PART ONE:
"I WANT HIM TO LIVE!"
Cassandra's steps faded, disappeared as she left them. For a long moment
her running feet drowned out the sobbing ringing off the concrete walls
but then the sound was back-- cutting through Duncan like a sword thrust.
His body ached from the power of Kronos' Quickening, violence wrestling
his soul for mastery as three thousand years of power and evil threatened
to overwhelm him. Again. He had thought it would when it first came, felt
Kronos' evil rising inside him like another Dark Quickening, knowing he
couldn't win this time. And then it had been diverted, cast off--part of
it surrendered then exchanged with another, similar force, no less violent
but less evil . Silas. Violent. Evil. But not power mad and greedy as Kronos
and Caspian had been.
Methos had taken it from him, had already known Kronos' evil--been party
to it, subdued it two thousand years in the past. Duncan had never heard
of a double Quickening--the almost simultaneous burst of power--and wondered
how either of them had managed to survive at all. Every muscle burned,
every nerve strained so that the touch of the rusted metal under his hands
hurt, the touch of his own hair on his face was like a rope burn.
He could only barely see Methos in the shadows below. He could hear him,
wondering if the sobs would ever stop. He moved, fighting for the gangplank,
pain in every step as he almost fell down the ramp. Here the echoes weren't
so pronounced, the sound less overwhelming but harsher for the closeness.
He dropped to his knees beside Methos, laying the katana down. He reached
a hand out to touch the taut shoulder, wincing in sympathetic agony at
the spasms that tore at the tendons. But the sobbing wasn't for physical
pain. Duncan could still feel those memories in his brain, fading but haunting
him. He knew more about the Horsemen than he wanted to, now. But knowing
wasn't living the horror.
Methos had lived it. Put it behind him and now lived it again.
Duncan pulled him back, pulled the shaking body to his as if Methos were
Richie--a younger Richie perhaps, but a child in need of comfort. Methos
didn't resist but his arms crossed his chest, knees drawn up to close himself
off, locking his grief inside.
He hadn't even been aware how close Cassandra had been to taking his head.
Or, if he had, he hadn't cared. This was the Methos Cassandra didn't know,
probably would never know. A man who used his sorrows like a shield, his
compassion like a sword, who angered Duncan and frustrated him and made
him see parts of himself he had never wanted to acknowledge.
Duncan stroked the dark, sweat dampened hair, silk under his fingers. His
other hand rubbed the taut back trying to ease the tension, feeling his
own start to fade. He had touched this body before, but not with gentleness.
He closed his eyes against the memories...
"You can
fight this, MacLeod," Methos said urgently, keeping a healthy distance.
The sword had already been at his throat once. He wasn't going to tempt
the Highlander again.
"Don't want
to," Duncan said genially and lunged playfully at Methos, blade extended
and catching the edge of Methos' coat. "There's a certain freedom in having
no conscience. Makes all kinds of things possible. Wouldn't you agree?"
he asked and lunged again.
Methos
backed away and found himself against a pillar. He started to slip around
it, felt steel against his belly. Duncan had him pinned.
"Holy Ground,
MacLeod," he murmured as the sword point pressed deeper drawing blood.
He closed his eyes as he felt the ground shudder, glass rattled. "Neither
of us will make it out of here alive."
"But it's
my death you want, isn't it Methos? If you can't have your MacLeod
back, you'll take my head? So what's the difference? Either way one of
us is a dead man." The voice was low, dripping with menace and sarcasm,
Duncan's mouth an inch from his own. "Or maybe there's something else you
want. A little mix of the two? Someone as noble as MacLeod but as...free
and willing as me? What about it, Methos? Come on, even your MacLeod has
thought about it--wondered what you would
feel like, taste like...let's
find out for both of us..."
The blade
pressed deeper as Duncan kissed him. Not a hesitant first kiss, or the
gentle kiss of friends...or even a lover's kiss. It was brutal and savage
as Duncan forced his mouth open, free hand catching the hair at the back
of Methos' head. Methos caught his shoulders, to press him back and heard
the sword fall to the floor as Duncan's hands caught his. Duncan was the
stronger in any confrontation of force against force. Had they been fighting,
Methos might have used his swift dexterity to out- wrestle the larger man
but not now, not trapped against stone with the heavier body pressing his.
Duncan's thigh nudged between his legs as the Highlander leaned in, pressing
Methos' groin as he forced his arms back behind him, trapping both slender
wrists in one hand and using Methos' body to pin them there.
The mouth
pulled from his, teeth biting the soft flesh, dark eyes glittering with
expectation, passion and lust. Under different circumstances, Methos might
have met that gaze with equal force rather than shuttering it away as he
had been for months.
"He knows
how you feel," Duncan said, licking the blood from Methos' lip, "He's just
too much of a coward to admit it...but I'm not. You want this..."
Methos said
nothing but he forced himself to relax...to accept. Tensing again as he
felt Duncan's hands at his jeans, popping the snap, jerking the zipper
down and reaching for him...
Methos made
no sound as Duncan levered himself off him, jerking the bruised body upward
by bound arms. The leather of Duncan's belt had cut into the wrists, the
buckle tearing the skin over and over, healing only to have the flesh torn
again. Duncan shoved him down on his back, straddling his hips. He grinned
at Methos' quick intake of breath, placing his hands on either side of
his captive's head and leaning down.
"I know
it's trite, but was it as good for you as it was for me?" Duncan asked,
settling his weight across Methos' groin and shifting his weight as he
felt the flesh firm beneath him. "I guess so."
"Is this
what you wanted, MacLeod?" Methos grated out. "All violence, no tenderness,
no caring...? You wanted that once, had it with Tessa--" he choked as the
hands closed over his throat.
"She has
nothing to do with this!" Duncan screamed, grabbing Methos' head and slamming
it into the stone. The body beneath him went limp and he shoved the unconscious
Immortal aside. The blood from his wrists had stained his back and the
floor, a red smear against the gray stone, against the pale skin--blood
on Tessa's face, on Richie's as they lay still and quiet on the wet pavement,
blood staining Sean's headless shoulders....
"No." It
was a whimper, not a roar, as Duncan loosened the blood slicked leather
and pulled the unmoving, bruised body against his chest. "I can't do this...I
won't...help me..." he murmured to any deity that would listen, rocking
the naked body.
"I will..."
