn’t busy checking the knot to make sure that it didn’t catch Mac’s hair. Methos noticed the quick, expert way she fulfilled his request, and made a mental note to get her tipsy on good wine at some point in the future and pump her for all her tales of experience--that touch was just too practiced…

And then there was only focus, only the free flood of creative urges that no longer had to be held back, now that he was here for the duration. He snatched up a pillow from the bed and then approached the other two quickly. He kissed Amanda hard and demandingly, waiting until she whimpered into his open mouth before he released her; almost cold with the level of control he’d required of himself.

“You’ll like this,” he promised softly, guiding her to kneel on the pillow he placed on the floor between Duncan’s feet. He bound her eyes tenderly while she shivered, heard two gasps echo each other as she leaned forward and her head came to rest against Duncan’s stomach. Before she could move away he’d circled to the back of the chair and found her hands. He pulled them through and secured them together quickly with the second piece of fabric, wrist crossing wrist over Mac’s bound hands so that her upper body was pulled tight against Duncan’s groin, without much room to move.

“Oh…” A soft, plaintive sound from her: essential, distilled Amanda… when she wasn’t being demanding, that is. He hushed her absently.

Methos circled around to the other side of the chair, greedily absorbing the picture of what only he could see. Amanda’s skin glowed against Duncan’s dark complexion, her narrow back framed by strong, corded thighs a contrast that was almost dangerously tempting. Both bodies trembled slightly, and despite her bonds Amanda seemed to be doing her level best to slide her bare breasts over Duncan’s groin. Mac looked nearly pained.

“Amanda--stop that,” Methos snapped. At once both of them froze into stillness.

Methos reached out casually, ran one hand from Duncan’s temple down over the tense throat, between the hardened buds of nipples and softly onto Amanda’s neck, finally down her spine to trail away gently just as he reached the crack of her curved ass. A tremor ran from one body smoothly into the other, as if they were actually one flesh.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. It was the only word he could come up with.

Amanda interrupted his contemplation. “Methos,” she gasped, arching back toward him, her eager, urgent voice muffled against Duncan’s sternum.

Methos spanked her right buttock; only lightly, but the sound was like a whipcrack in the close quiet of the room. Both she and Mac jumped, and two sharp inhalations echoed.

“Patience, Amanda,” he said soothingly. He polished the blushing flesh he’d abused, teasing a little at the way she arched into it, admiring how quickly a plain handprint rose on her white skin. “My turn now.”

He stepped astride her kneeling body, and leaned forward to brush Duncan’s cheek softly with his fingers. “I think you probably know what I have in mind, Mac. Would you like to watch?”

The Highlander tensed a little, and his brows drew together again.

“You don’t have to,” Methos continued calmly, “if you’d rather keep the blindfold.”

Uncertainty and hesitation, alarm and desire--he watched them all flicker over Duncan’s face with eerie speed. He bent closer, until their lips almost touched.

“Do you want to watch me fuck Amanda?”

Duncan turned crimson beneath his blindfold, and drew in a massive breath through his nose. Between his knees, Methos felt Amanda shiver. He waited.

Duncan nodded, faintly.

Methos pushed the blindfold off, drew the movement out into a lingering caress through long, silky strands of hair.

Duncan met his eyes, and Methos felt the weight of that hot, intense look almost like a blow; right here and right now, there was nothing in the world except that passionate, liquid gaze.

“Hello there,” Methos whispered, careful to let slip only the safe words, only the faintest acknowledgement of what it meant for them to face each other in this moment. Duncan nodded again, more firmly this time. Methos brought his fingers around slowly, traced back and forth over rosy, parted lips and the material between them.

“Do you want me to take this off?” He bit his own lip to stop himself there--abruptly he knew that he would do anything, anything those speaking eyes asked of him.

Duncan blinked and swallowed, paused, and then shook his head slowly. Methos smiled.

He pulled his hand away from Duncan’s face, relishing the tingle that lingered at the tips of his fingers. Methos felt almost disconnected from his body as he sank to his knees between Amanda’s spread calves--Duncan’s dark gaze buoyed him, held him floating in a honey-slow tide of want.

He reached forward, and dragged his hands from Duncan’s thighs over Amanda’s shoulders to her hips, marveling again at that dual, shared shudder. When he reached his destination he circled downwards underneath her, dove with both hands into the liquid heat of her body. She gasped and bucked beneath him, but Methos never let his eyes move away from the Highlander’s.

“Wet,” he murmured, and pulled in a hungry breath. God--the smell of Amanda in heat--“So wet…” He used one hand to spread her delicately open, and the other full palm, flat against her, slipping delightfully. “So much, Amanda--why don’t we share?”

He pulled his drenched hand from her shivering warmth, smiling and kissing her shoulder in apology when she whined softly in protest. He leaned forward a little and reached up beneath her chest; deep into the hot, magical crevice where her smooth breasts pressed hard against Duncan’s renewed erection. He rubbed slick moisture over her pointed, swollen mounds, his other hand tight on her hip to keep her still. Not quite wet enough. Patiently, he pulled his hand free, traced down her torso with his fingernails--

“Methos please!” Amanda’s voice was plaintive and desperate, and her struggles against him escalated into frantic bucking. Methos watched Duncan’s pupils dilate as her chest slid over his groin wildly, and for a moment he thought a descent into orgasmic chaos was pretty much inevitable. However, when he tightened down on her hip hard enough to bruise she squeaked and went still, narrowly averting premature capitulation.

Methos sighed. “Now you’ve done it, Amanda. I’m going to have to come up with something deeply terrible to make you pay for that.”

He felt his words shiver through her frame, saw them strike home in MacLeod’s eyes. His hand slipped back between her thighs; petting, gathering, then up again between their two bodies to slick and stroke Duncan’s rigid cock. Mac went with him--taking, thrusting; moaning rough lust into his gag without ever breaking the lock they had on each other’s vision. Methos felt his control teeter precariously, a dangerous and nearly overwhelming compulsion to just shove himself into Amanda and put the three of them out of them out of their collective misery; but… no. There was more that he wanted. He gave one last, lingering squeeze, and backed off, finally breaking that devastating eye contact that was doing such delightful things to him.

“Now, Amanda,” he said softly, touching her back as if he were gentling a restive horse, “you can have three words--‘yes’, ‘please’ and ‘stop’. Every other word is off-limits to you.” He smiled at her sigh of response. “Of course, noises are fair game and don’t count. Do you understand?”

“Yes--Ahh…”

Evidently, she’d understood perfectly. Oh--Amanda could be so good when she tried… Methos reached around and down again, offered a little reward of tender, circling touches while his other hand directed the tip of his burning erection to the cleft between her thighs. He only teased, only slipped up and down in slow, lazy rhythm; refusing penetration until he had her in a fine, trembling state.

“Please--pleaseplease-oh-please…” The frantic note was gone from Amanda’s voice, replaced by a rough whisper that sounded almost reverent. The rush of power, the rush of control was dizzying. Methos looked up.

If ever a look whispered ‘please’, MacLeod’s did. Methos held that dark-brown gaze while he sank deep into Amanda’s hot wetness--the collective, gusty sigh would have filled the sails on a clipper ship. He thrust twice, lazily; his spine arched reflexively at the deliciously snug fit--Amanda was nearly quivering within, a hunger that would seduce him out of his nicely gauged control if he wasn’t careful.

When Mac’s eyes dropped from his own they went straight to where Methos plunged deep between Amanda’s thighs--it seemed to Methos that he could feel the weight and warmth of that look, a burning consumption that almost outdid the heat inside. For a few moments Methos concentrated only on his own pleasure and Duncan’s visceral response to it; watching Mac watch him moving within Amanda was a feedback loop of sensation that threatened to suffocate him with voluptuous indulgence. His fingers never left off stroking her, but every time he felt a pulse begin under his touch he stilled and pressed the palm of his hand hard against her, denying release while relishing her helpless whimper of disappointment.

All too soon it was too much, and Methos knew that one or two more full strokes into her welcoming body would end it for him. “Okay, Amanda,” he panted, “remember that you can say ‘stop’, if this hurts.” He pulled his drenched fingers away, his grip slick and wet on her thighs as he nudged her to open further. When she was as spread and vulnerable as she could get he crowded close to her, deep in to his full length and his body hard, hard against her while he reached forward. Her moan was dark and halting, a perfectly balanced sound of pain and pleasure, and it buzzed down his spine as if it carried an actual electric charge.

His hands shook as he found the outer curve of her breasts, a tremor that radiated out to the other two bodies as he gathered her close and pushed the slick mounds together; tight together to squeeze fiercely on Duncan’s erection. Now two moans echoed blissfully in his ears; one muffled, one lush and unrestrained. In this position he couldn’t pull back much, but their three bodies were connected so closely that every faint rocking motion of his hips reverberated through Amanda and over Duncan--every move that he made brought some quiver or sound of response.

He had to look up now to see MacLeod’s face, but the tension in his neck was well worth it. Duncan’s nostrils flared with the labor of taking in enough air; corded muscles strained in his neck and shoulders while he arched up against Amanda’s chest. Methos shivered.

“Is this good, Highlander?” he asked with breath he didn’t know he had. “Hot, and--wet, and--tight enough for you?”

Duncan’s eyes blazed, a fury of earthy passion. He nodded, grunted, and strained forwards so hard that it made the chair creak alarmingly.

Methos groaned. His body trembled and his senses threatened to overwhelm him, but somehow he found the strength to hold off while he settled his knees a bit more firmly between Amanda’s and started fucking her as hard as restricted movement would allow. Amanda arched beneath him, her sobs of pleasure delighted his ears while he watched the heat in Duncan’s eyes purify, intensify; spiral down to the simple response of raw erotic appetite.

Amanda’s body clenched around him, not coming but damned close. Methos thrust harder, battering against her, force that rippled through her body to echo in quick tight slides around Duncan’s cock. His head swam, suffused and pounding with each beat of his heart--everything trembled, everything melded into an indefinite pleasure-haze as barriers fell away between them, leaving them shifting together as one extended, gasping, eager being.

“I want to watch you come, Duncan,” he couldn’t hear his own words above the thudding rush in his ears and the low-frequency vibration of Amanda’s moans, but he felt his lips move and he saw Mac’s leap of response, so he supposed he must have really said it. Beneath him Amanda uttered a high, piercing cry and went completely rigid; a locking of muscles that made it very easy to shuttle her stiff body back and forth between them, deliriously fast. Methos pounded into her ruthlessly, his hands rough and demanding on her breasts, almost brutal. When she came she seemed almost to shatter around him, a tight-furled creature breaking apart under heavy treatment into shivering joy. He rocked her through it, eased and cradled her body with rough tenderness as he felt her crest again and again; those indescribably wonderful orgasms that women could have, one peak to another with barely a valley between.

Above her writhing form Duncan strained towards him, curled around Amanda’s shoulders as if tortured. Methos watched every stroke, every shiver spark in his eyes; he moved and shifted and squeezed automatically as his own body sought release only through MacLeod’s.

“Please,” he managed with numb lips, “do it.”

Duncan’s low, muffled wail and abruptly dilated pupils threw Methos back into raw physical awareness with savage force--he’d fended it off for the sake of the control he needed, but now, watching Duncan heave, shudder and come; the grip and swell of pleasure refused to be denied. Methos’ hips twisted fiercely as he came, groaning, falling into the brown depths of Duncan’s eyes even as he throbbed violently into Amanda’s sweet wetness. He watched Mac greedily, absorbing every flutter of pulse and drip of perspiration, drinking him in, complete.

Before he could stop himself he collapsed forward onto Amanda’s damp shoulders, shaking, eyes finally closed as twitches chased through the three of them, one response setting off another.

“Christ--I think that almost killed me,” he gasped dimly, his hands roving sluggishly over random flesh.

“Yes,” Amanda whispered beneath him, breathless. “But it’s a good thing you’ll come back, ‘cause I think I know what I want for my birthday.”

Methos and Duncan uttered simultaneous snorts of dismay, eerily harmonic.

---

Amanda had offered the opinion that chairs were good enough for a change of pace, but that beds had them beat as far as comfort and latitude of options. Methos was happy enough to agree with her--he was happy enough to agree to almost anything during the silly, tipsy period of lassitude that followed while both of them took turns feeding Duncan tidbits of cake and increasingly erotic sips of wine.

Apparently Mac had finally reached a new maturity on this his four-hundred-and-third-birthday--enough maturity not to be put off by the fact that one of the naked people rubbing and feeding and teasing him was a man. No small triumph, in Methos’ opinion; and no small cause for celebration, either.

Every time Amanda suggested that they move towards the shower, Methos put her off. “I don’t want you to bathe, Amanda,” he replied reasonably, scenting towards her like an animal; “I like it when you smell like an unwashed trollop--very nostalgic, you know? Anyway, it suits you.”

Duncan hadn’t joined in the pillow-fight that ensued from that particular remark, but he hadn’t appeared unduly disturbed by it, either. Methos caught glimpses of the Highlander placidly regarding the pair of them, nibbling bemusedly on a piece of cake while Methos got clobbered.

“Besides,” Methos panted finally, holding Amanda and her death-dealing pillow off with the last of his strength, “I like the idea of all the work we’re going to have to do to lick that frosting off of Mac’s body hair--it must be dried to a nice glaze by now…”

Her Achilles’ heel, and not an uncommon one--she couldn’t fight while she was laughing. Methos used the advantage to disarm her; and was about to execute a combined attack strategy of tickling and bad jokes when her little body was whipped out of his clutches as quickly as if she’d been sucked into a vortex.

No vortex here--only Duncan MacLeod; apparently sufficiently refreshed with cake and wine to be ready for another go. The Highlander had pinned Amanda flat to the bed, and now he kneeled over her menacingly, a dark, barbarian god come to exact retribution.

“Methos,” Duncan’s voice shivered down his spine, cut cleanly through Amanda’s gasps of surprise, “go and get some of those ties, will you?”

Amanda’s scandalized squeal was so convincing that Methos almost laughed out loud, but he subdued himself as he selected a handful of fabric strips, and returned quickly to stand beside the bed. The picture they made both touched and amused him--the two of them struggled languidly amidst a battlefield of crumbs; nude and painted sticky with streaks of white frosting and other equally enticing (albeit less dessert-oriented) substances. He snorted.

MacLeod looked at him composedly. “Something funny, Methos?”

“You two. You look like an X-rated Sara Lee commercial.”

Duncan burst out laughing--that deep, intense, wine-enhanced laugh Methos didn’t get to hear often enough. Mac looked like he would have lost control of Amanda if she hadn’t been weak with giggling, if she hadn’t been occupied with breathless suggestions that ‘sex sells’ and ‘wouldn’t Duncan Hines be more appropriate?’ Methos did his best to help, and eventually the two of them sobered enough to get her hands bound to either side of the bed. Methos had taken another strip and was angling for one of her flailing legs when Mac stopped him.

“That’s enough--I think we can handle the rest.” MacLeod’s eyes were suddenly very serious; serious and warm, and urgent enough to create a small, internal explosion of heat that had Methos hard and aching in about three seconds. Next to them, Amanda became abruptly still.

Methos felt almost as if he were suspended in some strange, trancelike state when Duncan reached for him; he floated free, his mind shockingly silent as the Highlander guided him up off the bed, pulled him close and descended on him. It took two whole heartbeats for it to get through to him that Mac evidently meant business; there was a strong, warm hand on either side of his face, and that soft, questing tongue was in his mouth, opening him, looking for something…

“Oh…” Methos shuddered violently, galvanized. “Mac…” That luscious mouth pulled away, but hovered close, waiting. “I’m going to come if you do that…”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but, heaven help him, it was true. Those lips on his, hungry, claiming him; had pushed him from hot to boiling with lightning speed--his body cried out, so desperate, wanting so much…

Duncan smiled at him, warm and kind. “Not yet, Methos.” Methos closed his eyes as Duncan fluttered a gentle kiss against each eyelid, a touch so pure that he seemed to hear distant singing, sweet and redeeming.

The only thing that pulled them apart was Amanda’s low groan. Methos looked at her, saw her staring at Duncan with wide, hot, disbelieving eyes. Her voice shook a little.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Duncan?”

Methos ached as Duncan moved away from him. “I gave him the night off.”

Still burning, still shaking with his lips tender and wet where Duncan had licked them, Methos watched Mac advance on Amanda’s bound body. “I thought you might have more fun with me.”

Methos remembered that tone, that threatening, velvet tone of voice that brought back crystal-shard memories of getting fucked through the mattress by a gorgeous Scottish brute. He crept towards the bed, knowing that if he didn’t sit down he was going to go straight to the floor pretty soon, dizzy and spinning and lost.

He watched, entranced, as Duncan manipulated Amanda’s limbs with irresistible, inexorable precision. The Highlander knelt between her open legs, took her bottom in both hands and lifted her lower body straight off the bed as he crept forward. Amanda’s soft, high-pitched sighs of excitement seemed to exert actual pressure on Methos’ ears--each one dug into him while his vision faded to black at the edges around the one thing he focused on, the place where Duncan dragged Amanda up his thighs and onto his cock with one casual, relentless pull.

“Oh…” Methos and Amanda in stereo this time. Duncan was quiet, but Methos could see a fine sheen of perspiration starting to glow over his skin. Mac barely moved his hips at all--but his hands lifted Amanda effortlessly up and down the full length of his shaft with slow, deep strokes; patient but unrelenting. When her head tossed ecstatically on the pillow, Methos sympathized down to the smallest quiver.

“Methos,” the passion hidden in Duncan’s voice, a backdrop of passion with his name on those lips, made his cock twitch. “Come here--you can help me with this.”

Oh my--could he ever. Methos obeyed, crept slowly closer until he felt waves of heat that poured off of their shifting bodies. He forced his eyes away from the place where Mac drove into her; a pointless exercise, as it turned out, because as soon as he got close enough Duncan reached for his head and pushed him downwards.

Whatever it was that had gotten into MacLeod, Methos sincerely hoped that it never got out of him. Mac’s hand was on the nape of his neck for only a brief moment before shifting back underneath Amanda, but that one, demanding touch was sufficient to blister Methos with desire. He used one hand to spread Amanda tenderly, saw from the edge of his vision how his touch shivered the muscles of her inner thighs, and then engulfed her slick clitoris with his open mouth.

Duncan, ever courteous, had switched tactics--now he held Amanda still for Methos’ flickering tongue while he did all the thrusting--a change that seemed to work well for her, given the suddenly increased fervor of her moans. Once again Methos felt a flash of intimate, piercing envy--Duncan rode her hard; strokes that Methos remembered well. He shuddered.

“You… oh yes--both of you--more…” Amanda’s broken words burned within him, and Methos sighed as he nibbled her softly. One flash of his tongue snaked down lower, tingled with salt and musk against Duncan’s shaft, sliding in, out, and in again while Amanda writhed.

“Amanda--open your eyes,” Duncan’s voice was a growl, a low fury of intensity. Methos heard her gasp, echoed by his own as Mac reached for him and pulled him up. “Methos…”

“Mmm…” Methos blinked, admiring. The Highlander was flushed and damp, his hair wild, utterly beautiful.

“I missed your mouth.” Duncan kissed him hard, sucking Amanda’s moisture off his tongue while she wailed like a woman possessed. Methos barely had the presence of mind to slip his thumb between her legs while Mac kissed him breathless; the tremors of her cresting pleasure throbbed against his hand with exquisite perfection.

Methos moaned when Duncan pulled away; his stomach curled in on itself with want. Mac gasped against his lips, his eyes hot and demanding. “Don’t let her stop, Methos. Just… help me do this.”

Okay. Damn. His bones had obviously melted. He’d have to do without. Methos slid from Duncan’s grasp and obeyed, ranging the length of her body with hands and tongue, drawing out Amanda’s passion until her cries were almost shrieks, until her restrained limbs quivered with helpless struggle. When he bit her nipples she almost threw herself off the bed, but Methos used one hand clenched tight in her short, silky hair and the other hard between her legs to keep her immobile.

And through the whole time, while Amanda came again and again and Methos ached with unfulfilled need, Duncan never missed a stroke. Methos heard the Highlander’s breath gradually shorten, felt his own body tense abruptly when Mac uttered a soft, pained groan, and wondered disconsolately whether it would be taken amiss if he suggested that Duncan should perhaps pull his cock out right now and push it straight into his throat.

“Methos--fuck--get down here…”

Methos went. Duncan’s hand clenched fiercely on the back of his neck, pushing his open mouth hard between Amanda’s legs. Methos drifted, rolling and lost in sensation while Amanda surged against his tongue and screamed; screams that couldn’t obscure Duncan’s earthy, satisfied grunts. He abruptly forgot that he needed to breathe.

He felt it when Amanda passed out, her tight, spasming muscles relaxed into limp passivity between the space of one heartbeat and the next. Her voice slurred off into incomprehensible, rhythmic sighing; and Methos wasn’t at all surprised when he pulled away and looked at her to see that she was solidly out, lax in her bonds. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that black clouds seemed to be obtruding on his vision--it wasn’t until he pulled in too-long-delayed air that it occurred to him that he was about to pass out himself.

He put his head down on her drenched midriff and gasped, locked in his own world where he seemed to be able to feel each individual molecule of air that brushed against his overheated skin. //Shower// he thought dimly. //Very soon. Jerking off soon would be good.// His mind quieted, satisfied with a temporary and ardent promise.

Vague motion blurred at the edge of his field of vision--Duncan, reaching gingerly for one of Amanda’s wrists. As soon as he felt like he could move Methos bestirred himself and pitched in. He worked slowly to free her other wrist from the broad wrap of fabric; which, despite its softness, had tightened cruelly on her delicate skin. As he rubbed at the red mark, Methos warmed in familiar gratitude to the fortuitous alliance of Immortal healing and rough sex.

“Christ…” Duncan sounded totally out of breath. Methos didn’t blame him--he had, after all, just pumped Amanda into unconsciousness--not an easy task.

He turned to watch Mac settle Amanda tenderly beneath the covers. As usual, she curled quickly into a satisfied, snuggling ball. Methos smiled. “Everything okay?” he whispered.

Duncan grinned at him shakily. “Oh yeah--I just realized that I lost count of her orgasms… too bad--I was going for a record…”

Methos had to bite his lips to keep from laughing. For a moment it was a losing battle, but the urge to snicker departed abruptly as Duncan leaned towards him over Amanda’s slumbering form and stabbed that wicked tongue between his lips. Methos got out one interrogatory gasp of surprised pleasure before the world washed away to nothing more than deepening waves of heat.

Oh god… Duncan…” He pulled away, shaking, ready to bolt for the shower to save himself the ignominy of a public wank. He looked down, shocked to see that Mac’s cock was already fully erect, slick and so engorged it was almost purple. “Already?” he asked shakily, “are you sure it was Amanda’s record you were trying for, Mac?”

Duncan smiled into his eyes for a moment, full and warm, but then his eyelids fluttered down and he looked away. “Well, I… I didn’t--I didn’t finish. With Amanda, I mean.”

Methos stared at him, disbelieving. “Why? I mean--why not?”

Duncan’s voice was quiet, Methos had to strain to hear it over the sound of his own rushing heart. “I thought… maybe you might not want me to. Maybe you might want… something else.”

Methos drew in a slow breath, something to focus on and use as an excuse to cover the fact that his heart had just broken open and was bleeding something sweet and terrible deep in his chest. “Oh…”

The word hung between them, resonant of all the unspoken things. Methos clenched his hands into fists; grasping at anything--anything that would stop him from just reaching out and scaring the hell out of that gorgeous, wary Scot… “Anything,” he whispered, unknowing until it reached his ears. He cleared his throat. “Anything you want, Mac.”

Duncan didn’t look at him, but his cheeks were almost brilliantly red, his forehead knotted. “Help me move Amanda over,” he murmured, barely audible.

Methos obliged, and soon they had her settled peacefully to one side of the big bed, after which Methos was presented with the terrifying and extraordinary reality of Duncan MacLeod, staring at him as if mesmerized, fluctuations from reticence to outright fear to melting lust plain on his face.

Methos reached out slowly, schooling his hand not to tremble as he brushed gently over Duncan’s cheek. Mac’s eyes closed and then it was easier, the easiest thing in the world to seek out those silken, mind-blowing lips, lips that opened under his own as if they’d been waiting for him. Oh yes…

Methos abandoned himself to the slow tides washing through him, to the feel of the vibrant man in his arms; all live passion and sugar-wet kisses. Frenzy and need seemed to have retreated far over some interior horizon, left him stranded with only an endless, oceanic patience; unsuspected fortitude and the urge to give this man every single pleasure that might be given. When Duncan dragged him down, locked him tight under a blissful, heavy weight, Methos went with a swooning willingness and joy that threatened to blind him.

“Methos,” Duncan murmured the word close behind his ear; soft and astonished. “Methos… Methos… God--I could kiss you forever…”

//Okay. Yes, please.// Only his thoughts could reply--his mouth was incapacitated, able to do no more than pull in air and bloom warm with Duncan’s heady kisses. Arms tightened around him, and Methos lost a breathless moan between Mac’s lips as Duncan moved over him sinuously, rocking them together. Without warning Methos found himself trembling on the keen, aching edge of orgasm, suddenly all too aware of how their cocks pressed and rubbed against each other with maddening slowness.

“Duncan--please…” He gasped it out, “I’m shaking myself apart, here. Will you… I want to feel you in me--”

Duncan’s only response was a swift, thorough kiss that left Methos dizzy, left him pawing blindly at the bedside table in search of something slippery. Mac reached over to his hand, twined with his fingers, and guided him unerringly to a flip-top bottle of oil. Methos seized it fiercely, but before he could open it Duncan stayed him, brought their eyes together through the simple expedient of cupping his face.

“I think I’ve done enough of the hard work for one night,” Duncan whispered hoarsely, looking deep into his eyes. “Your turn, Methos.”

For one horrible moment Methos suffered an almost insurmountable urge to throw Duncan off him and run. He knew exactly what Mac meant--oh yes; his mind provided him immediately with a full-color, three-dimensional illustration, complete with soundtrack, but…

But, he couldn’t possibly. Not that kind of intimacy; that kind of deepening of what was already between them; that kind of risk when he knew full well that Mac had never… his mind babbled, tripped over itself in a confused rush, assuring him that either he’d end up in love, or Duncan would never speak to him again, or possibly both.

Methos closed his eyes quickly, waged a brief but bitter war between his common sense and something that went deeper than temptation, deeper than desire… and sighed. This staggering and unexpected trust, this surprise gift… it was a good thing.

That is, he amended, he could make it a good thing, if he could keep himself from spurting all over Duncan’s stomach while thinking about it. Methos sighed again; eyes still closed, and rubbed Duncan’s smooth cheek with his own in acquiescence and ardor--surrendering, even as he drew inward to gather his strength.

---

As it turned out, he needed every bit of it. Mac seemed determined to do everything in his power to drive Methos insane--he rewarded Methos’ unspoken compliance with a rash of deep-throated kisses that reminded Methos of the quick flash of pain that happened if he drank something hot too quickly and scalded his tongue--only, too-hot coffee didn’t usually make him moan and shudder and writhe… although it might from now on. He didn’t doubt the abilities of an association this powerful.

Apparently, Duncan had decided that it was time for the gloves to come off--he clung to Methos fiercely, grappled with him, rolled him over and back in what space was available just to make sure that there was no neglected part of either of their bodies that had somehow missed rubbing against each other. Methos, with both fists dug deep into that marvelous, wild hair, Duncan’s soft groans whispering over the skin of his neck, and the glorious sensation of being slowly crushed to death under the Highlander’s full weight; almost felt, cynic though he was, that life had nothing more perfect to offer him.

Good thing he didn’t take bets. “Methos… please,” the whisper breezing just below his ear jolted him as much as if it had been a full-out shriek. It also brought back a measure of control, an awesome awareness of what he’d been entrusted with. His hands did not tremble as he took the bottle of oil, as he gentled Duncan onto his side and settled close, as he cupped that beautiful face and pulled it around to him for one more unalloyed, glowing, never-to-be-forgotten kiss.

The oil was already warm from being gripped in Duncan’s hot hands. Methos poured some of it into his palm, then leaned as close as he could so Mac would have something to feel besides the… intrusion. He felt a strong, almost overwhelming urge to ask Duncan if he was sure, if this was really what he wanted, but he refused to give in to it. It seemed, somehow, almost a lack of respect to do so, and he wasn’t going to cheat this experience of any mark of respect or veneration he could bring to it. There was a clear path before him. He would take it. His own craven need for reassurance be damned.

Methos slid one arm underneath Duncan’s neck, pressed with his forearm and hand on the sweat-moist but calmly breathing chest, and pulled Duncan firmly back against himself. He cradled Mac, soothing him, tracing gentle patterns with his tongue over Mac’s throat and ear. When he slipped his oiled hand between the Highlander’s buttocks, the man barely sighed.

Methos found a pulse there, at Duncan’s center; like breathing or heartbeat or cresting pleasure--flex and relax, open and contract. Methos waited through patient breaths, absorbed the rhythm… and entered on the open beat; the right moment, the same moment he thrust his tongue deep into Duncan’s ear.

“Oh…”

Methos held tight as Mac rocked in his arms; another gentle wave of a body surging through some unknown--and closed his eyes on something too bright to look at that surfaced for a moment in his interior landscape.

Now two fingers, as easy as one--Duncan breathed with him, alive inside and out; live hot rippling response and instinctual motion, rocking again. Methos dragged his lips from ear to throat, to another pulse; a strong, wild heartbeat that sank into his very bones--tongue and fingers moved in tempo, the cadence of life.

At three fingers, something shifted indescribably. The change eluded him until he realized his own stillness--he held, he clasped and offered; but mostly he stood guard over the marvel in his arms while Duncan slowly, sweetly fucked himself on Methos’ hand.

“Duncan…” it broke from him before he could stop it, stretched his throat with unspoken words. Mac arched into him, turned his head and pressed blindly closer, shivering.

“More, Methos.” Just a whisper, warm on his lips. Methos took Duncan’s mouth and held it, painting soft tongue-patterns within. Two gentle movements, and Mac’s undulations finally stopped while Methos slipped out, and slipped in.

Methos moved slowly, anticipating resistance. There was none. All he felt was a hot, welcoming channel; flexing muscles that drew him right in, further in, slow sliding richness that snugged down around him like satin. Duncan heaved in his arms, panting--it wasn’t until Methos heard a breathless ‘oh Christ’ and felt the sheath around him ripple along his length that he realized that Mac had just come, just from one stroke. He gasped, and held on.

“Mac… are you okay? Just hold still, I’ll pull out--”

“No--” Duncan interrupted him, holding tight to Methos’ arms. “Yes, I mean, but--” a whoop of breath, “on my back--I want… I want more. To see you.”

“Okay, okay--shhh. Easy… Easy.”

The Highlander seemed utterly boneless; weighty and damp. Methos rolled him easily, lifted heavy legs up to his shoulders as if they’d break from rough usage. “You have to tell me, Duncan,” he murmured, “I don’t want to hurt you, and this way can be… deep.”

Duncan’s eyes were only half-open, but brilliance shone out beneath lowered lashes. “Deep is good--Methos, please--”

Such a plea, from those lips, vibrated through Methos so profoundly that he felt it in his toes. “Yes--yes, okay, Duncan. Here--kiss me.”

Methos closed on Duncan’s mouth just as his cock pushed inside. Once again, there was no resistance, nothing to struggle against--he sucked hungrily on the silky tongue in his mouth while he slid deep, deeper, all the way in until his balls were cradled hard against warm skin, and there was nowhere left to go. Burning--his mouth and his cock and his eyes were all burning, all drowning in sudden and unanticipated wetness--his wetness, Duncan’s; his heat, Duncan’s… it was all one.

Methos allowed his weight to push Mac hard into the bed, pinned him to rumpled sheets while his hips moved, circled, plunged and circled again. Duncan was slippery--soaked with sweat and semen, moving below at every stroke to meet him, lift up to him, take what Methos wanted so desperately to give. Methos pulled away from Mac’s lips--he needed to look, needed to see that he wasn’t alone in this soul-searing, terrifying place.

“Methos…” Duncan’s eyes were closed, his brow tense. “Help me, I… I can’t bear it…”

Methos froze. “Hurts?” he panted, blinking sweat and dangerous tears from his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you--”

“No!” Mac’s voice was a low rasp. “Not--God, not hurting me. For God’s sake--don’t stop…”

Obedient, Methos thrust and thrust again, one hand cupping Duncan’s firm ass, the other brushing away moisture from that heartbreaking face. “I won’t stop, Duncan. Not unless you want me to.” Methos brushed a soft kiss on the Highlander’s cheek, wincing under the terrible burn of tenderness. “What’s wrong? Why can’t you bear it?”

Duncan shuddered beneath him. “I didn’t know… I--I think I’m going to come again, Methos…”

The words seemed to pierce him, shine a devastating light upon him--Methos left off petting and let his arms wrap greedily around as much of the Highlander as he could possibly reach, locking them together. “Oh Mac,” he whispered close against Duncan’s ear. “Then just let go--do you have any idea how fucking *beautiful* you are when you come?”

He felt Duncan’s erection now, hard and throbbing against his belly as he took this last chance, this last moment to give everything over. His hips worked hard; plunging fast and deep while everything went dim and his heart tried to pound its way out of his body. He only managed five ruthless strokes before Mac arched beneath him and cried out his name, a sound which exploded through him with exquisitely sharp pleasure and let his body take over; writhing, bucking as deep into that silken, welcoming ass as he could get.

“Oh my God--”

“Please--”

“That’s… Oh, that’s so…”

“Yes--oh fuck--”

“Come…like that, yes…”

And then they were gasping; cheek to cheek--and shaking; body to body--and Methos knew that he should let go… it was time for him to let go… he had to let go now--but, Christ--even the thought of it was a knife in him, a wounding; he couldn’t even--

“Don’t. Don’t let me go.” Mac’s voice, barely audible, steadied him.

“No.” His own words were breathless, strengthless… but sure. “Not until you want me to.”

It was a very, very long time before they moved apart.

---

[Four months later]

“Oui.” Clipped. Terse. That don’t-fuck-with-me tone. He’d like to finish this damn book before he died, which wouldn’t happen unless the damn phone stopped ringing…

A pause. Then: “Methos?”

Instantaneous, immediate rush--hot cheeks, shaking hands, the works. Methos put down the book, forgotten. “MacLeod. Hello. Sorry, I thought it was another annoying researcher.”

“Ah. No, just me.” Methos heard Duncan clear his throat, which for some strange reason brought back a complete tactile and auditory surge of perfect memory. He gripped the phone tighter, and watched absently as the front of his jeans underwent a spontaneous geological shift.

“Well, Highlander,” he said into the silence, “what can I do for you?”

Duncan cleared his throat again briefly, paused, and then sighed so deeply that Methos expected to feel the breath of it caressing his ear. He clamped down hard on that particular thought.

“You remember, Methos--the last time you were here?”

Well, perhaps Methos wouldn’t remember it, if he didn’t bloody think about it one or two hundred times a bloody day… “Yes--yes, of course.”

“Are you… okay with it?”

Okay? Okay as in ‘tolerant’; or okay as in ‘obsessed’? Methos floundered for a moment, unsure. “Oh yes. Quite okay.” He was inordinately proud of the steadiness in his voice, the calm. “Why, are you having a problem?” That was less steady. Damn!

Thankfully, Mac rushed right in. “No--oh, it’s not that. I just wondered--there’s something that’s come up, and I need your help.”

Methos’ stomach sank. Another crusade. He could have cursed Duncan quite creatively for getting his hopes up like that. “I see.” Hopefully he sounded enlightened rather than disappointed.

“Are you available on Friday?”

Curious--Duncan’s crusades didn’t usually require a datebook. “Friday? Yes, I could arrange--what’s Friday?”

More throat-clearing. More sighing. Damn that man!

“Well, I don’t know if you remember or not, but… see, Friday is… well, Friday is Amanda’s birthday, and…”

Methos listened; unspoken curses evaporating, blessing the voice that tingled against his ear while a slow, expectant smile stretched the corners of his mouth.

---

[dubiousbystander]

Oh, I have read this one before, but its been so long, it was practically new! Love it!

[Nicholas Ward]

BLOWN AWAY
by Maygra de Rhema

---

"I can’t live with this," the apology was heavy in Anne’s voice. Duncan heard it more than the words. He could hear her fighting for words, trying to give her decision some weight so it would make sense; something to make this pain have some meaning.

