Duncan drew away from the figure in front of him in shock, but it was a look that the other mistook for disgust.
"I'm sorry." Methos turned away, unable to meet his friend's eyes. He had wanted to do that for what seemed like forever, closer to forever than any mortal could ever imagine, but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would be rejected. Duncan was the man most in love with women that Methos had ever met, and he had met many. The idea of being with another man had probably never even occurred to him.But there was little that Methos had not tried in his 5,000 or so years. The only way he had survived, many times, was to try something new, or different. There were few situations that he faced for the first time in the present day. Few times when he could not come up with an analogous situation from another time in his life.
The silence stretched between them, neither knowing quite what to say to alleviate the tension, and keep things on a level plane. Finally, Methos lifted his head, looking somewhere just to the side of Duncan's face."I think I'd better leave. We can talk later." He no longer even remembered what it was that they had been talking about, and wasn't sure he cared. There was no way things could continue like they had been after that kiss. Even if they both denied it having happened, it would remain in the back of their minds, affecting their treatment of each other.
When silence was his only answer, Methos reached for his coat. His movement drew Duncan from his reverie and he reached out. "Methos! Wait! Don't leave like this."
"Like what?" Methos half turnedback, still avoiding meeting Mac's gaze. "You can't deal with what I did. I shouldn't have done it, but I can't take it back. I'm sorry."
The agony was evident on Methos's ageless face, making it seem closer to his 5,000 years than ever before.
"Is that what you think? That I'm disgusted? I won't let a thing like a kiss come between us. We've been through too much for that," He continued, thinking of the ordeal dealing with the horsemen had been. He had almost lost Methos's friendship for good that time.
Mac took Methos's silence as assent. After a moment, he continued, "Methos. Come here." He took the smaller man by the shoulders and steered him across the loft to the sofa and sat him down. Then he knelt in front of him, forcing their eyes to meet. "Do you really think I have made it 400 years without experiementing? It was not disgust, but shock that you saw on my face, because it has been so long."
For the first time, Methos felt a glimmer of hope. He had not dared to dream that his fantasies might come true, and he would not further risk his friendship to have them do so, but it seemed that Duncan had kept some secrets from him. Secrets that he had had no idea existed. "What are you saying?"
Duncan put his hands on the face before him, understanding on some level that his answer was going to be vitally important to the future of their relationship. "Methos, give me some time. Like I said, it has been a while, and it comes as a surprise. Let me assimilate it and figure some things out, then we'll talk. Is that alright?" He looked earnestly into the deep eyes before him, seeing for the first time their magnetic quality.
After a moment, Methos nodded. After Duncan moved to sit on the couch beside him, he turned and asked, "How long has it been, anyway?" He had read Duncan's chronicle, and maybe if he knew when it had been, he could figure out who with. Duncan, being who he was, would not have had a meaningless sexual relationship, particularly a first with another man, without someone he did not know and trust.
Duncan let loose a little laugh of chagrin, almost embarrassment. "About 375 years."
Methos looked up in surprise. "Connor?"
His response was a sheepish nod yes, before all was silent except for the sounds coming from the television which neither watched, both lost in their own thoughts. Methos's centered on the man beside him, while Duncan's were lost in the past. In a time he remembered like it were yesterday. A time he had never shared with anyone.
Duncan had been with his elder kinsman for about a year and a half by this time. Long enough to have learned just about everything he could from his first of what would turn out to be many teachers. He would never forget the time he had first seen the infamous Connor McLeod, riding his horse through the highland snows one early spring afternoon. The snow was melting, but there was still a solid covering on the ground. The beauty of the Highlands was stark and harsh, but incomparable. In all the years since, he had never seen anything that could match his homeland.
On this day, three years after he had miraculously recovered from a fatal wound, Duncan was at ends with himself. There were many things in those three years that he could not explain, not the least of which was when that old hermit had managed to finagle him into cutting off his head. He had convinced himself in the intervening year that what had followed immediately on the heels of that event had been a dream.