Methos said quietly, touching his tear streaked face before he hit him,
two fingers thrust through the buckle of the belt to add more force to
the strike, then struck him again and bound his hands while he was semi-conscious.
Dressing him carefully before pulling his own clothes over the healing
skin. Duncan let him, afraid to move lest the madness come again...knowing
his only hope for salvation lay on the broad, slender shoulders of the
man he had just raped....
That need was rising in him again, Duncan realized, and he groaned against
it, almost thrusting Methos away rather than force him through another
assault. Quickenings left the taker in an appalling state of sexual need,
but it passed quickly or so Duncan had always thought. But this need was
more than sexual, drove deeper. That dark-souled Duncan had recognized
something in Methos that the Highlander had never been willing to acknowledge,
not in his right mind anyway, too strapped by convention to examine that
facet of his personality. But this encounter with the worst Immortality
had to offer made him realize the world was not black and white--good and
evil--no matter how much he wanted it to be. The shades of gray were too
obvious.
Methos had been a monster and become something more like a myth. Cassandra
had been a gentle soul whose hatred and need for revenge had turned her
into stranger. And Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had some growing
up to do.
Methos' sobbing had eased to whimpers, his body still trembling. His fists
were clenched tightly to his chest rather than reaching for the comfort
Duncan offered. That gathering of his loneliness--aloneness--cut as deeply
as his crying. Had he felt that way over the past week? Locked in this
empty base with Kronos and the other Horsemen--waiting for the apocalypse
Kronos promised unless someone stopped him. Unable to know if help was
available or have anyone at his back if he made a misstep, said the wrong
thing. Not even sure that Duncan would be able to help or want to--knowing
that Cassandra had vowed his death given the opportunity. How do you make
a plan when you can't tell friends from enemies, when both sides would
kill you with only the slightest provocation?
His confession in the church of capturing and raping Cassandra had shaken
Duncan, more because he heard what Methos didn't say. Where would Kronos
anger have been turned when Cassandra escaped if not on Methos? He had
come to care for the girl, refused to kill her not only then but twice
since. He had cut himself to the bone to block out her screams--but he
hadn't interfered and Duncan could only guess at why.
And he had warned Duncan to get Cassandra away rather than let her be captured.
Something still stirred inside Methos for his former slave.
Duncan would have to ask him about that later but right now, he recognized
in Methos at least part of what was making himself so tense. He uncurled
the fists, catching the long fingers in his hands, letting them curl around
his wrists as he caught the pale face in his palms.
"Methos, it's over. It's done," he said softly.
The older Immortal nodded, acknowledging the fact but unable to speak.
Duncan's thumb brushed his lips softly and Methos lifted his head to meet
the wide earth-brown eyes. He didn't move as Duncan lowered his head, grazing
his parted lips gently with his own. A moan Methos didn't recognize as
his own escaped him when the Highlander returned to capture his mouth more
firmly, telegraphing his own needs with the insistent pressure of his lips
and tongue.
For one brief moment Methos let himself be drawn into that need, felt his
body and blood respond. Welcoming the union, the physical companionship
and comfort he'd missed for so long. Then he drew away, not flinching but
realizing fully who was kissing him and why.
"Don't..." he breathed, pulling the hands away from his face.
"We both want this..."
"Because of the Quickening," Methos said, fighting for clarity, for control.
The soul wrenching grief was still too close to the surface. He couldn't
surrender to this and then walk away again. He wasn't strong enough for
that kind of pain. Not now.
"Partly...but not all of it. It's just brought it to the surface," Duncan
said, moving closer so he could rest his hands on the broad shoulders,
feeling the corded muscle under the worn shirt, the tension making Methos
wince at his firm grip.
Methos shrugged him off, getting to his knees to watch Duncan warily, his
breathing ragged. "Not for me--it runs deeper than that, MacLeod, and you
know it. I didn't intend for you to find out, but it's there. This changes
nothing. It can't..." he said the last so softly Duncan almost missed it
but he didn't miss the proof of his guess as Methos got to his feet stiffly,
jeans tight and binding swollen flesh. His own discomfort was a gnawing
ache in his groin; this need ran far deeper than a physical desire--but
he had to convince Methos of that first.
"It already has changed. It started changing even before my Dark Quickening."
"Out of your control, MacLeod. That meant nothing," Methos said turning
to pick up his sword, his hands resting briefly on the handle of the battle
ax before sliding his blade out from underneath it; averting his eyes from
the headless body of the man he had once called 'Brother'.
Duncan came up behind him, hands reaching once again for the tight shoulders.
Methos flinched, refusing to turn around.
"It meant something. It meant that even in my madness I couldn't kill you.
Wouldn't take your head even though I would have taken Richie's."
Methos' breath caught in his throat. He hadn't thought of that--hadn't
realized Duncan had put his life above his own student's--above the young
man he thought of as his son. He tensed as Duncan's arm slid over his shoulder,
trapping his chest and pulling him gently backward against his own. Lips
pressed against the back of his neck and he let out the breath he'd been
holding slowly, caught between pulling away and leaning against the muscles
pressing into his back.
"The Quickening may have given me the courage to do this, but it didn't
give me the idea," Duncan murmured against his throat. He slid his other
hand down Methos' arm to cover the fingers holding the sword, prying the
white fingers away from the hilt until it dropped. "I don't know how this
will end, but we'll never find out if we don't start somewhere."
Methos leaned against him, still trying for rational thought. "But to start
now--this is need, Mac. Not desire, not caring."
"If I didn't care I would never have followed you here. If I didn't care
for you I would have left your head beside Sean's. And right now I do need
you--and you need me. There's nothing wrong in that. And maybe that's all
there is.... I don't know, Methos. All I know is that you have come to
mean more to me that I thought--more than I wanted. Not a debt to pay.
A...gift. No regrets, no promises...just now."
I'm not strong enough to walk away, Methos thought as the strong fingers
curled around his, guiding both hands to his groin. He felt Duncan behind
him, a similar need hard against his buttocks. He had been willing to leave,
handle the growing urgency as he had in the past, alone, but the moment
Duncan touched him, held him, his resolve faded. The Highlander said no
regrets but Methos doubted it would be true come the stark light of morning.
One night might be the only chance he had--and suddenly he wasn't willing
to lose that chance or lose the opportunity to erase the memory of the
cruel and twisted version of his longing.