There weren’t enough words. Duncan understood far better than Anne ever could and it cut even deeper to watch her struggle with this.

"I understand," he said it simply. He said it with a smile. He said it with all the conviction four hundred very long, lonely years could muster.

She stopped her desperate narrative and looked at him. There was far too much pain in her wide, dark eyes for one as mortal as she was to have to survive.

"I love you--I do. But I can’t live like this...I can’t live with this kind of...of ..."

"Dying. Death?"

"No." An absolute. "With this kind of hatred. I wanted you to kill him. I’m a *doctor*. I am supposed to save lives...to value them."

"And I don’t," he said. He did understand. It didn’t make the sense of loss any less acute.

"Oh, no. No," she said softly and then she was in his arms. "I know how much you value life. I believe that with everything I am. But not all Immortals do, do they? And because they don’t, I will hate. Again and again until I don’t even know why anymore," she said softly.

"You know I love you?" he asked. He needed to make sure. Too many times he’d let the words go unsaid.

"Yes. And I love you--so much it hurts," she whispered and he smiled, folding her into a tight embrace, lips pressed against the rich, thick satin of her hair.

"Then it’s all right," he said. "I do understand, Anne. It’s as much a part of why I love you as anything else. I don’t want love to cost you the very thing that makes you so special."

She buried her face against his chest. "Ooooh! You can’t just get pissed off, can you? Be really angry? Fight with me so I can say good-bye because you’re an unreasonable, childish boor?" She lifted her head just to see the smile she knew was lurking around his lips.

"I could. Would it make it easier?"

"No. No, not at all...," she murmured. "My flight leaves tomorrow at five a.m."

The invitation was obvious, the desire equally obvious. "This will make things harder," he said against her forehead.

"Nothing could make this harder," she corrected. "I already regret this, Duncan. Please, please let me treasure *all* my regrets?" Her voice was almost a whisper, the dark eyes shining with a mix of pleading and love.

"You will never be one of my regrets," he said huskily and bent his head to capture her mouth gently. Her lips parted under his and she pressed closer, body yielding against him as she welcomed his touch, his taste, the sweet glide of his tongue against hers.

Never a regret. She liked that...and she was glad. He had already had so much pain in his long life--joys too, but it was the pain, quickly masked, she had seen shadowing the earth-brown eyes, tightening the line of his jaw. Her fingertips traced that line, easing the tension there as he pulled her closer, settling her between his thighs where he sat on the desk.

His mouth left hers to drop kisses along her throat and she stretched in to his caresses. She would miss this as much as anything--but she would trade it in a heartbeat if she could find any other solution. Her fingers crept along his throat to graze upward along his neck, to release the heavy clasp so she could bury her fingers in the thick silk of his hair.

His mouth slipped lower, along her neck, to where her throat and shoulder joined, nuzzling the neckline of her shirt aside so he could nip the soft ridge of muscle there. He was already tensing. Their groins pressed tightly together so she could feel the heat, the hardening rise of flesh.

She wanted to see him, to view the now familiar body. Impatiently she pulled at the buttons of his shirt, managing the first and then the second, fingers spreading through the silken mat of dark hair across his chest. She pressed her cheek against it, feeling and hearing his heart thud against her face He caught her hair, pulling her head back and up gently, dark eyes searching hers.

"Please...," she murmured and saw the slight nod, his mouth curving slightly as his lips once more captured hers. His hands slipped lower and he slid off the desk, stooping down and caught her, her slight weight barely making him strain as he lifted her.

The bed was cool and dark, linens fresh and sweet smelling as he placed one knee on the bed and lowered her, following her down to cover her body with his. A broad dark hand slid up her thigh, riding under her skirt as she pushed again at his shirt.

"So fast?" he asked softly.

"I have an early flight. You don’t think once will be enough, do you?" she asked, dark eyes dancing. The humor was bittersweet, but it was easy to fall into the ready companionship, the laughter, the sharing. She wanted, needed this to be as joyous as possible.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say forever would not be enough but he kissed her instead. He slid his hands along her sides to loosen her blouse then pulled away to discard his shirt. Anne started to undo her buttons, but he stopped her and set another moist kiss against her throat, fingers undoing the button and following the exposed flesh with his lips. A button and a kiss, a button and a kiss, the pattern repeating until he could push the blouse off her shoulders. Then he went over every exposed inch of skin again. Anne desperately tried to get in her own explorations, but Duncan seemed determined to bring her blood to the boiling point as quickly as possible. His hands slid under her skirt again as he pressed against her. His chest was separated from her skin only by the thin lace of her brassiere and that was quickly dampened by his mouth as he teased and suckled her nipples through the fabric. His fingers slid across her thighs under her skirt, pressing downward against the satin panties and she gasped at the new sensation curling through her groin.

She caught his face and pulled him upward to capture his mouth, hands fumbling at his slacks and freeing the zipper. "Please....," she said again without begging, a polite request. He saw it in her eyes. He chuckled as he realized her ‘please’ meant they should get their clothes off fast or she couldn’t guarantee their usability after tonight.

He rose up and finished pulling his slacks off, sitting on the bed as she struggled to her knees, taking off her bra and her skirt. Duncan’s clothes slid to the floor and he stood.

Anne closed her eyes briefly. He was so...so beautiful. Golden skin accentuated the sculpted muscles, the slender waist and hips. The dark mat of hair across his chest begged for her fingers and she gave in, pressing her lips against the cushioning silk. His hand cupped her head as her mouth found a hidden nipple and tongued it. She heard him gasp softly. She smiled as her chin was lifted, her lips captured once more.

The broad hands pulled at her panties and she shifted as he pressed her back down, her hips lifting upward, encouraging him to slid them over her buttocks and hips. Then his mouth was on hers again, arms encircling her waist as she gripped his shoulders. He twisted, pulling her down on top of him as they rolled over on the bed. His thigh rose between hers, pressing against flesh already made sensitive by sheer anticipation.

Anne’s kisses became desperate and Mac met them, matching her ardor and soothing her at the same time. He had gotten far too used to the feel of her slender, compact body, the way she fit against him by simple virtue of her size. She was such a tiny woman to contain a spirit and heart so large. She smelled of orange blossoms and rain and he buried his face in her hair, pulling the soft short waves between his fingers and letting them fall. She made a small sound, urgency and desire making her reckless as she sought to hurry his arousal. Her small hands closed around him, stroking and teasing and he groaned, shifting her upward to catch the small, heavy breasts against his mouth.

He was hard and ready for her but she was not, not yet, for all her impassioned struggles to press him between her parted thighs. He rolled them again and caught her hips, pressing them against the mattress as his mouth trailed over her abdomen, licking and suckling a moist path across her skin until he reached her navel. His tongue darted in, pressing and she gasped, hands catching his hair.

Her soft cry urged him onward and he kissed lower, tracing the hollows of her hips before tracking more kisses along her pelvic line.

"Duncan... please...," Now she was begging and he looked up to see the taut strain in her face, breasts straining upward. Her emotions and nerves were ready but he touched her, the moistness between her thighs barely there. Even the feel of that faint silken fluid brought an ache to his groin. Suddenly, he wanted to feel her wrapped around him and his mouth slipped lower, tongue tasting the first presence of femininity. Anne gasped, thighs spreading wider and her knees bending. He rose up to capture her exhale with his mouth, fingers probing, shifting, teasing. Stroking upward between the soft cleft and feeling her shudder in response. She reached for him, eyes dilated and shining, pressing against the coaxing fingers. He pulled her up--and himself--until she straddled his bent knees, tight fanny resting firmly on his thighs.

His mouth fastened on the tender skin of her throat as he continued to stroke and was rewarded by the wash of warmth, liquid heat soothing his fingers and slicking them. He caught her hips again, and held her eyes as he lifted her slightly, her hands moving to help guide him. Her dark eyes almost closed as he pressed against her. The throbbing pulse of blood in his cock made more pronounced by her trembling hand.

Anne was mesmerized by the dark eyes as she felt Duncan ease within her. She was desperate to look away from the intensity in his gaze but she could not. Her breath caught as the first ache of penetration began. Then groaned aloud when he held her, forcing their joining to be slow, allowing her time to adjust to his size, to the stretch his entry caused. It was a slow exquisite torture and her breath began coming in short harsh pants. Nor was his breathing any steadier. Her body began trembling as she clung to him, unable to overcome the gentle strength with which he guided her hips. She could feel his pulse racing under the lips she pressed to his throat, her own barely outpacing his. Then he was inside her and she moaned again, squirming a little, her breath catching in a series of short, vocal gasps. The shock and sense of pressure eased and she moved, saw the wash of emotion cross his features and was torn between watching him and giving into her feelings.

Then Duncan rose and her vision went dim, deciding the argument for her. Her legs locked around him as he eased her back onto the bed. His weight pressed her down, warmed her, held her still as his hips flexed, his pelvis grinding into her as he pressed inward. He filled her more, stretched her, lifted himself to catch the sensitive nub of flesh between his body and her own.

There was nothing left in the world but the feel of him inside her, around her and on her. Her blood burned, her flesh felt seared and there was not a nerve ending in her body that wasn’t screaming with sensation. His head dropped to her shoulder as the thrusts became stronger and faster, pressing deeper. She felt the surge build. His name was on her lips and she moaned, turning her face to his hair and holding on because she had strength for nothing else. Her body tightened and she cried out again, curling around him.

Hot silk and stormy seas. The imagery was in his brain, in every cell of his body where Anne’s skin pressed to his. She was open to him, body welcoming him without reserve. Her body had softened and relaxed to accommodate him and he slipped easily into the warm channel. He felt her muscles clench around him and release, a caress as sweet as that of her mouth against his throat. He groaned against her shoulder, wanting to hold back, to take his time. His body and hers had other ideas and he found himself quickening his strokes as her legs flexed to drive him inside her, harder and deeper.

He felt her spasm and clutch at him tightly. A small choked gasp escaped her as her orgasm began. He willed himself to slow down, body and mind straining against the control, but the control brought him with her as she spasmed again, each ripple of response accompanied by a soft cry. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and he felt himself slip over the edge and into the warm sea. Her orgasm washed over him, met his own as he lost restraint, body pumping into her, pulsing his fill into the deepest reaches of her body. He held her tightly, eyes shut tightly as the waves continued until he drew a shuddering breath, and felt dizzy from the sudden onset of oxygen into his brain.

Anne still held him but not as tightly. He eased his weight back, body still flushed and trembling and she clutched at him, legs locking once more to keep him inside her. <> She had neither breath or strength for the words, nor the coherency to make any sense. He held her and gently rolled to the side, taking her with him and settled her more comfortably against him as his breathing evened, warming her forehead, fluttering her hair.

Slowly she let her grip ease but not vanish. She shifted and felt him swell within her ever so slightly, the soft moan bringing a smile to her lips.

"That’s nice...," she murmured against his throat and felt him chuckle softly.

"So it is. This is nicer," he added softly, nuzzling her hairline and pressing kisses along the damp skin.

It was. Anne knew it and was already missing it. She hadn’t had so generous a lover in ...well...ever. Her brain went flying again as she thought about her decision, squirming closer to Duncan to absorb his heat and his scent. She wanted to memorize his body and the feel of his skin, the scent of his hair. His taste. The comforting and devastating feel of his strength and masculinity sheathed deep within her. Almost...

Almost enough.

But it wasn’t. Her feelings for Duncan echoed through her in a sense of protectiveness. It was one thing to fight for a life because you were trained and skilled enough to be a doctor. It was another to be forced to kill for the same reasons.

Life and Death. Love and Hatred. She had already tossed her coin in the air--the moment she picked up her diploma. She couldn’t hate and fight for lives at the same time. Without arrogance she knew the lives she could save were worth as much or if not more than the love she was losing.

"I will always love you," she said softly and heard his breath catch just before he kissed her again, saying the same thing without words. He held her tightly and then, before she could ask began moving within her again.

There would be no regrets. Only joy for this one night before all their dreams and hopes were blown away with the winds of fate.

-end-

[dubiousbystander]

She always writes well.

Author's Notes:
THIS IS R RATED: For Sex. This is a simple SWP piece written by request: It has nothing to do with anything else I have written and came as sort of a challenge to: A Prove I do straight sex as well as slash. B Give Duncan a little equal time C My personal tribute to Dr. Anne...whom I adore. (Just not more than Methos *grin*)
SO JUDI, WHEREVER YOU ARE--THIS ONE’S FOR YOU!!

[Nicholas Ward]

The Island by genteelrebel


~MacLeod's Island, Pacific Northwest , 2015~

Joe Dawson, retired Watcher, not-retired-in-spite-of-his-arthritis blues musician, and ever faithful chronicler of the Immortal Duncan MacLeod, eased his body into the little two-oar boat with great hesitation. Damn it, he'd known there was more than one reason why he'd avoided Mac's cabin all these years. The boat rocked awkwardly under his body, sending a little thrill of nausea through his stomach. "Relax, Joe," MacLeod said as he pulled on the oars, nodding at the place where Joe's knuckles clenched on the boat's edge. "I've haven’t lost one yet."

"There's always a first time," Joe retorted.

It really was funny. The lake had looked so...peaceful...when Joe was standing firmly on dry land. Now that the shore was rapidly dwindling behind him, it took on all the terror of an abyss. MacLeod, of course, was annoyingly immune to the effect. He grinned at Joe, the muscles under his sweatshirt bunching as he rowed. "Well, in that case, I'll just get a chance to practice my life guarding skills," Duncan teased. "I am fully qualified, you know."

"Yeah, but that was several decades before the bikini was invented," Joe said. "Coney Island, wasn't it?" MacLeod smirked and nodded. Joe folded his arms protectively over his chest. "I've seen the pictures in your Chronicle. You were dressed in a long woolen swimsuit, a flapper on each arm. No thanks, Mac. I'd rather stay dry."

Needing to distract himself from the gentle *slap, slap* sound of the water against the boat's hull, Joe stared at the opposite shore. The cabin grew larger and larger as MacLeod's powerful strokes carried them across the water, and Joe realized that the old house looked better than ever. Duncan had done a lot of renovations over the past few years, in an effort to please his extraordinarily fussy life partner. The cabin was larger now, but only an experienced Watcher like Joe really would have noticed. The remodels blended so seamlessly with the rest of the house that it was difficult to tell where the old cabin ended and the new sections began. "Mac, where's Methos?"

"Ah, another man who doesn't trust my rowing," MacLeod said mournfully. "You know how he is about water, Joe. He threatened to hire a helicopter to air-lift him in the first time he brought me here. And he *did* make me hire one when we moved in his library." Joe chuckled. "But don't worry. He's at the house, probably pacing back and forth impatiently as he waits for your arrival." Duncan considered. "Unless he's dusting. Again."

"Dusting?" Joe made a game try at imagining the World's Oldest Slacker with a dust cloth in his hand. He failed miserably. "As in, cleaning?"

"Exactly." Duncan nodded. "He's been driving me crazy all week, Joe. You know the drill: cleaning behind the stove, dusting behind all the books on the shelves, that sort of thing. Seems he wants everything to be perfect for a certain Watcher's visit."

"He's afraid I'm going to write up the dust bunnies for your Chronicle?"

Mac laughed. "Hardly. He just wants you to feel at home. You guys have been e-mail buddies for too long, I think. He can't wait to actually be in the same room with you again."

"Huh." Joe shook his head wonderingly. "I think you guys have been on Holy Ground for too many years, Mac. If Methos is getting so desperate for a real live human to annoy that he'd actually do housework...well, you both need to get out more."

"Oh, you'd be surprised, Joe," MacLeod said easily. "It's been good for us, leaving the real world behind. We both needed a vacation from the Game. You know that." Joe nodded soberly--he did, indeed. He just hadn't expected it to last for more than a decade. "Besides," Mac continued. "Technology is truly an amazing thing. With the new satellite up-link, Methos can annoy people on all seven continents face to face. In real time." Duncan gave a final mighty pull on the oars, and the little boat shot over the last few feet of water to the shore. He leaned towards Joe conspiratorially. "You'd be amazed at the number of universities that have banned all transmissions from the Pacific Northwest."

Joe groaned. "Don't tell me he's trying to correct history *again*."

"You got it." Duncan jumped out of the boat. He wrapped the boat's anchoring rope several times around a nearby tree, then proceeded to help Joe make the awkward transition back to land, wrapping his arms around the aging Watcher and carrying him bodily to the gravel shore. Joe heaved a hefty sigh of relief as his prostheses once again settled back on dry land. "His latest crusade is to get Academia in general to acknowledge that it wasn't the Chinese who invented stirrups after all,” Duncan said. “Seems the actual invention was made by the Scythians in the third century BC."

"Well, I guess he ought to know," Joe said under his breath. He turned toward the cabin. The front door was already open. And a very familiar tall, spare form was lounging casually against the frame.

A heavy weight that Joe hadn't even realized he'd been carrying suddenly lifted. Lord knew, Joe had had his doubts about coming here. In fact, he'd been avoiding this visit for more than ten years. He’d been terrified that seeing Methos and MacLeod together would hurt too much, would cause scabs he'd carefully held in place for years to tear and bleed. But at the sight of Methos, handsome and unchanged and looking ever so slightly anxious, something warm and peaceful flooded Joe’s heart. It *was* good to be here, good to see the old man, even if...well, even if some of the things Joe had once dreamed about could never be. He'd often wondered if he'd die without ever seeing Methos again.

MacLeod finished tending to the boat. He settled his big hand over Joe's shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's go home."

"Yeah," Joe said, blinking back the sudden mist of tears in his eyes. "Let's do that." Mac picked up his baggage, and Joe started making his slow way up the path.

***

Joe's welcome to the Island was better than he could have hoped for. The hug that Methos gave him as soon as Joe set foot on the porch was warm, familiar, and completely unashamed. Christ, but the old man was actually glad to see him, after all! Joe could almost feel Mac beaming as he stood behind them, Joe's bags dangling from the capable Highland hands. Joe let himself swim in the happy feeling of being wanted. It might not have been perfection, but it sure was damn close…

At least it was until Methos pulled back out of the embrace and took his first real look at him. Joe could clearly see the shock that came into the oldest Immortal's eyes. "My god, Joe," Methos said. "You look like hell. What's wrong?"

"Methos!" MacLeod exclaimed. He followed the word with a groan.

Joe forced a smile. Well, that was the difference between the two Immortals in a nutshell, wasn't it? The Highlander had said nothing about Joe's weight loss and thinning hair. No doubt Duncan had thought it was simply part of the normal mortal aging process, and was much too polite to comment. Methos, on the other hand, had been a doctor, and he had never let mere politeness stop him from saying *anything*. Shit! Joe knew he was going to have to have this conversation sooner or later, but he would be damned if he would let Methos start it now, on the very doorstep! "Not a thing," Joe said, forcibly cheerful. "The years just aren't as kind to me as they are to you, remember? Although--" he swept his eyes over the Immortal form, letting his gaze linger pointedly on Methos's slightly rounded stomach-- "it seems to me that I detect a bit of middle-aged spread on you too, old man. What's the matter? Spent too many years in luxury?"

Methos had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "It's Mac's cooking," he said, stepping back. "He can't take my head on holy ground, so he's trying to kill me slowly with eggs and bacon."

"I thought the Surgeon General announced cholesterol was actually good for you sometime last year."

"In small amounts, yes. But remember, Mac comes from a culture that thought haggis was the height of culinary subtlety. He's come a long way over the centuries, but he still believes that if you can't drown it in lard, it isn't real food. "

"Don't believe him, Joe!" MacLeod interrupted. "Methos does most of the cooking around here. His problem is that he spends too much time in front of that damned computer screen instead of chopping wood."

"It's not like we need that much wood, not anymore," Methos retorted. "The new solar panels keep us quite toasty. We wouldn't need a woodpile at all if you didn't have this fetish about fire gazing."

"*My* fetish? Seems to me that you are the one who always..."

The gentle bickering brought a sharp pain to Joe's heart, even as the familiarity of it made him smile. God. It was almost like the last decade had never happened at all. If only... He cleared his throat. "Gentlemen?"

Methos and Duncan stopped in mid argument. "What is it, Joe?" they chorused.

"What's a man got to do to get a drink around here?"

As expected, the question brought both Immortals squarely back to the present. Methos grinned mischievously. "Well, usually I make Mac take off his..."

"Meth-os!" The word was a warning.

"But for you, we'll gladly make an exception," Methos finished. He tucked his arm through Joe's. "Come on, Joe. I'll give you the ten-cent tour, and then we'll go see what the wine cellar holds."

They walked through the doorway together.

***

It didn't take very long for Methos to give the promised tour. Joe dutifully ooed and ahhed over Methos's ultra modern office, the slightly less modern but unbelievably cozy kitchen, Mac's gym, and finally the vast underground wine cellar. There, at least, Joe's enthusiasm didn't have to be feigned. "Holy Cow!" Joe said, when he'd blown enough dust off the bottles to realize just what he was looking at it. "A single bottle of this could pay for a year of college for my oldest grandson. Even allowing for inflation by the time he gets there."

"Just how is little Joe doing?" Methos asked. He was crouching over a crate of beer in one corner, pulling staples with a crowbar while Joe wandered the shelves. "He's what, six years old now? Seven?"

"Try thirteen." Methos stared at him, mouth open. Joe smiled. "Yeah, I know. Think how I feel. It seems like just yesterday that Amy was getting married, and now I'm the grandfather of three. Time does have this way of flying by, doesn't it?"

"Tell me about it," Methos said wryly. Joe went back to inspecting the shelves. He thought about the ten-year-old bottle of Scotch he had safely hidden in the bottom of his bags, brought as a very late housewarming gift. Joe knew that both Mac and Methos would value it, but there was no point in embarrassing himself by bringing it out now. Maybe he'd leave it on his pillow when he left, and the couple could use it to toast his memory 100 years from now. Joe touched the cellar shelves tenderly, comforted by the thought that something of himself would stay here after his death.

"If you're not in the mood for wine or beer, we do have some harder stuff along the north wall," Methos called. "Scotch, bourbon, gin. Nothing's too good for your first meal on the Island."

Joe shook his head softly. "Nah, wine will be just fine," he said. "I'm not even supposed to have that. My arthritis pills all have great big yellow labels warning me against drinking alcohol. But I can hardly turn down an opportunity like this, now can I?" He rotated a few bottles so he could read the labels. A soft oath slipped out when he read the date on a dusty bottle of port.

"Which one are you looking at?" Methos asked. He left the beer crate to peer over Joe's shoulder, than smiled nostalgically. "Ah. Yes. That was one of mine."

Joe raised his eyebrows. He'd known that the Highlander had been a wine collector for years, but somehow he'd never imagined Methos as being the kind of person who carted bottles from place to place. *Must have had a secret stash when he was living in Paris,* Joe thought to himself. *Starving graduate student Adam Pierson, my…* "Yours?"

"Ours, now." The nostalgic look deepened. "Mac and I combined collections about five years ago."

"Wow." Joe whistled under his breath, thinking of the dollar value such a combination could represent. "I never would have thought you'd let a collection like this become community property, Methos. Is that the Immortal equivalent of a formal wedding ceremony?"

Methos grinned. "Something like that."

"He's still holding out on me, though," MacLeod called from the kitchen, his voice drifting down the cellar steps. "He's got a first edition 'Huckleberry Finn' stashed in a bank in Munich that he refuses to let me touch."

"I told you, MacLeod! You don't get your hands on my Twain until you build me a proper library!" Methos shouted back up the stairs, then looked sheepishly at Joe. "Sorry, Joe. Long-standing argument."

"Good god, man!" MacLeod's voice boomed from above. "I built yew an office with my own two hands, cutting and hewing every board..."

"Oh, lord. Not the Highland accent." Methos rolled his eyes. "He'll be going on about the running water and the Intranet in a minute."

"...complete with yer own damn bathroom and a dozen wireless hotspots..."

"What did I tell you?"

"...what more can yew possibly *want*, man?" The tirade ended abruptly as both Methos and Joe started laughing. A flushed Highland face appeared at the top of the stairs, spoon in one hand. (Despite his earlier protests to the contrary, Duncan had somehow ended up doing the cooking.) "All right, all right," Mac said, his voice dropping back to its more normal tones as he addressed his lover. "So I'm predictable. It's why you love me, you know. Quit laughing and pick out a wine, all right? Supper's almost ready."

***

In the end, they "liberated" a very fine old cabernet and several bottles of beer. The dinner MacLeod cooked was exquisite, with only Joe's repetitive feelings of deja vu to mar the occasion. It was eerie, and a little bit frightening, how easily Joe could imagine no time had passed at all. The two faces across the table had been unchanging for centuries, after all. Joe didn't even have to close his eyes to imagine they were back in Le Blues or Joe's Bar in Seacouver, sharing a friendly drink after surviving the latest Immortal crisis. Only his body reminded him that more than a decade had passed.

They retired to the living room after supper. Joe found himself drowsing in his chair as he watched his friends pursue their usual after-dinner pursuits: Mac knelt at the coffee table as he expertly cleaned and cared for his long un-used katana, Methos quietly muttered over some papers on his desk in a corner. Joe wanted to stay awake and talk, but he was very tired after his trip. The Island's quiet combined with the gentle rhythms of his friends' work--oiled cloth slipping over blade, pages crackling as they turned--conspired to lull Joe into drowsiness. He didn't fall asleep, not exactly, but his body grew warm and sluggish while his head grew heavy. He let it drop onto his shoulder while his mind drifted into the past, thinking about how the cozy domestic scene before him had come to be.

Duncan and Methos. God, there was a time when Joe had never thought he'd see the two of them standing in the same room without swords drawn, much less sharing more than a decade of domestic bliss. After the death of Liam O'Rourke, the two had gone for years without speaking. Joe had never been quite sure what had happened, but MacLeod's affection and patience for the old Immortal, shaky since the Horsemen's death, had suddenly evaporated. Several arguments had resulted in month after month of cold silence. Eventually Methos had given up altogether, killed off Adam Pierson, and moved to London to start a new life. For his part, Duncan had gone back to the States, starting a branch of Connor's antique shop in San Francisco that kept him out of Paris for much of the year. It seemed that the two could easily go through the rest of Joe's life without ever meeting again.

Oddly, it was during that time that Joe and Methos had become their closest. Joe smiled sleepily as he remembered. Now that he was old, he could afford to be sentimental about it: those years were some of the best of his life. Methos could easily have dropped him completely when he changed identities, but he hadn't. Joe had started teaching at the Paris Academy after the Watchers had formally retired him from the field, and Methos would cross the channel at least twice a month to spend weekends with him. The chess games, the beer binges, and the jokes they shared were all the stuff of very happy memories.

Then came 2002, and the Challenge to the MacLeods from Jacob Kell. Duncan had been devastated after Connor's death, close to suicidal. Joe and Methos had barely managed to get him away from that Kate woman before she took his head. "It's not good," Methos had told Joe, one long night when a full case of scotch imbibed by the Highlander and the resulting drunken sleep had been the only thing keeping Duncan from cutting off his own head, taking Methos's, or both. "He simply will not see that he has to go on."

"You've got to get him to holy ground," Joe answered. "He's in no condition to face a Challenge."

"I'd love to, but where? Running away to a monastery is not exactly an option in his current state, Joe."

"There's the Island." Even then, Joe had always imagined the word with a capital I. It was that special a place. "Mac's always gone there when he needed to retreat. I think you should take him."

"I don't know, Joe. He's mourning Connor, and according to his Chronicle Connor visited the Island more than once. There might be memories..."

"There are going to be memories wherever he looks, Methos. Hell, the sum total of Connor's being is inside him now. He can't get away from it. Let him go someplace safe while he figures out what to do with it."

"All right." Methos looked grimly determined. "I'll take him, and try to stay with him until he comes to his senses. We may very well kill each other before the first day is out, but..."

"Just as long as it isn't the permanent sort of killing, Methos. I'm willing to accept anything else."

So Methos had swept Duncan away to his Island, and the rest was history. Evidently, Duncan wasn't the only one who came to his senses during that retreat. Sometime during the very eventful weeks that followed, Duncan and Methos finally acknowledged the attraction they'd had for years, and figured out what they needed to do to live with it. The next thing Joe knew, Methos had announced that he was moving in with Duncan, permanently.

Joe had held his breath. It was years before he could open his door without expecting see either Methos, freshly slung out and sarcastic, or Duncan, freshly abandoned and fuming, standing on his front step. But whatever difficulties the two Immortals had, they had worked them out. Time passed...

And now it was 2015, and Methos and MacLeod fit together like two halves of the same whole. Their love for each other was so obvious, shimmering in every word and deed. It wasn't an easy thing for Joe to see. Every look of affection that passed between them reminded Joe of just how empty of love his own life had been, of how many years he'd lived with no partner of his own. But there was also a kind of comfort in knowing that type of love really did exist, the type that warmed everyone around it like a cozy fire, even if Joe had never been lucky enough to find it for himself. He was glad he'd come, even if....even if...

Joe relaxed in his chair still further, basking in the feeling of comfort and acceptance that filled the whole house, letting it seep into his muscle and bones. His breathing slowed, and his head slipped forward to his chest.

He was asleep.

***

Duncan MacLeod finished his work on his katana and carefully, reverently, put it away, hanging it in the place of honor by the front door. It still felt strange, hanging the blade on the wall. For so many years, such a display would have been unthinkable. He'd always had to keep the katana within reach, even when sleeping and showering. Now it was different. Duncan never forgot the sword, never allowed dust to gather on the razor sharp edge, but when the blade was cared for he returned it to its place on the wall, instead of slipping it inside his coat or the special sheath beside his mattress. He gave the sword a little pat as he stepped away from the wall, admiring how it looked, safe and secure. The Island truly was a safe place, a refuge from the Game. It pleased MacLeod that his Japanese companion had found a refuge here as well.

The katana hung crossed on the wall with Methos's Ivanhoe. It was an odd combination aesthetically, but the sight of it always pleased MacLeod down to the soul. In his youth, his clansmen's arms were always displayed at the door; having his sword crossed with Methos's meant that they really were home, really were a unit. After so many years of watching Methos pick up and leave for Bora Bora at a moment's notice, Duncan still had to marvel that he'd managed to keep him here for so long. If Methos hadn't come to rescue him from the Sanctuary...if he hadn't stayed when Duncan was crippled from Connor's death...they might never have had the chance to discover their true feelings for each other. And Duncan would have missed out on the truest love of his long life.

Duncan reached for the Ivanhoe and slid it off the wall. Now that the katana was attended to, Methos's blade deserved the same attention. Caring for another Immortal's sword was as intimate an act as making love; it had taken years for Methos to trust him enough to perform this task. Now that Duncan had that trust, he reveled in it, knowing that it meant Methos had truly accepted him as the partner of his life. He sat down by the fire, gently laying the blade across the soft cloths he'd prepared.

From the corner where he was going over the day's translation work, Methos spoke softly, careful not to wake the slumbering Watcher. "Duncan. Something is badly wrong."

Duncan nodded as he straightened out his tools, making sure everything was easily within reach. He'd known this was coming. "With Joe?" he asked, just to be sure he was following his lover's train of thought. Methos nodded. Duncan sighed. "Yes. Yes, I know."

"You *know*?"

"Well, of course I do." Duncan kept his voice soft, hands busily working over the surface of the blade. "Just because I have the tact not to greet him with 'You look like hell, Joe' doesn't mean I didn't notice."

"I was just so surprised," Methos admitted. "He's changed so much, lost so much weight since we visited him in Paris. I felt like I was hugging a skeleton. He must have lost at least forty pounds..."

"Shhh," Duncan warned, seeing Joe twitch in his chair. They both waited until the old Watcher was breathing regularly again. "More like fifty," Duncan said, even more quietly than before. "I could feel all his ribs when I lifted him out of the rowboat. He's pretty weak, too. I know it's hard for him to walk on uneven ground, especially now that the arthritis in his hips has gotten so bad, but he got out of breath after just ten feet. And he didn't even argue when I picked up his luggage. The old Joe would never have let me get away with that."

"I know. His skin is pale and ashy, too, and his hair..." Methos slammed a hand into his desk, clearly frustrated. "Damn it! Why didn't he tell me when he started the chemotherapy? I could have done something. My clinical training is long out of date, but I could have talked to his doctors. Could have made sure he was getting the best care..."

"Chemotherapy?" Now it was Duncan’s turn to be shocked. "You think Joe has cancer?"

"I think there's a good chance. I do know the signs, Duncan."

Duncan nodded shakily. In addition to his medical training, Methos had watched Alexa die of the disease, and who knew how many other friends and lovers before that. If anyone was capable of a diagnosis on sight, it was Methos. "Tomorrow I'll call Amy, find out who Joe’s primary care physician is," Methos said quietly. "It's possible that 'Doctor Adams' might be able to pull some strings, get more information than a layman could. There might still be something I can do." He took a deep breath. "At the very least, it'll be good to know what the official diagnosis is. Who knows. I might even find out that I'm wrong." He stared into the room's large stone fireplace, watching the flames flicker. "But if I'm not..."

He didn't have to finish the sentence. Duncan laid the sword down, unable to speak, knowing that his shaking hands would not allow him to continue his painstaking work. Methos got up and walked to his side, gently pulling Duncan's head to his chest. Duncan let his tears well up, comforted by Methos's closeness. "Oh, god, Duncan," Methos murmured into his hair. "I've lost too many like this."

"Aye, love. I know. I know." Duncan pulled away, wiping at his eyes. They looked at the snoring Watcher, so suddenly, frighteningly frail; he truly was nothing at all like the robust man they both so clearly remembered. "At least...if you're right...then it explains the way he looks. I couldn't believe how much he'd changed when I saw him. It made me think decades had passed instead of just a few years."

"We’ve both been out of the world a long time, Duncan," Methos reminded him. "It's easy to forget how quickly the years can pass for mortals."

"Yes." Mac looked up at his lover. "Methos...if it's true...why didn't he say anything to us about it earlier? We would have understood."

"Does it really matter?" Methos's hands made slow, comforting circles on Duncan's back. "I'm more worried about why he decided to say something now."

"He already told you then? But I thought..."

"No. No, my love. Joe hasn't said a word to me that you haven't heard." Methos lifted a hand to gesture helplessly at the room. "But he's *here*, made the trip for the first time in nearly a dozen years, even though we invite him practically every month. Why come now? Today?" He returned his hands to Duncan's shoulders. "There has to be a reason."

Duncan swallowed hard. "You think he's dying," he said. "That he came to say goodbye."

"Yes."

The word seemed so terrible, so final. Duncan's tears started falling freely. Methos held him while they did, silent, comforting. At last Duncan recovered enough to be able to speak. "Methos? What are we going to do?"

"Well, first we're going to get Joe into a comfortable bed," Methos answered with the smallest trace of humor. "His back will never recover if we let him sleep all night in that chair. Then...we're going to go find a comfortable bed for ourselves." The ancient's voice softened. "I need to feel you hold me."

Duncan nodded. He needed Methos to hold him as well, give him reassurance while he tried to make peace with this. But something made him ask the next question. "And in the morning?"

"That can wait until the morning." Methos dropped a kiss on Duncan 's forehead.. "Come, Duncan. Joe needs you...and then I'll need you." He walked to the Watcher's side and spoke loudly. "Joe? Joe? Time to get you to bed, old friend. The pillows are waiting."

Joe woke up just enough to grumble at them, but he didn't resist. They both put an arm under each of Joe's shoulders and helped him stumble to the guestroom.

***

Methos's early morning call to Amy did not go well.

This was really only to be expected. Not only had Joe's militantly traditional Watcher daughter never condoned Joe's relationship with the two Immortals, Methos had also called at an ungodly early hour. The last thing Methos wanted was for Joe to wake up early and overhear the conversation. And really, Methos thought wryly after listening to Amy's sharp, clipped voice for several minutes, he honestly wouldn't have minded sleeping through it himself. Amy clearly thought that he and Duncan were going to get Joe's head chopped off, or at the very least let him go out in the cold without a sweater. Well, he could turn that suspicion to his own advantage. "Listen, Amy," he said sorrowfully, knowing perfectly well that she would believe any story that revolved around his and Duncan's incompetence. "I did something incredibly stupid this morning. I knocked Joe's arthritis prescription into the sink..."

Her "I knew it" sniff was music to Methos's ears. Duncan, who was sitting just out of sight of the video phone's camera, grinned broadly. "Yes, it was very careless of me," Methos said humbly. "The worst part if it was that the lid wasn't quite screwed on. All the pills went down the drain..." This time the sniff was a gasp. "I've called the local pharmacy of course, but they won't refill it without Joe's doctor's authorization. I was wondering if you could get me his doctor's phone number...no, no, there's no need for you to call. I know how hard it is to get hold of medical professionals these days. There's no need to waste your valuable time just because of my mistake...yes, just the number of his primary care physician. Thank you, Amy. Give my best to little Joe and the girls."

Methos wrote down the number and hung up. Duncan tickled him lightly in the ribs. "You, my love, are devious."

"Which is why you love *me*," Methos returned. His fingers hesitated over the keypad. "Duncan ? Maybe you could go get us some breakfast. I wasn't lying when I bitched to Amy about how hard it is to contact doctors these days. I'll probably be playing phone tag with nurses and receptionists for the next hour at least."

"Sounds like a plan." Duncan went down to the kitchen to fix orange juice and eggs, making sure Joe was still soundly asleep as he passed the Watcher's room. When he returned to the office, Methos was frowning, deeply involved in a conversation that involved more medical jargon than Duncan could follow, even with his military medic's training. He set the plate and glass down at his lover's side and gently rubbed one of Methos's tense shoulders. Then he sat down to wait for the conversation to return to English.

Eventually, it did. "All right, Doctor," Methos said. "It does sound like you've done everything you can. Thank you. Joe's very important to us. We greatly appreciate the care you've taken of him."

"No thanks is necessary, Doctor," said the light female voice at the other end of the phone. Duncan peeked at the screen to see a handsome young woman with long dark hair. "Joe's a good friend of mine, too. Did you know that right after he was diagnosed, he came by the wards to play his guitar for the other patients? Got everyone singing along, too. It was some of the most amazing music I'd ever heard."

"That sounds just like him," Methos agreed, and only Duncan heard the slight tremor in the words. Out of sight of the camera, he took his lover's hand. Methos cleared his throat. "Ah. Doctor Robin. Just between you and me...do you have a time span in mind?"

"Now, now, Doctor," Dr. Robin chided. "You know better than that. AMA guidelines are quite clear these days. We don't give time limits any more. The patients have a tendency to take our guesses for Higher Truth, and that makes them give up when they really should be fighting. But if you promise to keep this just between you and me..." Her voice lowered. "He ought to have four more months. That might stretch to six, and when it comes to Joe Dawson's will to live, I wouldn't have any difficulty in believing in seven or eight. But four is about average for this stage in the disease."

"Thank you, Doctor Robin," Methos said gratefully. "That's all I needed to know."

"As I said, it's no problem," the woman answered. "Feel free to call me anytime you have any more questions. And..." she hesitated. "Take good care of Joe, all right? He's special."

"I know. We will."

They exchanged good-byes, and Methos ended the call. He leaned back wearily in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "Well," he said. "You heard."

"Four months." Duncan shook his head softly. "My, god, Methos. That's no time at all!"

"It's actually a fairly optimistic prognosis," Methos said sourly. "Dr. Robin told me that Joe's been in treatment off and on for the last three years. He's already done several rounds of chemo and radiation therapy. He could have done one more, but everyone pretty much agreed it was pointless."

"I'll go wake him up," Duncan said, starting to rise.

Methos frowned. "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"To talk to him," Duncan said, startled that Methos would even have to ask. "We've got to tell him that we know."

Methos grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare," he said.

And the argument began.

Methos's position was simple. If Joe hadn't told them about his illness so far, it must be because he had a good reason not to tell them. Forcing the issue would only cause him more pain. Duncan's position was also simple: he thought Methos's argument was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Friends told each other the truth, didn’t they? If Joe wouldn't bring it up, then they had to. Besides, what reason could Joe possibly have for keeping them in the dark?

"I don't know, but he's been doing it for more than three years now," Methos retorted. "Whatever his reasons are, they've been strong enough to keep him silent all this time. Duncan, rushing in and demanding the exposure of a secret this powerful NEVER works out. Haven't you learned *anything* from me?"

Duncan flinched. Methos had scored a direct hit. "Maybe I haven't learned enough," he admitted. "But Methos...what do we *do*?"

"See to it that Joe has the best vacation he's ever had," Methos answered. "Just like we originally planned. Feed him, sing with him, talk to him. Just keep your big fat Highland mouth shut about this one little detail, all right? When Joe's ready to talk, he'll talk."

Duncan didn't like it. Keeping silent about something as important as this was against his entire nature. But...his irritating, annoying, and sometimes surprisingly wise lover did have a point. Duncan's habit of rushing in where angels feared to tread *did* sometimes cause more pain than it relieved. He bit his lip for a moment, then let it go. "All right," he said. "I'll keep quiet. But I still don't understand. If Joe doesn't want us to know about the cancer, why did he even come?

"He's looking for something," Methos said matter-of-factly. "That's why he came to us."

"Looking for something?" Duncan thought hard, then looked horrified. "Not...you don't think...Immortality?

"Of course not! Duncan, how could that thought even cross your mind? Joe's been a Watcher a long time. He knows that's impossible. And even if it wasn't--" Methos paused, and Duncan knew he was thinking of the Methuselah stone, and his abortive attempt to save Alexa-- "he'd turn it down." A sigh. "He's a very wise man, our Joseph."

"Yes. He is," Duncan agreed. "All right. So he doesn't want to be Immortal. What could he possibly be looking for, then?"

"If I knew that, don't you think I'd have already given it to him by now?" Methos snapped, his patience at an end. Duncan flushed, instantly ashamed of himself. Methos rested his forehead in his palm for a tired instant, then looked at Duncan with an apology in his eyes. "Don't worry, Mac," he said. "We'll figure it out. Or else Joe will tell us, as soon as he knows what it is himself." Methos’s jaw hardened. "I won't let him leave without it."

His lover's expression of determination touched Duncan greatly. Methos, unlike Duncan, only rarely adopted another as his own. But when he did, his need to protect and provide was just as great as the Highlander's. "*We* won't let him leave without it," he said quietly, reminding, and Methos bent his head in acknowledgement. "But Methos, we don't have much time to figure it out. We only have another week before he's supposed to go home to Amy and the grandkids."

"I'll hide the boat."

***

Duncan did his best. Over the next several days he became a dedicated disciple of the ancient and sadly under-appreciated art of Keeping One's Mouth Shut and One's Thoughts To One's Self. The Highlander said nothing when Joe repeatedly fell asleep right after dinner, and retired to his room for a nap after each lunch. He said nothing when, after the first night's celebratory meal, Joe hardly ate enough to sustain a bird. He said nothing when he walked into the guest room and accidentally saw Joe sorting through a truly staggering collection of vitamins and pills. It was difficult, far more difficult than he'd ever imagined, but Duncan kept quiet. And in return, Joe stayed quiet, too.

As the week wore on, Duncan began to believe Methos might just have to hide the boat after all. Joe, despite his unusual fatigue, seemed to be doing his best to appear unchanged. He laughed and joked just as he had in the old days and entertained them with his guitar, even sang horrible duets with Methos. Duncan often had to shake his head at this last, which usually involved "creative" renditions of Monty Python songs. "All right," he said one afternoon when the "wit" had been flowing rather freely. "I can just barely appreciate the fact that an allegedly human mind came up with "Every Sperm is Sacred." What I can't understand is why both of you would have memorized all the words--and felt it necessary to create new verses."

"Why, Mac, 'Every Sperm is Sacred' is one of the world's great protest songs," Methos answered, wounded. "It's an incredibly brave, albeit satirical, statement against Western culture's reproductive double standards. Future generations will place it right up there with 'Where Have all the Flowers Gone'."

"It's a regular 'We Shall Overcome,'" Joe contributed.

"Exactly." Methos nodded. "Your problem, Duncan MacLeod, is that you don't appreciate true culture."

"Fine, fine." Duncan was not about to get drawn into yet another 'opera versus Queen' debate. He never, ever won. "I'm an uncultured barbarian child. I know. You've told me. But would you please have mercy on my ear drums and sing something else?"

Methos sighed theatrically. "I guess that means "The Spam Song" is out of the question, Joe."

"Awwww." Joe feigned disappointment, then grinned wolfishly. "All right. We'll just have to pick another classic. Do you know anything by the Beejees?"

"No, no, no!" Duncan waved his arms so hard that his own seat was seriously threatened. "Absolutely not. No disco. Do that, and I'll cut off Methos's beer supply."

Two pairs of eyes consulted each other in the firelight. "Oh dear," Methos said in a low tone. "I think he means it."

"Yeah." Joe nodded. "I think he does."

"We'd better stick to a true classic, then. From a group even Mac can agree contained some of the finest songwriters of the twentieth century." He stood up. "Beatles, Joe. Key of A flat."

Joe obligingly struck the chord. It hummed in the room for a moment, and then Methos began to sing. "When I get older, losing my hair...*many* years from now...

Both Duncan and Joe laughed aloud at the wry twist Methos gave to the word "many". Joe picked up the tune. Appeased, Duncan relaxed into his chair, listening as Methos's light clear tenor filled the room:

"Will you still be sending me a Valentine?

Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

If I'd been out 'til quarter to three,

Would you lock the door?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me,

When I'm sixty-four?"

Methos had a startlingly good singing voice, one Duncan heard all too rarely. He listened as Methos sang of the idyllic Lonely Hearts Club retirement: "Doing the garden, digging the weeds--who could ask for more?" and chuckled softly when Methos winked at him. The old Immortal much preferred reading to gardening, and getting Methos to pull weeds was even harder than getting him to chop wood. When the song ended, Duncan applauded loudly. So did Joe.

Methos bowed modestly. "Thank you, thank you. You're much too kind," he said. "Well, Highlander? Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Need me? Feed me? Other verbs that end in 'eed', even if I can't think of any at this moment?"

"You know I will," Duncan answered. "Although, the song says 'sixty four', not 'five thousand and sixty-four', old man."

"What about six thousand and sixty-four?"

"The answer will still be yes."

"You know, when I first heard Sergeant Pepper's in 1967, sixty-four seemed like an impossible old age," Joe said suddenly. His voice was surprisingly husky. Duncan frowned. After the humor that had been flowing through the room, Joe's sober tone came like a dash of cold water. "Now that I'm on the other side of it, it feels like sixty-four was just the beginning of things." He cleared his throat. "Methos?"

Methos hadn't missed the Watcher's change of mood, either. He looked worried. "Yes, Joe?"

"Let me have a solo."

Duncan and Methos exchanged glances. Methos shook his head ever so slightly, and Duncan pressed his lips firmly closed. "Sure thing, Joe," Methos said agreeably, but Duncan knew he was just as apprehensive as he was. "What are you going to sing?"

"Another classic. You'll recognize it in a single bar." Joe laboriously wrestled his guitar back into position, grunting as he lifted the instrument onto his lap. Duncan almost stood up to help, but a look from Methos stopped him. Joe played a few notes of introduction. Methos stiffened. Duncan frowned--he thought he recognized the light, simple melody, but he wasn't sure. Then Joe began to sing:

"Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away.

Now--I need a place to hide away.

Oh, I believe in Yesterday."

Duncan froze. He looked over at Methos. The old Immortal was sitting on the edge of his chair, his face a mask of shock. Duncan could sympathize. The song had always touched him deeply--it touched every Immortal whose heart was still capable of feeling--but tonight, knowing what he and Methos did, it was almost too much. The Highlander's breath actually got caught in his chest; it seemed he might never get it to move freely again. He stared, and listened, too shaken even to cry.

"Suddenly

I'm not half the man I used to be.

There's a shadow hanging over me.

Oh, yesterday came suddenly."

Strangely, Joe didn't sound particularly sad. Instead his voice was peaceful, calm, simply telling it the way it was. And maybe there was something else. The small part of Duncan MacLeod's mind that was still capable of thought noticed how often Joe's eyes flickered to Methos, and how the timber of Joe’s voice changed whenever he came to the chorus: "Why she had to go--I don't know, she wouldn't say. I said something wrong--now I long for yesterday." The words seemed to mean something more to Joe than the rest of the song, something Duncan didn't understand. Could Joe have a lost love he was remembering, now that his own life was so close to an end? Then the Highlander saw the old mortal's eyes tear, and suddenly he understood after all.

It was love written on Joe's face.

For Methos.

Joe was in love with Methos.

***

Methos had once told Duncan that some songs were always too short. It didn't matter who was doing the singing, or how many reprises the musicians stuck in. Some things just never lasted long enough. Joe played the final notes, letting them hum away into silence, and Duncan finally understood what his lover had meant. The sudden quiet was almost as harsh as a sword blow. It was terrible, because it was the second such blow Duncan had suffered in the last few minutes: Joe loved Methos. When did he start? How long had this been going on? Mind still reeling from the force of his revelation, Duncan sat in a trance, not really hearing or seeing anything in the room. He didn't hear the way the poignant silence stretched on and on, until Methos suddenly cleared his throat and began a spirited rendition of "Yellow Submarine"; he even missed the way Joe's voice leapt to join Methos in the song, two male voices working hard to sooth away the awkwardness. Duncan had no idea how many songs the pair sang after that or even what their titles were. It was only when the music finally ceased altogether that he came back to himself enough to realize that Joe was speaking. "I think that about does me in for the night, gents," Joe said. "Thanks for a great sing along, Methos, MacLeod. I'm off to bed."

"Bed?" Duncan stared at the clock gently ticking away on the mantel. "But it's only..."

A gentle touch on his arm silenced him. "It *is* getting late," Methos said, and Duncan realized with a pang of shame that Joe's face was gray and exhausted, his hands trembling with fatigue. "Have a good sleep, Joe." Joe nodded. He got to his feet and slowly hobbled from the room. Methos watched him go, then turned to Duncan. "Come, Duncan. I'll help you clean up. Then we'll go to bed too. All right?"

“All right.”

After the music and the laughter, the Immortals' bedroom seemed ridiculously quiet. Duncan undressed quickly, stripping off his clothes and changing into sweats. Methos was standing in front of their bedroom mirror, the strangely preoccupied expression on his face reflected clearly in the glass. Duncan regarded him thoughtfully... then he went over to him, placed broad hands on the pale shoulders, and kissed the elegant, arching neck. Methos leaned back gratefully into the embrace, and Duncan took a moment to breath in the unique scent of his lover's skin. "Thank you, Duncan."

"For what?"

"For not arguing with me about coming to bed early. I know you aren't really tired yet. It's just that when Joe's asleep, the house gets so..."

"Quiet." Duncan finished for him. "I know. It's like that for me, as well."

"Strange that it should be that way when we lived more than a decade on this Island without him," Methos said, irony giving his voice an extra edge. "But now when he's alone in his room the rest of the house gets too quiet to bear." He looked at Duncan sadly. "I keep thinking about the music, Duncan, what a loss it will be to the world when Joe dies. *Why* on earth didn't we ever see to it that the man got a major recording contract before it was too late?"

Duncan smiled. "Did we ever have that kind of power?"

Methos blinked. "No, I guess not. Not really. But back in the 'nineties I still knew some people, from my time with the Stones. I could have tried." The ancient shook his head wearily. "It's such a shame, Duncan. His music ought to be out there for millions to enjoy."

"Joe didn't want that," Duncan answered. "For him it's always been about the songs, not his personality or looks. Turning him into a pop star would have ruined everything he worked for." Methos nodded unhappily and began folding the shirt he'd just taken off. Duncan stroked his shoulder. "I think I finally figured out what he came here for, though."

Methos twisted around to face him, looked up at him eagerly. "What? Does it have something to do with the music? You know, when he was playing tonight, I had this thought..."

"No, Methos. It was nothing to do with the music, the bar or anything else.” Duncan took a deep breath. It had to be said, and now was as good a time as any. “It's you, Methos. He came for you."

Methos gave him a perplexed frown. "Come again?"

"Joe's in love with you. That's why he's here."

The old Immortal did not react to this news as Duncan had anticipated. A spark of anger flared in the beautiful hazel eyes. For a moment Duncan thought Methos was actually going to push him away. Then the old Immortal simply slid out of his arms and walked toward their big antique dresser, fussing with the discarded shirt. "Not funny, MacLeod," he said. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do. I saw the way he was looking at you tonight, Methos. It was written so clearly on his face. He loves you."

The bare, muscled shoulders shrugged. "Yes, all right. He loves both of us. As old friends. Maybe even as brothers. *Nothing* more."

"No. Oh, no, my love. There's a whole lot more to it than that.” Duncan took a few steps forward, needing to be close to him, needing to make him understand. “Joe doesn't look at you the way a man looks at a beloved friend. He looks at you the way a man looks at a lover. And not just any lover. He looks at you the way a man looks at the greatest love of his life." Duncan reached out and touched Methos on the elbow, feeling the oddest combination of love and pain. "It really doesn't surprise me," he said softly. "After all, I look at you the same way."

"Duncan..." Methos held the shirt to his chest for second, as if futilely trying to cover up his nakedness, and then dropped it to the floor. He couldn't seem to come up with anything more to say.

Duncan gently pulled him into his arms. After a moment of stiffness, Methos dropped his head to his shoulder. "I suppose I really should have figured it out sooner," Duncan said conversationally, stroking the smooth dark hair under his fingertips. "When I think back on it, it’s easy to see that Joe has always had a special place in his heart for you. The only really startling thing is that I never noticed how deep those feelings went. I guess I was just so in love with you myself, I never even thought..." He realized that the body in his arms was shaking ever so slightly, and he reached out to tilt Methos's face up with his hand. The pain he saw there shocked him senseless. "Methos?"

"Duncan." Despite his obvious distress, Methos's voice was measured, carefully striving for calm. "I am only going to tell you this one more time. I don't care what you saw, or what you think you know. Joe is not in love with me. And you are never going to mention this subject again. All right?"

"All right?" Duncan was confused. "No, Methos, it is *not* all right. I’ve let you keep me quiet about Joe’s illness, but this is different. We have to talk about it, have to figure out a way to help Joe get through it. It’s going to hurt him a lot when he realizes you don’t feel the same way, but maybe together we can...” Methos's eyes shifted guiltily away, and suddenly Duncan knew everything he needed to. "Oh my god," he said, not quite able to comprehend the meaning of the words but knowing they were true, told by the anguish on Methos's face as clearly as Joe's singing had told him the Watcher's secret earlier. "You do feel the same. You're in love with him, too."

For a moment Methos just looked at him, pain so eloquent Duncan felt his chest ache in sympathy. Then the old Immortal looked down at the old pine floor boards, worn smooth with age and traffic. A single tear rolled down his nose and splashed on the wood by his feet. It was followed by a sob.

Duncan stared. Then he gathered his lover firmly into his arms.

Methos cried with more freedom than any man Duncan had ever known. Duncan sometimes wondered why this was. Could his beloved have grown up in some unthinkably wise culture where male tears were actually honored, instead of forbidden as they had been to a Highland chieftain's son? Or had Methos simply decided to undo his childhood conditioning at some point, knowing that the ability to cry with his whole body and soul would serve him well if he wanted to survive the centuries with his heart intact? He didn't do it often, but when he did the power of his sobs and tremors always left Duncan startled, shaken, and awed by the strength it took to experience such intense emotions so bravely. It also left him wistful. *Maybe, if I don't mess this up and I get to live with you for another few hundred years, you'll teach me how to cry, my love* he thought, using all the formidable strength in his chest and arms to keep Methos upright as he sobbed. *I think it would be a useful thing to know. *

Somehow or other, Duncan managed to get Methos to the bed. He held the shaking body close, not trying to speak or interrupt the storm, just making gentle soothing sounds into Methos’s hair. When the sobs at last started to subside and Methos sat up on his own, Duncan wiped a stray tear from the other man's cheek and looked deeply into his eyes. Part of him didn't want to ask any more questions; part of him just wanted to let the whole issue lie, let Methos gather his grief back into his body and mourn silently, without another word needing to be said. But the other part knew he had to get Methos to talk about it in order to heal, and anyway he couldn't allow his earlier evasions to stand. If their history had taught Duncan anything, it was this: there could be no secrets between them. Not if they wanted their relationship to last. "How long, beloved?" he asked gently. "How long?"

"A long time, Highlander. Since about a decade before you first arrived to complicate my life. Since Adam Pierson's first week at the Watcher Academy, to be exact." The words were shaky, but easy and unrestrained. Duncan felt a tension he hadn't known he was holding suddenly dissipate as he realized Methos wasn't trying to lie. *Thank god*, he thought. *I finally learned how to do the right thing. We're going to be all right after all. God, but that was close.* The dark head swung to face him. "Duncan, you must know this, must believe it in your heart. I swear to you it's true. The moment you appeared to warn me about Kalas, I loved you with all my being. Even during those years when we weren't talking to each other. You were always on my mind..."

"I know, beloved. I know. It was the same for me." Duncan answered. "But that didn't mean I stopped loving Tessa, lost to me as she was...and I know it didn't stop you from loving Alexa. It was only my own blindness that kept me from realizing that you hadn't stopped loving Joe, as well."

"How could you have? I never said a thing to you about it. Not one single thing."

"You shouldn't have had to. Methos, words don't matter, not where you're considered. You're much too good at twisting them. But you can't hide the way you act." Methos opened his mouth, looking like he was about to argue. Duncan stopped him. "I know you, beloved,” he said. “You never lift a finger to help anyone who doesn't matter deeply to you. But you've been helping Joe for as long as I've known you. You looked after him when Richie died, took a head to protect his daughter, kept in touch even after you started your new life in London... and you're still taking care of him, interrogating his doctors even as you fight me to protect his privacy. Methos, it's *obvious*. The only amazing thing is that I didn't see it sooner." Slowly, carefully, Methos nodded his head, teeth gently piercing his bottom lip. Duncan gave Methos's hand a reassuring squeeze. "How did the two of you meet, anyway? Neither of you ever told me."

"Didn’t we?” Duncan shook his head. “I suppose that's because it's really not that exciting a story. Certainly it was nowhere near as dramatic as the events that brought you to my door. It was all absurdly, ridiculously ordinary." Methos wiped at his eyes, flinching as his fingers touched the sensitive, reddened tissue around his nose. In a few moments it would heal, but for now it was still sore, and Duncan winced in mute sympathy. "I was attending my first year Academy orientation. Joe came by to lecture all us new recruits about the joys and perils of field work.” A faint smile touched the old Immortal’s lips. “By the time he left the stage, I was smitten."

"Smitten?"

"Smitten. Intrigued. Captivated. Charmed. Pick any word you like. It will probably apply." Methos sniffled and looked out across the room, brilliant hazel eyes focusing on something Duncan couldn't see. "He was so beautiful, Duncan, so very beautiful. You have no idea."

*No,* Duncan thought. *I don't think I do.* Gently he reached into the bedside table for a handkerchief; Methos jumped when the drawer closed with a bit too loud a noise, but he took the cloth gratefully. "Tell me."

"I'm not sure I can," Methos said honestly. "Joe had a strength, a...a grace that was obvious to everyone who met him, but was almost impossible to describe. He was certainly handsome physically, but there was so much more to it than that. I mean, all you had to do was look at him to realize he'd been terribly hurt by Vietnam, both inside and out… but by the time I met him something had clicked in his head and he'd come to terms with it, in a way very few veterans ever do. He'd made a conscious decision to trade pain for hope, and the results of that decision shone through everything he did. Then there was his passion for the Watchers, his love of books and Immortal history, and finally there was his music..." Methos trailed off, gave Duncan a little apologetic shrug. "I'm sorry. I'm not explaining very well."

"No," Duncan said thoughtfully. "I think you're doing great." He cleared his throat. "Were you ever lovers?”

“Good god, no!”

The vehemence of Methos’s answer startled Duncan. “Why not?” he asked, hardly believing he was really asking the question, but knowing that he had to just the same. “If you felt that way about him…and he felt that way about you…”

“Ah, how quickly they forget,” Methos said wryly. “Duncan, it was the 80’s. The 1980’s.” Duncan frowned, not understanding. Methos rolled his eyes. “You really don’t remember what it was like, do you. Or maybe you just never noticed, still being a card carrying member of Clan Heterosexual. Duncan, in 1984 there was no such thing as a legal civil union between members of the same gender, no openly gay characters on television. The whole damn western world was involved in a backlash against the progress the homosexual community had made during the seventies. Joe may be missing his legs, but he's always had one hell of a right hook...which is exactly what I would have gotten if I'd been idiot enough to make a pass at him. The Watchers were not a particularly gay-friendly organization in those days. Joe would not have thanked me for casting any doubt on his straight and narrow credentials." Methos slumped. "Besides. Joe *didn’t* feel the same way about me, no matter how smitten I was with him. I was firmly ensconced in the role of Adam Pierson, wet-behind-the-ears Academy student, and I’m more than smart enough to spot a hopeless cause when I see one. There was no way Joe would ever have been interested even if he *had* been willing to take the risk…"

"Methos!"

"Duncan, it's true. Adam Pierson was nothing special. Joe and I became friends, yes, but only because we liked the same beer and the same music. He invited me to a few poker parties; I helped him out with a few research projects. That was all there was to it." Methos shrugged bleakly. "We never would have become anything more than co-workers if you hadn't told him my secret, thereby stimulating his protective instincts and adding me to his Pet Immortal list. Even then, it took him years to trust me again after he learned the truth."

"You're wrong, Methos," Duncan said positively. "I think Joe Dawson thought Adam Pierson was something very special indeed. What’s more, I think you knew that. Even way back then.” Methos’s mouth dropped open. Duncan held up his hands to stop him speaking. “The only reason you convinced yourself he didn't was because you were an Immortal and he was a Watcher, and you were terrified of what would happen to both of you if you let him get too close. And you're still lying to yourself about it today. Still denying what we both know is true."

For a moment Methos looked furious. Duncan almost expected him to take a swing at him. Then Methos's anger suddenly dissipated, leaving only an intense, weary sadness in its wake. "Maybe I am," he admitted hollowly. "Joe's death is going to be...very difficult for me, Duncan. He’s the only mortal in centuries to have known exactly who and what I was and to still have wanted to be my friend. It's going to be hard enough to loose that friendship, without wondering what could have been."

Methos looked so forlorn, so woebegone, that Duncan felt his heart twist. The Highlander felt that they were being drawn rapidly to a cusp…and he wondered, just for a moment, if he was going to be strong enough to make the right decision. Then he took one look at his partner and knew that there was only one decision to be made. He took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists, hiding them behind his back so Methos couldn’t see. "You don't have to wonder, Methos."

Methos’s head snapped around so quickly Duncan was afraid he’d get whiplash. "Excuse me?"

"I said, you don't have to wonder what might have been. There's still time. Not a lot, I grant you, but some. Enough." Duncan felt his fists relax. Now that he had started, it all seemed so much easier. He knew he had made the right choice. "Go to him. Tell him what you've told me. Now. Tonight.” He took another deep breath. “And find out what you could have had, if you hadn't been so afraid."

If it hadn't been such a serious moment, Duncan would have run for the camera. It was rare that he got the chance to see his normally calm and composed partner look so utterly astounded. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Methos said slowly. "Are you really suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Of course I am. I’m suggesting that you go to Joe’s room, say everything to him that you just said to me. And then do whatever it takes to see that he believes you." Methos stared at him. "Methos, there's a man lying in our guest bedroom who loves you. He has for a very long time. And now he's dangerously close to dying without knowing that you return his feelings. Are you going to pay him back for all his loyalty by staying silent?"

"No, but... Duncan, I don't think you understand. These...feelings...I have for our friend Joe. They aren't the chaste, brotherly sorts of things I think you're envisioning. There's also a hell of a lot of physical attraction, even now." He swallowed. "And I am not a saint."

"You think I didn't know that?"

"Well..."

"I *do* know, Methos. I know you, and you've never been able to completely separate your body from your heart. It's part of why you've lived so long, and part of why you're so damn attractive to everyone." The Highlander sighed. "Methos, why do you think he *came* here?"

"Not for this! Duncan MacLeod, if you think Joe left his family and doctors just to have one last tumble with my five-thousand-year-old carcass, you are sadly mistaken!"

"Am I? It's a very fine carcass," Duncan returned. Methos glared at him. "All right, no, I don't think that's the whole reason," he admitted. "Joe also came to say goodbye, to share some last drinks and songs with old friends. But *mostly* he came to see you. To have one more chance to show you how he feels." Duncan took a deep breath. "If those feelings take a physical form, then... good. That's the way it should be. It's all right, Methos. Go to him, do whatever the two of you decide you need to do. I'll stay here. I won't mind a bit."

Methos was quiet for a long moment. Then, almost pleadingly: "You really don't mind?"

"I would have, a dozen years or so ago," Duncan answered honestly. "Back then I was so afraid of losing you, it seemed like an absolute miracle every time you were still beside me when I woke up in the morning. I would have gone crazy if I thought anyone else had a piece of your heart. But now? We belong to each other, Methos, no matter who else comes into our lives. Nothing can change that." He stepped forward and gently touched the other Immortal's cheek. "Go to Joe. He needs you."

Methos leaned into the touch for a moment, then kissed Duncan lightly and solemnly on the lips. Duncan patted his back reassuringly. Methos slipped on a robe and fled down the hall.

***

Joseph Dawson lay awake in the cabin's comfortable ground floor spare room, pondering the great fallibility of modern prescription drugs.

He'd taken the sleeping pill the moment he'd reached his bedroom, knowing that tonight's little sing-along had been a big mistake, knowing he'd given away too much. The faces of his Immortal audience when they recognized the first few bars of "Yesterday" had told him that. Ah, hell. Joe knew he was going to have to break the news about the cancer sometime…but damn it all, he certainly didn't want to do it tonight. As for the rest, namely his ridiculous, near-childish unrequited love for Methos...Joe didn't EVER want to bring that up, and if he let the Immortals corner him yet that night he might not be able to stop himself. So he had taken the sleeping pill, hoping it would quickly carry him into a sleep not even the most determined, sword-wielding Immortal could disturb. If Methos and Duncan couldn't wake him, they couldn't pin him down, and he would never have to say the things he didn’t want to say. It seemed like the perfect plan.

The trouble was, sometimes prescription sleeping pills just don't work. Or else they only work for an hour or so, after which a man can be wide awake until dawn…

Joe sighed, groping for the switch on the bedside lamp. He stared at the old-fashioned wind-up clock MacLeod insisted on having on the night table and groaned. Crap. It wasn't even ten thirty yet! Joe looked at his valise, wondering how much damage it would do if he took just one more pill. After all, it wasn't as if it mattered anymore if he got addicted. But then, he didn't want to be groggy in the morning, either. It would be nice, for once, to wake up in time to hear the birds on the Island greet the sunrise. His fatigue was already making him miss too much of this visit as it was...

"I was hoping you would still be awake."

Joe nearly jumped out of his skin. He snapped his head around to see Methos lounging in the doorway, looking greatly amused. Well, that was Methos all over for you, entertained by the simplest things. Joe could have sworn he hadn't even heard the door open. "Jesus Christ on a bicycle, old man!" he exclaimed. "Are you trying to give me heart failure?"

"No. Heart failure is the last thing I want to give you, Joseph." The amusement vanished, replaced by an eerie solemnity. "In fact, I would strongly prefer it if you never died at all."

Ancient green-gold eyes met Joe's, knowing, unflinching. Joe felt a shiver go down his back. So here it was, at last. "You know, then," he said. "About the cancer."

"Yes.” Methos nodded. “Yes, I know."

"I thought you might.” Joe sighed. “Who did you call? Amy? Or the doc?"

A soft smile. "Both."

"Meddling SOB." Joe said the words without a hint of rancor. In fact, they might have been an endearment. "Aren't you going to ask me why I didn't tell you sooner?"

"No." Methos closed the door gently behind him and stepped softly across the room. The green-gold gaze was even more unsettling up close. "I think I know...and if I'm wrong, it doesn't matter. I'm not here to talk about your illness, Joe."

Joe looked at the Immortal, confused. Something wasn't right here. There was something in the way Methos moved, the way he spoke... "So what are you here for, then?"

"Can't you guess?"

"I really haven't the faintest idea." Joe was getting more and more confused by the minute. "Methos, what's going on?"

“Let me give you a hint.” Methos sat down on the bed. Joe had the oddest impression that Methos was trying to memorize him, fix his features in his mind as clearly as a photograph. Then he bent forward and, ever so gently, kissed Joe on the lips.

It was, more or less, just as perfect as Joe had always thought it would be. Methos was one damned hell of a good kisser. *Don't want to give me heart failure, Methos?* he thought ruefully. *Good thing the doc has me on a few things for the old ticker as well as the arthritis and the pain, or you'd have a corpse on your hands pretty quick...* For a long moment Joe allowed himself to swim in the pleasure of it, the kiss awakening senses and desires he hadn't felt in much too long. Then common sense intruded. He put a hand between them and gently pushed Methos away. "Methos," he said huskily. "I think you'd better explain yourself, my friend."

"Oh, Joe. That's just the problem. I'm your *friend*--when I should have been much more than that." He gave Joe a soft, gentle smile. "I love you, Joe."

Joe's heart skipped a beat. Almost, almost he could believe...but no. It was impossible. "Don't play games with me, old man," he said. "Not now. It's too serious."

"I know it is," Methos answered. He moved a little closer, reaching out to touch Joe's cheek with the tips of his fingers. Joe shivered, suddenly able to feel the Immortal's body heat through the blanket covering his thighs. "It's much, much too serious, thanks to me. I've wasted so much time...and not just my time, Joe. I could forgive myself if I’d just done that. But no, I’ve wasted *your* time, which is infinitely more precious. Joe, I'm not playing any games. When I said I loved you, I meant I *loved* you. The way I loved Alexa. The way I love MacLeod. No, don't shake your head. It's the truth." Joe froze, stopping his head in mid-denial. Methos's voice took on a deeply tender tone. "Don't look so surprised. Don't you have any idea how beautiful you are to me?"

*Beautiful.* The word rang through Joe's brain like a grand piano striking one magnificent chord in an empty concert hall. Very few people in Joe's life had ever even called him "handsome"; beauty was something he'd never dared hope for. That gift was the exclusive property of men like Methos and MacLeod, not him...especially not now, when age and illness had practically made him into a walking corpse. "You're insane," he said quietly. "You can't possibly..."

"But I do." Gentle, tender hands wrapped around Joe’s neck, urging his face forward. Joe resisted, but not for long. He couldn't, all the muscles in his back and neck having suddenly turned into inconvenient mush. Joe leaned toward the Immortal, slowly, yearning, somehow knowing that he was at last going to touch something he'd been reaching for his entire life. And Methos kissed him again.

It was a different kiss, this time. Gentler, softer, the Immortal hands lightly cradling his skull as if he were something incredibly precious. Methos somehow managed to put all his love and sorrow and genuine appreciation for Joe into that kiss, and Joe understood. When he pulled away, the tears were running freely. "I was never going to tell you," he said brokenly. "I was going to go to my grave just being your friend…"

"And I was going to let you." Methos’s voice was full of vulnerability, and honest regret. Gentle thumbs reached up to brush the saltwater from Joe's cheeks. "Good thing MacLeod's smarter than both of us."

"MacLeod." Joe repeated the name without comprehension, drawing a deep shaky breath. Fuck, but having Methos run the ball of his thumb over Joe’s cheekbone was erotic. The simple touch seemed to have fire hidden behind it, making Joe's whole skin tingle and his entire body fill with need. It had been so long... Then he suddenly realized what Methos had just said, and bolted upright. "MacLeod. Oh, my god. MacLeod. Methos, Duncan is your world. Don't lie to me, we both know it's true. You have to get out of here before he finds us. Before this breaks his heart…"

"Shhh. It's all right. He knows. Duncan knows." The finger Methos briefly pressed to Joe’s lip was a pleasure even greater than the brushing away of his tears. Joe had to fight hard to keep his breath under control, keep his tongue from licking out to taste. "Who do you think sent me?"

"Duncan?" Methos nodded. Joe tried to wrap his head around this, failed utterly. "But... Duncan *loves* you. You're everything to him."

"I know. He loves you too."

A sound, halfway between a laugh and sob, came out of Joe's throat. "Just not in the same way you do. Right?"

"No. Not exactly." Methos kissed his shoulder, sending rare trills of pleasure through Joe's body. The soft warmth of his breath tickled Joe's neck. "But he wants you to be happy. Me, as well."

*Happy*. It was an important word, an important concept. An important question to ask. "And are you, old man? Happy?"

"No. Not completely." The sea of sensation that was Methos's body pressed against him shifted slightly as Methos shook his head. "I'm going to lose you in a few short months. I *can't* be happy, knowing that. But since there's nothing I can do to change it, I am *very* glad I get this chance to be with you." Gentle fingers ghosted over Joe's chest. Joe suppressed a moan. "What about you, Joe? Are you happy?"