"No promises." He murmured turning his head, Duncan's mouth a breath away
from his. The full, soft lips closed over his, coaxing him, encouraging
entry and Methos let his resistance fade, lacing his fingers more tightly
with Duncan's as he guided the hand to the snap of his jeans.
The kiss ended as their joined hands slid under the denim, pushing the
fabric away, a broad strong hand closing over the rigid flesh of Methos'
cock, squeezing it gently. Methos moaned, arching into the pressure, unable
to stop the shudders passing through him. He reached his other hand behind
him, Duncan shifting as he sought and found the Highlander's straining
flesh, hard and warm under the fabric.
He pulled Duncan's hand away and turned, not missing the strained pleasure
on the strong face as Methos stroked him through his pants. He caught up
the loose hair, satin and sweat dampened, tangling in his fingers, as their
mouths sought and found each other. Duncan's hands slid up Methos' sides
to pull his shirt off, fingers splayed against the cold flesh, feeling
silk and steel as the skin rippled under his hands. Methos was lean and
compact, his slenderness a sharp contrast to Duncan's solid bulk, but there
was nothing feminine about the taut muscle under the smooth skin. He pulled
the shirt off, Methos reaching for his, lifting it to kiss the fading wound
over Duncan's right breast, tongue laving the flat hard nipple as Duncan
explored the broad shoulders with his hands and mouth, tasting salt and
dust, fear and desire.
Methos had no thoughts at all, refusing to acknowledge the voice still
screaming protest in his mind as he touched and soothed and caressed the
firm muscle, fingers sliding through the matte of dark hair on the Highlander's
chest. His partner's skin was so much darker than his own, bronzed by sun
and ancestry, color sharply defining the lines and rises of a body like
those that had inspired long dead sculptors and artisans.
The sharp drop of Methos' s chest to the spare hips made Duncan ache for
the grace and beauty of the man who had haunted his dreams for months.
He had been fascinated during their sparing at the flexibility in the wiry
form, so quick and agile it made him feel clumsy. He caught the face again
lifting it, tracing the sharp lines of his cheeks, the strong nose and
equally strong jaw, only barely softened by the curve of his neck as it
met his ear and the soft, silken fringe of hair that brushed his forehead
and temples. The hazel eyes were open, wide and slightly dilated with desire,
lips thin but mobile and sensitive. Those lips parted as he rubbed his
thumb across them, tongue moistening them in a manner Duncan couldn't resist
and he caught the mouth, chased after the tongue and drew it into his own
mouth, groaning as Methos' hands found the button and zipper of his pants,
shoving them down with his briefs so he could take the firm length of the
Highlander's shaft in his hand. The long fingers closed around the unyielding
mass of tissue, his other hand pressing the small of Duncan's back toward
him, his own erect flesh pressed against Duncan's belly.
That shared touch sent them both to the edge of release and the gentle
explorations were done as Methos shoved his jeans down, then dropped to
his knees to finish unclothing his partner. This was no gentle, no hesitant
exploration, just a raw, rushed fulfillment made possible by the strained
fragile friendship and likely to break under the strain. It flashed through
Methos' mind and he shoved it away, answering only to the moment, to the
feel of MacLeod, the harsh, hungry desire that might never have the opportunity
to surface and be answered again.
Before Duncan could join him on the floor or change his mind, Methos had
him in hand again, moist lips closing over the sensitive skin, his thumb
scraping the underside of his cock. Heat seared through the younger Immortal's
spine and he caught the silken hair, kneading the scalp with his fingers
like a cat. The pressure built within him and he felt his body spasm under
the coaxing teeth and tongue. Methos' free hand was on his belly, fingers
flexing as the muscles rippled and fluttered.
He felt the younger man tremble and withdrew, afraid Duncan would fall.
The
removal of his mouth summoned a moan of loss but Methos caught his
hands, drawing him down and easing him back onto the hastily gathered pile
of clothes. A swift, thorough kiss on the mouth was a promise as Methos
once more dropped his lips to the straining groin, clasping Duncan's wrists
and holding them as he built the rhythm and the pressure, his own erection
a distracting need. Then the body under him bucked, arched, hips thrust
hard against his mouth and Methos took him deep, swallowing as the first
eruption came, biting gently to interrupt the spasms briefly then sucking
again, hard,to bring the next wave. He heard the Highlander cry out in
release, felt the flesh tremble and go limp. He slid his lips off the now
flaccid flesh and sought Duncan's mouth, opening it with his tongue so
his partner could taste the last essence of himself in Methos' mouth.
Duncan was moaning still, body trembling in the aftermath of the orgasm
and Methos reached for his own groin, to ease the pressure there. Duncan
caught his wrists, rising up, face flushed, lower lip swollen where he'd
bitten it.
"Not that way," he murmured, kissing Methos before turning his back to
him, drawing the hands to his hips, as he rose to his knees. "I need to
feel you in me, with me..."
"You're not ready for this..."
"I am ready and willing for anything you have to give..." Duncan said firmly.
"Then wait," Methos said quietly, his control absolute even as his breath
quickened. His partner reached back to help him, stroking the rigid flesh
until it began to weep and Methos was trembling. The slick fluid coated
the hard shaft as Methos rose behind him, pressing against the tight buttocks,
parting them gently, forcing his breathing to slow. Duncan arched into
him as he found entry and paused, fingers digging into the dark skinned
hips, waiting for the body to relax. He felt the muscles ease and slid
deeper, groaning as he fought the urge to drive into the exquisitely tight
body, heard Duncan moan and relax again.
He was panting harshly as he finished his slow, deliberate entry, Duncan
already trying for movement, caught between pleasure and pain. "Relax..."
Methos gasped, sliding his hands across the hard , flat hips to take Duncan
in his hands again. He stroked the firming flesh, felt the younger man
give in to the sensation, gluteal muscles relaxing and Methos began rocking--his
groan triggering Duncan who reached behind him to pull Methos' head forward,
twisting his neck to catch the open mouth.
Soft sounds escaped both of them as Methos began moving in and out of Duncan,
slower, with more friction than with a woman, requiring more strength and
control. As he moved, Duncan's cock slid into his hands, rising with the
touch and feel.