"Once I recover from the shock, I think I'll be happier than I've ever been in my life." Joe said honestly. "Methos, I can't tell you how much I...you are so..."

Once again, the single finger pressed to his lips. "Don't try, Joe. Some things just won't fit into words," he said, and Joe had to bend his head to the simple truth of that. "Can I join you in the bed now?"

"Please." Joe moved over, making space. Methos stood, stripping off his boxers and robe; Joe watched him intently, feeling his throat go dry with an anticipation so fierce it hurt. "Methos?"

"Yes, Joe?"

"I'm not...you won’t like...oh, hell." Embarrassment choked him. Methos just waited patiently, one hand on the bedclothes, so beautiful in his nudity Joe thought his heart would stop. "I...my body isn't a particularly pretty sight, old man. It never was, but at least when you first met me, I was young and strong. That's not true anymore. The chemo has taken a toll..."

"Am I supposed to be surprised?" Methos asked sharply. "Joe, do you honestly think you are the first mortal I've ever loved into his age?"

Joe looked down, suddenly ashamed he’d even brought the matter up. No, he couldn't accuse Methos of that. There must have been other, perhaps countless other, men and women that Methos had loved until they died, and at least a handful of them must have reached an age equivalent to his. He just hadn't thought about it before now. "Have you ever wondered why so many Immortals stay with their mortal wives or husbands, even when the mortals look like the Immortal's grandparents to the outside world?" Methos asked. "It isn't out of some twisted sense of charity, you know. Nor is it a noble sacrifice made to the memory of youthful companionship and love." His voice softened. "We genuinely think you mortals get more beautiful as time goes by."

Joe's restless fingers plucked at the quilt top. His head couldn't quite believe Methos was telling the truth, but his heart couldn't believe it was a complete lie, either. *At least*, he thought, *at least if it’s a lie, it's a kind one. He wouldn't bother to say such things if he didn't really care.* "You do?"

"We do," Methos answered. "How can we not? You are the embodiment of everything we can never have." Joe felt a brief chill as the quilt was pulled back, then sudden warmth as Methos slipped under. Acres of warm smooth skin flowed up against him, not shying away from his amputated legs, and Joe dropped his head to the pillow in pure pleasure. "Please don't try to hide from me, Joe," Methos said. "I've waited too long for this."

"So have I, old man. So have I." Oh god. It had been so long since Joe had shared a bed with a lover...so long since anyone but a doctor or nurse had touched his body, so long since he'd known anything besides detached professional hands. Even the grandkids had stopped hugging him long ago, frightened by his illness and his pain. Joe knew he'd have to change that as soon as he got home, but for now...for now, his entire skin was aching, and when Methos's hand brushed his forearm he responded with a hungry moan that made the old Immortal chuckle. "Touch me, Methos," Joe pleaded. "I won't hide from you, but you have to touch me. I'm so hungry for your hands."

"My hands are hungry for you, Joe. You don't know..." Methos's voice broke, and Joe was startled to see a tear rolling down his cheek. He pulled Joe's face to his and kissed him thoroughly. Then he reached for the lamp on the bureau and turned out the light.

Some things are too perfect for words.

***

Duncan knew he shouldn't peek. Nevertheless, when he woke around midnight and heard the sounds coming from Joe's slightly open bedroom door on his way to the kitchen, he couldn't help himself. Methos was making sounds Duncan had never heard before: great, half choking sobs of pleasure that almost sounded as if they would break him in two, they were so strong. Joe's gentle murmurs of "Yes, yes, just like that. You're so wonderful...oh, god, I never dreamed..." were nearly drowned out. Duncan tiptoed to the door and looked in.

The moonshine coming in through the window both illuminated and hid the lovers. Duncan could just make out Methos's long, shadowy form lying on his back with Joe's hand between his legs, head tossed back against the pillows in ecstatic pain as Joe continued to croon. "Yes, that's it. Let it go now. Let me hear you..."

The cries ended in a roar as Methos climaxed, and then degenerated into a more regular series of sobs as the ancient Immortal once again allowed himself to fully cry out his grief. Joe took Methos in his arms and started whispering in his ears. Duncan couldn't hear what he said, but he was sure that whatever it was, it was exactly what Methos needed to hear. Duncan gently pulled the door closed and tiptoed away.

When morning came, Duncan heard more tears--but this time it was Joe who was crying and Methos who was comforting, not the other way around. He knocked gently on the door, and when Methos called out "Come in, Duncan," he pushed his way inside. "Not the sounds I was expecting to hear this morning," he said wryly, looking down at where the two men were sitting, both dressed in fresh t-shirts and shorts. Joe was propped up against the middle of the headboard. Methos was lounging at his side. "Here, Joe. I brought you a stack of fresh handkerchiefs. Methos, is there anything else I can do?"

"I don't think so, Duncan. We were just talking, that's all."

"Yeah." Joe nodded, wiping his eyes. "We were just...ah, hell." He took a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. "It's stupid. I know it's going to happen, and I know there's nothing I can do to stop it, but I just...Christ, I don't want to die. I really don't."

Duncan sat on the foot of the bed. "None of us do."

"No," Methos agreed. "I personally hate the thought of dying so much that I've stayed alive for five thousand years--and believe me, living was NOT always the soft option. You haven't gotten anywhere near that point, Joe. Of course you don't want to die."

"I know, but...oh, god. Look at me." Joe twisted the handkerchief agitatedly in his hands. "Crying like a baby. I meant to be stronger. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Joe," Duncan said earnestly. He looked at Methos, saw the old Immortal nod slightly. "You don't have to hide anything with us. We want to help, in any way we can. If that means holding you while you cry for a day or a week... that's fine. Both of us are waterproof."

"I guess you are. There's not even a chance I might drown you, is there. At least not permanently." Duncan and Methos both shook their heads, tiny smiles on their faces. Joe smiled too. "It's funny, but I guess crying is the only thing I have left to do," he said. "Everything else has been arranged for months. The casket's picked out, the funeral's all planned, the will's been signed and sealed. Little Joe and the rest of the grandkids will be provided for. I've even got my hospice picked out for the last few weeks--the doc says I'm going to have some bad times, near the end--"

"Hospice?" Methos looked outraged. "Joe, don't be ridiculous. You can't be amongst strangers at a time like this. You must stay here. Duncan and I will care for you."

"No, Methos," Joe answered gently. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the asking, but no. Amy's offered me pretty much the same thing--her spare bedroom, and time off from work to take care of me--but I won't do that to her and the kids, and I won't do that to you. Your last memories of me are not going to involve changing bedpans or administering pain medication. It's better to let the professionals cope with that."

"But--" Duncan protested.

"No," Joe said more firmly. "It's the way I want it, Duncan. Maybe if things were different, and I didn't have anybody else, I'd take you up on it. This Island would be a lovely place to die." He looked out the window wistfully for a moment. "But no. I've got to stay in the city, near Amy and the kids. I've already taught them what I could about living a good life. All of them love the blues, and they know a lot about how to treat each other with kindness. Now I need to show them how to have a good death as well."

Duncan nodded, his heart full. Methos said hesitantly--"What *can* we do, then?"

"Not much," Joe said honestly. "Be good to each other. Try to keep your silly heads on your shoulders for a few more millennia. Look after my descendants if they ever need an Immortal helping hand. There isn't anything more I can ask." He coughed gently. "Except..."

"What?"

Joe flushed uncomfortably. "Could you tell me what it's like? Dying, I mean."

The two Immortals got very still. "Damn,” Joe said. “It’s all right; you don't have to answer that if you don't want to. I told myself I wouldn't ask you--but you two ARE the only ones I've ever known who have taken that trip and lived to tell the tale, so to speak. I know it's probably not the same as what I'm going to do, but there might be some similarities. You might be able to tell me what to expect."

Duncan and Methos looked at each other for a moment. It was very easy for Duncan to read Methos's mind--the same thoughts were buzzing in his. *Should we tell him? Would it do any good?* Finally, Methos sighed. "It hurts," he said.

Joe looked apprehensive. "Yeah?"

"Like hell," Duncan agreed. Instinctively, he moved closer, stretching out along Joe's other side. He felt the same need Methos did, to comfort and protect Joe from the truth. Joe seemed grateful for the touch; he settled into Duncan's embrace easily. "The circulatory system shuts down before the nervous system does, and that's--well, imagine the worst case of pins and needles you've ever had and multiply it by a thousand," Duncan said. "It doesn't last long, but while it does...there's pain filling every muscle, searing along every inch of your skin. You even hurt in places where Grey's Anatomy claims there aren't nerves. It isn't a lot of fun."

Joe shuddered. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked."

"No, Joe, you should have," Methos said. "You'll be able to stand it better if you're not taken by surprise. And you have to understand that, when Duncan and I die, it's usually quite sudden, due to a violent cause. It won't be like that for you. The doctors will have you on lots of pain medication. It does make a difference."

"Gee. Something to look forward to." Joe swallowed. "You said the pain part didn't last long. What happens then?"

Again, Duncan and Methos exchanged lengthy glances. "Well," Duncan said, "that part's different for every Immortal. It's even different between deaths."

"The world starts going away," Methos explained. "One by one, the senses give up. Vision usually cuts out first; it just takes so much damn brain power to support. Then--well, it's different for everyone. Duncan loses his sense of touch..."

"It's like getting very, very cold," Duncan said. "Except that there's no cold like it anywhere on earth. Not even in the Antarctic."

"I sometimes think Duncan 's got the better deal," Methos said. "I almost always lose my sense of hearing next. It’s like somebody hit the "mute" button on the world. Then smell goes, which usually means I'm acutely aware of the pain and just how badly my mouth tastes. Finally taste fades, too, and then--well, as Duncan says, it's like getting very, very cold. And after that there's just...nothing."

"God." Joe stared at them. "Methos--Duncan--both of you have voluntarily taken bullets to save my life. You mean you put yourself through that kind of pain on purpose? For *me*?"

Duncan smiled. "You were worth it."

“Absolutely,” Methos agreed.

"Wow. I guess I must have been." Joe looked thoughtful. "Methos…when do I stop being me? You know, stop remembering that I was once a person named Joe Dawson?"

"Oh, Joe. I wish I could tell you." Methos said sadly. "All I can say is that for me--after all the rest of this happens, and I know there's no time left--there is still a little spark of me that hangs around, a spark that knows what's happening. Sometimes I "see" things that I know can't possibly be there, places that haven't existed for millennia, faces that have been dust for twice as long. But even that fades in time. Eventually, there really is...nothing. Until that next horrible breath fills my lungs, and everything starts over."

"Which won't happen for me."

"No. It won't."

"Do you..." Joe's eyes were glistening. "Do you *remember* anything, when you come back? Anything about where you were?"

"I--" Methos looked at Duncan, words failing him. Duncan sent him a look of loving sympathy and took over. "Sometimes, there are faint memories," the Highlander said. "Odd music that we can't quite recall, scents, sensations. But we've sort of decided that's just our subconscious minds trying to make sense of the feelings of healing before we're truly awake, not anything paranormal. I'm sorry, Joe. If there's an afterlife, Methos and I haven't been there."

"Ah, well. I sort of figured that. One of you would have mentioned it long before now if you had."

"Don't think about it too much," Methos advised. "Just make up your mind that you're going to meet it bravely, the same way you would any other new experience, and then stop worrying about it. Concentrate on *living* instead. It's the only way."

"I know." Joe smiled. "You've taught me a lot about that in the time I've known you, old man.”

Methos looked deeply pleased. “Have I?”

“You have. Especially last night." Joe reached for him, and they kissed.

Duncan watched as the kiss stretched on, seeing the beauty in it, feeling a deep peace in his heart. He had done the right thing, forcing Methos to face the truth. Both Joe and his beloved had needed this. Duncan heard Methos make a soft sound of pleasure as Joe’s lips hit a particularly sensitive spot, making Duncan strongly suspect the conversation was over. *I think that's my cue to leave* the Highlander thought, and started to make a graceful withdrawal.

Joe's hand on his thigh stopped him. "No. Please don't go, Duncan," he said. "I don't want to lose a moment. I mean, I need...."

"You want me to stay?" Duncan frowned, but he saw the sudden look of hope on Methos's face, quickly covered by a mask of patient waiting. *Methos wants me to stay, wants me to share this,* he realized. *But he won't say anything to influence me. I wonder...* "Want me to stay while Methos makes love to you?"

Joe shook his head. "Not just Methos," he said. "It's been so long since anybody really touched me, I think I got drunk just feeling Methos's hands against my skin. Two pairs could push me over the edge altogether. Besides, it's about grabbing life while you can, isn't it? Somehow I doubt there's going to be a lot of handsome Immortal men hanging around where I'm going. It would be nice to have a good look at both of you before I..." A pause. "Leave."

"Methos?"

"It's up to you, beloved," Methos said quietly. "But I think this could be a memory both of us would appreciate having." He grinned suddenly, breaking the tension. "After all, it's not like Joe and I are corrupting you. You're hardly a virgin when it comes to threesomes."

"Even if they do usually involve two women, instead of two men," Joe contributed.

"And just how would the two of you know that?" Both men merely smirked. Duncan sighed. "One of these days I'm going to have to burn that Chronicle of mine."

"Can't," Joe said smugly. "The Chronicles are all electronic now, with four sets of decentralized backups. It would take one hell of a disaster to cover up your sinful past, my friend."

"Hmmm. I may have to see what I can do about arranging one." Duncan smiled and got to his feet. "But I think I'd better take some of these clothes off first."

"Oh, yes, do," Methos replied. "Slippers and a heavy robe are *so* pass� for an orgy, after all. I'm afraid it's hopeless, Duncan. There's no way you can salvage that outfit. You'll simply have to chuck it all together." He raised both arms over his head and stretched languidly on the bed, eyes raking over Duncan 's body in a way that never failed to stir the Highlander's lust. "Slowly, please. One piece at a time."

"It's not enough that you're asking me to participate in my first all-male threesome?" Duncan teased. "You want me to further compromise my virtue by making me perform a strip show as well?"

Methos's eyes twinkled. "If you would."

"I'd certainly appreciate it," Joe chimed in.

Duncan just grinned widely and slipped the robe off his shoulders. He was keenly aware of Methos watching him, lust and humor covering a deeper gratitude that made Duncan's heart sing. He nodded at him, saying "you're welcome" in that wordless way only long term-lovers know, and saw Methos gracefully incline his head in response. Duncan was a little apprehensive about what was to come, but not overly so; he trusted Methos to see that this would, indeed, turn into a deeply happy memory, healing more than it hurt. In the meantime, Joe was staring at him openly, devouring him with his eyes. When Duncan removed his sweatshirt and paused to shake out his hair, the old Watcher gasped. "Good god," he said. "I'd forgotten."

"He is something, isn't he?" Methos said.

"More than something," Joe said admiringly. "I know I used to Watch you training in the dojo sometimes, Duncan, and it was always a pleasant bonus when you chose to work out without a shirt, but...well. Like I said, I'd forgotten." The old mortal's gaze traced slowly over the lines of Duncan's shoulders, then down over his arms to the place where Duncan 's long mane of loose hair brushed his elbows. He smiled impishly. "Thank heavens you talked him into growing his hair back, Methos."

"One of my prouder accomplishments," Methos replied. "It took me a while to convince him, but it was certainly worth the effort. He just didn't look right without that damn ponytail."

"I know exactly you mean. It wasn't like he wasn't handsome with short hair, but he just didn't look like Duncan MacLeod..."

"I *am* still in the room, you know," Duncan said mildly, folding the shirt and dropping it on the chair by Joe's bed. His hair now reached nearly two thirds of the way down his back, longer than he'd worn it since his time with Little Deer. Duncan looked at a lock softly tickling his elbow and felt a sudden melancholy sadness. "And there were reasons I decided to cut it when I did."

"We know, love," Methos answered meekly. "We didn't mean to tease." He held out his hands. "Come to bed."

Duncan quickly dropped his sweat pants to the ground and did as Methos asked, placing himself so Joe would be in the middle. As he slid under the covers, Duncan suddenly realized that when Joe died, fully one third of the people who had witnessed Richie's death would be gone. *And fully half of the people who eventually forgave me for it. Oh, Richie...* It was an overwhelming thought, realizing that he was about to lose the only mortal in the world to have known that Richard Ryan was Immortal and loved him for what he was. Methos had once told him that Joe had mourned Richie as deeply as if Richie been a son of his own, during that year Duncan had been away. *That's what Joe has always done*, Duncan thought. *He Watches us, and then he loves us for exactly what we are. I'm more than 400 years old and I still haven't learned how to do that, although Methos teaches me more every day. No wonder Methos fell in love...* "Your night, Joe," he said huskily. "Or morning, as the case may be. Methos and I are here for you. Tell us what you'd like."

"Umm..." Joe sounded embarrassed. "I hadn't really thought that far." He looked, almost worshipfully, from Methos's leanly chiseled chest to MacLeod's more overtly muscular one, and then laughed shakily. "Being the filling in an Immortal sandwich is a pretty new experience. I don't think even my wildest fantasies ever got this far."

"I know mine didn't," Methos said wryly. "But I wouldn't worry about it too much, if I were you. After all, there's almost five and half millennia worth of sexual experience here in this bed. I'm pretty sure we can come up with something that will make you melt into a mindless pile of slush. Right, Duncan?" Duncan nodded, placing his hand on Joe's chest, just above his left nipple. Joe jumped at the touch, but then relaxed into it, sighing softly. "Sound good, Joe?" Methos asked.

"Oh, yeah." The answer was heartfelt. "Melt away."

Duncan smiled and followed his hands with his lips, letting his hair brush over Joe's chest. Joe closed his eyes. "That's it, Joe," Methos whispered. "Just relax. Duncan and I will take care of everything." The ancient's pale fingers gently traced the line of Joe's lips. Duncan looked from Joe's blissful face to Methos; Methos wore a look of almost unbearable tenderness, coupled with a sadness that went straight to Duncan 's heart. He knew exactly what Methos was thinking. *Not enough time. There never is, where mortals are concerned. But this time, at least, there will be two of us to remember. It won't be another lost love for Methos to carry on his own.* He pulled away from his gentle teasing of Joe's chest to give Methos a quick kiss on the forehead, reminding him he wasn't alone; Methos gave him a heartfelt smile. Duncan smiled back and returned to the work of making Joe melt.

It wasn't a very difficult job. Joe was a very sensual man, which Duncan supposed he would have guessed if he'd ever taken the time to think about it. It was very sweet, having the chance to discover it now. The body underneath him felt almost tragically fragile, much too light and much too pale. But there could be no question that the Joe Duncan knew was still in there, responding with all the passion of a man forty years younger. Every touch from Duncan's or Methos's skillful hands brought another sigh or moan of pleasure, until at last Joe's sense of embarrassment faded and he started giving back as good as he got. One by one Joe reached for them, treating each Immortal to an incredibly sensual kiss, while his strong broad hands played over both muscular Immortal bodies. "I thought...we told you... to relax," Methos panted after his third or fourth turn at Joe's mouth, his lips lusciously swollen and his breath coming in gasps. When Duncan saw where Joe's hand was resting, he immediately understood why. "This...was supposed...to be about *you*..."

"It is, old man. It is." Joe continued to stroke Methos's erection lovingly. Methos groaned and reached for the headboard, fingers clenching around it as pleasure threatened to overwhelm him. With the exception of his shadowy glimpses of last night, Duncan had never seen his beloved being pleasured by another. He found the sight intensely erotic, especially when Methos let out a helpless moan. "Come up here where I can reach you, Methos,” Joe said. “I want to taste you."

"Yesss." The word was breathed in ecstasy, and Duncan moved hastily aside so Methos could straddle Joe's chest. Methos piled a couple of pillows under Joe's head so the mortal could reach him comfortably, then leaned back and tried to hold still while Joe made love to his cock, licking and kissing before he finally took the head in his mouth and suckled luxuriantly. It was all so incredibly sexy Duncan could hardly stand it. His own cock felt as rigid as a bar of iron as he watched his beautiful lover almost-climax, be teased back from the edge, then brought right back to it, keening wildly. *Where on earth did Joe learn how to make another man make sounds like that?* the Highlander wondered. *Could there be some secret Watcher sex training neither of them bothered to tell me about? It's probably part of the first year Academy curriculum: 'How To Make an Immortal Moan 101'. Could be very useful in the field...* Duncan's own hips were pumping wildly, fucking the air; he desperately wanted to touch himself, but knew the slightest contact would send him over. He met Joe's gaze. Joe's eyes sparkled in amusement, and he reached out his hand. Gratefully Duncan rubbed up against Joe’s palm as Joe closed his fingers around him, and it turned out Duncan had been right. All it took was one touch…

The climax was about four times as intense as Duncan had expected it to be, and by the time the Highlander's spasms had subsided Methos was coming too. Duncan watched as Methos collapsed bonelessly backwards, too exhausted to keep his weight from falling on the Watcher's lower body. Joe didn't seem to mind. He just wiped his mouth and grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Well. That was...historic. I can't wait to write it up for your Chronicles."

There was a lengthy silence...then Methos, still exhausted, reached out a lazy arm to snatch one of the misplaced pillows and throw it at Joe. Joe ducked, but not quickly enough. The pillow landed squarely over his face. "I WAS kidding," the pillow said, gently quivering with every word.

"I should hope so," Duncan said, groaning softly as he convinced his own sated body to sit up. He pulled the pillow off Joe's face. "Isn't Amy the Chief Administrator of Northwest Operations now? Doesn't that mean she has to read every report filed by a field agent in the area?"

"Umm...yeah. Yeah, she does." Joe considered this for a second. He shuddered. "Never mind. The Chronicles will just have to remain incomplete. Some things are too special too share."

"Too special to share with strangers, Joe," Methos admonished, struggling to sit up himself. "Not too special to share amongst friends."

Joe's smile was tender. "More than friends now, old man."

"Yes." Methos made it upright, caressed Joe's face with back of his hand. "More than friends. As we always should have been." He looked at Duncan. "Duncan?"

"Yes, beloved?"

"Joe doesn't look anywhere near 'melted' enough for me. We still have some work to do. Help me roll him over onto his side."

"I don't need..." Joe protested, but Methos silenced him with a kiss, and he stopped resisting. Just what had he been protesting, anyway? His need for fulfillment? His loss of independence? He could have rolled over on his own, but he’d lost a lot of his upper body strength during the cancer treatment, and the truth of the matter was he was tired enough to make it a struggle. Taking advantage of the Immortals' combined strength seemed only reasonable, and feeling the Highlander shift his weight so easily was a thrill all on its own. Joe ended up facing Methos, with Duncan spooned up against him from behind; Duncan treated him to a glorious back and neck massage while Methos kissed his way down Joe's body from chest to waist, each man working with such sensual slowness that Joe truly did feel himself begin to melt. *Another moment and I'll be floating,* he thought, closing his eyes to savor the sensations. *Better than my wildest fantasy, indeed...*

"Joe?" It was Methos's voice, coming from a place tantalizingly near Joe's groin. The ancient's warm breath caressed Joe’s thigh, sending a shiver up his spine. "Would you like me to tell you a story?"

"Hmmm?" Managing even that much of a word was very hard. Joe was rapidly leaving the realm of coherent speech behind. "Shtory?"

"Well, it's more of a fantasy, really," Methos admitted. "But I'd like to tell it you about it anyway. It's a fantasy I had shortly after we first met." He closed his hand over Joe's penis, petting gently. Joe moaned. "It started the night you first invited me to your weekly Watcher's poker party, despite the fact that I was just a kid, not even finished with my first year at the Academy yet. Do you remember?"

"I sure do." Joe smiled, an expression that had nothing to do with Methos's hand on his cock, or Duncan 's lips on his shoulder. "I remember how that 'kid' beat all of us, and drank his way through nearly the entire case of beer I'd laid in to boot. Jack Davis never did forgive me for inviting you."

"I know." Methos laughed. "I really should have been more subtle. Taking a bunch of senior Watcher's salaries for the week was hardly a smart career move. But I wanted to impress you. And you have to admit that the party ended early...so early, in fact, that I think you felt a little guilty about it. You didn't ask me to leave when everyone else did, remember? I helped you clean up, and then you asked me if I liked music..."

"That's right. I did." A late night, a dark apartment, a "kid" apparently made terribly embarrassed and bashful by his surprise winnings, much too bashful to crush by throwing out. Joe had put him to work instead, figuring it might as well be the kid's strong young legs that carried the post-party detritus of beer cans and dirty plates into the kitchen. It had been one of Joe’s life’s more rewarding surprises to discover that the quiet conversation they shared while Joe washed the dishes and "Adam" dried them was about 1,000 times more entertaining than the party itself. When everything had been put away--and both kitchen and living room were much tidier than they had been since before Joe had moved in--he'd asked the kid if he liked the blues, got out his guitar, and started to play. He could still remember the feel of the strings under his fingers and the way the kid had watched him from the shadows, mouth slightly open, hazel eyes brilliant. "You looked at me like I was some kind of god," Joe said now. "Like you'd never heard music before."

"I hadn't. Not like that," Methos answered. He kept up his gentle stroking. "You were so beautiful. The music was incredible, but it was *you* I wanted to remember. The way you looked. The way you sounded. That's why I stared at you, Joe. I never wanted to forget."

*Beautiful.* Funny, there was that word again, spoken once again about Joe’s own ordinary self. It was a bit easier to accept now, in a shared memory about the past. Joe could almost actually believe that he had been beautiful when he played, back when he really hadn't been all that much older than the "kid" he thought he serenaded. "Anyway, that's where the fantasy starts out," Methos continued. "I loved having you play for me, Joe. I wanted to do a whole lot more than stare."

Joe nodded. "I wanted to do more than stare myself." What had actually happened was that he'd sung a song or three, and then Adam had gotten his coat and slipped out the front door....but even so it had been one of those nights that linger in the memory for the rest of a person's life, a night of rare discovery. Somehow, in the time between the end of the poker party and Adam Pierson's departure, the first flair of friendship Joe had felt for the gangly Academy student had changed into something more, become recognition of a kinship so deep it would haunt him for the rest of his days. *It was Methos I met that night, not just Adam Pierson,* Joe thought now. *And we are family, no matter how different we may seem. We're both members of the Great Brotherhood of Survivors, the ones who somehow managed to keep their hearts open enough to love. That's what I learned that night, and that's what I've known ever since. Even when I didn't want to admit it…* Shaky, but feeling MacLeod's arms encircling his waist, the Highlander's comforting strength a palpable force lending him energy, Joe touched a hand to Methos's hair. "What did you want to do, old man?"

Methos's hand, which had been consistently stroking him through the entire conversation, stopped. "You'll laugh."

"Maybe. I can't promise I won't. But it won't be the hurting kind of laughter, Methos."

"No. I guess it wouldn't be." Methos looked thoughtful for a moment, than smiled dazzlingly. "I *wanted* to kiss your guitar," he confessed.

Joe tried not to let it out--but the laugh escaped him anyway, starting with a great snort that seemed to split the room. Fortunately, Methos was laughing, too. Even MacLeod chuckled. Joe could feel him shaking against his back. "Well, that can still be arranged," Joe said finally when the hilarity had subsided. "Was that *all* you wanted to do?"

"No. Shall I tell you how I pictured it?" Joe nodded. "You played," Methos said. "You played, dazzling me with every note--and while you played I left my chair and knelt at your feet, looking up at you. You had your eyes closed, because you were lost in the music, but you knew I was there. The rest of the song flowed by with the most beautiful tension, both of us knowing that something very important was about to happen, but knowing it could wait until the right time. Finally, finally, you played the last chord; the notes faded away into silence, and that's when I bent forward and pressed my lips to the guitar, right below where your fingers were resting on the strings. I could feel the last of the vibration in my mouth; I could hear you shifting in the chair, stretching, resettling yourself. Then you looked down..." Methos swallowed. "And saw me. Not Adam Pierson. Not the Horseman named Death. Not even Methos, the World's Oldest Immortal. Me. Just me..."

"I always have seen you," Joe answered, feeling a mist of tears start in his eyes. "Even when I was too dumb to realize what it was I saw."

"I know, Joe." Methos's voice was melodic and soft. "That why it's going to be so hard to lose you." He cleared his throat and went on with the story, picking up Joe's hands. "You put the guitar aside. I stayed kneeling, but I took your hands in mine and kissed them, as well. And you let me. I knew you weren’t used to this; I know you weren’t used to sitting and simply letting yourself be adored, especially not by a man, and especially not by one who you thought was so much younger. But that part of you that saw me knew you weren’t taking advantage; that part of you knew I never give what I don't want to give. And this was something I wanted to give you very much...so you just sat, letting me worship your hands with my mouth." Joe groaned. Methos was suiting deed to words, nibbling along each of his fingers in a way that was almost unbearably erotic. The second Joe thought he couldn't stand the nibbles another moment Methos switched to caressing him with his tongue, gently rubbing and sucking each joint the arthritis had thickened. "I love your hands, Joe," Methos said quietly in between kisses and licks. "I love *you*."

"I love you, too." It came out more as a whisper than the declaration it should have been, but Methos heard. He lifted Joe's hands up to Joe's shoulders, and after a moment the Highlander engulfed them in his own, brushing a kiss over the knuckles of one and rubbing the other wrist with his thumb. For a moment Joe was confused and disappointed--why had Methos stopped? Then he understood. Methos was sliding down his body to his cock, and if he hadn't let MacLeod take over after all that stimulation, Joe's hands would have felt utterly naked and bereft. "I wanted to do this then," Methos whispered. "And I wanted to do it every time I saw you since then. More than thirty years, Joe. More than thirty years." And he took the Watcher gently in his mouth.

Hot wet softness surrounded Joe. His whole body trembled, both with emotion and the sweet feelings that traveled along his nerves like fire. If he hadn't felt the gentle pressure of Mac holding his hands, he might very well have passed out. But Mac *was* holding him, providing a firm anchor into the world of the bed and his body, keeping him from flying apart while excitement changed into need which changed into nothing but dazzling pleasure. Joe grabbed the Immortal hands and howled, pulsing his seed into Methos' eager mouth. The world went away...

...but promptly reassembled itself, filled with pleasures last catastrophic but no less sweet: the sensation of a body pushed to its limits and now beautifully sated, the feeling of two Immortals lovingly sponging him off and straightening out the disheveled bedclothes. Joe was too exhausted to help, but his lovers didn't seem to mind. They just snuggled into bed at his sides, two sets of arms holding him close. The last thing Joe heard was Methos whispering the word "Beautiful" into his ear. He took the sound with him into his sleep.

***

Joe called Amy the next morning, arranging to stay another two weeks. It went by much too fast.

The two Immortals gave up sleeping in their own room, gave up doing all but the most necessary tasks required to keep the house running. One or the other was always cuddled in the guestroom with Joe. The Watcher was simply too exhausted to move around the house, even as much as he had previously, and as the week went on both Duncan and Methos realized they'd been pushing him much too hard. Joe was a very sick man; what he really needed was a warm place to rest and meals served in bed, not the pressures of being a polite guest. But even with Joe's limitations, the rest of the visit was hardly wasted time. Sometimes they had sex; more often they simply held each other and talked, sharing stories and jokes. Methos in particular opened up about his past in a way Duncan had never heard him do before, and never expected him to do again. The Highlander sometimes had to sit back and marvel, because he learned more about his partner’s history in that week than he had in the decade they'd lived side by side. He should have been jealous that Joe was the one to bring this about, but he couldn't be. All he could feel was gratitude.

Then came the day that Joe asked to spend some time alone in Methos's office. The Immortals were wildly curious, but they didn't ask questions. Duncan just carried Joe up the stairs and made him comfortable in Methos's big leather office chair, then he and Methos made themselves scarce until the door cracked open later that evening and Joe asked to be taken for a walk. They helped him strap on his prosthetics for the first time in a week and slowly walked up the hill beside the house, both Duncan and Methos hovering like anxious mother hens, ready to jump in if Joe so much as stumbled. Joe didn't stumble. He made it to the top, looked at the beautiful spread of trees and lake beneath him for several long moments, then finally spoke. "I have to go back tomorrow," he said. "You understand?"

Duncan nodded. So did Methos. "Only part of your life is here with us," the old Immortal said. "You have to go back to the rest of it."

"Exactly," Joe said. "I wish I could ask you to come with me. Be with me at the end. But I have to share that with the kids. And Amy would never understand asking two Immortals to be part of such an intense family moment."

"Amy is an idiot, Joe." Methos said matter-of-factly. "You do know that, right?"

Joe laughed. "Yeah, I know. She suffers from the greatest delusion to poison our times: the idea that love has to look a certain way to be real. She'll learn, eventually, that 'family' is something you make for yourself, not something you're born into. But she's not going to learn it in time, and I'm not going to throw it in her face. It would hurt her too much." He sighed. "Instead I'm hurting you, because I know you're strong enough to stand it. I'm sorry. I wish it could be otherwise."

"It's all right, Joe," Duncan said. "Nobody gets exactly the death he wants."

"No. And nobody get to say goodbye exactly the way he wants to, either." Joe answered. "But we've come pretty close. Haven't we?"

"We have."

***

By the time morning came, there was nothing left to be said. Joe kissed Methos goodbye on the shore before stepping into the rowboat and having the Highlander carry him back across the water. Methos watched the boat disappear into the distance, feeling a hollowness that sapped every emotion. Later, he knew, there would be tears: lots of tears while the Highlander held him and rocked the pain out of his body, then still more when they traded places and he did the same for Duncan. There would even be a time when pain faded altogether and there was nothing left but joy, the unshakeable joy brought by a set of truly happy memories. But for now, all he could feel was numb. And restless.

Methos went back inside and started wandering aimlessly around the house, tidying, dusting, looking for anything he could to keep his mind occupied, and realized that he hadn't made Joe's bed. Methos stepped into the guestroom intent on stripping the dirty sheets...only to discover that the room was already as neat as it could possibly be, bed made and closet empty. For a moment Methos felt an irrational anger that Joe had tied up all the loose ends so neatly, left him with absolutely nothing to do to carry him through his current bleakness. Then Methos saw the two objects resting on the pillows. He approached them carefully, heart beating wildly.

The first object was a bottle of Scotch. It had a slip of paper tied around its neck, bearing the legend: "MacLeod: Open twenty years from now, or whenever you think best. You're a much better judge of the way time mellows fine liquor than I am. Joe." The second object was smaller, squarer, wrapped in tissue. Its tag said "For Methos, because you loved the music. Play this whenever you want, but at least wait until Mac comes back. Joe." Methos tore off the tissue. The package held a single CD.

When Duncan returned to the Island, his muscles heavy and his heart heavier, he was astounded to find Methos waiting on the porch. The old Immortal was jumping up and down like a young boy on Christmas morning. "He left us something!" Methos shouted by way of explanation. "He must have recorded it on my computer that day he disappeared into the office...what the hell are you still standing there for? Come on!" He grabbed Duncan 's hand and dragged him up the stairs, not even giving the Highlander time to take off his coat. When they reached the office Methos turned his speakers up full blast and popped the disk in the drive, bouncing on the balls of his feet expectantly.

It took less than a heartbeat for the disc to load. Duncan sat on the floor, feeling eerily displaced, as Joe's gravelly voice filled the small, sound-proofed room. The musician sang every song he'd played for them during the weeks he'd been on the Island, including the Monty Python adaptations that had made Duncan wince. Methos sat staring at the speakers like a man who'd had a holy vision, and Duncan silently blessed Joe for his thoughtfulness. No doubt the mourning would start again soon, but at least Methos had this CD to hang onto, and for now it seemed to have short-circuited the grieving enough to give the old Immortal a much needed dose of joy. Duncan reached out and took his lover's hand, massaging gently, silently telling him he understood. Then there was a pause, and Joe began to play a song he hadn't played on the Island at all, at least not while the Immortals were present:

"There are places I remember

All my life, though some have changed,

Some forever, not for better...

Some have gone, and some remain.

All these places had their moments,

With lovers and friends I still can recall;

Some are dead, and some are living...

In my life, I've loved them all.

"But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you,

And these mem'ries lose their meaning,

When I think of love as something new.

Though I know I'll never lose affection,

For people and things that went before

I know I'll often stop and think about them,

But in my life, I'll love you more."

There were tears in Methos's eyes as the song ended. The CD spun down its drive, leaving the office cloaked in eerie silence. Duncan gave the slender fingers in his hand a gentle squeeze. "You gave him what he needed," he said.

"Thanks to you," Methos answered. "And he gave me what I needed, too. It is easier, saying goodbye, when you have memories to share instead of regrets."

"Yes." Duncan reached for the keyboard. "Shall we play it again?"

Methos stopped him. "No. Not yet. Later, when we get word he's really gone, we'll play it again. Right now it's just too soon." Duncan nodded. Methos looked at him. "Duncan?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Duncan gently kissed Methos's forehead. "You’re welcome."

He helped Methos off the floor. They walked out of the office together.
End

[dubiousbystander]

That was a really good piece she put together. It's an AU of her primary Methos/Joe story, and that one goes on...

[Nicholas Ward]

THE KISS CHALLENGE
EXCERPT FROM THE CLASSIC SERIES
BY CYRL


He stood up and strode out to the porch. He couldn't believe it. What in God's name was he thinking of? They were blood brothers, true, but where was this other feeling coming from? It couldn't possibly be what he thought it was...He was straight for godsakes! He was happily married! Shawn gave him everything he needed...Interrupting his reverie was a strong hand gripping his shoulder.

"Brother? Are you alright?" The hand pulled on his shoulder, turning him around and concerned blue eyes gripped his own. He stared down into his "brother's" eyes, the intensity of the gaze once again thrilling him to the core. "I....." His eyes strayed down to the firm lips, just a hint of beard stubble framing them. His entire being wanted just one thing, that which he had been always taught was forbidden. He licked his lips unconsciously. The other man's pupils widened in reaction to the erotic gesture and his lips parted slightly.

The second man moved just a bit closer, caught up in the moment...He hesitated for just one moment. What if he was rejected? Would it irreparably damage their relationship? Surely, after almost 500 years, his brother had experienced this kind of love...When he was still relatively young, the term was shield brothers. Two men who shared everything, life, love, war and ultimately death. Did his brother want that? He stared into the bright blue eyes gazing down at him. His hand strayed to the nape of his neck, exploring carefully, waiting for any signal that the touch was unwelcome. "Connor" he growled. "Brother" and gently drew the head in his hand down to his own.

The first man, Connor, felt the gentle urging of his brothers hand. Was it really what he thought it was? Oh god, he couldn't believe it, but was impelled by some inner instinct that drew him down. Closer and closer he leaned down. His own hands, without any conscious thought, rose up to rest on the broad shoulders in front of him. He had seen his brother in various stages of undress during their regular workout sessions, but had never realized until this moment, how much erotic power lay within those muscles that now lay under his fingertips. He could now see how and why the women reacted as strongly as they did, when they watched their husbands spar.

Closer and closer the lips approached one another, the shorter man gently urging, Connor following his guidance. Connor's brother began to see the porch light reflect off the light growth of beard. The blond hair seemed to sparkle. His own tongue lightly moistened his lips in anticipation. He, too, had only now noticed the lean, untamed power of the man before him.

Their breathing increased as the air between them became shared air. Connor could smell the aged scotch on his brother's breath, a drink that they had in common. Connor gasped as their lips finally brushed one another. Oh, god, he couldn't believe how bad the throb in his groin had gotten.

The shorter man gasped as their lips finally touched. The electricity flying between him and his brother was a rare and precious thing. Could they become shield brothers, sharing their lives, beds, and eventually death? Was this too much to hope for after four millennia? He pulled Connor closer still as he snaked out his tongue to taste the man that had grown to mean everything to him.

Scotch and tobacco and spice, Connor thought. He could taste the orient, the desert, all of the million places that his brother had seen, the millennia that he had experienced. He bagan to lose himself in the tastes, the images...His tongue tentatively extended, carefully tasting, testing. He
could feel the scrape of beard against his own, and he tightened his grip on the shoulders before him, in a attempt to draw their bodies closer. He desparately needed to be closer...

The slighter man opened up his mouth under the assault with relief. He could taste the Highlands as sure as Connor could taste the desert. Scotch and heather, the smoke from a fireplace, oat butties... His tongue plunged deeper, drawing out not only the passion but his brother's soul. He captured Connor's groan in his mouth, smiling to himself. But when Connor's tongue aswered the assault by plunging just as deep, the smile turned into a burst of need that left him panting.

Craving air, they broke the kiss, blue eyes dark and glazed with passion meeting. Connor's hand moved to the back of his brother's neck and pulled him back for more, the burn in him cancelling out his need for air. This time the kiss was hard, bordering on brutal, and their lips met with teeth as well. Small cuts appeared on their lips, the pain doing nothing to lessen their
ardor.

Connor could taste the blood and feel the warmth of it. He groaned again, thankful that this man, his brother, was Immortal and would heal just as he himself would. Their tongues danced and fought for sensation, grasping in need for the essence of the other man. Connor's arm wrapped around the other man, pulling him closer still, brushing their throbbing erections against each other and fanning the inferno that was threatening to overwhelm Connor.

The darker man tasted the blood, too, something that never failed to add a dimension to his lust, but something he steeled himself against with his own wife, a mortal. He relished it and was even more surprised when Connor deepened the kiss to capture the blood himself.

Their lips ground together. Small sparks ignited in the night, blue flashes of healing appearing, the small wounds healing almost as suddenly as they appeared. Their bodies were clasped together, searching for even greater contact, for the quenching of this fire they had ignited. Lost in this incredible overload of sensation, they did not hear the opening of the porch door.

A feminine voice softly gasped. "Connor? Kronos?"



Finis
(for now)

[dubiousbystander]

Amused. Kronos, now?

[Nicholas Ward]

Always the bridesmaid by Elynross

"Wench! More drink over here! Oh, wench!" Fitzcairn blearily looked around for the serving girl, waving his half-empty mug about carelessly, sloshing ale over the rim onto the floor and table. He had persuaded MacLeod, with notable charm and not a little difficulty, that the cheer and revelry of the hostel were infinitely preferable to the pomposity and ceremony of dinner at the Prussian Ambassador's. He'd tried to extol the beauties of opera, but the uncivilized lout had simply sneered at him.

"Watch out, ya drunken sot!" MacLeod took out his kerchief to dab at the embroidered cuff of his jacket. "And you should be a bit nicer to that girl!" He waved the lacy bit of cloth in the direction of their server. "She's been puttin' up well with all your gropin' and such!" He sighed and frowned down at his sleeve, his mood clearly sour.

Unfortunately, Fitz found his own mood tending more towards self-pity and introspection than to carousing and celebration. His chosen remedy, with the cooperation of MacLeod's purse, was an attempt to imbibe a sufficient quantity of alcohol in a short enough span of time as to render himself utterly numb before his Immortal healing kicked in. MacLeod had joined in, but he was making a pathetic showing compared to Fitzcairn.

Trying to decipher his own situation was like trying to get the honey without being stung. Every time he thought about it, it made his head ache. The exercise left him feeling melancholy and weary, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know why. Something about the whole encounter with Robert de Valicourt had set him on edge, and he was reluctant to examine it too closely for fear of falling off. While Gina was indeed a toothsome armful, a woman of great intelligence and wit, he hadn't thought himself so enamoured as to be quite so downcast as he was feeling. To counter such dark and futile thoughts, he was playing Hugh Fitzcairn, scoundrel and rogue, to the hilt, trying to cheer his morose companion.

"She loves it, laddie! I make her smile!"

"Only because you've almost fallen out of your chair every time you've grabbed at her as she walks by! What's not to laugh at?" MacLeod tucked his kerchief back in his sleeve and smiled winningly at the serving girl, pointing to their empty glasses. "See? A gentler touch is what is wanted here." He smoothed his mustache with his fingertips, smiling at his own foppery.

"Gentler? From a dolt such as yourself? Don't make me laugh!" Fitz flung himself back in his chair, ending up with a lap full of drink as the serving girl dodged his flying arm. He grabbed his own handkerchief and began dabbing at the spill, waving the girl off as she tried to apologize. "My own fault, my dear, pay no mind." He sighed as he frowned down at his wet trousers. The alcohol was doing a poor job of deadening his wits, but even his flirtation was suffering from despondency, his mind seeming more prone to ponder the man sitting opposite him than the charms of the girl who seemed quite willing to help him with his task. He watched MacLeod's amusement out of the corner of his eye. Such care and concern as you have for everyone, Highlander. A warrior, yes, but you are indeed a gentle spirit. Still so honest, so very much yourself. You've not yet had the time to build up the barriers and walls that most of us depend upon to survive. Do you have any idea how attractive that is to an old poseur such as myself?

He had known Duncan MacLeod for half the younger man's lifetime and had never known anyone with whom he felt more at ease or with whom he had more fun. The man was no simpleton, in spite of Fitz's own casual barbs, and he had an enthusiasm for life that echoed Fitz's own. He found himself seeking MacLeod out at times when his own Immortality wore on his soul. Times like these.

MacLeod smiled smugly, clearly unaware of the trend of Fitz's thoughts, his point proven as he accepted the glass the barmaid had managed to salvage and thanked her warmly. "As I was saying...." He toasted his mug in Fitz's direction and drank deeply, but when his glass lowered, he looked glum, his own thoughts turning in another direction. "Well, Fitz, here we are, each left with only the other for company while the beauteous Lady Angelina is being wooed and pursued by the blackguard Robert de Valicourt!"

Fitz followed his companion's lead, trying to recapture the playfulness that had been the touchstone of their mutual quest for the fickle Angelina. "Eh, so what's it matter what the serving wench thinks when my heart is broken!" He continued mopping at his lap ineffectually, his doleful look matching that of his companion. "How could she do it? How could she prefer that arrogant peacock to me, Hugh Fitzcairn, adored by every woman he's ever known!"

"I'm sure you are, probably right after they've thrown you out!" MacLeod said mockingly. "And maybe the lady Angelina is just a wee bit more selective than your usual, ah, lady. Mind you, you're a fine one to be calling any man a peacock, ya popinjay!"

Fitz blustered. "I'm serious! What does that insufferable twit have that I don't?"

"Oh, not much, just handsome features, wealth, a sophisticated manner, overwhelming charm--"

"That's quite enough out of you!"

"Well, ya did ask." MacLeod looked quite pleased with himself. Twitting Fitzcairn seemed to be one of his favorite pastimes, a fact which inexplicably warmed Fitz's heart.

Refusing to be roused from his rediscovered ill-humor, he scowled. "I should have gone to the opera alone, rather than sit around and be insulted by the likes of you!"

"Oh, and how would y'have managed that? Need I remind you that we're drinking out of my wallet? And I could have been quite happily occupied at the Prussian Ambassador's, thank you very much, and instead I'm here, drowning my sorrows with you -- at my own expense!"

MacLeod didn't look as if he thought he'd made the best choice, though in truth Fitz suspected he was enjoying the company. He sometimes had trouble ignoring Fitz's wheedlings, but only when he was in the mood to be persuaded. In the spirit of companionship and shared troubles, Fitz chose to ignore the jibe at his impoverished state. "Then I needn't remind you that you were tossed aside as well. Don't tell me that didn't hurt."

MacLeod's lower lip protruded as he pouted. "I'm quite sure that the lady did not intend to hurt either of us." His face brightened. "In fact, it was probably a ploy altogether! After all, the whole reason we went was because the scalawag had stolen a fortune from her!"

Fitz considered, then sighed heavily. "Much as I'd like to think you are in the right, laddie, I saw her face. She's sadly smitten, I'm afraid. To be brushed aside by the likes of him! It's even worse than losing her to you would have been!" Fitz threw himself back again, narrowly missing the same serving girl who moved quickly out of the way of flying limbs and settled a drink before the woebegone Englishman.

"I beg your pardon!" MacLeod looked affronted.

"Granted." Fitz grinned slightly at his friend, then relented. "Oh, you know what I mean." The rivalry between the two men, though at times heated, had owed more to their tendency to each tease the other mercilessly than to any actual antagonism. Their mutual pursuit of Angelina had been almost companionable. Indeed, thought Fitz, the chase has been all the sweeter for having been shared. In fact, the odd thought occurred to him that the game had been more enticing than the prize. He did truly enjoy the Highlander's company. Maybe that was the source of his somber mood; if Angelina was out of the game, the game was ended. It wasn't often that the two friends had set themselves at the same bait when the bait was a woman, but when they had, each had played full out and relished the victory. This time, there was no victory for either to gloat about.

"Aye, I do. To be swept out of the running like that by a rank outsider!" MacLeod's sigh was long-suffering. "But the real question is not why she chose him over you, but why she chose him over me." He looked mischievously at Fitzcairn.

"Wealth, a sophisti--" Fitz broke off abruptly at the look on MacLeod's face. "Well, I gave you the handsome features," he said good-naturedly. Regarding those selfsame features, he acknowledged once again to himself that handsome, when applied to Duncan MacLeod, was like calling the Lord himself a really nice gent. Ah, Duncan. You have no idea of the effect you have on people, do you, lad? He'd thought more than once that if MacLeod had made a concerted assault on Gina's virtue, the outcome would never have been in doubt. It made him wonder if the Highlander's desire to woo and win had been any more serious than his own. Perhaps they had both been enjoying the competition.

"Ya think so?" Mac said in pleased tones, stroking his jaw thoughtfully.

"Indeed. Though I note you did not grant me the same courtesy." Fitz looked at him promptingly.

"No, I did not." MacLeod's devilish grin took some of the sting from his words. "Y're not my preferred tipple, old man, but I will admit you have a certain roguish charm."

Fitz allowed himself to look outwardly mollified and felt an inward warmth at the other man's affectionate regard. He is so young. Hasn't yet found how little the externals can matter. He had upon occasion thought of extending the lad's education, but was reluctant to risk their friendship for nothing more than a whim. He settled back, pulling out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He was silent for several moments as he went through the complicated ritual of tamping in the leaves and lighting it. "So, then, what shall we do about it?"

MacLeod glanced up in surprise. "What can we do? She is free to make her own choices, no matter how ill-judged. And naught may come of it, you know. Perhaps this evening in his company will show her the error of her ways." His tone was not confident.

"And perhaps it will not. She did look besotted, did she not?" Fitz puffed inconsolably on his pipe.

"Aye, that she did. Radiantly besotted." MacLeod slouched down in his chair looking petulant, ankle resting on the opposite knee, picking dejectedly at his boot. "She never looked at me like that." He looked over at the other man. "Has anyone ever looked at you that way, Fitzcairn?"

"I'd like to think so, laddie. There was that princess...."

MacLeod looked disgusted. "She almost lost you your head, you scoundrel!"

Fitz sighed reminiscently. "It might almost have been worth it. To die for love!"

"Ya did not love her! If you had, you would not have left so peaceably."

"Peaceably! You call dying a peaceable exit?" Fitz remonstrated. "And I think you enjoyed it far too much."

"Well, it did have its high points. I often think back wistfully to that time -- especially when you're broke again!" MacLeod took another drink. "Anyway, you did not love the princess, did you?"

"Well, there's love, and then there's love. I think I'm more in love with the idea of loving a woman than I have ever actually loved a woman." Fitz puffed thoughtfully, not sure that he wanted to continue the line of conversation, provoking as it did his own melancholy. "What about you, man? Do you truly love the lady Angelina?"

MacLeod considered the question. "I do not know. I know that I find her company delightful, her ways winsome." He looked thoughtful. "I sometimes thought that I felt more for her than I have for anyone else since my Debra died."

"Yes, she is incomparable, is she not? A lovely, lovely woman." Fitz stared into his glass. "MacLeod--" He hesitated.

"Yes?"

"I know you're young yet, but have you ever thought of what it would be like to truly love another Immortal?" Fitz's melancholy won out, leaving him more serious than was his wont.

MacLeod's brow contracted in bafflement. "What does my age have to do with anything?"

Fitz shrugged. "Do you ever get lonely?"

"Aye, well, I've plenty of friends to keep me company -- you for one, though you're a bit of a nuisance, as well!" MacLeod leaned forward over the table, staring into his mug, his face revealing that he was more than a little uncomfortable at the turn in conversation.

"Friends, yes, friends are important." Fitz regarded MacLeod across the table. "But what about someone who was even more than a friend? Someone with whom you could share the burden of Immortality, an intimate with whom you didn't have to pretend to always be something you're not?" He looked back down to his glass, idly swirling its contents.

MacLeod shifted in his chair. "Well, you have me," he said lamely.

Fitz looked up, startled, then stared thoughtfully at MacLeod until he squirmed. "Do I, Duncan? That's a fine thing to know."

Something in his tone made MacLeod blush. "You're my friend, Fitz -- even if you are a useless Sassenach."

Laughing, throwing off his fit of seriousness for his companion's sake, Fitz drained the last of his ale and slammed the mug down on the table. "You're not too bad yourself, for a drunken Scot!" He smiled widely and looked around for the barmaid. "Wench! More drink here!"

MacLeod sighed pointedly, his tone relaying his relief at the change in conversation. "Will ya never learn, Fitz?"

"Never, laddie! Each man to his own strengths! Wench!" Fitz laughed and caught the approaching barmaid around the waist, pulling her into his lap and bussing her thoroughly. She squealed and struggled, but seemed less than intent on getting away.

MacLeod sighed again heavily in mock disgust and finished his drink. "Fitz. Fitzcairn!"

Fitz looked up blearily, goosing the girl again as she escaped, giggling merrily. "What is it, you bloody Highlander?"

"Are you through? I'd like to be finding my bed sometime before morning."

"Ah, well, there's a delicate issue, MacLeod--"

"No. Absolutely not. D'ya mean ta tell me that you don't even have a place to stay? What happened to your room at the Drunken Sailor?"

"Well, was it my fault the girl was his wife?"

"Fitz, some day you're going to have to learn to keep your pecker in your pants!" MacLeod remonstrated.

"And with my finances.... I don't suppose you could see your way clear to sharing?"

MacLeod looked thunderously at the other man. "Why do I put up with you?"

Fitz grinned obligingly. "My engaging manner? My witty repartee?"

"Yer daft talk, you mean. One night, Fitz! I mean it!"

Fitz stood and swept his hat over his heart and bowed deeply. "I am, as always, in your debt."

"Bloody right you are!" MacLeod fussed. "And I'm off to bed now. Are you coming?"

"I, ah, thought I might see if--"

"I'm not staying up to let you in."

Fitz was torn. "You know, MacLeod, there are other ways of overcoming one's sorrows than with alcohol...." He looked craftily at the other man.

MacLeod threw his hands up. "Well, then, you better hope she has a decent crib!"

"Oh, MacLeod, you'll barely wake up! And I won't be that long!" Fitz drained his fresh drink in one long swallow and prepared to leave.

"Oh, aye, I had not considered that. Probably be knocking in no time at all!" MacLeod dropped some coins on the table to cover their drinks.

"That's the spir--" It took Fitz a moment to realize that his manhood had been slighted. "Wait a minute! I'll have you know--"

"If it's all the same to you Fitz, I would really rather not know!" MacLeod sighed. "Very well, you know where I am staying. Try not to be too late?" He moved off, leaving the Englishman sputtering.





Duncan climbed to his room and made ready for bed, more melancholy than he had been before the end of the evening. Fitz's question had disquieted him and made him aware of his own drunkenness. At just over one hundred, he had as yet little experience of the isolation that Fitz's words reflected and little patience with the type of introspection Fitz had displayed, so unlike his normal attitudes. Duncan wondered if he would understand Fitz's maunderings more thoroughly when he was four hundred himself.

He snorted at the thought, still young enough to not quite believe that he would live so long. Fitz was twice as old as Connor, but rarely did his age show through. It more often seemed the other way 'round, dour Connor seeming more the mature of the pair. He grinned at the thought of the two of them together, courtly Fitzcairn and blunt, serious Connor, then winced at the probability of having to keep them from coming to blows.

He wasn't used to a serious Fitzcairn and wasn't quite sure how to handle it. The man could get quite maudlin when he drank, but he wasn't usually the type to start pondering issues any deeper than the failure of his latest assignation, or the charms of his next. Indeed, he could always trust Fitzcairn to drown his sorrows in the raucous and wenchly manner in which he was currently engaged. No woman was so desirable that the next couldn't make him forget the previous; it probably saved him a world of heartache. Though his uncharacteristic questions about loving another Immortal made it seem too likely, Duncan only hoped that Fitz's heart hadn't been too tangled up in Gina's wiles. He wished it almost as much as he hoped it for himself.

Finishing his ablutions and preparations, he snuffed the candle and settled into bed, hoping that, for once, Fitzcairn would take the hint, his own indulgences having left him eager for rest.

Sleep, however, was reluctant to be wooed, and Duncan swore at the less than furtive knocking at his door when it came. He had just begun to nod off when the banging started and managed to get himself tangled in the bed sheets trying to climb out of the bed.

The knocking increased in volume, accompanied by a voice held down low enough that it might not wake the neighbors on the surrounding floors, if he was lucky. Not enough Fitz had to get himself thrown out of his own inn; he had to try and do Duncan the same courtesy.

"MacLeod! Are you in there?" The sniggers and giggles that followed seemed far too plentiful, and high-pitched, even for one verbose, drunken Englishman.

"Hold your britches!" he said as he stumbled out of bed and threw open the door. He gaped at the sight presented to him, then stumbled backwards as he found his arms full of a well-rounded female body. "Fitzcairn, I told you--!" He yelped as he tried to thwart the hands that were suddenly sliding themselves in and around his sleeping clothes. In his bemused state he could have sworn she had a dozen, at least, each one intent on burrowing as deeply as possible.

"Oh, he is a lovely one, isn't he?" The woman grinned at Duncan and blithely ignored his feeble attempts to hold her off. "Come, monsieur, don't be shy. You have nothing I have not seen many times before!"

"Oooh, that's it, lass! He won't be able to resist you!" Fitzcairn leaned heavily against the doorframe, chuckling at the sight of the robust Highlander trying to fend off the much smaller woman who was enthusiastically digging for her prize. "Come on, laddie! Time to have a little fun!" He stepped into the room, shut the door, and gave the flailing couple a tiny push.

Duncan floundered backward, the push added to the slight weight of his adversary enough to send him off-balance. He tumbled onto the bed, his breath knocked out of him as she landed on top. Her whoop of laughter was followed closely by a cry of triumph as her manifold hands settled down to just two, both occupied with very intimate parts of his body. "Oh, my, monsieur!"

"Ooh!" His breathless sound was accompanied by an odd, half-pleased, half-mortified feeling that he knew was reflected on his face, and he moved to disentangle her from his suddenly awakening flesh. "Miss, please! Fitz, get her off me!"

Fitz shrugged out of his coat and started stripping out of his shirt. "Ah, Duncan, now why would I want to do that? You're a big, strong lad -- surely you aren't going to let a wee strip of a girl like that win?"

"Fitzcairn!" Duncan didn't see how he could remove the girl's hands from his cock without removing his own flesh. She had a firm grip, and one hand was sliding further to cup and caress his balls, rolling them lightly in her small hand. Between his drink-and-sleep-addled brain and his pleasure-loving flesh, he was slowly losing what little resolve he had had to start with. Groaning, he closed his eyes, feeling his arousal swell and harden under her deft touch.

"Here, lass, raise up a bit." Fitz's voice was soft and coaxing, and Duncan opened his eyes, looking up into the comely round face of the girl he hadn't really taken time to look at, being rather more occupied with her moving parts. She was indeed pretty, in a common sort of way, brown curls cascading over her shoulders, with lively brown eyes and a ready grin. She was looking down at him with a lustful gaze, lifting her hips to accommodate Fitz's request.

Duncan rose up on his elbows as he felt the bed shift under an added weight. "Fitzcairn! What are you doing?" He flushed in panic as he felt the other man shifting his legs apart.

"Just joining in the fun, Duncan, don't bother yourself. Toinette is willing to share if you are!" The wicked grin that appeared over the young girl's -- Toinette's -- shoulder showed Fitz's delight in Duncan's mortification. Too enflamed by Toinette's intimate attentions to argue further, if not entirely reassured, Duncan sank back and closed his eyes once more.

Leaning over him, Toinette quickly succeeded in opening his sleeping garments, cooing and murmuring compliments about his brawny form and virile manhood. He moaned at the touch of her lips to his skin, reaching and catching her head in his hands as she began sucking lightly on one nipple, her hands still busy stroking and caressing between his legs. Duncan felt Fitz's hands brush lightly against his thighs as he tugged and pulled at Toinette's skirts, and the touch caused a tightening in his flesh.

He felt Toinette shift once again and heard more murmured words of encouragement, then gasped as Toinette's hands were replaced by her hips. The engulfing warmth and wetness caused him to arch upwards, thrusting into her heat. She grasped his shoulders, encouraging him by tightening and moving slightly against him.

"Lift your hips, MacLeod!"

"Wha--?" Duncan turned his head from side to side, too caught up in the sensations to understand the direction. Then he felt hands along his naked hips, tugging upward. Counting quickly, he noted that both of Toinette's hands seemed fully occupied sliding through the hair on his chest. "Fitz!" His tone was only slightly panicked.

"Your hips, lad! Lift them up!"

"I will not!" He wasn't sure what Fitz had planned, but Duncan's ardor was diminishing as he considered the possibilities.

"Oh, calm down! We won't do anything you don't want, you naive child!" Fitz's tone was condescending. "Just do it!"

Toinette coaxed him as well, bending to murmur in Duncan's ear, "It will be all right, monsieur. You will enjoy this, trust me." Her tongue plied him as well, and Duncan found his hips rising to meet the encouragement of her own.

He felt a pillow slide underneath, raising them both slightly. Then he felt the cloth of Fitz's pants brushing against his thighs, Fitz's legs pushing his own further apart. He tightened them, resisting. Fitz's hands came down on Duncan's legs, and his head popped back over Toinette's shoulder.

"I'm not going to take you, you idiot! I'm going to take her!" Toinette giggled, and Fitz joined her, laughing softly and nuzzling her neck, sliding his hands around to free her rounded breasts from her corset. "Now shift your legs!"

Still stunned by Fitz's words, as well as the shiftings and tightenings of the woman surrounding him, Duncan obliged, and Fitz settled in behind Toinette. She lay forward on Duncan's chest, lifting only enough to allow Fitz to pull her dress down around her waist, freeing her arms and chest, before she resumed caressing and fondling Duncan as she nuzzled along his throat and shoulders.

Looking up, Duncan watched as Fitz stroked and caressed along Toinette's back. He caught his breath as he felt the other man's fingers brush against his own thighs, so close to the tender flesh between as he fondled Toinette's buttocks. Stripping off his pants, Fitz took his own engorged flesh in hand, sighing in relief as he was freed from the confinement of his clothes. Reaching forward, he shifted Toinette's hips slightly forward and began stroking gently along the cleft of her ass.

As he stroked the tight aperture of her body, her reaction translated to Duncan as a delicious tightening of her body around him, a movement of her hips away and then back. He slid his hands upward, running them over her back and sides, catching her head to kiss her deeply, thrusting his hips upward.

"Steady there, old boy! Hold on a moment!"

Duncan stilled as he felt the slight but incredible sensation of Fitz's finger stroking inside Toinette's body -- and against his own painfully aroused flesh. Joined by another, the digits stroked and stretched her opening, sliding and teasing against Duncan as they did. Looking up at Fitz, he was caught by the open and aroused look on the other man's face as he looked down at Duncan before bending to nibble along Toinette's waist.

Endless moments later, Fitz withdrew his fingers, and both Duncan and Toinette let out faint sighs. Sitting up, Fitz stroked his hands down Toinette's back, cupping her buttocks and spreading her lightly with his thumbs. Duncan's eyes rolled back in his head as he realized what was coming. He shuddered slightly as Fitz slowly and steadily pressed in, accompanied by Toinette's teeth sinking into the join of Duncan's neck and shoulder as she moaned, her own body trembling in reaction to the double invasion of her body. He held her close as he felt the extraordinary feeling of another man's cock sliding against his, separated only by the thin membrane of the woman between them.

Fitz paused between movements, letting Toinette's body adjust to his penetration. She lay between them, quivering, her passion showing itself in the aborted movements of her hands along Duncan's sides and thighs, stroking back to lightly caress Fitz's hips. Her tongue darted out, lips and teeth biting and sucking on Duncan's flesh, while he lay still, too overwhelmed by the new sensations to do more than simply feel them.

Fitz groaned as he fully seated himself within Toinette, lying over her back, Duncan's arms trapped between her back and Fitz's bare chest. Duncan could feel the unfamiliar sensation of another man's balls rocking lightly against his own. Combined with the heat surrounding him, it was all a heady sensation. Fitz leaned up slightly and stared down into Duncan's eyes.

"Are you all right, laddie?" He smiled as Duncan failed to find his voice. "I'll tell you I told you so, later. Right now, I'm going to burst if I don't move." His tone was low and rough, sending small shudders through Duncan. And then Fitz began to move, keeping his eyes locked on Duncan's until Fitz's own passion overwhelmed him, and his eyes drifted shut.

As Fitz slid out, Duncan felt the movement against his own flesh and felt Toinette settle further back on to him. Then Fitz pressed back in, slowly at first, and Duncan arched with the feeling of tightness that accompanied the movement, Toinette's body stretched around him, Fitz's motion pushing her forward so that she slid up on Duncan's cock. Again he felt the light slap of Fitz's balls against and between his thighs. And then the motion sped up. Gradually, but inexorably, Fitz began thrusting faster and faster, the slide of flesh, male and female, stimulating them all.

Each shift forward and backward of Fitz's hips was echoed in the movement of Toinette's body. As a rhythm was established, Duncan found himself unable to move at all, except for his hands that clutched and stroked along the bodies above him, Fitz's flesh blurring into Toinette's. Fitz's features were tight with passion, and with what slight bit of mind remained to him, Duncan got an intimation of part of the attraction Fitz held for the fairer sex. The push and slide of Fitz's body against his own made it seem as if the woman between them had ceased to exist, but what confusion that generated was soon lost in the pleasure.

And then Fitz slid a hand under Toinette's hips and began stroking along Toinette's flesh and Duncan's cock in rhythm with the shifting of his body. Unable to prevent himself, Duncan began thrusting upwards, his body rapidly spiraling out of control. He could no longer determine what sounds came from which individual. Crying out, he came, pulling Toinette's hips against him as she clenched hotly around them both, her orgasms causing her body to tighten. Faintly Duncan heard Fitz's voice join his own, felt the short, sharp thrusts and slaps of flesh that indicated that Fitz, too, had succumbed.

Awareness gradually returned, as did a slight claustrophobia as Duncan found himself buried under two sweaty, trembling bodies. Panting, he pushed at them. "Fitz!"

"Ah?" Fitz raised his head tiredly, looking around to find the source of annoyance.

"Get off me!" gasped Duncan.

"Well, I say, that's some thank you." Fitz grinned down at him, stroking his hand along Toinette's stomach, his fingertips brushing Duncan's abdomen at the same time, sending a faint tremor through Duncan. "And you seemed to be enjoying yourself so much."

Duncan flushed, his modesty returning as he regained control of his body. He quivered slightly as Toinette giggled against him, her body shaking and teasing his overwhelmed flesh where it still lay imbedded within her. "I can't breathe! Could you please shift off me?"

"Ah, well! That I can do. But you still haven't said thank you." Fitz gasped slightly as he lifted up, his hips shifting backwards to let him slide out of Toinette's body. He bent and pressed a kiss to her hip before rolling off to lay next to Duncan.

Duncan shivered at the last sensation of Fitz's flesh along his. "I didnae ask for it!" he muttered. He looked apologetically and sheepishly at Toinette as she lifted her head from where it had rested on his shoulder to look at him reproachfully. "But it was very nice!" She sniffed. He then took a deep breath as he lifted her off of him, shifting her to the side so that she was between him and the English devil who lay there smirking and stroking his chest idly, yawning.

Duncan flopped his head back on his pillow and breathed deeply, closing his eyes and trying to figure out what had just happened.

"Go to sleep, laddie. It was just a bit of fun, that's all." Fitz himself sounded close to sleep. Realizing the good sense of what he said, Duncan soon joined him.





The inn's rooster crowed at what seemed an obscenely early hour, and Fitz surfaced sleepily to an aching head, a full bladder, and a solid warmth at his back that made him reluctant to get out and find the chamber-pot. Trying to ignore his increasingly insistent need to piss, he snuggled back into the warmth, only gradually realizing that there were firm angles where some more alert part of his mind was expecting soft curves. Waking more fully and listening, he ruefully came to the conclusion that one of the people he had fallen asleep with was missing, and judging by the snorts and rumbles, it wasn't MacLeod. Easing himself from the bed, his bladder unwilling to wait longer, he confirmed his guess. Reaching for the pot, he held it carefully, not wanting to wake MacLeod, who was lying there with his hair tangled over his face, his big body sprawling into the warm space so recently vacated.

I hope the lass -- Colette? Annette? -- wasn't too greedy in paying herself, he thought, sighing in pleasure as he relieved himself. He felt a momentary uneasiness, the frequent burden of the recurrently broke, then brightened as he realized that whatever the price, and he suspected she valued herself highly, it probably hadn't cost him much at all, since he had very little to show for himself at the moment. Now, MacLeod, on the other hand, might not be well pleased, but, thought Fitz with an internal shrug, he could easily afford it, and though he might storm and bluster about it, sooner or later he'd get over it. He always did. Whether he'd be over it in time to let Fitz share his bed again tonight was less certain. He smiled to himself. Of course, with -- Babette? -- out of the picture, a similarly enjoyable sharing was most unlikely in any case. Thinking back over it, remembering the look on MacLeod's face as he came, the abandon with which he'd joined in at the end...whatever the cost, any payment MacLeod would demand of him was well worth it. And with any luck, it was just the first in a series of lessons designed to bring them both a great deal of pleasure.

Looking down at MacLeod, Fitz felt a certain wistfulness that surprised him. Shaking the last clinging droplets free, he set the pot down carefully and eased himself back under the covers, taking the opportunity to briefly scan MacLeod's nude body, almost entirely relaxed in sleep apart from one telling exception. Wistfulness was replaced with a sharp surge of desire, closely followed by a feeling of something close to despair. The last thing Fitz needed was an unrequited affection for someone like the Highlander. However, there was no need to let that possibility ruin a perfectly good opportunity to get a bit more sleep, he told himself with self-mocking cheer. Sliding carefully into the bed, he shivered as MacLeod easily curled against him, pulling him into a warm embrace, and Fitz knew that he'd be getting no more sleep, his roused body highly aware of the hard body against him.

Closing his eyes against the brightening day, he recalled the night before in increasingly sharp detail. He'd wanted to find a way to cheer up the gloomy Highlander, knowing his propensity for moping about, and...Toinette, that was it! Toinette's willingness to share had seemed the perfect means. He'd known that MacLeod's own sensuality would be his best ally, once he got past the man's somewhat inconvenient and sometimes unpredictable bashfulness, and he'd hoped that the alcohol they'd imbibed, combined with Toinette's briefly sampled skills, would ease them past any such difficulties. His hopes had been more than fulfilled, and he'd surprised himself at his own reaction to the startled sensuality on MacLeod's face as he'd felt Fitz's movements against him, that more than anything else pulling Fitz to his own climax. The flush of heat that touched him at that thought put the warmth of MacLeod's body against his to shame.

What an idiot you are, Fitzcairn, you hopeless old fool. It wasn't entirely Gina at all, was it? Lying there, basking in MacLeod's sleeping presence, he remembered his odd thought that the prize had been less enticing than the chase. Pondering this, he realized that it was true, that what he'd miss most about the pursuit of Angelina wasn't the woman, it was the game itself -- an amusement made more piquant and exciting by the presence of his adversary, as many diversions had been in the time since he'd befriended the Scot.

It was a game they'd played before, with the enthusiastic cooperation of several flattered women, whenever their interests had collided over the same lovely lady. It had seemed more sporting, somehow, to leave the choice to the women themselves, and neither of the men had ever been willing to be the first to resign. And since it had always been the case that their flesh was more smitten than their hearts, none of their competitions had affected the underlying friendship. Fitz even prided himself on his selfless tutoring of MacLeod in the finer arts of flirtation and coquetry, and for the most part, he was well-pleased when the student began to -- very rarely, his pride insisted -- outshine the teacher. He opened his eyes, watching the growing light as he wondered whether he'd have courted the current lady so vigorously if not for the presence of her other suitor.