Methos' head was aching and he felt faint as he moved, pleasure firing
along his synapses, head tucked against Duncan's shoulder, the Highlander's
hand in his hair, his other hand covering those at his groin. Duncan arched
away suddenly, body tightening around Methos as he came and the older Immortal
followed, unable to resist the pressure.
Duncan slumped forward and Methos pulled away, almost falling back, catching
himself on his hands, then giving in to exhaustion and sensation and laying
back, cold wet concrete against his skin, blissfully cool. He turned his
head and saw Silas' body.
His groan was as much for regret as revulsion and he rolled to his side
away from the sight.
"Methos...?" Duncan caught him, trying to ease the heaves that threatened
to overwhelm the slim body.
"We had an audience..." Methos said grimly and glanced up, seeing Duncan's
face pale. "It can't be just us without something to blemish it..."
Methos went on shakily. "Gods.. what was I thinking..." he said, laughing
harshly, pulling away from Duncan to find his clothes.
"No!" The Highlander said gripping his arms painfully. "No regrets... I
would rather have offered you...wanted to offer you something else. We
had now. Don't make it wrong and ugly. The other can come later."
Methos was startled by the vehemence in his voice, the dark eyes blazing
in near -anger and absolute conviction. Duncan meant every word of it.
Methos lifted a finger to his lips and nodded, smiling faintly. "All right...but
make no promises, Highlander. You're a man of your word." Then he kissed
him, catching the chin in his hand and offering a wordless promise of his
own.
"We're not through, Methos," Duncan said earnestly.
Methos hesitated, caressing the jaw and fingering the dark hair. "Maybe.
But we both need time to think and I don't seem to do that very well when
you're around. For this...I have neither words nor regrets. I swear." Methos
said after a moment and reached for his jeans and his sword.
They dressed silently, not touching, barely looking at each other until
Methos was ready to leave. He knelt by Silas' body, the form already stiff,
and shoved it toward the water, not speaking when Duncan crouched to help
him. The body dropped heavily and Methos found the head, unable to look
at the face as he dropped it into the water as well.
"Sleep well, Brother," he murmured and stare at his bloodied hands. Duncan
offered him a damp handkerchief but Methos shook his head. "I think I should
carry this blood for awhile," he said, closing his fingers over the stains.
"Where will you go? Cassandra..."
"Cassandra will do what she needs to do...I didn't thank you for that,
by the way. At the time I wasn't feeling very grateful. I am now."
Methos had known she was there, then, Duncan realized. Had he wanted her
to take his head? Remembering the sobs, probably so.
"I'll go back to Elysium for a few days. There are quarters there for guests
and I need time to think. I'll take care of Kronos' lab and the virus,"
Methos said, wondering if any of the infected animals could be saved. Probably
not he decided, looking at his sword. Better a quick death than dying from
Kronos' virus.
"I'll be at the hotel," Duncan said nodding and retrieving the katana.
He stepped in to slide his arms up Methos' back. The older Immortal returned
the embrace firmly, touching the face once more before turning away, following
Cassandra's path.
Duncan watched him for a moment then closed his eyes. Methos' touch was
lingering and warm when all else was still and cold. He left when he could
no longer hear the older Immortal's footsteps.
PART TWO:
Duncan returned from the church in a somber mood. Methos had made no reference
to the encounter at the base, a few words to tie up loose ends. Meeting
him at the church as if he still needed the sanctuary, the protection,
of Holy Ground.
From Cassandra. Her things had been gone when Duncan returned to the hotel.
No note. No message. Just gone. He told Methos so. If the older Immortal
was relieved he gave no sign. Or perhaps he still feared MacLeod. Still
unsure how the Highlander would react when they'd both had time to think,
to review the events. To regret.
But he didn't. Or he did, but not necessarily in the way Methos might think.
Regretted the timing, the circumstances. It wasn't that he wanted to offer
the older Immortal a lifelong commitment--or the trite solace of romance.
What Duncan felt for the enigmatic man went far deeper than friendship
or even hate. Some part of him had been reclaimed during the quick, driven
sex. He couldn't even call it lovemaking. Love was too shallow a word for
what he'd felt--not just the physical sensation of the slim, hard body
against his, not the gratifying release of sexual tension and loneliness.
It was as if he had reclaimed, with Methos' consent to the act, a part
of himself. Something he'd lost when he had taken, in his madness, something
not offered freely.
It didn't undo the rape. It simply confirmed what Methos had told him.
The older man understood how small a part that creature of violence was
of the man, Duncan MacLeod.
And had accepted that darkness without hesitation. Duncan had not been
able to do the same.
Until now.
But he'd come to understand it too late. And now the opportunity might
be well past. He had gotten the definite impression Methos' didn't intend
to remain in Bordeaux. Possibly not even in France. No chance of a resolution
then.
He felt frustrated and angry and his thoughts were turning darkly inward.
He needed exercise. He stared out the hotel window at the darkening sky.
Rain coming--dark clouds skidding across the rapidly graying blue.
He would walk anyway since Mother nature seemed to be doing her best to
match his mood.
He'd gotten barely a hundred yards when the skies opened. He let the rain
fall on him ignoring the chill, shouldering deeper into his woolen greatcoat
before heading back to the hotel. He was damp but not soaked, the heavy
wool keeping out the worst of the wetness. The doorman admitted him, meeting
him with an umbrella, but Duncan stopped, feeling an, oh, so familiar burn
along the sensory inputs of his brain, a murmur of almost voices he immediately
recognized as Methos. But it was with such a clarity it took him by surprise.
It was a certainty. Not something he had ever been able to do before. Identifying
another Immortal was part and parcel of what he was. But to be able to
tell exactly who was at the other end of that signature was new.
He turned, dark eyes searching the street until he found his target. Methos
stood less than a block away, transfixed by the same strange familiarity
of the signal. He stared at Duncan for a long moment, then turned, something
passing over the face that seemed akin to despair. It was hard to tell
with the distance between them. Then suddenly and resolutely turned away.
The Highlander needed to close that distance. Not just the physical one
but all the rest as well. He borrowed the umbrella from the doorman and
ran after the rapidly retreating figure. He caught up to him and Methos
turned, the face impassive, pale, but cheeks and nose reddened from the
cold.
"You came to see me," Duncan said, stepping closer to allow the umbrella
to cover both of them. Methos' hands were thrust deep into the pockets
of his rain coat, dark hair plastered to his skull.