This round of play had begun after they'd sighted Angelina at a most tedious ball, surrounded by admiring beaus. Fitz had challenged MacLeod to see which of them could see her home, could cut out her swains and carry her off, and he had alternately insulted and cajoled him into agreeing, their usual warm-up routine. Angelina had been wise to them early on, but fortunately for them she was both flattered and amused, and their attraction had become even more genuine. After getting to know her, their sport had become even less serious and their rivalry moreso, though it remained playful, and it had continued well past the one night.

Gina hadn't appeared to take it all any more seriously than they did themselves, gently playing one gentleman off against the other. Her interest had remained evenly divided and most chaste, in spite of their seemingly fervent attempts to upset the balance, and she gently fended off any venture to carry her away to a more ardent privacy. Now that Fitz considered, he wondered how much of the lady's delicacy had been geared to preserving what she quickly learned was a most cherished friendship, despite appearances to the contrary, both men enjoying the hurling of creative insults and the mutual denigration of each other's place of birth.

Indeed, Fitzcairn valued his friendship with Duncan MacLeod more than any other relationship in his memory. He'd long ago acknowledged that the man seemed to see into his soul, to recognize the genuineness of the man under the carefree bluster. And it hadn't hurt that the Scot seemed to have a soft spot for the intermittently indigent Englishman. They'd traveled together, fought side by side, wooed and won fair lady against one another, and come out friends on the other side of more than a few ideological differences.

And it wasn't as if he'd not acknowledged an attraction to his friend before this. Fitz had long since understood his attraction to beauty of all types, and MacLeod was nothing if not beautiful, both outside and in. More importantly, there was something about the lad's openness and vibrancy that was balm to Fitz's soul. He'd begun feeling his age a bit more, recently, even though he knew by Immortal standards he was not all that old. Still, many Immortals never even reached four hundred, and time passed similarly for mortal and Immortal alike. He wondered if his recent, uncharacteristic melancholy was a sign of some Immortal something-or-other, the Immortal equivalent of growing age, the sensing of one's own mortality -- if one were mortal. The older he got, the more he seemed prone to fits of a most trying introspection, as if time itself were trying to push him towards a wiser self, while his own instincts tended more towards dicing and drinking the eons away, always looking for that prettier wench or that easier mark. His Immortality seemed such a gift, sometimes he wondered if it was squandered on a wastrel like himself -- and then he set himself to enjoying it all the more, living life to the fullest in a vain attempt to deserve the universe's profligacy in his favor.

But lately he'd been lonely in a way that wasn't alleviated by just any warm body or group of mortal cronies. His soul sought ease, against his own will, an ease that he could possibly only find in the most dangerous of places, with his own kind, a place where he could be known and understood in a way beyond the ken of most mortals. That was part of the attraction Gina had had for him, he admitted, carrying, as she did, the possibility of more than the chancy acceptance of a mortal love. What he'd not admitted until now was that the same was true of MacLeod, and the comfort he felt in the man's company gave him that ease. What would be more natural than the desire to extend that emotional ease into the physical?

He'd never considered that his attraction to the man might extend further than a mutual scratching of an itch, a simple indulgence in mutual pleasure. He lay there quietly, long into the morning, contemplating this new thought, trying to convince his foolish heart of the impossibility of such a thing.





Duncan woke slowly from a deep, relaxed sleep. His eyes still closed, he could sense the late morning light. His head was pillowed against wavy hair, and his nose filled with the scent of warm bodies and sexual activity. As he rose closer to full awareness, he felt the body pressed against his own, his early morning arousal cushioned against smooth buttocks. He smiled, vaguely recalling details of the early morning debauch. His hand stroked down a hip, and just as his mind was cataloguing the fact that the body against his was a bit leaner than expected, the legs tucked against his a bit less lush and a bit more hairy, a voice that rumbled in the chest against which he was tucked froze him to stillness.

"Ah, laddie, you do remember who you went to bed with, don't you?" The voice seemed rough with sleep, but relaxed.

Relaxed as Duncan was not, as in his haste to distance himself from Fitzcairn he once again tangled himself in the sheets and went sprawling on the floor, ass first, somersaulting to end up on a pile of clothes and bedding against the wall.

"Sorry, lad! Just wanted to make sure before you were making promises you didn't want to keep!" Fitz's lazy, smiling face rose up from the bed as the mischievous Immortal stretched and then looked down where Duncan lay. "I somehow had the impression that you didn't realize I was me." He indolently leaned back against the pillows, scratching his chest and smiling at the befuddled Highlander.

"I seem to recall we weren't alone!" Duncan blustered. "Where's your ladyfriend this morning?" He pulled the sheets around his waist, avoiding looking at the disheveled man in his bed. Standing, he held onto his modesty with one hand while digging for clothes to more permanently affix it.

"Toinette?" Fitz looked around, puzzled. "I don't know, MacLeod. She's not the type to take off without...." His voice dwindled to nothing as Duncan turned and looked at him in outrage.

"Without getting paid, perhaps? Well, she didn't! In fact, she was very well paid, with everything that was in my purse! And no doubt she'd have taken yours, as well, ya thievin' Sassenach -- if there'd been anything in it!" Fitz's sheepish look was enough to confirm Duncan's accusation, and he was well on the way to working up a full-fledged rage. "That's why you tangled me up in it, wasn't it? Couldn't find anyone willing to bed ye without payment, so you brought her here to filch from my purse again!"

Clearly deciding that offense was better than defense, as per his usual manner, Fitz leapt into the fray. "I say, that's unfair! I didn't bring her here to steal your money! How was I supposed to know she was a common thief?"

Duncan sighed. "I didnae mean that you intended for her to steal, but can you deny you intended for me to pay her? Or did you suddenly come into some hidden wealth since I left you at the table last night?"

"Well--" Fitz looked uncomfortable.

"Well, nothing! I hope you have someone else willing to support you, Fitz. You've about worn out your welcome with me!" Duncan ignored the chastened look on the other man's face as he dropped the sheet and began climbing into his clothes. At the continued silence, he looked at the glum man in his bed exasperatedly. "How d'you get yourself in these scrapes, anyway? And more to the point, how have you lived this long?"

"A natural gift, Highlander."

"The getting in, or the getting out?" Duncan flushed faintly as he realized what he'd said.

Fitz raised an eyebrow and avoided the obvious. "Both. Runs in the family." He grinned at the other man.

Duncan rolled his eyes at the cheeky remark. "I'm sure the running is a good part of it." He threw Fitz's clothes at him. The sooner the man was up and out of his bed, the better, as far as he was concerned. In spite of the pleasures of the night before, which he could not in all honesty deny, there were parts of it all he'd just as soon not remember too clearly, and Fitz's bare chest reminded him of much of it.

"I've never run away...just made some tactful and swift departures when it seemed the wise thing to do." Fitz dug his tobacco and pipe out of his pockets and paused to light up.

Duncan found himself fascinated by the movements of the other man's hands, oddly captivated by the motions Fitz made as he held the flame to his pipe, his rugged features looking even more gaunt as he sucked in to create a draft. Duncan's mind involuntarily drifted back to the night before, and his still unsatisfied morning arousal heightened at the memory of Fitz's cock sliding slowly back and forth against his own. He flushed as he recalled the movement of Fitz's body between his legs, the straying hands. Horrified by the turn in his thoughts, he took it out on the man contentedly resting back against the pillows, reluctant to dig out the piss-pot in front of Fitz, though he'd done so often enough before. That thought, too, added to his ill humor. "Well, I'd say that now is a good time for another hasty departure! Find someone else to fund your adventures for a while!"

Fitz looked injured. "Don't I always pay you back, Duncan? And look how generously I shared with you last night. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it?" He glanced slyly up at the other man, and Duncan felt his flush deepen.

Flustered, he moved over to pour water into the washbasin, splashing his face and drying it before answering. "I do not think it was your natural generosity that led you to bring the wench back. And I seem to be the one that paid for it!" Fitz showed no signs of leaving, so Duncan fumbled around for the chamber pot, turning his back on the other man as he used it, oddly embarrassed in a way he'd never been before last night.

"I'm sorry, Duncan. I truly never intended anything but a little diversion to distract us both from our sorrows." Duncan watched out of the corner of his eye as Fitz stood, and gathering his clothes, prepared to make a somewhat disheartened-seeming departure. "Perhaps my choice was ill-judged, but...." He darted a furtive look up at Duncan, whose soft heart was warring with his Scottish temperament. Fitz quickly looked away when Duncan's eyes fell on him, then glanced back up mischievously and grinned. "You did enjoy it, did you not?"

Duncan colored again and grinned in spite of himself. "Aye, Fitzcairn, I did. But let's not make a habit of it, ya hear? I can't often afford such indulgences." He smiled further at Fitzcairn's obvious relief and felt the odd tension in the room ease a bit.





Time proved that Gina's infatuation with Robert de Valicourt was anything but contrived or transitory, and without Gina to bring them together in mock rivalry, Fitz saw a great deal less of MacLeod in the following weeks, and he noted a dangerous ache in his heart that this was the case. When he did see him, he sadly noted that MacLeod was somewhat awkward and shy around him, and Fitz did his best to keep things light and frivolous. For his own part, he missed the lad sorely and attempted to drown his sorrows in willing flesh and outrageous games of chance, his fortunes and his moods vacillating wildly. His harmless prank seemed to have put a barrier between them, and Fitz didn't think it was because of the money, which he managed to repay in fairly short order -- before his fortunes again took a downturn, part of the recurring theme of his very long life.

But with her outlandish request to have them both give her away, Gina brought them together again, even though the meeting was at first awkward and somewhat ridiculous. It was as if they were going through the well-worn paces of their friendship, without really feeling it, Fitz following MacLeod's weakened lead. Sensing their difficulties, though not knowing the cause, Gina did her best to help, inviting them often to the pre-wedding frivolities, introducing them to numerous nubile and charming young women, as well as to those equally charming and more experienced. Fitz was dedicatedly attentive to each and every one, flattering and wooing with abandon, but more often than not he found his eyes straying to his equally attentive and charming companion. He set himself to putting MacLeod at ease, no mention of that night and the pretty Toinette, nothing but lighthearted chatter and teasing by-play, and gradually MacLeod relaxed, their friendship once again filling with banter and affection. Fitz had even convinced the uncultured lout that opera had more to show for itself than the caterwauling and wailing the young man had anticipated.

And now they were married, Gina and Robert, the latter become less of a painted villain and more of a genuine friend in the months since their intrusion into de Valicourt's estate. The ceremony had been lovely, the celebration magnificent, and after eloquently toasting both bride and groom and seeing them off to their wedding bower, the two bride-bestowers staggered back towards their respective inns, leaning on each other and singing off-key at the top of their lungs until the near miss of an emptied chamber pot quieted them up.

"So, she really did it." MacLeod stumbled over an invisible crack, grabbing on to Fitzcairn, who valiantly tried to stabilize him.

"Yes, laddie, she did. All official and permanent."

MacLeod stopped and peered at him. "Ya think? Forever is a very long time for us."

"I think if anyone I've ever known could make a stab at it, it's those two -- and I wish them all the luck in the world." He felt gracious and expansive, basking once again in MacLeod's warm regard.

"Yer a good man, Fitzcairn -- for a thievin' Englishman."

"That's high praise indeed, coming from a drunken Scotsman, laddie!"

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, in't?" MacLeod cuffed Fitz affectionately.

They continued down the cobblestone street, sniggering and stumbling, until they reached the parting of their ways in an alley near MacLeod's inn. Fitz's path led over the bridge to a slightly shabbier establishment, one he held onto by the skin of his teeth and the luck of the dice, and he bowed with a flourish. "Until another night, then, my lord. May forever be as long for each of us--" Both men froze briefly, then looked around as they felt the approach of another Immortal. "Or maybe not."

From out of the darkness, a man approached, middle height, middle weight -- nothing particularly distinctive aside from his presence in their heads, the snarl on his face, and the sharp blade in his hand.

"Fitzcairn!" He roared, upon seeing them.

"I think it's for you." MacLeod bowed his way to the side, only to back into Fitzcairn as the other man ducked behind him. "Fitz? It's you he's wantin', shouldn't you be moving a bit forward?"

"Ah. Well, you see...." Fitz peered out around MacLeod's middle at the approaching Immortal, wishing they'd decided to stay over at de Valicourt's, hoping MacLeod was feeling valiant this evening.

"What?" MacLeod's tone was ominous as he eyed the blade coming closer, seemingly uncaring of its target.

"I seem to be at a disadvantage."

"You'd have a hell of a lot more advantage in front!" MacLeod tried to pull Fitz out from behind him, but Fitz kept turning to keep well hidden, thanking the Lord for his wiry stature and MacLeod's innate protectiveness.

"Ah. Well, you see...." Fitz peered out under MacLeod's arm again, hoping that the Highlander's stance might have put his attacker off, but no joy.

The other Immortal's rage only increased at this unsightly behavior. "Fitzcairn, you flea-bitten scoundrel! Stand forth and take a challenge like a man, if you know how!"

The man refrained from attacking immediately, giving MacLeod opportunity to size him up. "Ah, you're not too bad, Fitz. I think you can take him."

His patience apparently at an end, unwilling to wait for his prey to surface, the unknown man seemed to decide that if Fitz wouldn't come out from behind MacLeod, he'd go in after him.

Seeing his forward charge, MacLeod was forced to draw his own sword, swearing at the dastard that hung on his coat-tails. "Fitz! You're acting like a coward! Get out here and face him, ya milksop!"

"Well, I would, laddie, and you're quite right, I could take him -- Montgomery, the name is -- there's just a slight problem. I don't have my sword."

MacLeod turned briefly to stare at him, but was forced to turn back to fend off the wild blows of the angry attacker. "You came out without yer sword!?"

"Ah, yes. Well, I didn't think I'd need it, did I? The whole place full of bloody Immortals, figured they'd be protection enough." And who would have thought, of the two of them, that he'd be the one to be challenged?

"Fitz! You're four hundred years old! You never go out without yer sword!"

At this point, Montgomery seemed to find his voice. "Out of my way, you bumbling oaf! My quarrel is with that villein there, but I'll gladly go through you to get to him!"

Both men ignored him, though MacLeod continued to parry his increasingly erratic feints, Montgomery's blows wild enough that MacLeod's inebriation didn't hinder his defense unduly. "Well, tell him so, and we can arrange a more civilized meeting once you've retrieved it!"

"That's a very good idea, MacLeod, very good, indeed, and normally, I'd be in full support of it -- you know how I love a duel -- but I'm afraid it's not going to serve me very well at this point in time."

"Why not!" MacLeod put a bit more vigor into his defense, forcing Montgomery off a few steps while trying not to injure him.

"Well, actually...I pawned it."

MacLeod nearly lost an ear as he halted in outrage to try and turn and face a chastened Fitz, but was forced to stop. Taking matters into his own hands, he blocked Montgomery's blow and forced his sword down, pinning it between his own and the ground. "Listen, sir, I don't know your grievance, but I would think it a great kindness if you would give me a moment with my comrade. Depending on what he has to say, I may decide to just hand him over to you!" This last was said with a fierce glance at an apologetic Fitzcairn. "Just a few moments, and one or the other of us will be happy to face you."

Visibly restraining himself, Montgomery pulled back. "Five minutes, no more! Or I'll kill the both of you!" He moved back a few steps while an aggrieved Highlander turned to confront Fitz, who stumbled backwards across the cobblestones until he was pressed against the alley wall. He leaned against it, thankful for something that didn't spin when he closed his eyes.

"You what? How could you do such an idiotic thing!" MacLeod whispered harshly.

Fitz opened one eye to peer at MacLeod. "I planned to retrieve it in short order, but I needed a gift for the lovely Gina, and, well, as you know I'm a bit short on funds of late...."

"You pawned your sword for a wedding present?!" MacLeod somehow managed to shriek in a loud whisper. "And where exactly were ya goin' ta get the funds to get it back?" he continued suspiciously.

"Well...." Fitz smiled as charmingly as possible under the conditions.

MacLeod stood back and crossed his arms, glaring down at the importunate man. "Why didn't ya just hit me up for the gift? It's not like yer shy about spending my money!"

Fitzcairn was shocked at the idea. "I couldn't do that! It was a gift!"

MacLeod looked at him in disbelief, then took a deep breath. "What did you do to him, anyway?" He nodded over to where Montgomery was pacing and throwing dark looks in their direction.

Fitz drew himself up and looked scornfully at the gentleman in question. "I didn't do anything!" The hiccup only marred his dignity slightly.

Montgomery threw himself at them, and MacLeod only barely managed to keep him off. Fitz was grateful that in his rage, the man had forgotten the sword he yet held. "Liar! Despoiler of innocents!"

"Just a few more moments, man! You'll have yer chance!" MacLeod watched until the man moved away a safe distance, then turned back and stared at Fitzcairn. "Not again, man! Will ya never learn to leave such women alone? And this time, you seduced the daughter of another Immortal? You've lost yer mind!"

"I did no such thing!" Fitz protested.

"Are you telling me he has the wrong man?" MacLeod asked skeptically.

"Well, no. Not exactly."

"What d'ya mean 'not exactly?!' Either he does, or he doesn't! Did you seduce this man's daughter?"

"No, not his daughter." MacLeod raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Fitz knew he seemed oddly reluctant for a man who usually boasted of his conquests, albeit in a gentlemanly and affectionate way. He wasn't sure, given MacLeod's earlier reactions, how he'd take what Fitz was being pressed to admit.

MacLeod stared at him, appalled. "His wife?!"

"No...."

"Fitzcairn!"

"The boy was no innocent, MacLeod! He seduced me!" Fitz proclaimed in the tones of the justified.

At this, Montgomery lost the last of his patience. Fitz heard the low growl, and over MacLeod's shoulder, saw him charging again. MacLeod reacted more slowly, still bemused by Fitz's revelation, but he saw Fitz's eyes widen and pivoted, swinging his sword up to block the expected blow to his neck--

--only to find that Montgomery had tried to duck around him to go after Fitz. MacLeod's sweep cut cleanly through the man's neck, and his head went bouncing and rolling down the alleyway as MacLeod turned back to look at Fitz with horrified eyes.

"Ah, I'm sorry about that, laddie," Fitz said sincerely, stepping back away from the incoming quickening that rose from the decapitated body.

It began with deceptive peacefulness, gathering and swirling around MacLeod's body like a thick fog, sinking in and dissipating as the lightning struck. Fitz ducked behind a corner, trying to both keep his eyes on MacLeod and look out for any other people summoned by the out of season storm. As he watched, the lightning ricocheted through the cul-de-sac, rebounding into MacLeod with each pass, Fitz wincing with each blow. When it finally faded, MacLeod collapsed to one knee, braced on his sword.

A light in a window and the sound of sleepy voices told Fitz that he'd better hurry and get MacLeod out of the streets before someone came along who'd want to know what they were doing hanging around a headless body. He approached MacLeod cautiously, wondering what form the quickening would take as MacLeod's spirit worked to absorb it. Montgomery had been out for his blood, and while MacLeod was a strong young Immortal, Fitz didn't know how much practice he'd had at overcoming the terrible pulls of an unincorporated quickening. "MacLeod? Are you all right, laddie?

He was met with a wordless growl, and he could see the strong shoulders shaking as MacLeod fought to contain his opponent's rage. "Leave me, Fitzcairn. He didn't care much for you and would have liked nothing better than to see you drawn and quartered. And at the moment, I'm not too fond of you, either!" MacLeod raised his head and glared at Fitz, hauling himself to his feet. "Leave me be!"

"Aye, and I can't do that, Duncan. It's my fault you got into this mess, I'm going to make sure you're all right. But we need to clear out of here." He stepped forward and reached for MacLeod's sword. "Give me that -- don't want to forget to clean your sword." MacLeod glowered at him, but let him take the sword, staggering over to the wall to lean against it. Fitz took the sword and quickly cleaned it on Montgomery's jacket. He shook his head sadly. The man had been a pompous prig, but he'd been devoted to his wife and stepson. Lady Montgomery had never able to accept that her son Jocelyn would have happily married and sired heirs if his parents had been willing to turn a blind eye to both his gambling and his predilection for other men. They could have come to a civilized agreement, but instead they had driven Jocelyn away, and Montgomery had apparently blamed Fitzcairn for that. All because Fitz had been his own generous self, seeing the boy safely to Paris and into the arms of some welcoming friends.

He turned back to MacLeod and saw the other man eyeing him in a way that was not entirely displeasing, and his own drink-addled mind turned agreeably on the possibilities, a small hope flaring in his heart. It was sad that it had happened, but there was no point in wasting opportunity when it came your way. "Well, my boy, I think we'll be staying in your rooms tonight. We need to get out of sight before anyone else comes along. And we can go in the back way. Less chance of anyone seeing us, asking questions when the body turns up later."

"Fitz, I don't want to hurt you--"

Fitzcairn heard both anger and despair, and something else, something that sent a shiver through him. "Come now, you know you won't hurt me, you're stronger than that. Besides," he grinned devilishly, "I have the sword now!"

"Fitz--"

He slid an arm around MacLeod's waist, pulling MacLeod's arm around his own shoulders. They'd look like nothing so much as what they were, a couple of drunken fellows trying to find their way home. "Now then, off we go!"





Duncan felt Montgomery's quickening singing inside him, bouncing around much as the lightning bolts had flown about, refusing to settle. Murderous rage and bloodlust had poured in, but mingling with Duncan's own nature, it quickly turned into lust of an entirely different kind, and Montgomery's obsession fed on the heat of Fitz's body, awakening unsettling images in Duncan's mind. Every quickening hit him differently, the emotions and immediate predilections of his opponents mingling with his own life force, awakening different urges and needs in him. Sometimes it led to rage, sometimes to sorrow; this time it seemed to have called to his own uncontemplated ambivalence about Fitzcairn, married itself to it, and transformed somehow into a confusing mixture of aggression and lust aimed at Fitz himself. More than anything Duncan wanted to be left in peace, to be left alone to deal with his wayward body in a manner that wouldn't leave him more confused than ever.

Fitzcairn helped him up the back stairs and to his room, thankfully holding his tongue. Leaving Duncan on the bed, he poured some water into a basin, and taking a cloth, tried to sponge some of the blood and sweat off Duncan's face, until Duncan growled and grabbed the cloth away. "All right, you've seen me home, now leave, would you! I just want some peace and quiet!" He ignored the swelling of his body, hoping that Fitzcairn was too drunk to notice. His own head swam with drink and need, and the smell of Fitz's perfumed clothes overlaying the scent of his body made Duncan want to push the man down and-- "Would you leave me be!" He shoved at Fitz, who was trying to tug off Duncan's coat, sending him sprawling. "I don't need a nursemaid!" He stood and paced, waiting for Fitz to leave.

Fitz climbed to his feet, an understanding in his face that made Duncan's heart sink. "I know what's wrong, laddie." Fitz stepped closer to him. "I...could help."

Duncan backed away, torn, the quickening working against his own tendencies. "I don't think...." His mind filled with the sensations and images of that one night months before, in this bed, waking pressed tightly to Fitzcairn's back, and his body reacted, throbbing and wanting.

"Then don't think. Please, Duncan, it's my fault you had to take the quickening. At least let me help with this." As he spoke, he moved closer, and soon his hands were busy delving into Duncan's clothing, quicker than Duncan could ward them off in his still-drunken and overcharged state. "It won't be a hardship." His rough voice sent shivers through Duncan.

Before he quite realized what was happening, Fitz was on his knees, his warm mouth on Duncan's engorged cock, his hands stroking along Duncan's thighs, triggering a memory of those hands on him before, spreading his legs to kneel between them. He staggered back, bracing himself against the bedstead. Looking down, seeing only the long curls of blond hair, he could almost believe it was a woman before him, but then he realized he didn't want to. Somehow this satisfying of his lust was intrinsically tied to Fitzcairn, through Montgomery's quickening. Closing his eyes, sinking his fingers into the curly mane, he groaned in relief and gave in to the pleasures of mouth and tongue.

And such a clever tongue it was, making Duncan wonder how many of Fitz's four hundred years had been dedicated to such learning. Every touch, every lick, was calculated to inflame and pleasure, and Fitz proved that the suction that went into lighting his pipe served him well in other areas. Duncan braced himself on the brass frame of the bed, unable to prevent groans that only seemed to serve to push Fitz to greater effort. He was so close to the edge that when he felt a single finger penetrate him slowly, he could but spread his legs the wider, allowing the touch he knew would send him over. And indeed it did, pleasure spiraling through him, the slick, wet sounds of Fitz's mouth on him only increasing that pleasure. He arched outward and groaned, his hands, woven into Fitz's hair, holding that gratifying mouth in place as he thrust once, twice, and came.

He stood there, dazed, his mind swimming in lust and alcohol, no resistance in him as Fitz helped him to the bed, all the aggression turned to need. Fitz's hands on him still brought sparks of pleasure, as if they were calling to the quickening still flowing through him, seeking its rest, and Duncan made no move to stop him as Fitz coaxed him out of his clothes, moving against Duncan as he did so.

"I can make you feel so good, Duncan -- if you'll but let me."

Duncan nodded helplessly, unable -- and unwilling -- to resist as Fitz stroked him, shaped him, made him feel good in a hundred different ways, deft hands sliding along his back, thighs, buttocks, soothing the last tremors of Montgomery's quickening into something both less disturbing -- and moreso. And then there was his tongue, that weapon so agile in speech and equally so in touch, teeth biting gently along his skin, as if Fitz were trying to assuage a deep hunger -- or wake one. Duncan's eyes widened, and he gasped as that tongue moved lower, against his buttocks, his thighs, his balls, the last tightening as the slick flesh was cooled by the slight breeze stirred by Fitz's movements. Duncan lifted his hips at Fitz's silent urging, burying his head in his pillow to cover the shout of surprise and shock as that tongue was probing him, sliding against him and sending shocks of excitement through him.

Capable only of muffled groans, he spread his legs wider, braced his knees, and gave in to the pleasure. He drew deep breaths when Fitz's mouth finally left him, only to bite deeply into the pillow when he felt hot, hard flesh against him. A moment's hesitation only, and he lifted his hips again, the last of the quickening and his own memories of Fitz's cock sliding against him, as well as Toinette's obvious enjoyment, spurring him on. Fitz's penetration was equally as gentle and slow as it had been before, and Duncan felt no pain, only an eventual thick, sweet pleasure that had him moving against Fitz, pleading for more.

"Oh, lord, Duncan, you are magnificent!" Fitz's voice was hoarse and urgent as Duncan took control of the rhythm, his fingers sinking deep into Duncan's hips, his own pleasure made obvious in broken sounds and half-finished, indecipherable phrases. His half-opened garments brushed against Duncan's back and thighs, erotic against his naked flesh. When Fitz reached around to stroke and squeeze Duncan's renewed erection, matching movements, every last bit of coherence was wrung from Duncan's mind.

When it was over, Duncan barely felt Fitz pulling away from him, faintly noticing a soft kiss to his shoulder as Fitz pulled the covers up over them both.





Morning came late, gloriously bright to Fitz's somewhat woozy head and slitted eyes. He closed them again immediately, savoring the blessed darkness behind his lids. A sweet lethargy filled him, a blissful satiation that only increased as he stretched, reaching his toes into the cool areas of the bed -- which made it quite obvious that he was alone. Leaning up on his elbows, blowing the hair out of his eyes, he opened them carefully -- to see a somewhat thoughtful and brooding Scot sitting by the bed, half-dressed, his shirt open and one boot dangling from his hand as he watched Fitz, looking awkward, but resolved.

Fitz cleared his throat, his chest tight, wondering if his impulsive lust had cost him one of the dearest friends he'd ever had and damning himself as seven kinds of fool. "Good morning, MacLeod. Going somewhere?" He kept his voice good-humored and casual.

MacLeod smiled. It was a more reserved smile than most of his, but there was a genuine warmth to it that eased Fitz's mind. Whatever was going on in that complicated mind, MacLeod had apparently decided that he wasn't going to pull away completely -- at least Fitz hoped that was what he'd decided. The possibility of gaining MacLeod's heart no longer seemed worth the risk of losing his simple warmth and companionship. Fitz suddenly felt chatty, wanting to forestall whatever was going to come out of that lovely mouth. "How did you sleep, laddie? I don't think I've slept that well in ages, must have been--" He stopped abruptly, appalled at what he had almost said.

They sat in the increasingly uncomfortable silence until MacLeod opened his mouth. "Fitz, I...he...he wanted you." MacLeod blushed at Fitz's startled look and clarified. "He wanted your head. I think that's why...."

"It's all right, Duncan." Fitz forced himself to sound nonchalant and cheery, even as he felt hollow. He wanted to let it go, to move on and into the morning, pour himself an ale and light a cigar, and find a rousing game of chance to sink himself into. Nothing like debauchery to scatter one's sorrows. Not that he'd truly expected anything else....

"I enjoyed it, I don't want you to think I didn't, but I don't...I don't feel like that for you." MacLeod worried at the cuff of his boot, looking embarrassed and guilty.

"It's okay, laddie! I mean that." Fitz climbed out of bed, ignoring the fact that MacLeod looked away as he briskly dressed. "Friends help friends. You were in need, and I was...more than happy to help. Nothing more to it than that!" At least for you, and I'll be damned before I burden you with my futile hopes.

MacLeod stared at his large, square hands. "You're a good friend, Fitz." He waited until Fitz turned, then looked squarely up at him, and something in the sad, knowing look made Fitz swallow, hard.

"I try, difficult as you make it." The jest fell flatly between them. "Did you sleep well, my boy? I know that I did. Maybe--" Fitz busied himself gathering his things. He knew he was repeating himself, but he was determined to put a light face on this, to make this easy on the other man. It wasn't his fault that Fitz could find it so easy to fall for him, to want him. If they could just leave it be, before more was said, things that couldn't be explained away....

MacLeod's voice was careful, neutral, warm, but awkward. "I...we'll need to get your sword out."

Fitzcairn felt his cheeks burn, felt a flush of shame, a feeling that he was being...paid off, like the whore they'd shared. He ruthlessly pushed down his pride. He knew Duncan hadn't meant it like that. Like Fitz, he was merely trying to proceed as usual -- when nothing was as usual.

Yes, he knew that Duncan had intended nothing of the sort...but still, it hurt. And with that, Fitz realized that things would never, ever be the same. They might be better, they could possibly be so much worse...but they'd never be the same again. One night, and everything had changed -- forever. One more impulsive act, one chance taken, telling himself that he was doing it to help, when in the cold, sober light of day he knew that he had acted on hopes he'd not even fully admitted to himself. And yet, if he could hold on to MacLeod's friendship, he knew that the loyalty and warmth he'd find there would outlive almost any lover he could have. There might be a shadow of desire once in a while, a wistfulness at times -- but it was a small price to pay, to his mind. Turning, he sat to pull on his boots and spoke just as MacLeod himself did.

"MacLeod, I--"

"Fitz--"

Fitz looked at MacLeod and smiled, genuinely smiled. "I would take that as a kindness, Duncan. Forever might end a lot sooner than I'd like without it. After all, there are still so many women out there who are as yet unacquainted with the multitudinous charms of Hugh Fitzcairn! It would be a shame to allow some cretin like Montgomery to cheat them all so direly, wouldn't it, lad?"

MacLeod grinned, clearly relieved. "You make a strong case for leaving it there, you reprobate. Women far and near would put up monuments in my honor!"

Fitz laughed. "Indeed they might, young man, but leave me my illusions for a while, hear?"

MacLeod looked at him long and hard before he spoke. "Would that my own dreams were so well-founded, and my heart as generous as yours, Hugh Fitzcairn."

Fitz harrumphed, his cheeks heating with pleasure, the ache in his chest easing into something simpler, but still warm. "You'll give an old man ideas above himself, Highlander."

MacLeod laughed, and the sound was a balm on Fitz's heart. "That'll be the day, when you're either old, or consider anything above you!" He finished pulling on his own boots, standing to reach for his coat.

Fitz grinned wickedly. "Well, you might have a point there. Now, if you'll finish with your dressing, shall we find some lunch? I find myself quite peckish, and there are women to be wooed, and men whose pockets need lightening -- or vice-versa!" Delighted by the look on MacLeod's face, Fitz's laughter echoed around and followed him out of the room. Things would never be the same, but he was alive, and so was MacLeod, and life was good. Life was very, very good.

[Nicholas Ward]

http://yavanna.slashcity.net/antic.htm

Duncan MacLeod's eyes widened in shocked surprise as Methos set his beer down on the floor and got up to slowly begin approaching him. There was something undeniably purposeful in Methos' stride, though Duncan wasn't sure exactly what had spurred the old man into motion. One minute they'd been laughing and teasing one another, just like they always did, and then, suddenly, Methos' expression had changed. Now Duncan felt as if he were being stalked by a sleek jungle cat - all leashed power and purpose. And then there was the old Immortal's smile... it was feral and yet strangely seductive as he advanced on the hapless Highlander.

"Even my patience has limits," purred Methos as he slowly backed Duncan towards the kitchen counter. "And now you bat your eyelids at me like some coy schoolgirl and expect me just to sit there and take it! Well, I've got news for you, MacLeod - not any more. It's time to put up or shut up."

So, that was what this was all about. Duncan felt the hard edge of the counter press into his back. There was nowhere else for him to go and Methos was still advancing. The question was, what did he want? The teasing dance had been fun - exciting even, with the promise of something more always dangling just out of reach... Until now when, all at once, everything was, quite literally, within his grasp - if he wanted it.

Somehow, he'd never expected Methos to take it seriously - to look for him to make good on those light-hearted suggestions. But the heated look in the hazel eyes made it clear that Methos was utterly serious - and more than a little aroused. That realisation made Duncan pause. What if this was just about sex as far as the old Immortal was concerned. Duncan had always entertained the hope of something more, but Methos? Who could tell what went on behind those enigmatic eyes.

"Methos..." Duncan was surprised by how breathless he sounded. The proximity of the old man was doing dangerous things to his own composure.

"No more games, Mac," Methos insisted. His gaze was focused intently on Duncan's dark eyes. "What's it to be? Either we take this to its logical conclusion - here and now - or we let it go and stop the teasing for good. So...?"

Duncan drew in a deep breath. There was no denying his attraction to the old Immortal, and he'd been confident enough that it was reciprocated, but Methos had always seemed content to leave things in the realm of playful teasing. What had changed?

"Why now?" he asked finally.

"Mac, as seductions go this one might fairly be called - lengthy," replied Methos with a wry smile.

"I wasn't sure if you were serious about it," admitted Duncan. "I didn't want to push things if it was just a game to you."

"I like the excitement of the chase as well as the next man," said Methos, moving in a little closer. "But every once in a while I want to catch my prey... Are you ready to be caught, Mac?"

Methos held himself a bare inch from Duncan's tense body. He knew that if he once touched the Highlander he wouldn't be able to turn back. He wanted him too much. Duncan's eyes were huge, the pupils dark and dilated as he returned Methos' questioning stare. How much longer would the infuriating child make him wait?

In the end Duncan gave Methos his answer without words. Pushing away from the counter he closed the scant distance between them. Both men gasped as Duncan pressed close, his body in contact with the old Immortal's from chest to hip. He saw Methos open his mouth to speak and raised a hand, laying his fingers across the other's lips gently.

"You have me, Methos," he said softly and then leaned in to replace his fingers with his lips.

For just a moment Methos tensed, surprised, but then his senses fully registered the scent, taste and feel of the body pressed so closely against his own. His hands moved, one threading into the dark silk of Duncan's hair and the other sliding around to caress the broad expanse of the Highlander's back. At the same time Methos lent his 5,000 years worth of experience to the kiss Duncan had initiated. His lips returned the hesitant pressure, turning it from something almost chaste to a sensual devouring of the Highlander's mouth in mere seconds.

Startled, as Methos effortlessly took control, Duncan parted his lips to allow the old Immortal access. A questing tongue quickly took advantage, delicately tasting the full lips before sliding against Duncan's own tongue in a lazy dance. Methos tasted of beer and the coffee they had drunk earlier - before this unexpected diversion - but underlying both of those was the more subtle sweetness of the old Immortal's own unique flavour. Duncan felt himself hardening in response to the sheer eroticism of simply kissing Methos. Unable to remain still he began to thrust his hips against the other man, feeling a matching hardness at Methos' groin.

With a groan Methos tore his mouth away from Duncan's, pulling in a much needed lungful of air. If the Highlander kept that up this would all be over far too quickly. Still breathing hard Methos held Duncan away from him in a firm grip.

"Why?" Duncan gasped, clearly in no better state than the old Immortal.

"Too fast!" Methos panted in reply. "Do you want to make me come in my jeans?"

Duncan smiled - a lazy, sexy curving of his lips that made Methos itch to reach for them again and kiss them until they were bruised and swollen from his attentions. With an effort he resisted the temptation, but it did nothing to cool his passion.

"Why not? I'd like to make you lose control," said Duncan huskily, "just for once... And it might be fun to lick every inch of you clean afterwards," he added provocatively.

"Dear God," moaned Methos. "I've unleashed a demon! What happened to the Scottish boy scout?"

"He's still here," said Duncan, his gaze turning sultry. "Don't forget that boy scouts have to do a good deed every day and they're always prepared... for anything."

With no further warning Duncan broke Methos' hold on him. He swooped in for another kiss, this time demanding and hungry. Duncan's tongue invaded Methos' mouth, exploring deeply. When the old Immortal began to writhe against him frantically Duncan pulled free and swiftly sank to his knees in front of Methos. He looked up at the other Immortal with a questioning smile.

"Do it," whispered Methos. "For the love of God, please, Mac!"

It was clear that Methos was on the edge and Duncan didn't tease him any more. His hands found the fastening of Methos' jeans and quickly undid them. As Duncan brushed the soft, worn denim out of the way the old Immortal's swollen cock greeted him, unfettered by underwear.

"It seems we boy scouts aren't the only ones prepared for anything," Duncan observed with a grin.

Methos' only response was to thrust his hips forward sharply, nudging his cock against Duncan's cheek. The tip was slick with moisture as it brushed his skin and Duncan breathed in the scent of Methos' arousal. He raised a hand to steady the swollen length and Methos groaned loudly at just that light contact. Intoxicated by the old Immortal's responsiveness Duncan wrapped his hand around the heated flesh and pumped gently. He was rewarded with another surge of moisture from the tip. Duncan could no longer resist and he let his tongue steal out to sample the taste. Methos moaned helplessly again and Duncan intensified his explorations.

"Duncan, please..." begged Methos as the sensations threatened to overwhelm him.

Tilting his head the Highlander looked up at the other man. Methos' eyes were closed and his hands were clenched tightly into fists. He was breathing hard and Duncan didn't think he had ever seen Methos look more beautiful. Not wanting to make him wait any more Duncan leaned in and took Methos' cock into his mouth. He only had time for a few experimental licks at the smooth shaft before the old man tensed and came, hard. Carefully Duncan sucked, accepting everything Methos spilled into his waiting mouth.

When the slender body sagged against him bonelessly Duncan released Methos' spent cock. He climbed quickly to his feet and pulled the relaxed Immortal into his arms. Drowsy from his climax Methos let Duncan brush his lips against his drooping eyelids and his forehead before they shared a slow, passionate kiss. Their tongues twined together lazily as Methos expressed his thanks without words.

"You never cease to amaze me," murmured Methos when they finally drew apart.

"And is that a good thing?" asked Duncan with a smile.

"Oh yes," agreed Methos with an answering grin. He straightened up, shaking off his lassitude, and one hand stole down to play briefly at Duncan's crotch. "But now I believe we have some unfinished business to attend to..."

"Methos, you don't have to," said Duncan softly.

"Oh, but, Highlander, I want to." Methos' voice seemed deeper than normal and the sensual tone of it caused a resurgence of the arousal which had abated somewhat in the wake of Methos' release.

The slender palm returned to press firmly at Duncan's groin, rubbing slowly through the soft material of his trousers. The heat of the touch and the friction created by the steady movement of Methos' hand soon had Duncan fully hard again.

"Methos..." he begged, as the tormenting hand continued to pleasure him, but not enough to bring him release.

"I think I like you like this, Highlander," said Methos with a slow smile. "Pliant, aroused and begging me to please you... I could get used to it."

"So could I," whispered Duncan fervently.

The declaration clearly took the old Immortal by surprise and he pulled back to look at Duncan's flushed face. "I do believe you mean it," said Methos, curiosity evident in his hazel eyes.

"Surely you knew," replied Duncan, equally surprised. Had he misjudged the situation that badly? The things Methos had said to him, he'd thought...

"Mac, it wasn't like you denied yourself when other... prospects came along. I thought this was just a bit of fun on your part - a harmless flirtation," murmured Methos.

"It was never that simple... at least not for me," admitted Duncan. "I really thought you knew that."

"You certainly know how to complicate things..." Methos sighed.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not asking for anything you're not prepared to give, Methos," Duncan assured him.

"That's what worries me," replied Methos with a nervous laugh.

Duncan frowned for a moment, until he understood what Methos had just not quite said. "Do you..." he began, but Methos hushed him before he could continue.

"I'm rather afraid that I do," he said softly.

Leaning forward Methos kissed Duncan again, much more gently this time. As he did so, Methos' clever fingers unfastened Duncan's trousers and slipped inside to wrap around the hard length of his erect cock. The Highlander whimpered helplessly as Methos slowly drove him mad with the delicate touches of his lips and fingers. It didn't take all that long to bring Duncan to the brink, but Methos wouldn't let him come straight away. He held Duncan on a knife-edge of pleasure for a long moment before he urged him into an intense, mind-blowing orgasm. Duncan's cries were swallowed by Methos' demanding mouth as he spilled his essence over the other's hand. The old Immortal carried on gently stroking his cock until it was spent.

When they finally separated, Methos gave Duncan an impish look and then brought his hand to his mouth. He slowly and provocatively licked every trace of Duncan's release from his sticky fingers. Then he pounced again, treating the Highlander to a quick but thorough kiss, sharing the taste with him.

Duncan slumped back against the kitchen counter, feeling thoroughly ravished, as Methos released him. He eyed the oldest Immortal assessingly. Methos seemed content, but then one could never be certain about anything where he was concerned.

Methos had reached down to pull up his jeans and as he straightened he caught Duncan watching him. "Don't look so worried, Mac," he said as he tucked himself away and zipped up his jeans. "I'm not going to pack up and run just because we both admitted to a little more than we intended to."

"You're not?" Duncan couldn't quite keep the relief from showing in his voice. He dropped his gaze, concentrating on tidying his own clothing.

"No, I'm not," Methos repeated. He reached out and stroked Duncan's cheek lightly with his fingertips. "I think we've both been waiting for this much too long to let it end here, don't you?"

Duncan's smile was almost blinding as he listened to Methos' words. "Yes, I do," he agreed. He reached up and caught hold of Methos' hand, stilling it with the palm spread against his cheek. "Come to bed?"

Methos' answering smile was slow and seductive. "I thought you'd never ask..."

The End

[dubiousbystander]

This is a scrap from a much, much longer story, in which there are some pretty sexy sex scenes. None in this scrap, sorry!

987 AD

"I heard something," Mariah said. She reined in her horse and cast about, listening.

Craggy rocks and desert sand surrounded them. It was late in the day, the winds still hot. The sound of the wind blowing was like a keening ghost among the rocks. Mariah's three companions heard nothing unusual, but they waited patiently. Mariah was sensitive and nervous sometimes. They knew to be patient until she had settled with whatever had disturbed her. Their desert garb fluttered in the winds as they waited. Mariah urged her horse forward and then to the right, leaning that way in her saddle, head tilted as though to catch the slightest anomalous sound. She dismounted. Leaving her horse standing patiently, she began weaving her way among the rocks.

He opened his senses and cast out to see what had attracted the girl's attention. For a moment he sensed nothing unusual, then he realized what it was. It was not a sound that had drawn Mariah away. An ache in the air, fear, incomprehension, hunger and thirst. She had not learned yet to ignore such things. There were too many people so distressed in the world and he and his friends were too few to help them.

Mariah cried out and bent down amongst the rocks. Tran, Grey and Dige dismounted and hurried to see what she had found. Alarmingly, she had taken off her headgear, freeing her long, thick black hair. She was wrapping the cloth around something, all the while murmuring soft, meaningless noises.

She looked up at Grey as they gathered around her. "He needs milk," she pleaded, for Grey's mare had a foal at her side.

There in her arms was a tiny baby, probably no more than a few days old if that. It was covered in dust, and its lips were cracked. The rocks it had lain among had largely sheltered it from the sun. Tran stared at it in surprise. Where could the tiny speck of life have come from? There had been no caravans through the pass in days and they never traveled with a woman as pregnant as that. Perhaps a slave had borne the babe and her owners had abandoned it.

Grey had already dashed away. He returned with a bowl of fresh milk and a clean cloth. They soaked the cloth and then let the milk drip into the baby's mouth. Their attention was totally absorbed in the child, leaving Tran and Dige out and feeling bewildered. Footsteps from behind them caught their attention but it was Achmed, and they relaxed. He greeted them with a nod and a smile, and then stared in surprise at the baby.

"May I inspect the infant?" he asked Mariah softly. She nodded and let him unwrap the small bundle. Achmed studied the little body carefully until he found a small, oddly shaped birthmark. Upon seeing it, he and Mariah exchanged understanding glances. The girl held the baby close, while the mortal was clearly inclined to keep it far from himself.

"The mark means bad luck," Mariah explained quietly. "I think he's had enough of that, don't you?" She did not look at the others, but gazed hopefully into Grey's face. "Let us raise him," she said.

At her words, Tran's hackles rose. Raise a mortal? It was difficult enough becoming attached to an adult and losing them! He opened his mouth to protest and met Grey's anguished eyes. He thinned his lips in refusal and the tall man bowed his head.

Seemingly unaware of this exchange, Mariah turned to Tran and pushed the tiny, living bundle into his arms. "He's so small, Tran. For that mark, no one will care for him. If he lives he will not even have a dog's life. We are the only ones."

Tran's arms closed around the infant even as he stuttered in fury, "We can't raise a baby!" His protest lost much of its force as he found himself taking the milk-soaked cloth and feeding the helpless creature. It hurt to hear the tiny sounds the baby made. So little to be so unwanted. He turned to Dige for help, but the other man was watching Mariah with his usual besotted expression. Tran sighed in exasperation. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to this. Grey would obey him out of habit. Dige could be intimidated into line. Mariah, however, cut his defenses full of holes and moved through his emotions like water through a sieve. He had sought to harden himself against her influence and thus far failed. It was strange that the one person he could not dominate should be a young woman. Then again, perhaps it was not. Her experiences after first death had not been far different than his after he had lost his teacher. That gave him empathy for her that he did not feel for Dige, and had not felt for Grey until it was too late. And this little baby... he gave in. A mortal could suffer unspeakable horrors and not live long enough to recover. If they raised him, they could make sure this boy would be strong and have a happy youth behind him.

Ten years passed unmarked except by the growth of the boy, whom they named Hamzad. One morning, Tran stood on the cliff over their canyon and listened as intently as he could with all of his skills. Nothing, still. He had stood there for hours trying to focus on the source of his unease. It had troubled his dreams during the night with the stench of blood and the memories of his last few challenges. It remained a subtle tang disturbing both him and Mariah at the morning meal. She and Dige had gone to ride the perimeter, searching for anything unusual. Grey tended to Achmed, who was in his final decline.

Youthful minds suddenly shifted into his range. Hamzad and his friends. Tran frowned. If something terrible was going to happen, perhaps he should send the children away.

Suddenly the unease clarified itself into an absolute sense of a latent Immortal. Startled, Tran turned toward the trail the children were coming up. There was a sudden rush of hoofbeats. The horses rounded a corner and raced up the trail. Seeing Tran ahead, their riders began reining them in. Hamzad was at the front, Tran noticed with some pride. The boy was shaping into an extremely talented rider. Which of them was the young Immortal, he wondered. Then he knew and a sense of panic washed over him.

Hamzad!

The boy saw the shock on Tran's face and leaped down from his horse. Tran dug his fingers into his palms to prevent himself from shouting, "Be careful!" As Hamzad joined him, Tran suddenly noticed for the first time that the boy was taller than he was. He thought, How time does pass. Not for him, as soon as he does something foolish and gets killed.

Memories swamped Tran. Hamzad up trees, climbing cliffs, trying to go down the well to see where the water came from. Ill with one or another childhood sickness that was known to kill. As an infant, abandoned and exposed to die.

Tran flinched back in surprise as a hand waved in front of his face. "Uncle Tran? What is it?" Hamzad was asking.

Too close to the cliff edge! Tran suddenly thought. He grabbed the boy's arm and moved them both away. "Nightmares," he replied truthfully. "Send your friends home. I'm having premonitions...." Half-truths. He was having terrifying visions of the boy dying in any number of ways.

Calming himself and pretending nothing was wrong proved worthwhile for more than one reason. The pang of amusement he felt when Grey dropped the tray of dirty dishes he was carrying from Achmed's quarters made Tran feel better. He almost laughed when Dige and Mariah returned later and stood frozen in the doorway, their mouths hanging open in shock as realization hit. He could not laugh at the bewildered Hamzad. The boy could see the shock that each member of his family obviously felt. He began to look very nervous.

They had been careful, with Achmed's help, to raise Hamzad in the beliefs and customs of the region. Someday the boy would seek a wife and a life. They did not want him crippled in society by ignorance. All the things they had taught him all these years had suddenly taken on new meaning. All of the cautions they had given him became of deadly importance. Do not eat too fast; do not climb up there; keep your injuries clean; do not burn yourself.

He had always known his birthmark signified ill luck, but it was not until his parents began acting horribly over-protective that he thought to be afraid. It took a few days for that fear to be replaced by annoyance then exasperation, and finally anger.

"Just leave me alone!" he shouted at them one evening. He snatched up the tray of food for their mortal friend and stomped into Achmed's quarters, leaving the beaded curtains waving wildly behind him. The four mature Immortals stared after him in various degrees of guilty concern.

Grey suddenly chuckled from his seat on the pillows. "If I'd known he was one of us when we found him, I would've gone insane with worry in that first year."

"I would have taken his head when he was two," growled Tran half-heartedly.

Mariah laughed and shook her head at them. "We're driving HIM crazy. We must..." she shook her head again and sat down on the pillows around the low table. A tear escaped the wall of her eyelashes. "If we can't treat him normally again, we must foster him out or he will hate us."

Dige sat up urgently. "We can't do that. We can't cut him off from us no matter how angry he is. Not without explanation."

They were still arguing the matter very quietly when Hamzad came out of Achmed's quarters. He looked calmer. He turned to Tran. "Uncle Achmed is calling for you."

Tran took a long, slow breath when he stepped into the room. The sweet-scents managed to cover the smells of old age, but they were so thick in the room it made it difficult to willingly draw a breath. He knelt beside Achmed's bed and looked at the man fondly. The once-heavy black hair was white and wispy; the skin so thin Achmed's skull was sharply visible within. The lively dark eyes remained and turned, twinkling, on Tran.

"He's one of you," the old man stated, smiling. "I wondered."

Startled, Tran gaped at Achmed, taking a moment to pull himself together. "Does he know?! Why did you wonder?"

The thin, cracked lips spread wider, the ancient eyes twinkled even more. "He had to have been there for days before we found him. Babes have remarkable powers of recuperation, but I think if he was a mortal babe he would have died." Achmed reached up, his bony hand trembling until it settled upon Tran's hair. He stroked the fine strands paternally. "He doesn't know. He is simply frustrated. And you," Achmed let his hand slip down to cup Tran's chin, "are afraid he will be like you. An eternal child."

"He's so reckless," Tran said softly.

"Not more than any mortal child. Let go and trust in fate." The man turned his head to look at his journals piled against the side wall. He stared glumly at them for a time, then shifted his head back to Tran. "Why didn't you know he was Immortal before?"

Tran laughed half-heartedly. "We sense each other, you know. Yet until a few days ago, we didn't sense him. We have raised him and somehow we never felt anything different about him from any mortal child."

Achmed looked thoughtful. "Perhaps that is what keeps the babes safe, that their elders cannot sense them." He let his hand fall back to the bedcovers, tiring. He stared hard at Tran for a quick moment. "Don't you think he looks like Mariah?"

Tran shrugged. "I suppose he does. They were both born around here."

Achmed smiled. "Relatively speaking. Something in the set of his body and face reminds me of Grey, too."

There was another moment of meeting the mortal's mischievous eyes before Tran made the connection. It was over ten years ago that Grey and Mariah had been... well, it was all very strange and Tran had never known quite what to make of it so he had said nothing. Then suddenly Mariah was with Dige instead. Shocked, Tran asked, "Do you know something I don't know?"

Achmed shook his head on the blankets. "No, but I have always wondered where baby Immortals come from."

"So have I, old friend. So have I."

It was the hardest thing they would ever have to do. Once again they allowed Hamzad to play with his friends and help on the farm. They began teaching him to handle a blade. In the midst of everything, Achmed Al Khazar died, and all five of them mourned his loss.

Hamzad topped out at nearly the same height as Dige but had a stockier build. He grew a beard to match the one Grey had taken to sporting and Tran had to admit that the two of them did look very similar, though the youngster's eyes were as dark as Mariah's. Hamzad left them to seek his fortune when he was twenty-two years old. It cost them a great deal not to go with him. Hamzad was young and the world held many wonders.

It was two centuries later that Tran was standing on that same cliff edge as when he had first learned Hamzad was Immortal. Just standing, daydreaming, when he sensed someone coming. He chose to stand and watch in the name of hope. The man was dressed in rich clothing and rode a perfect, finely boned desert horse. He reined the animal in, leaped down and strode confidently toward Tran. He was weather beaten, his face covered in laugh-lines. He had a salt-and-pepper beard that reminded Tran very much of Grey's. He had been in his late forties when his first death took him. He radiated confidence and bemused delight. It was momentarily disrupted by startlement before the bemusement returned in force.

"Uncle Tran," he greeted the smaller Immortal affectionately.

"Hamzad," Tran replied, having to force the name through his suddenly tight throat.

Hamzad had come to pay his respects to the four peculiar hermits who had raised him. He had never allowed himself to hope that any of them were Immortals.

[Nicholas Ward]

An excerpt from a larger story: Cross of swords by Catsimmie



To escape from craziness, one night Cat went to a party. She had been drinking heavily, and she got the buzz. She turned around to look across the room, when she saw a young guy about her age walking towards her. "Not too many of us around her tonight is there."

"Usually isn't." She said with a smug tone.

"I'm Kenny. What's your name?"

"Caitlynn, but my friends call me Cat." She said as she grinned. Kenny wasn't that bad looking. He was a few inches taller than she was, had dirty blonde long blonde hair that stuck out everywhere, and deep blue eyes. He also had an irresistible childlike sheepish grin.

The two talked most of the evening and before she knew it, they had gone back to Richie's apartment. She was breaking another one of Richie's rules, but she was so drunk and stoned, she could care less. Kenny was going to be her first Immortal lover.

She kissed Kenny on the lips, and he gave no resistance. He placed his hand under her shirt and started to feel her breasts. She sighed in ecstasy. He played with her nipples until they were peaks, and then slipped her shirt over her head and unfastened her bra. They made their way to the couch where she laid down. He started to suck her nipples, and used one hand to play with the other. With his free hand, he moved it slowly down her body and up her skirt. When he knew she was ready, he unzipped his jeans and plunged deep inside her.

When Cat woke up the next morning, she was alone. She thought it might have been a dream until she noticed her sword was gone. She kept wondering if Kenny would've been mean enough to take her sword, or did she forget it at the party? She was about to call Duncan when she found a note.

'There Can Be Only One my young one! You should watch your pretty little head, especially now that you have no weapon. If you want it back, I'll be in touch.- Kenny'

[dubiousbystander]

If this is supposed to be THAT Kenny, this author clearly missed that he's stuck at 10.

[Nicholas Ward]

Considering how he treated Amanda in reunion, I think Kenneth didn't think he wasn't mature enough either.

[dubiousbystander]

Heh. Well Cat's supposed to be nearly 16 in all ways, and Kenny's described here as being a few inches taller than her, for one. "She saw a young guy about her age" heh.

[Nicholas Ward]

Friend of The Devil


by the lady of shalott


Methos' face was cool and impenetrable, his hands ghost-pale on the steering wheel in the black of the night. Fists resting on his thighs, Duncan watched him drive. His head ached, a line of tension hot from his temple to his jaw. It was hard to remember why he was here, the dusty taste of desperation fading in and out as pain and anger warred to take its place. His hands wanted to taste the firm ivory column of Methos' throat. He could imagine it so clearly, how it would feel to have that sweet, smooth skin yielding to his fingers, to watch the hazel eyes cloud over with death. And then he could wait, and do it all again.

Duncan shivered with excitement and leaned over the gear stick, inhaling deeply, noisily, opening and closing his hands. His eyes fixed on Methos' face, thirsty for any flinch, any sign from the closed, expressionless mouth.

"Stop panting, MacLeod," Methos said. There was no scent of fear. The long, aristocratic fingers didn't even twitch.

It was infuriating. Why wasn't Methos afraid of him? Duncan sat back and drummed his fingers on the door handle, staring out of the window. His own reflection stared back at him, grimy with stubble, the full lips almost pouting. He looked pretty fucking hot, Duncan decided, grinning at himself. He reached up and ran a thumb over his mouth, licking the fleshy pad. It tasted sour and salty all at once, sweat and sea air and blood all mingled. Delicious. He did it again, watching himself in the glass, and his cock stirred.

And then he saw it--a gleam of light from hazel eyes reflecting in the window as Methos glanced over, just for a second. Concealing his satisfaction, Duncan leaned back in his seat and ran his wet thumb over his lips. Though Methos' eyes never seemed to leave the road, his nostrils flared, briefly. Duncan grinned. He was finally getting to the sneaky bastard. About time.

Deliberately slow, he reached out and put his hand on Methos' throat, cupping the adam's apple, his thumb resting on the long tendon at the side. So warm, so alive. He could feel the pulse beating against his fingers. His cock started throbbing in time with it. He stroked up and down, enjoying the satiny texture.

And then Methos leaned into the touch, tilting his chin up a little and resting the weight of his head against Duncan's palm, a lovely yielding gesture. The pressure ran straight down Duncan's body and into his cock. Suddenly there were things he wanted more than to kill him. "Pull over," he said hoarsely.

"We've got eighty miles left to go tonight."

Duncan tightened his grip. "I said, pull over."

The night kept slipping past. "Save it for the hotel," Methos said. "We'll be there in an hour."

His calm was unreal. Infectious, it touched Duncan with cool fingers, easing back the heat, the anger, dampening his headache. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the seat, keeping his hand on Methos' throat, letting the utterly steady pulse beat through him. It felt good. It felt like a promise.

His lip curled into a feral grin. He could wait.

---

Duncan opened his eyes as the station wagon came to a halt. Calling the place a hotel was granting it a dignity it hadn't earned. The office was a single room in the concrete block of rooms. A neon sign blinked 'Vacancy' in faded pastel blue in the window.

"I'll go see about the room," Methos said, reaching back and pulling his coat over the seat. It clanked with swords, and Duncan's jaw clenched at the reminder that Methos had his katana. Still, if Methos tried to control him, he wouldn't keep the katana long, Duncan reminded himself, smirking as he remembered dumping the oldest Immortal flat on his back.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

Methos shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Following him into the office, Duncan crowded him against the reception counter, pressing up against his back. "I plan to," he said, breathing the words out against the nape of Methos' neck. His hand slid into the pocket of Methos' trenchcoat, finding the solid thigh through the fabric, muscle and bone hard beneath his grip.

Methos only leaned forward and slapped his hand down on the bell on the counter. The door at the back of the room opened, and a sleepy-eyed young woman came out and met them at the counter. "A room?" she asked.

Methos nodded. "Just for one night," he said, sliding a credit card over the stained formica.

"Make it one with a king-size bed," Duncan said, leering at the girl when she gave him a startled look. Her eyes darted to Methos for a second, then dropped down to the receipt she was making out, a red tinge of color creeping into her cheeks.

"Sign here," she said, carefully not looking at either of them.

Methos signed and pushed the paper back towards her. She rummaged around in a desk drawer, pulling out a key, and handed it over with the credit card. "It's the last room on the east end of the building--"

"Anybody in the room next door?" Duncan interrupted.

"No," she said nervously, eyeing him.

Duncan grinned and licked his lips. "Good, then the noise won't bother anyone."

Her mouth worked for a moment while she blushed. In a stifled voice, she said, "Turn left when you walk outside the office. Good--" she swallowed, then valiantly finished, "Good night," before hurrying back out of the room, the door closing firmly behind her.

"Thanks," Methos said dryly, picking up the keys.

Duncan laughed and leaned over, latching onto the side of Methos' neck with his mouth. Salty and deliciously soft, the flesh yielded to his teeth easily, the little gasp Methos made as sweet as the hot blood on his tongue. He sucked harder, pulling Methos' coat out of the way to get at his body.

Methos shoved off the counter, sending Duncan stumbling back, then whirled and held the keys to the room between them like a talisman when Duncan would have lunged back at him. "The room's ten meters away. Do you really want to spend the night in jail for public indecency?" he asked sharply.

Duncan paused, licking his lips. The faint metallic tang of iron lingered in the corner of his mouth, absorbing, enticing. "No more delays," he said hoarsely, jerking his head towards the door. "Get moving."

---

The glare of the fluorescent ceiling light did nothing to hide the squalor of the room, its yellow-brown striped curtains clashing with the dull green carpet. But the bed was large enough, and there was a bottle of hand lotion in the bathroom. Duncan took it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the nightstand. His shoes off, Methos was sprawled sideways over the bed, and he followed Duncan's movements with cool, disinterested eyes.

Duncan wanted to beat that calm, that confidence, out of him. It had no business being there. "You really think you're safe, don't you?" he snarled. "You think you're in control here?"

Methos tilted his head, inquisitive. "If I'm not, who is?"

The headboard groaned as Duncan grabbed Methos by the shoulders and threw him up against the pillows. But it was too easy, the slender body offering no resistance. Infuriated, Duncan fisted his hands in the front of Methos' shirt and pulled him up until their faces were bare centimeters apart. "I'm going to fuck you," he said, spitting the words out like knives. "What does that tell you?"

Still passive in his grip, Methos smiled at him. "Duncan," he said softly, the name a caress in his mouth, "you can't do anything to me that I don't want. What does that tell you?"

The words burned his ears, the implications unacceptable. "And if I kill you?" Duncan said, moving his hands to Methos' throat.

Methos only shrugged. "I offered you my head not too long ago, if you recall. Saving your soul is at least as worthy a cause as saving your head, and if Sean Burns' Quickening brought you this far, mine should finish the job."

Duncan trembled and said nothing, pinned by the gentleness in Methos' voice and the memory of red red blood on his sword.

"Duncan," Methos said again. "Whatever you want, whatever you need, I will give you. Do you think I'd even be here if that wasn't true?"

"No," Duncan whispered in denial, his head pounding. He didn't want to be hearing this. He didn't want to listen to Methos speak love to him with every word, not when his murdering hands were so ready to kill again, not with this bloodlust singing in his veins. How could he bear it now, if he killed Methos?

Methos' hands came up and cupped his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, soothing away the headache. So tender--Duncan closed his eyes and leaned into their touch. "Please don't let me kill you," he whispered. "Please."

"Shh." Methos kept caressing him with light, gentle fingers. "It's all right. It's all right."

Duncan slid down and buried his face in Methos' lap, thighs warm against his cheeks, the strong hands moving to card through his tangled hair. A musky scent surrounded him, tantalizing. Hungrily, he nuzzled Methos' groin, felt the outline of his cock through the soft denim. "I want you," he said as the beast stirred again, meaning it as a warning.

But Methos' hands only moved lower to stroke his neck, no longer comforting. "And I want you."

"Please," Duncan said, pressing his forehead hard against Methos' body. "Don't let me--don't let me--"

Methos pulled his head up, eased him back onto his heels and leaned close. "I won't," he whispered, and kissed him.

For a single drowning moment, Duncan clutched blindly at his arms, yielding to the heat and promise in his mouth. Then he shoved Methos off and pinned him to the mattress, his face twisting. "You think you could stop me?" he hissed, and crushed their mouths together. Methos' lip tore between his savage teeth, and Duncan laughed and licked broad swipes through the running blood, smearing carmine everywhere.

He pulled back to admire his work, sucking a few stray drops off his hand. Red streaks glowed against the pallor of Methos' skin, the only color in his face, the shadowed green of his eyes hidden away. The elegant nostrils flared as Methos drew in air, his lips pressed tight together as if fighting for control.

"Look at me," Duncan said, wanting to see those eyes bright with fear. "I said, look at me!"

Methos took in a shuddering, deep breath, his tongue slipping out to lick at the still-wet blood staining his lips, and lunged up so abruptly that Duncan jerked back reflexively, reaching back to catch himself against the bed. An elbow struck him hard in the neck, and he was suddenly choking, blood from his crushed throat bubbling on his lips as a cry of rage tried to escape. He reached out vengefully, but his arms were leaden, refusing to lift, and Methos' eyes glittered like mirrors in the center of his sight until all the world faded to black.

---

Sensation dragged him up from one darkness into another. For a moment, he wasn't sure that he'd really woken, nothing but impenetrable black before his eyes. But then the wet heat returned, enveloping his cock again, and everything of importance narrowed down to that one part of him. He gripped the rough leather straps around his wrists, not caring that he was bound--they were only something to hold on to while his body strained upwards. Hands rested on his hips, guiding but not restraining his thrusts, fingers stroking his flanks. Teeth scraped lightly along his shaft as he slid deeper, and he groaned in satisfaction as the flat wet strokes of a tongue soothed the abraded spots.

There was no room for anger, his whole body consumed by the slide of his cock and the yielding heat of Methos' throat, his hungers reduced to the physical and immediate. He still wore his shirt and jacket, the raw smell of leather surrounding him as he moved involuntarily against the bed, the shirt already damp with sweat. His legs were cold until he pressed them to Methos' bare sides, the heat of working muscles penetrating his skin while one of Methos' hands slid down to caress his thigh and stroke the hollow of his knee.

He thrust upwards, greedy for more, the headboard creaking as he pulled on the leather straps. Methos only drove him on, his hands urgent and encouraging, until Duncan lifted halfway off the bed, burying his cock fully in Methos' throat. A groan slid from him as he climaxed and Methos swallowed around him, muscles clenching and caressing his shaft even while he eased back down to the bed.

Semen trickled out of the corners of Methos' mouth and over Duncan's thighs and balls, wet and warm. Even through the weight of his sated drowsiness, he squirmed beneath the sensation. The movement brought him back to himself--why he was just lying here, letting Methos keep him tied down?--and he yanked on the straps, trying to free his arms. "You better get these the fuck off me," he said hoarsely, still unable to see Methos in the pitch blackness of the room but feeling the other man's chest warm and heavy against his thighs.

A single finger slid through the semen on his inner thigh, tracing a path up to the base of his cock, around his balls. "Why?" came the soft, hissed answer, and the finger pressed hard at the soft, yielding place just beneath his sac.

Fresh pleasure surged through him, carrying away any response he might have made. He shoved back hard against the probing finger, the brief flare of pain as good as the pleasure burning along his already-overheated nerves. His spent cock twitched, and he shuddered and pushed himself against Methos' finger again.

The faint scrape of stubble against his thigh warned him as Methos shifted, moist breath traveling over his groin. The wet swipe of Methos' tongue over his sac came just as the finger prodded his perineum again, and he ground his hips into both sensations, a growl building in his throat. It broke into a gasp as Methos sucked one of the balls into his mouth, rolling it gently with his tongue. His cock was so sensitive that it ached just lying against his belly, heat coiling deep in his guts.

Two fingers now, pressing against him, tracing figure-eights across the skin. He jerked against the straps when they ghosted lightly over his anus, but they didn't even pause there, just sliding up his cleft to the little hollow beneath his tailbone, then back down to his perineum. Methos turned his attention to the other testicle, his nose bumping against the base of Duncan's cock, spiking pleasure up the shaft. Duncan shuddered and nudged his hips forward, rubbing his cock against Methos' nose and forehead until Methos lifted his head away.

"Bastard," Duncan panted, "you stop and I'll fucking kill you."

"Stop? Oh no." Methos' laugh rang strangely in the muffled dark closeness of the room, and it didn't sound like him at all. "No, you needn't be afraid of that."

Duncan strained his eyes into the darkness, trying again to make out Methos' face, suddenly tense with animal wariness. There had been something dangerous in that voice. He felt Methos shift on the bed, and his cock hardened instantly with the sudden exquisite thrill of fear. A hand closed over his shaft and began squeezing tighter than he really liked, but when he jerked his hips to get loose, Methos only squeezed more, even a little painfully. Duncan moaned involuntarily, his breath coming quick and shallow, so aroused that Methos' grip was the only thing keeping him from orgasm.

Then Methos' other hand eased between his legs again and slid two fingers, slick and cold with lotion, right into him. Duncan was shocked into immobility for a moment, then exploded, thrashing against the restraints. The straps started to give--it was a toss-up whether they would come loose before the headboard broke--but Methos did nothing to stop him, just kept one hand on Duncan's cock and the fingers buried inside his ass. Every movement drove him onto their pressure, and he was flying on pleasure and rage and violence, higher than he'd ever imagined being, and he climaxed into Methos' hand as the straps finally broke.

Half-blind with ecstasy and still coming, he threw Methos flat, rubbing his pulsing cock over the flat abdomen, stroking through his own come while he bent to devour Methos' mouth, hungry and furious all at once. He was suddenly, unreasoningly certain that despite the darkness, Methos was still watching him with that cool, assured glitter in his eyes, and Duncan found himself shaking with rage and helplessness. "Damn you," he panted, kissing the smooth throat frantically, licking the sweat pooled in the hollows of Methos' collarbone. "Do it, you son of a bitch!"

And Methos flowed out from under him, slipping through his clenching, spasming arms and curling against his back, and Duncan buried his face in the pillows while Methos fucked him so he could pretend he wasn't crying.

---

Methos stared out the oval window, watching the clouds fall behind them as the airplane sped onward. Three more hours to Greece. Three more hours to fit himself back into Adam Pierson. Three more hours to Alexa, who would never be old.

His right hand was curled in his lap, trying to hold on to the memory of the heat of Duncan's arm, the scratchy wool beneath his fingers as they said goodbye. Better to remember that, better to remember the open, grateful shine in the dark brown eyes of the friend, and not the sweet cruelty of the lover's voluptuous mouth, not the hungry desperation of the hands that had clutched at his body like a lifeline.

Yes, much better. Because the Dark Quickening was over, and the man left behind was fiercely determined to draw a wide, unmistakeable line between his true self and the man he'd been under its influence. It wasn't even the wrong thing for Duncan to do. He needed to be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod again before he could be anything more.

And it was something to know that there was more--that MacLeod did have that passion, that rage, that darkness. To know that some part of him enjoyed the darkness in Methos. Everything was possible now. It might take a long time for Duncan to really accept Methos' dark side, but he would, eventually--once he'd accepted his own.

Methos sighed deeply and stretched out his hands, spreading the fingers wide as his emotions finally settled. He was good at forgetting. For now, he would forget this. Alexa needed Adam, and Duncan needed time. Methos had both to give.

He could wait.

~ Fin ~

[dubiousbystander]

When 50 Shades came out and people were so excited, I snorted because I've read a lot of Highlander adult fanfiction. 50 Shades was vanilla by comparison.

[Nicholas Ward]

Etranger, Danseur By Fortuita James

Methos paced, a strange tension creeping through him.
His bones felt disconnected and his muscles were taut for action.
He could not still himself. He looked at the clock. Early enough.

He threw off his sweater and reached for something form fitting. Black. Switched light boots for deadlier ones.
He hesitated over his long coat, could not leave his sword behind. Pulled a flaring leather one instead, swinging down around his legs.
And Methos swung out the door, destination unknown. It was the bouncer that drew him in. There was an air about the man. A glitter of something different. Dark.
It fit Methos' mood. That was the kind of man he could fight or fuck, or both. Someone into whom he could drain his body.

Methos moved past him. There were college boys. Bruisers. Bored cynics. No one quite caught his eye, until...there.
On the dance floor. Sinuous, flexible. Dark, dark eyes and satin ebony skin. Hair; black curls to his shoulders, a swaying mass.
He had the dazed look of the dedicated dancer. Wholly inside himself. Loose white shirt, open, and...hmm, Methos' eyes narrowed, leather pants.

Suddenly, fighting became a whole lot less attractive. He threaded through the mass of bodies, coming flush up against the dancer.
He was still in a trance. Methos pulled the hair from one side of his face, and leaning in, whispered, "Bonsoir." There was a momentary break of rhythm.
The man turned his head, swept his eyes over Methos' face. "Etranger." It was a sigh of acknowledgment, before he turned back to his dance, Methos attached.
Their hips swayed in sync, and Methos fluttered his hand down onto a fine leather-encased hip. One of his jeans-clad thighs slipped between the other man's.
They rocked lower to the ground, Methos guiding their motion with flexing fingers. They shifted together, seduced by the heavy bass. It pounded through them, defining their dance.