"I thought about it. But I changed my mind. I don't think there's anything
else to say," Methos murmured. "I think we covered it at the church."
"Maybe. But you must have had something else to say. Come on. It's freezing.
At least come back to and get dried off?" Duncan offered, letting real
human concern guide the way. Despite the steady tone, Methos was shivering.
"I can say it here. I'm sorry, MacLeod. Sorry I dragged you into this and
sorry I ever met you."
It wasn't what Duncan expected. An apology? He might have hoped for one
once. The regret was there for the Horseman, for the deception.
But the last bit didn't ring quite true.
"Why? Did I rouse your conscience?" He asked, not angry, just confused.
"Among other things," Methos said coldly. "I can't remember the last time
I apologized to anyone for anything. But you... somehow I feel I owe you
something..."
"You owe me nothing. You were...right. I don't understand it...any of it...but
you don't owe me an explanation and I...I of all people have no right to
judge you. You tried to tell me that, in Seacouver when I killed...judged...Ingrid."
He hesitated, unable to read the expression in the gold-green eyes. "Can
we please get out of the rain.?"
"To what end?" Methos asked.
"To no end. I'm cold. You're freezing...To see if there's anything left
to salvage..." Duncan said softly.
"And if there's not?"
"Then it won't be from lack of trying," Duncan said and waited. "We owe
each other that much."
The eyes closed. "No promises." Methos said finally and took a step forward.
And no regrets, Duncan thought...prayed silently.
The older Immortal wasn't just chilled, he was exhausted. He showered in
Duncan's room while the Highlander ordered food, coffee. Duncan stole the
other man's sodden clothes and gave them to a maid to have cleaned and
dried. When Methos emerged he found a hotel robe. Too big, but warm and
dry. Neither man said anything as Duncan went to claim a shower as well.
When he came out Methos was on the bed, asleep, food untouched.
A sign of trust, Duncan realized. Or utter exhaustion. He studied the other
man, wondering how long it had been since he had slept...well....or at
all. He looked absurdly young, vulnerable but not helpless. Just...careworn
and fatigued even in sleep. Duncan felt himself growing drowsy as well
as he sat in the chair and watched, guarded. Awakening with a jerk when
the maid returned.
Methos woke as well, coming to a startled awareness instantly, relaxing
when he realized it was just the maid and his clothes were dry.
"Go back to sleep," Duncan prodded, setting the clothes on the end of the
bed.
"No. It was enough. I need to get going."
"To where?"
Methos canted him an odd look. "To....I have no idea." he said suddenly,
sitting on the end of the bed, fingering the clean, dry clothes. "I hadn't
really thought about it," he murmured and fell back on the bed, hands covering
his face as if to rub some memory away.
Or all of them.
"Methos, why did you really come here, today?"
The hands fell away to either side of his head, eyes closed. "I have no
idea about that either. I wanted..." he didn't finish the thought, rolling
instead to his side to gather up his clothes and head for the bathroom.
Duncan was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the other man's arm. "Finish
it."
Methos turned on him, the hazel eyes searching the darker face for something
and suddenly Duncan wanted very much to be able to give him what he needed.
Forgiveness. Absolution. Understanding.
No. Methos expected none of those things and Duncan's mind went unerringly
back to their first encounter at the church.
"What I've done, MacLeod, you can't forgive. It's not in your nature. Well,
you accept it!"
Acceptance. The same acceptance Methos had shown him. Shown Cassandra.
She'd tried to kill him and he'd saved her life, accepting what she felt
as her right--the right to hate him.
And what had she given in return. Not gratitude. She'd tried to kill him
again.
And what had he given to the Highlander?
A choice. A chance. He'd tried to keep him out of it by throwing the worst
of himself in Duncan's face. Tried to stop the encounter after the Quickening
for Duncan's sake when his own needs and desires had been blatant enough
for a blind man to see.
And what had Duncan given him in return? Accusations. Questions. Demands.
A shower and dry clothes. There was a debt to pay. And it wasn't a debt
Methos owed.
Or one Duncan was at all adverse to settling.
"Make no promises, Highlander. You're a man of your word."
Duncan pulled Methos toward him, his hand coming up to catch the older
man by the nape of his neck and drawing him close enough to rest his forehead
against the broad brow.
"I don't understand this...you...but I can accept it. What you did. Who
you were. And as for promises...it wasn't the Quickening, Methos. It was
you. It still is," he said it softly, taking the clothes and laying them
aside. "Can you accept that, as well?"
There was doubt still in the gold-green eyes, changing to something akin
to hope as Duncan pushed him gently back toward the bed, untying the robe
and parting the folds. The dark eyes met and held Methos' as he eased the
man back and down, hands on the muscled chest.
Methos didn't resist or speak, eyes locked, waiting for any sign of hesitation.
There was none as he sat, Duncan sliding the fabric off the muscled shoulders
and pressing him back until he lay on the bed. The Highlander untied his
own robe and slipped it off, moving deliberately. This was no heated lust
but a slow seduction. The bronzed body nude and unafraid or ashamed. The
earth-dark eyes moved from Methos' eyes along the length of his bared body,
slowly. Taking in every muscle. Every curve of flesh before setting a knee
on the bed to lay down beside him on his side. One hand propped under his
head as he laid his other hand on Methos' chest.
Methos lay quietly under the Highlander's touch, eyes closing as the broad
hand lay against his skin, unmoving. Heat from the other man's skin marked
a handprint on his flesh. His heart beat steadily, waiting, ready to increase
its rhythm should the hand move.
It was the anticipation of movement that set his blood racing, however.
His breath caught by the mere thought of that smooth palm sliding across
his skin. When it did, he stopped breathing entirely--for a moment; felt
the resistant friction even against the slow silken glide as the hand shifted
lower, Duncan's finger closing together in one massed breadth of heat and
sensation. Methos felt his breath grow shallow as if breathing too deeply
would somehow arrest the movement.
He was all too aware that Duncan lay next to him, the bronzed body not
quite touching. He fought the urge to reach out to the younger Immortal,
knowing this had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with receiving
what the Highlander had to offer. His touch. His friendship. His trust.
His instinct was to move, make the experience less than what it could be--let
lust and passion supplant all else. Full contact with that body would be
less overpowering than this slow, deliberate caress. But he couldn't move,
his only action an involuntary shudder that took him as the touch glazed
over his abdomen.
Duncan paused his slow progress at the dimpled connection of birth, testing
the edges of the indentation before moving to stroke the fine, dark hairs
that began below the depression and traveled lower. The fingers spread
again and Methos' stomach muscles tightened as the heat fanned wider, traveling
under his skin in all direction, his lips parting as he tried to cool that
growing fever before it could reach his groin: a race between his lungs
and his desire.
But his breath was stopped gently by a pair of full, soft lips covering
his own as the fingers inched their way from the silken line of hairs to
the fuller, more tangled curls below. The strong digits parting the curls
as a tongue pressed his lips farther apart to touch the interior of his
mouth with aching slowness.
Breathing became irrelevant, superfluous until Methos realized he'd stopped
and inhaled sharply. The sudden filling of his lungs raising his flesh
against Duncan's hand where it rested just at the edge of his groin; lifting
his chin just enough to increase the firm pressure against his mouth.
The increased oxygen made the sensations that more acute. His brain adding
details and commanding counter measures to compensate for the increased
awareness.
Duncan's tongue stopped its exploration of the warm interior of his mouth
to touch Methos' tongue, to caress, to invite, and Methos took the invitation,
body once more shifting as his tongue was drawn past the soft lips to be
sucked, coaxed and taunted. That suction seemingly drawing Duncan's fingers
inward as well. They pressed and curled against his flesh, tangling the
coarse hairs. The mass of curls cushioned the creeping pressure, slowed
the gentle exploration until one errant finger found the waiting rise of
flesh.
The gasp was unbidden as his tongue withdrew, all sensations waiting abatedly
to give way to the new feeling; the increased heat and swell of blood as
it was infused almost totally into the anticipative length of flesh.
His eyes opened as Duncan's lips left his, meeting the half-open dark brown
depths. He noted the set features, his own sensations blatantly translated
through that now still hand onto the Highlander's strong features. Duncan's
mouth was open slightly as if tasting what his hand was feeling, moisture
beading the strong brow, dampening the fine soft hairs. His eyes met Methos',
a burning exchange of dilated pupils, both all too aware that the next
moment, the next movement or sound could shatter either of them into fragments.
The decision was made as the finger slid across the silken shaft to make
room for a second, blood now being given a direction as the hazel eyes
closed. Methos' spine arched inexorably toward that caress without any
other movement, his hips pressing against the heat as the slender throat
extended. Air escaped slowly from the throat with no force, only a soft
sound, a sheen of perspiration appearing to glisten on the pale skin.
Duncan kept his eyes on the face below his own, letting his hand provide
the stimulus and his eyes read the results. His own breathing was shallow,
easing the taut reaction he saw mirrored in the fine boned features, the
satiny lay of lashes upon flushed cheeks. The other man's lips moved slightly
as if to speak but all that emerged was the soft hiss of air and a low
sound of all vowels and whispers. The tongue emerged briefly to moisten
the lower lip before the tender flesh was caught against white teeth, the
breath harsher but not hard; a counterpoint to the flesh firming under
his hand.
Methos' chin rose as the flesh did, pressing the dark head back against
the bed as if height; the subtle lifting of the flat planed hips, must
be counteracted somehow. Nostrils quivered, anticipating the slide of his
hand along the thickening shaft and went still as Duncan raked his thumbnail
against the now accessible underside of Methos' cock. The lower lip was
flushing from the pressure of teeth and Duncan could not help but ease
the swelling, gentling the assault with a milder one and he felt Methos'
body tremble under that touch of teeth to flesh. The sound deepened--a
groan. The body moved, one leg rising, knee flexed as the hips twisted
to grant better access to the smooth stroke of heated fingers, sweat pooling
at the base of the throat to cool the pulse there.
And no move by either of them to add to the twin touch of mouth and hand.
Duncan's fingers were tense against his own hair, Methos' hands at his
side, slender fingers digging into the bedspread to give leverage to the
staid lifting of his body.
Duncan's eyes raked the straining form, seeing the taut curve of muscle
under flesh at Methos' chest, silken skin ignored and wanting; the pressure
building as the tight stomach fluttered when his hand moved downward again.
The sharp intakes of breath were physicallized in the rise of the broad
chest, the softer mounds of Methos' breasts curved to just flatten under
the dark flat disks of skin. Those disks darkened further as the skin flushed,
the slow caress having found the soft twin sacs, their weight increasing
with each turgid heart beat. The silken tower trembled as it was filled
to overflowing, the tip glistening as the body fought motion with stillness,
a breath away from surrender.
His gaze shifted again to find the surrender in the glazed hazel eyes,
Methos waiting for that second decision to be made.
Duncan bent his head then. Not to the mouth but to the throat, to taste
the salty sweat slickened skin, hand once more encircling the none-too-steady
tower to press and slide from base to tip. He felt the tremors begin with
another sound, harder, caught between a moan and a choke as the muscles
flexed, forcing the thrust of flesh to fingers in a movement both of grace
and need. Duncan suckled the hollowed throat, clearing the pool before
moving back to mouth, capturing it as firmly as his hand captured the shifting
cock. He felt Methos' body begin to spasm, a mix of pleasure and pain suffusing
his own body as he rode the motion with hand and mouth until he felt the
warm slide of fluid across the back of his hand. He pressed his thumb against
the font to slow and guide the flood as he suckled Methos' tongue again.
Swallowed the elongated moan that accompanied the release. Then he gentled
the near sob as the body gave one last powerful surge against his palm
before the shaft went limp, held now only by the broadened palm. And he
still kneaded the silky skin.
Hand and groin were a warm, slick, trembling mess and he slid his fingers
through the mix, spreading the fluid like a balm across the tight, damp
curls and flaccid flesh. He felt the muscles relax under the cooling massage
as the mouth sighed against his and went passive.
He lifted his head to watch the still flushed but silent face, hand moving
up once more to trail that silky fluid across the stomach to the chest
to rest there once more, briefly. Then he moved it to press his lips against
the silken trail and taste the culmination of all that had been felt.
He moved then unnoticed, needing distance between he and the quiet body,
wondering how long it had been since Methos had let anyone this close,
physically or emotionally. Close enough to be able to receive something
for himself alone and not because something was needed from him. Methos'
response to his touch had thrilled and aroused him but the older Immortal
had demanded nothing, had allowed Duncan to set the pace and extent. He
ran warm water into the sink, wetting towels and wrapping them to maintain
their heat as he carried them back to the bed.