Methos leaned back in to the other man's hair. "Mon danseur. Vous etes pret?" He suddenly turned, settling into Methos' arms, dark eyes serious.
They fixed on him, measuring, as the two continued dancing face to face. "Oui." It was a breath. Less. "Partons." "Oui." Stronger. "Allons. Mais...etranger? Baisez-moi. Et m'appellez Vincent."
A kiss. Light as touch. And, "Vincent? Venez."

Methos knew he had taken the lead. It was not what he wanted, what he needed. He needed a release of control.
Trust, even if it was only an illusion. Outside, away from the threat of crowd, he rolled his shoulders, leaned in close once more. "Methos."
Received a questioning look. "C'est moi. Vincent, est-ce qu'on peut aller chez toi?" His lithe and lovely dancer took on an edge.
The razor he'd seen in the bouncer. He shivered. All this, and more. He became the follower, was led away. Not far, the apartment.
It occurred to Methos that his dancer might be a club regular. He might actually go there to dance. Methos felt a strange thrill. It was almost, but not quite, like possession.

He drew off his coat, so its weight could not be felt, stripped from him. But was surprised when the rest was, in short order. V
incent was a delight. Nude, conscious, but well trained, he stood and waited. Vincent's loose shirt followed his boots to the floor.
Clad only in those delightful leather trousers, he pulled Methos to him. The immortal shone pale, lovely, against his warm brown skin.
The contrast was admired, as was the skin itself, fine-stretched. Methos abandoned passivity, let his cool fingers make forays down the dancer's undiscovered spine.
Methos was guided to a bed, laid out. Felt a moment's hilarity at the pseudo-death. Choked on it. Too perverse.

Vincent drugged his body with caresses, teased and aroused. Surveyed his prize awaiting ravishment. Prepared the man, stretched him. Sheathed himself. Sat back. Waiting.
Fired hazel eyes flashed to his, demanded. But he waited. "Vincent? Baisez-moi."
Vincent had said it before, and with his repetition Methos made their changed positions clear. And the way he spoke. Impersonal, 'baisez' took on carnality, need, anticipation.

And Vincent fucked him. Moved inside him, turned him out. And loosed himself inside, even as he was drained. Felt his mind fall through the body beneath him. After minutes, hours of replete silence, Methos stirred. He whispered an inaudible "Merci," as he felt the call of sleep. He gathered clothes, carefully redonned his coat, heavy as it was with his existence. He turned a last time, felt inky orbs take him in. "Reviendrez," he heard. Automatically wanted to deny its demand, but couldn't. "Quelque jour, Methos," was added. That he could accept.
Acknowledged it. Departed.

FIN

[Nicholas Ward]

After Archangel by JiM


The harsh sound of a man's sobbing was the only sound in the cavernous gloom. Methos continued to hold Joe, staring fixedly at the body of MacLeod's student. Lying next to it was MacLeod's sword. He had left it, after Methos had refused to take his head. After MacLeod had killed Richie.

Only one thought ran through Methos' head—'This should not have happened. I should have stopped this.' A small, cynical voice in his head replied 'And how could you have prevented it?', but he didn't listen. 'I was supposed to guard him, help him. And now this.' The cacophony of self-blame rose in his head until Methos was certain that he would go mad. And that would help no one. He pushed his grief down deep and coldly considered his options. He made his decision; the man beside him needed him now. Tomorrow was time enough for MacLeod.

After a time he realized that Joe had quieted and said, "Joe? We've got to get out of here. Someone is bound to have noticed the fireworks."

Joe nodded and straightened, wiping a hand over his face. "Can't we…?" he asked plaintively, waving a hand at the pitiful figure before them.

Methos shook his head, as Joe had known he would. There was nothing to be done. Let the Surete wonder why the freshly-murdered body of a man they'd thought dead two years ago was lying at the old Track.

But Methos knelt and laid his hand on Richie's chest for a moment, silently vowing…what? Even he didn't know. Revenge? Retribution? It was all worthless—5,000 years of history had taught him that.

"Goodbye," he whispered. "I'm sorry. You deserved better."

"They all do," Joe's voice grated.

Which brought Methos' attention back to his other main concern right now. The Watcher was perilously close to the breaking point. The past few days of worry and tension had taxed him, but Methos was afraid that this tragedy would break him. He picked up MacLeod's sword, then put an arm around Joe's shoulder and started walking them out of that hellhole.

"We should go after MacLeod," Joe said in a flat tone.

"No, we shouldn't. Joe, you saw him. He's mad. D'you think he ever would have done that in his right mind?"

"Could it be another Dark Quickening?" Joe was struggling to return to being an objective Watcher, but Methos heard the despair behind his words. This was MacLeod they were talking about—a man he loved like no other, a man he had sacrificed for like no other.

"No, Joe. It's not a Dark Quickening. It's not possible, after the Spring." They had reached the car. He put Joe in, got in and got them out of there, thankful that they hadn't been seen.

He got Joe up to his flat, above the bar, which had closed for the night. Looking at him in the light of the living room, Methos felt his concern growing. The Watcher had been silent and withdrawn during the drive. What was there to say? But now his face had a pale, fixed look that chilled the Immortal. Gently, Methos got him out of his overcoat, putting it, his own and MacLeod's sword on a chair by the door.

"Joe, sit down. I'll get you a drink." Joe sat on the couch. When Methos returned, he mechanically accepted the generous glass of Scotch and poured it straight back, holding out the empty glass to be refilled. When he had drunk that, Methos put the cork back in the bottle put it away with an uncompromising expression on his face.

"Not gonna let me get drunk, huh, Methos?" The twisted grin on Joe's face held no humor and it pained him to see it.

"Not tonight, Joe. I'm going to need you with a clear head in the morning, so we can figure out what the next step is going to be."

"Damn it, I need something to block it out for a while." Joe's voice dwindled away and he put his head in his hands.

Methos walked over to him and placed his hands on the slumped shoulders. "Sleep. Come on," he gently urged the other man up and into the bedroom.

"I don't think I can."

"I'll help you," he promised and gently began undressing him. Joe's passivity was worrying him. He knew from previous hard experience that the Watcher was not the type of man to let anyone do for him what he could do for himself.

During Joe's recovery from being shot by Galati, Methos had had the dubious pleasure of nursing the man back to health. He was convinced that Joe had survived through sheer stubbornness and will; Methos attributed his subsequent rapid recovery to uncompromising pigheadedness. And now he was allowing himself to be undressed like a tired child. No—more like someone in a daze.

He pulled off Joe's sweater, then his shirt. When he reached for Joe's belt buckle, his hands were swatted away. After watching Joe fumble for a minute, Methos gently and firmly took Joe's hands and put them by his sides. Then he finished unclasping the belt and the trousers and made Joe sit down on the bed. Sliding them down Joe's hips, he waited for him to lift himself on his arms, then slid them the rest of the way off. He unstrapped the prostheses and left them in the legs of the pants, ready for morning.

Methos left him his boxers and undershirt, uncertain of how the man preferred to sleep. Without a word, Joe slid under the covers, lay on his back and put an arm over his face.

Methos gathered the discarded clothes and laid them over a chair. When he turned back to shut off the light he realized that Joe was trembling violently.

"Joe?" Methos' voice was warm with concern. "What is it?"

"N-n-nothing," he forced past chattering teeth. "Just got a bit of a chill, I guess."

Methos wasn't buying it. He pulled Joe's arm away from his face and took a close look at his friend. Then he swore softly. The Watcher's face was pale and his pupils were dilated. When Methos laid a hand on his brow, then chest, Joe's skin felt icy.

"Damn. You're in shock. And I gave you alcohol! Some doctor I am."

"I figured it was a Victorian cure," Joe joked weakly, then trembled so violently that Methos thought he was convulsing. "Wait here," he said over his shoulder as he left the room.

He came back carrying a glass of orange juice.

"Drink this; it'll help."

Joe struggled to sit up, then took the glass from him. Joe's hand was trembling so much that Methos sat beside him, an arm around his shoulder, then helped him guide the glass to his lips. When he had drained it, Methos set it beside the bed, then got up and began undressing. He stripped down to his boxers, then slipped into bed next to his friend.

"What the—" Joe stuttered.

"Come on, Joe. Let's warm you up. This is the fastest way and it's the approved Boy Scout method. I read it in the handbook." Methos slid an arm under Joe's head. He draped his other arm across the Watcher's broad chest and pulled him firmly against his own body. Joe resisted for a moment, then relaxed into the Immortal's warmth with a soft sound. He lay on his back, eyes shut, shivering; his head was pillowed on Methos' arm and he was unconsciously gripping the arm Methos had laid across his chest.

Gradually Joe's trembling eased. Methos watched his face carefully, wondering what was going on behind the closed eyes. As if in answer to his unspoken thought, Joe sighed deeply, opened his eyes and said quietly,

"Nothing helps. All I can see is Richie—"

Methos stopped him with gentle fingers against his lips. "Shhh." The hazel eyes fixed on his were luminous with grief. Without thinking, Methos tightened his arm, pulling Joe onto his side, gathering him closer. He gently kissed the broad forehead, tenderly brushing the silver hair out of the way with those long, cool fingers.

"Now it's time to sleep, Joe."

Joe shook his head, eyes wild.

"How? Richie is dead, MacLeod is mad, or we were wrong and there really is a demon walking around Paris—" He had Methos' arm in a desperate, painful grip. "I have never wanted to give up as much as I do right now, Methos. Not since I lost my legs. I learned to live with that. But this—" He broke off as harsh sobs tried to tear their way out of him again; he fought them down.

Watching him struggle, Methos realized how tenuous his own hold was, how close to despair and madness he was himself.

MacLeod was his friend, his brother and his best hope for the Game. In some way, MacLeod had come to mean salvation for Methos, some kind of penance for his whole twisted past. What sense was there in this madness? What purpose for him any longer? MacLeod had been the best and he was gone—not dead, but more truly gone than that. No longer himself, no longer a protector, but the murderer of one he had cherished.

Suddenly, the wave of blackest despair that rose threatened to swallow him whole. And Methos knew that drowning place. He had awakened from it one century to find himself Death on a Pale Horse.

"I will not go back," he vowed through gritted teeth, hardly realizing he had spoken aloud. Joe's shocked eyes met his an instant before Methos pulled him in and kissed him fiercely.

Joe resisted a moment, but it was futile. The Immortal's tongue demanded entry and could not be denied. The heat and taste of the mortal man's mouth was hope and life to Methos. The silky warmth found under his tongue, the scratch of Joe's beard on his face, the brush of his tongue as he finally kissed Methos back—they all lit the fire that drove back the darkness. It shocked along his nerves and demanded quenching.

Methos' fingers clenched in Joe's hair, imprisoning him, while he wrenched himself away from the other man's mouth. He leaned his forehead against Joe's; they were both panting, struggling for some control.

"Joe—sorry—," Methos gasped, "I need—"

"I know," Joe said and kissed him again. One strong hand came up and gently unclasped Methos' fingers from their painful grip in his hair. Their entangled hands came to rest between their chests.

Methos' head was swimming. This was madness, desperation, longing, grief. This was Dawson, the remote, rational part of his brain informed him and was entirely ignored. The sheer taste of him was intoxicating; citrus, Scotch, and an underlying sweetness that was the man himself. Methos nipped along his lower lip, teasing with the tip of his tongue, making Joe moan and meet him with his own tongue.

The older man pulled his hand free and skimmed down Joe's chest, exploring the solid muscle he had only suspected before. Slipping his hand beneath the undershirt Joe still wore, Methos ran his fingers back up through Joe's chest hair, pulling the shirt off as he went. He found himself desperate for the touch of skin on skin, roughly breaking their kiss to yank the shirt away. As he threw it aside, he rolled on top of Dawson, gasping as he felt the caress of calloused fingers down his bare back. He arched and their groins came in contact for the first time.

The shock was nearly electric and they both groaned. Dawson's strong arms tightened, clutching Methos more tightly to him. His own arousal was a surprise; he ached, he burned as if he were a teenager again. He had never wanted another man like this, not with this reckless hunger. His hands explored the long strong muscles of Methos' back, cupped his firm buttocks, delighting in their hardness. His skin was like warm silk, its touch addictive.

The Immortal's erection was rubbing against his own, through the thin cotton of their last remaining clothing. Methos' breath was hot in his ear, then he felt his mouth gliding down the side of his throat, nipping, kissing, sucking; Joe found himself writhing. A hard bite on his shoulder made him gasp and Methos kissed the spot gently, apologetically, then continued his rampage down the Watcher's chest.

He reverently kissed the starburst scars left from the bullets. So fragile, this mortal, yet so tough.

He slid down Joe's body, resting between Joe's thighs, his smooth stomach caressing the Watcher's straining erection with each ragged breath. Brushing his lips through the salt and pepper hair on Joe's chest, Methos found first one, then the other nipple, teasing them into hardness with his tongue.

The sensation went straight to Joe's cock, and he gripped Methos' shoulders roughly, gasping, "Please—," although he didn't know what he was asking for, just that he needed more.

The oldest Immortal did know, though. "Patience, Joe. Soon," he promised, dark eyes meeting dazed hazel. He bent his head and began licking fiery trails downwards, following the arrow of fine hair. When he got to the waistband of Joe's shorts, Methos gave a grunt of annoyance and pulled them off in one rapid movement, throwing the garment away impatiently. Joe's cock sprung free, begging for attention, head already seeping pre-ejaculate.

But Methos wasn't done with his exploration yet. The longer he drew this out, the longer until they had to face the darkness again.

He kissed a curving line from one hip to the other, lips barely touching the darkly curling hair, Joe's erection trapped beneath his throat. When Methos bit his hip, Joe twisted, breathing, "Adam!", the name by which he had first met this man. Smiling at that, his tormentor soothed him, caressing his thighs with gentle hands.

He noted the callouses left by the prostheses, drew his fingers along the scar-line of each stump, then kissed his way back up the inner thighs, making the man beneath him tense and wrap his fingers in the velvety black hair.

Methos gave in to Joe's silent urging and wrapped one hand around the mortal's straining cock. He stroked it, loving its silken hardness, the musky clean scent that was Joe's own, the way it jerked and danced beneath his touch.

Slowly, moving deliberately, Methos swirled his tongue across the purple head, relishing his first taste, then opened his mouth and took him deep inside. Joe arched his hips off the bed with gasp and his lover grinned with satisfaction. Methos began the torment in earnest, sucking, licking, nibbling and teasing his way up and down the shaft, feeling it grow even harder beneath his ministrations.

Joe felt those long, warm fingers fondling his balls and moaned. He was drowning in the wave of sensations that Methos was causing. Too long, it had been too long since he had felt this simple animal pleasure of being alive. He had to consciously unlock his fingers from what must have been a painful grip on Methos' hair and instead he cupped the Immortal's face, wondering at the angular shape of his jaw, the scrape of beard against his palms.

Methos was delighted with the impossibly tender skin he had found behind the sac; when he lapped at it, he was rewarded with a sob of pure need from the Watcher. Enough—it was time to bring him release.

He returned to his assault on the younger man's cock. This time, he sucked hard, swirling his tongue up and down the shaft. He scraped his teeth gently on the underside of the head and relished Joe's whimper when he reached up to pinch one nipple.

The mortal couldn't withstand this all-out attack on his senses very long. Joe felt himself drawn to the very edge. Looking down at Methos' dark head moving over him, his elegant mouth distended around his organ, the world exploded darkly and he shouted his release.

Methos welcomed the warm cream that spilled into his mouth. This was the taste of life itself—bitter, but something he craved. He swallowed again and again, his head still cradled in Joe's large hands. When at last Joe's shudders had ceased, Methos gave him one last, loving caress with his tongue, then slid up to kiss the panting mortal.

Joe tasted himself in Methos' kiss and felt an unexpected jolt of desire shoot through him again. He felt the Immortal's erection pressing into his thigh and he reached down to wrap his hand around it. He grinned when Methos gasped into his mouth—it was good to know that he wasn't the only one whose senses could be overwhelmed so easily. Joe stroked its satiny length, marveling how similar and yet how different it felt from his own. But there was more he wanted to know about Methos' body first. He released Methos' cock and began caressing him, drawing his hand in long, slow strokes from throat to waist.

Methos buried his face in Joe's neck and gave himself up to the mortal's exploration. The musician's sensitive hands cataloged the curve of Methos' collar-bone, and the long angle of the throat. Those calloused fingers found a nipple and began playing with it.

At his gasp, Methos felt an evil chuckle rumbling through his lover's chest. The fingers were replaced by a bearded mouth, hot and wet and demanding. Then Joe backed off and lightly rubbed his chin against the hardened nub, his wiry beard teasing Methos' over-sensitive flesh. The Immortal groaned and his body arched into Joe's arms as he transferred his attention to the other nipple.

The caress of that beard was maddening as it silk-scraped its way across his chest, then down his abdomen to the waistband of his shorts. Joe would light a fire with his lips, stoke it with the touch of his beard, then soothe it with his satiny tongue, only to torture him again with that beard. Methos was trembling and clutching at the sheets.

Hoping to distract him, if only for a moment, he said raggedly, "You're good at this, you know that, Joe?"

"So I've been told," Joe said with a grin. Suddenly shy, hesitating on the border of an undiscovered country, he slid back up to lie face to face with Methos. The hot, dark eyes that met his were filled with a need that he wasn't sure he could meet. Joe reached out and touched Methos' face, tracing its familiar contours with a finger. The sardonic brows, the long aquiline nose, the angular jaw and finally, the elegant lips.

As Joe's index finger slid across his bottom lip, Methos couldn't stand the sheer eroticism of this exploration any longer. He shifted slightly and captured Joe's finger in his mouth.

Joe felt the sudden hot velvet all around it and gasped. The Immortal played with his finger as if it were a small cock, the tip of his tongue flicking against the calloused pad, then sucking it hard. He scraped its length with his teeth, then brought it into the silky depths beneath his tongue. When he released it, Methos was pleased to note that his mortal lover was panting and hardening again.

But his own need was nearly blinding now. He nudged Joe's hip with his cock, silently pleading with him to finish what he had started. Shyness burnt away, Joe retraced his path down Methos' body, lips and beard and hands restoking the fires. This time, he did not stop at the waistband of Methos' boxers, but glided right into forbidden territory, his clever fingers smoothly pulling the fabric away before his mouth touched it.

The Immortal laid his hands on Joe's head, urging him toward the center of the fire. Ah, no—he was doing it again—"Oh yes," Methos hissed, as his body jerked at the silky rasp of that beard on his most sensitive flesh. Then the softness of the Watcher's open lips caressing the tip of his cock, exploring its shape and texture.

Remembering his lover's performance on his finger, Joe lightly dragged his teeth over the crown; the hands in his hair clenched. Feeling inexperienced and a little clumsy, he took the straining organ as far into his mouth as he could, caressing the underside with his tongue, trying not to gag at the unfamiliar sensation. The groan that Methos let out made Joe shiver and he redoubled his efforts.

This was power. This ability to make a strong man moan and whimper by merely kissing him—so. Joe ran his fingers through the dark, tightly curled hair, then down to cup the man's balls. They rested heavy in his hand, so like his own, yet completely alien. He gave his complete attention to them for a moment, licking and kissing, relishing their spicy scent and unique texture before Methos grated out, "Joe!"

The raw need in his voice sent another shock of desire through the younger man. He remembered something a lover had once done to him, something that had obliterated all thought. Smiling in anticipation, he took Methos' weeping cock back into his mouth, tasting his pre-ejaculate and finding it—strange, but not unpleasant.

Once he had gotten into a comfortable rhythm, Joe slid a finger down the crease of Methos' leg, following down past his balls and between his cheeks. Unconsciously, the Immortal spread his legs, giving him better access. He rested the tip of his finger, still wet with Methos' own saliva, on the ring of resilient muscle he found there, testing and remembering what his other lover had done. Ah, yes. He took the other man's cock as deeply into his mouth as he could, sucking hard, then slowly and firmly pushed his finger into that tight heat.

The slender body below him arched and his fingers dug painfully into Joe's skull. After a moment, Methos relaxed into the sensation, and Joe continued his assault. When the calloused tip of his finger found the older man's prostate, Methos' body spasmed and Joe pinned his hips to the bed with one strong arm.

As he stroked his finger across that dark, secret place again and again, Joe felt the organ in his mouth harden impossibly. The throbbing vein against his tongue warned him that Methos wouldn't be able to take much more and it excited him to be the one to push him past his limits. Joe growled in fierce pleasure at the idea and that small vibration sparked Methos' release. Light exploded behind his eyes and he came, crying out in an unknown language.

The spill of seed into his mouth was like a reward. Joe concentrated on swallowing as much of the sharp-flavored essence as he could. He continued stroking and sucking, drawing out Methos' writhing euphoria almost to the point of pain. He was stopped when Methos dragged his head away and up for a ferocious kiss. The heat and savagery of that embrace, and the trembling pressure of the Immortal's thigh against Joe's cock made him come again, gasping into Methos' mouth. He collapsed and they lay panting, sprawled together for long minutes.

Finally, Methos gently shifted Joe off of his chest and got up, staggering a little. He went to the bathroom and cleaned himself off, grinning a little at his reflection in the mirror; his eyes were wide and dazed, his mouth swollen. There was a line of raised welts from his ear, down his throat and across his chest. 'Hickies—at my age' he snorted. He looked exactly as he felt—physically sated and exhausted.

He brought a washcloth and a glass of cool water back to bed, turning out lights as he went.

Joe lay on his back, breathing deeply; Methos wondered if he were asleep. He didn't move when the Immortal sat on the bed next to him. Looking at his unguarded face, Methos saw the lines of grief, old and new, deeply etched into it. He also saw the lines left by the laughter that the man had never lost. So young, to have all that written on his countenance. Methos felt a wave of tenderness and stroked his lover's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Joe's eyes opened and he looked directly into Methos'. And smiled. The older man hadn't even realized he was holding his breath until then; he smiled back, partly in pleasure, partly in relief. He noticed a drop of his own ejaculate in the beard at the corner of Joe's mouth. Methos scooped it up with the tip of one long finger and, eyes locked on Joe's, held it to the bearded lips. Joe's supple tongue delicately licked it off and Methos had to catch his breath at the sensation that rippled through him at that touch.

He handed Joe the glass of water and watched as he sat up and eagerly drank. Taking the washcloth, he gently cleaned his lover, paying special attention to his now-limp organ. At his touch, it spasmed and Joe gasped.

"Aftershocks," Methos quipped.

Joe nodded, face suddenly serious. "Will there be any other 'aftershocks', Methos?"

The Immortal said carefully, "There don't have to be, Joe. Tonight can just be one moment, out of time."

The hazel eyes slid away from his and down. Joe nodded and said flatly, "That's probably wisest." He reached for the covers and drew them up over himself, not looking at the man who sat beside him.

Methos cursed himself silently. Trying to be cautious, he had wounded where he had most wanted to heal. He decided to risk honesty. He reached out and took the musician's strong hand, saying,

"Or you could help me hold off the Darkness and invite me to share your bed, sometimes." Joe glanced sharply at him.

"I don't want to be wise, Joe. I want someone to touch me, to remind me that I'm alive and that the joy is still there, even when it looks blackest. You gave me that tonight." A touch of wonder crept into his voice. "You know who I was, what I am, and you still shared yourself with me."

"You're my friend, Methos." As simple as that, for this mortal man. What a gift, his friendship.

"And your sometime lover?" the Immortal prompted.

Joe nodded, then laughed, shaking his head in wonder. "Who'd have ever thought? Wait 'til MacLeod hears about this—" His laughter died as the evening's earlier events came rushing back.

Methos nodded once, then climbed over Joe and slid under the sheet next to him. "We worry about MacLeod tomorrow," he said firmly, pulling the Watcher into his arms and guiding the silver head to a comfortable position on his shoulder. With a sigh, Joe put an arm around Methos' chest and settled against him.

"Tomorrow," he agreed, as Methos gently stroked his hair, lulling him quickly toward sleep and oblivion. The Immortal reached out a long arm and turned off the light, allowing darkness to blanket the room.

But this was only the darkness of deep night and it held no special terrors for him. The real Darkness, the madness born of despair and grief, had been held off by this one mortal man who slept in his arms. Methos swore an oath, on the head of the man whose heart beat against his chest, that he would use this reprieve well; he would find MacLeod and, somehow, make a difference.

Tomorrow.

[dubiousbystander]

Imagine the hysterics if you shared it in your FB group. snicker

[Nicholas Ward]

Coming home by Terabithia


"So Duncan what brings you back?" Rachel asked as she set the mug of ale in front of him.

"I don't know. I just felt the urge to come back." It was true Duncan though. He didn't have any other reason he had just suddenly felt a strong desire to come home again. And so here he was.

Rachel was looking at him with a look of concern, which only got more pronounced as he stiffened and whirled to face the door as he felt the buzz of an approaching immortal. The bright sun allowed him to see only a shadow. Slowly that shadow walked in to the room and the door swung closed behind it, and finally the immortal's face was visible. Duncan drew a sharp breath, rose and slowly approached the man. But before he could reach him the other immortal closed the distance between them and pulled him in to a bone crushing bear hug that lifted his feet off the ground.

"Hello Connor." He laughed.

"Duncan. It's good to see you." The older immortal replied grinning.

"Really? I couldn't tell." Duncan said. "Could you put me down now? People are starting to stare."

Connor set him back on his feet, keeping his arms around his kinsmen not wanting to let go. Finally he had to as Rachel cleared her throat close beside them.

"Well Duncan introduce me to the lovely lady." The older immortal said turning to face her.

"Connor this is Rachel. Rachel, Connor." Duncan said. I won't bother with last names since we all have the same one."

"Connor MacLeod. Another one back to find his roots." She asked smirking in Duncan's direction.

"His roots are deeper then mine Rachel and he surely hasn't lost them." Duncan replied watching Connor's face. Sometimes the other man could take teasing all out of context.

"Really? Then, that makes you the other one. It's good to met you." Rachel said, pulling them to the bar.

"Have a beer." She said, placing one in front of Connor.

"So Duncan, what have you told her?" Connor asked, sipping on the beer.

"Nothing, she guessed."

"Really, he didn't tell me. I'm a smart girl, I figured it out on my own." Rachel said, placing her hand over his on the bar, smiling at Duncan and then Connor.

"So care to tell me now?" She asked pulling them close to her.

"What, there is nothing to tell." Duncan replied. "Come on Connor, I'll take you to the room." Duncan motioned Connor to follow him up the stairs.

"Duncan, there is only one bed in your room." Rachel called out after them, but neither turned towards her, let alone even responded to her. Shaking her head, Rachel just returned to her customers, putting the Highlanders out of her mind. They were both too confusing.

***** ***** *****

When they reached Duncan's room, Connor looked at the narrow bed. "Tha'll be a pretty tight fit for the two of us Duncan." He murmured.

"And this is a bad thing how, exactly?" The younger man asked, wrapping his arms around Connor in a more intimate hug, than the one they'd shared downstairs. Silently he burrowed his face in to the crook of the other man's neck enjoying the scent that was unique to his kinsman. It reminded him more of the Highlands and the old days than anything else did.

"I missed you." He muttered softly.

"And I you." Connor replied, pressing his face against Duncan's shoulder.

They stayed like that for several minutes before Duncan pulled away. Just far enough to bring his hands up to cradle Connor's face and press a gentle kiss against his friend's lips.

Connor accepted the kiss, then returned it with one of his own.

"I hear you've been getting yourself into a lot of trouble of late." He said softly when they parted.

"It's been a hard couple years." Duncan said carefully.

"I wish I'd been there for you."

"You have your own life Connor. You don't need to baby-sit me all the time. You'd probably end up in just as much trouble as me. It follows me and everyone around me."

"Duncan MacLeod, don't you dare go on a self-pitying streak." Connor ordered, grabbing the younger man's head and tilting it so Duncan had to look in to his eyes. "This is my first trip all the way home in a very long time. I'd rather not spend it trying to cheer you up. You're far more fun when you're in a good mood."

"You just want me to be in a good mood so you can talk me into your crazy ideas."

"They aren't crazy."

"Right." Duncan snorted. "No one will see us up in these branches." He quoted from a memory.

"Well I had no idea there was a bird watching club in the area. Besides, that was almost a hundred years ago."

"Don't worry you won't get slivers from the tree trunk." Came the next line from their past.

"Well, not the little kind."

"I don't want to know what will be next."

"Well, I'm sure there's plenty of empty space in the Highlands, even in this day and age."

"Connor." Duncan groaned, trying not to give in to the laughter bubbling up inside him.

"Well, how about you can choose a few places this time?"

"I always was rather fond of the beds."

"Well, I did plan on usein' that wee thing some too."

Duncan yanked Connor against for a long kiss, unable to hold off his passion any longer, he pushed his tongue into Connor's mouth as the other man's lip's parted, their tongues mingled and played together until they broke apart gasping for breath. Duncan glanced towards the bed, moving the two of them towards it. Realizing his intent, Connor pulled Duncan closer, trapping Duncan's thigh between his legs and pressing his tight groin into Duncan's. Feeling the edge of the bred against the back of his legs, Duncan pulled Connor towards him, grasping his butt and falling backwards. There was a loud creak and a sudden drop as the bed collapsed under the sudden stress. Laughing, they parted Rachel burst through the door, fearing the worst, not knowing what to expect from Duncan. Rachel was stopped short when she found both Highlanders laughing on the remains of the bed.

"Hello Rachel." Duncan gasped out when he noticed her in the doorway.

"Hello Duncan, dare I ask?" Rachel wondered aloud.

"I wouldn't?" Connor replied still chuckling as he climbed to his feet and reached down to pull his lover up from the broken bed.

"I'll pay for the damages," Duncan offered, turning towards Rachel, still holding Connor's hand. Rachel turned away from the ruined bed to face them waving her hand about the damage, stopping short when she saw their hands clasped. "Never mind, I needed to replace that bed soon anyway." She said hastily.

Connor noticed Rachel's slight lapse and tried to release Duncan's hand but the younger man held on.. Rachel recovered quickly and smiled at the two men. "I'll leave you two alone," she said, closing the door.

"We made her uncomfortable." Connor muttered in a pained voice, pulled his hand free and began to turn away.

"No, just surprised her is all. She'll be okay. I'll talk to her," Duncan replied, grabbing Connor's hand again pulling the older man back towards him.. "Later." He added with a suggestive tone in his voice. Connor smiled and allowed Duncan to capture his mouth in a long kiss. Soon he was reaching for the buttons on Duncan's shirt. Unable to manage the buttons while caught in the intense kiss, he ripped the shirt. Baring Duncan's chest and pushing it down the muscular arms, trapping his lover's hands. Leaving him helpless under the ministrations of Connor's hands and mouth roaming over his upper body. Trailing warm kisses down his neck, to trace his flat nipples with his tongue.

Duncan moaned desperately, and began to struggle against the cloth binding his wrists. In a few moments he his hands free of the shirt. He reached under Connor's sweater to trace the muscles of his kinsmen's chest. Connor gasped at the contact. And sensing Duncan's need, Connor moved down slowly, licking a path down Duncan's navel, stopping at the snap of his jeans. Connor could feel Duncan's hard sex jump as he brushed it with his chin and felt his own body hardened even more in response to Duncan's passion.

Together they reached for each other's jeans and quickly opened the fastenings, reaching for each other. Duncan quickly pushed Connor's jeans off, he wanted to feel his kinsmen's body under his hands, he wanted to bring Connor pleasure. Connor realized Duncan's plans and pushed the slightly bigger MacLeod to the floor, pulling his jeans off in the process. Together, naked, they reached for each other, unable to resist, what they know, what they wanted. What they always had together, since the first time over 200 years before.

Duncan whimpered a Connor's hand closed around him. "Connor, please."

The older MacLeod smiled slightly, Duncan had always been vocal. But then, if he remembered how thin the walls in these old buildings could be, that might not be a good thing. Raising one hand, he covered Duncan's mouth as he gently stroked his other hand up and down his lover's hard shaft. Duncan licked Connor's palm tracing the long lifeline with the tip of his tongue. Reaching down to run a finger over Connor's anus, slowly rubbing back and forth across the pucker. Connor grasped Duncan even tighter. Together the two men arched and moaned. It was too much, to intense. Connor didn't want to finish this yet. He released the hard flesh grasped in his hand. Duncan gave a low protest that was muffled even further by his lover's hand. "Shhh" He soothed the man beneath him moving the hand covering the well formed mouth to brush the black hair back and stroke one cheek. "It was too soon. I want it to last." The younger man quieted at the sound of his voice.

"Connor, carpet is going to leave nasty rug burn." Duncan complained. As he'd calmed down he'd become more aware of the course fibers of the rug prickling his naked back.

"A little pain seems a small price to pay for the pleasure I'm going to give you. Besides you'll heal." Connor replied, resuming lightly stroking Duncan's cock. At Duncan's low groan he replaced his has over his lover's mouth. He continued stroking watching the passion building in the dark eyes that weren't missing a single one of his movements. Slowly lowered his head and drew his hand away from the hard flesh, replacing it with his lips and tongue first he pressed a tiny kiss to the head of the younger man's cock then slowly slid his tongue across the glistening tip of Duncan's hard manhood. He raised his eyes and gave Duncan a slight smile before closing his warm mouth around Duncan's cock, one hand trailing down a long leg the others still over his kinsmen's mouth.

Duncan gave a wail, muffled against Connor's hand.

"Shh." Connor soothed, drawing back slightly. Duncan groaned in frustration, his hips thrusting upwards desperately. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his hand Connor gave a yelp and glared at the man beneath him. "You bit me brat."

"I'm too old to be a brat."

"Young enough."

"Punish me then." Duncan taunted.

"Punish a wee bairn like you?" Connor shook his head. "Wouldn't be proper."

Duncan smiled and licked Connor's hand, he pulled the older man more firmly against his groin, rubbing his hard cock against Connor's. Both men arched against the sensations of touching each other. Connor needed more and moved closer to him. Realizing Connor's need, Duncan moved and pulled him closer to him, waiting for Connor's possession, Duncan arched, urging him to join his body with his.

"Please Connor," Duncan pleaded, needing Connor as much as Connor needed him.

"What Duncan?" Connor teased.

"I want you in me... please. It's been..."

"Too long." Connor finished for him. Then rolled off the younger man.

"Wha..." Duncan gasped at the sudden loss.

The elder MacLeod fumbled in his bag. "You'd rather do with out." He teased producing a tube of lubricant.

"You could warn me next time... I though..."

"What? That I'd leave you?" Connor asked as he returned to his lover's side. "Never Duncan." He murmured reassuringly as he pushed the long legs up. Duncan cooperated by pulling his knees up to his chest. "Beautiful." Connor breathed then coated his fingers with lube and began to prepare his way. He pressed against the pucker with a gentle pressure until the tip of his finger gained entrance. He moved it in and out slowly a few times then began twisting it in gentle circles. Soon Duncan was whimpering as he pressed back against two the three of Connor's finger's wanting more. Finally he felt the fingers withdraw and held his breath in anticipation of what was coming next. Connor entered him gently slowly pushing in, then pulling nearly out going a fraction deeper with each stroke.

Unable to stand the frustration Duncan wrapped his legs around Connor's back and pulled him all the way in. Groaning in delight as they were finally joined. Connor captured his mouth swallowing the sound. Together they moved towards completion. Duncan's cock rubbing intimately against Connor's stomach as he thrust in and out of his lover's tight hot channel. Connor felt his release coming and reached for Duncan, grasping him in his hand, Connor stroked him to completion as he reached his climax within Duncan.

When Duncan came back to himself he found Connor sprawled beside him a trail of semen across his stomach and chest. Flipping over he bent and began licking his own seed off Connor's chest, then kissed his lover as he came fully awake.

Together they after several long slow kisses they pulled a blanket from the collapsed bed, wrapped around them, cuddled together, and talked of old times.

"Well Connor, slivers in my butt, now a rug burn, what's next? A case of frostbite?" Duncan teased between kisses on Connor's chest, neck and finally his lips.

"Maybe in another hundred years." Connor replied, relaxing in Duncan's arms. He couldn't handle another experience like the one he just had with Duncan just yet. Maybe in a little while.

[dubiousbystander]

One with hilarity!