He sought to clean the glistening skin, applying it to the still damp groin,
lips curving as the touch alone brought a sharp gasp to Methos' lips, the
gold-green eyes opening quickly, all unaware he had been left alone for
a moment. His eyes closed again as the flush faded from his skin and the
last of the tension eased under the gentle, non-arousing, touch, his skin
cooling and his brain clearing.
"Mac," he said quietly, opening his eyes again as the towels were laid
aside. No promises. No regrets and he reached up to touch the Highlander's
face where he knelt beside him, levering himself up on one elbow to study
the dark face, seeking for some way to return at least part of the gift
he'd been given. His thumb trailed across the full mouth, his own lips
parting as Duncan caught the hand, tongue reaching out to dampen the pads
as he leaned down, fingers curling into Methos' as the mouth sought his
once more.
"I think we've said more than enough...probably more than we should have,"
Duncan said quietly. "This isn't about words anymore, Methos. It's not
about the past or the future."
"There isn't any future in this, Mac." Methos said regretfully. "This isn't
the kind of life either of us wants to lead."
"I know that...." Duncan said. "But it is a part of our lives that shouldn't
be denied, or forgotten. Anymore than your past or mine should be forgotten....but
we can set them aside for a bit. Right now. Right here. What do you want,
Methos? Tell me how to chase away the shadows...."
"You already have," Methos said and slid his hand along the muscled thigh,
a faint smile on his lips. "Just by showing me that what I was afraid I
was losing was far more than friendship. That there was...is a kinship....a
...brotherhood...." His voice broke on the word and Duncan reached for
him, feeling the muscled arms embrace him fiercely.
Duncan knew that sense of dispossession. He'd felt it when he'd been denied
his place in the Clan. Cast out as something unholy. Methos had been part
of something unholy and had walked away. But he had been part of something
once, however twisted. In the Highlands, in any clan structure, killing
another member of the clan was second to no other offense. Methos had not
only killed a 'brother', he had engineered the destruction of the entire
group.
And he had done it because he had thought he'd found a new clan. One with
Joe and MacLeod. But there was more to Methos than veiled maneuverings.
That dark, uncontrolled, almost alien nature rode close to the surface
masked by ennui, by indifference, by cruelty and revealed in a tender love
for a dying mortal woman. He had sought to reclaim that sense of unity
with his fellows.
And been cast out, again, for his past.
And what had he said in the church? Unable to judge Kronos unless he judged
himself. Not willing to die for, what at the time, had been less than madness,
more than a simple gathering of power. Those four, and Methos and Silas
in particular, Methos and Kronos especially had been Brothers--shield-mates
in a more barbaric world. MacLeod knew the implication of the term, a step
to the side of clansman. The begining of a practice the Greeks had put
into action, almost law, hundreds of years later. Warriors partnered in
all things, bound beyond the warfare or the comfort of homes and wives
and families. Men whose lives were pledged to one another in whatever need
arose, be it battle or bedroom. Not love alone. Nor friendship but an attempt
to breech that overwhelming sense of solitude every man faced--be he mortal
or more.
"I need you..." Methos murmured, his hand stroking along Duncan's thigh,
reawakening the response the Highlander had begun to build watching the
slender form move under his touch. "I need all the passion and fire you
bring to living, Highlander. I need that before my own fades completely..."
His words chilled Duncan, the tone so bereft of artifice or manipulation.
His hands caught the sides of Methos' face, holding him as his mouth sought
a deeper merger, his body responding to the coaxing hand as they both rose
to their knees, bodies pressed firmly together, strength to strength not
in a show of force but of union.
Duncan gave way first, twisting to reach beside the bed for the small bottle
of oil he used to whet his sword, surrendering it to Methos' hand as the
older Immortal continued his assault on his groin, the dark head dropping
to his throat and chest until Duncan was shaking with need and the gentle
hands smoothed the oil across the rigid flesh before twisting himself,
shifting position until his back was to Duncan's chest, guiding Duncan's
hands to his hips as he eased them both down.
Duncan oiled his hands, spreading the slick stuff across the firm buttocks.,
the oil making the pale skin glisten more darkly as Methos lay on his stomach,
head turned to the side Duncan slid his thumbs between the muscled mounds
to part them, pressing downward to coax the thighs apart, and Methos moved,
stretching as the Highlander knelt between his legs and caught his hips
again. The older Immortal lifting himself as he was pulled back and up
and over the hard thighs. Methos' cock rested softly in the crevice between
Duncan's legs, the Highlander's swollen shaft steadied across his buttocks.
That sense of anticipation pervaded Methos again, forcing him to draw a
breath as the fingers began probing for the tight entrance and finding
it. He heard the catch in his breathing, his partner echoing him with an
outrush of air as he pressed and oil slickened finger against the aperture,
his other hand resting on the small of Methos' back. Subtle movements gauging
his progress. Methos could not control his resistance nor the hiss that
escaped him as entry was pressed. It was not of pain but of sensation,
as if the entry point had been created by the touch rather than surrendered
to it. Nor could he stop himself from tucking his chin as his body closed
over the small, welcome intruder, fingers curling once more into the sheet.
The hand at his back moved to stroke, to ease, and his spine arched in
response, drawing his head back again, coaxing a soft voweled expression
of pleasure as hand and finger moved in the same direction. Duncan leaned
into the upward stroke, his cock sliding along Methos' buttocks in a silken
glide, Methos' own swelling shaft rasping against the younger Immortal's
thighs and responding strongly to the stimulation. Duncan shifted, parting
his legs slightly to allow the softened flesh to fall between his thighs
and be held there, pressed on either side by heat and muscle.
The finger slid out and Methos stretched with the pull, knees flexing as
he sought to follow the path, then stopping as he was nearly left bereft.
His breath caught again as a second finger joined the first, pressed to
the trembling sphincter, his gasp sharpening as he held still against that
entry. Nerves fired signals along his spine and the vowels gave way to
a rounder sound, almost a moan as the upward slide began again.
He let his breath out, willing the tight muscles to relax, speeding the
probe. His cock firming more as it was stimulated from behind and within,
those fragile walls of flesh sensitized to every rough callous, every lined
knuckle. Swelling against the captive thighs, he heard Duncan moan, the
sensation driving Methos' pleasure as his thighs trembled both in strain
and anticipation.
He was sweat slicked again, moisture between his shoulder blades as the
slow removal began once more, trembling as the fingers were withdrawn.
The coolness was almost immediately covered with the heat of a softer firmness,
the hands and fingers once more seeking the opening. Duncan pulled his
buttocks wider as the oil coated invader pressed, the younger Immortal
rising for leverage and Methos choking in tremulous pleasure as the pressure
built. He raised his hips, adding his own strength to the battle as he
pushed backwards, inviting, demanding entry.
Duncan groaned as the battle was won, the shaky hiss of pleasure marking
Methos' surrender as the muscles gave way then closed tightly around him
so the invasion would be slowed. He watched the slender body writhe, moving
to aid the slow progress, the back and shoulders tight. Those movements
making his blood race and chest ache from the sensuous grace. The hazel
eyes were closed as the head came back again, that fulsome arch pulled
from the base of Methos' spine. The older Immortal' lips were parted as
he drew in a gasp, as if the entry were being made there and not further
down.
The soft mouth was too much of a temptation though and Duncan leaned in,
driving deeper into the tight channel and reached forward with one hand
to slide a finger into the moist, hot mouth, then a second, shaking as
the soft lips closed over them, tongue laving them to slickness before
they were suckled.
His groin was firmly pressed against the tight buttocks and he pressed
deeper then pulled back, that friction grabbing at the base of his own
spine. His head dropped back with a groan, tremors already beginning and
Methos rose, arms thrust down, knees bending as he sought to reclaim the
full hard length of Duncan's erection. Duncan moved his arm under the tight
shoulder, lifting and pulling, feeling Methos' now erect cock escape his
thighs as his brother came up, his back against Duncan's chest, shoulders
just within reach of Duncan's mouth. The long strong hands gripped the
outside of his thighs, giving the supple body leverage to pull upward.
Both
men groaned against the pull, two magnets being forced apart. Duncan still
had his arm hooked under Methos' shoulder and he reached for the silken
hair, Methos turning into the caress, his twisting body adding to the heat
between them.
Duncan's thighs burned and he moved, heard the pleasure choked gasp as
his other hand once more encircled that glorious rise of flesh and stroked
it, timing it to the rise and fall of Methos' body against his own turgid
shaft. Fingers were once more caught by the seeking mouth, the strength
demanding urgency. The burn in Duncan's thighs demanded compensation and
his teeth gripped the ready shoulder.
Methos started at the minor pain, arching against the Highlander, straining
body a signal as Duncan felt the blood rush from his body to the one point
of sensation. His moan turned to a cry as sensation superseded reflex,
unable to stop the flex and flood that followed. He drove Methos against
his hand , echoing that convulsive display, the thick expulsion slicking
them as Duncan's fill eased the friction between his cock and its tight
prison.
The Highlander felt that force build, and Methos anticipated, falling forward,
taking his partner with him, his arms catching them, bearing the weight
of both their bodies as the frenzied thrusting was arrested, caught and
then resurged as Duncan drove into him, hard and deep, body catching the
flood of heat, of fluid, back straining to bear the weight of the larger
man without protest. Duncan was pressed against his back, his own arms
trembling as he sought to keep Methos from taking his full weight, lips
pressed to the taut shoulder as his spasms eased, flesh softening and spent.
He moved, Methos twisting from underneath him to hold him, giving Duncan
room to stretch the tight, aching muscles of his thighs. Duncan's arms
were stilled braced on either side of Methos' panting, shaking body, barely
noticing when the slender strength was added to his own, easing him down
and onto his side again.
His eyes opened to the sharp planes of Methos' face, the hazel eyes regarding
him anxiously, his arm under Duncan's shoulder to bear him up. The Highlander
pulled him close, feeling and hearing the soft, warm release of air against
his shoulder, flexing his legs as the older man moved in, knee sliding
between the parted legs as his hand stroked downward to ease and massage
the strained muscles.
Methos arched slightly as Duncan nuzzled his throat, the curve bringing
their groins in contact. The Highlander's broad palm slid through his thick,
damp hair, lifting his eyes to meet the gold-green ones searching his for
recovery...or regret. There was none. Earth brown eyes held his as the
hand moved across his jaw, thumb once more carressing the parted lips,
waiting for their breathing to ease before offering that closure.
Methos took the offer, words and thoughts lost to the curve of the full
lips against his, Duncan's hand skating across his throat to grasp his
hair once more, to postion his mouth for a thorough locking of lips and
teeth and tongues, heat building there as their bodies cooled and quieted.
Methos pulled back and down, back and shoulders once more taking the Highlander's
weight willingly, drawing the larger man down with him so Duncan lay against
him, legs crossed casually across Methos' groin and thigh. Head resting
close to his, the broad dark hand once more resting on the pale flesh,
over the heart, sheilding it, guarding it while they both fell into Orpheus'
realm, each ready to watch the other's back against the demons that might
yet come.
Methos sat silently in the pre-dawn darkness, watching the Highlander as
he slept. The younger man had barely noticed when his brother left the
bed, whispered reassurances falling on soporific ears until Duncan fell
asleep again. Methos had dressed quickly and silently, not even bothering
to wash the feel and smell of the other man from his skin. And then he
sat, watching the man sleep, not quite guarding but not exclusively for
the simple pleasure of observation either.
He had thought to stay, wanted to stay, body already yearning for the hard
muscled body and strong caresses. There was no oath between them yet, just
the promise of one and Methos would not take advantage of that promise.
Not yet. His own oath to the Highlander already branded his blood. Duncan
would never be without a brother at his back as long as Methos lived. But
the offer had to be made freely, not as a part of some debt...real or imagined
...and he wasn't sure Duncan understood that yet.
Duncan stirred and Methos rose, slipping toward the door. Glancing once
at the note he'd left wrapped around the Katana's hilt...not many words.
A number where he could be reached in Paris and a single quote... something
a friend had once told him. He only hoped MacLeod would understand what
Methos offered and understand there were no demands and no expectations.
Duncan turned, preperatory to waking up as Methos slipped out the door.
"The love
of man to a woman is a thing common and of course, and at first partakes
more of instinct and passion than of choice; but true friendship between
man and man is infinite and immortal" --Plato