But a part of him remained unconvinced. It was just too real for him to have completely imagined it.
It was that early spring day when Connor MacLeod entered his life that his questions began to be answered.
Again, that strange sensation took over. It was all around and inside him, and he had to stand up. Instinctively, he realized that it was significant for some reason. When another furclad figure burst into the clearing, Duncan was at full alert, but waited for the other to speak.
"Duncan MacLeod." The voice was rumbly and had a strange quality to it. At the heart of the accent was the gaelic of the Highlands, but it was not the kind that Duncan had always heard.
"Aye. An' who are you?" It never occurred to him to not admit his identity. While his father might have disowned him, his mother had accepted him back into the fold, encouraging him to pick up his father's sword and lead his clan. He had picked up the sword, but only killed the one who had killed his father before returning it to the clan and disappearing. He sought a medium between the acceptance by his mother and being disowned of his father.
Before answering, the figure before him bared his face and looked Duncan full in the face. "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." There was a full minute of silence, the words laying between them, before Duncan could react.
Obviously, this man was lying. He could not be THE Connor MacLeod of legend. He was long dead. And even if he wasn't dead, he would have been his grandfather's age, not his own.
"Connor MacLeod is a legend. Ye cannae be him." So sure was he in his assertion that the other man laughed unconcernedly.
While he moved toward the fire, Connor allowed himself a brief smile. Gods, but he had missed having clan around. As difficult as the next weeks would no doubt be, he knew that he would enjoy being with someone with whom he could speak. While he would be in the role of teacher again, he had never had the opportunity to teach someone who came from such a similar background to his own, and he was looking forward to it.
"Oh, I'm Connor alright, but we can talk about that later. What are we having for supper?" The enticing aroma of roasting rabbit was a temptation to his empty stomach that he could no longer ignore as he moved to settle in for the time.
Duncan was unable to move for a time. Much as it went against the grain to deny a fellow traveller the comfort of his fire, he knew that he did not want to be around this particular traveller for long. He was dangerous in a way that he did not understand. Reluctantly, his inbred courtesy won out and he split his dinner two ways, resigning himself to having to go hunting he next day when he made it back to his cabin.
Duncan found out next to nothing about his unwelcome visitor that evening. All of his probing questions were met skillfully and ambiguously. When they bedded down that night, Duncan resolved to himself that he would find out more tomorrow. He really did not like being left in the dark.
As the sun rose the next morning so did Duncan, only to find that his companion was already up and stoking the fire. If he had any trouble waking up, the first words out of the other man's mouth would have solved that problem. Whatever was keeping him from talking the night before had apparently been dealt with. "My name is Connor MacLeod. I am immortal, an' I cannae die. And so, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, are you."
"What are ye talking about? Of course you can die. Everyone can die." Even as he spoke, he remembered the number of times over the past years that he should have died.
"Ye're right. We can die, too, but only if someone cuts off your head." As he spoke, Connor's eyes bore holes into Duncan in such a way that Duncan had no doubt that he spoke the truth. At least, the truth as he saw it.
When he remained visibly skeptical, Connor motioned him closer. "Come here." Curiousity drove Duncan to do as bid, and as he reached close to Connor's side, the other man whipped out an unseen knife and buried it into Duncan's arm. It would have been a crippling wound to someone without rejuvenating abilities.
Duncan grabbed his arm with a sound of pain and jerked away, calling Connor everything his considerable vocabulary allowed and then some. Connor remained remarkably unconcerned, going so far as to say, "Ye'll be fine. Calm down for a minute and ye'll see."
But his words did not penetrate the deep fog of anger and pain that enveloped the younger man until much later. Blood had seeped through the thick layers of clothing, but strangely, Duncan found that the pain was no longer unbearable. Fearing that he had lost the arm and was in shock,he yanked the sleeve up as far as he could, managing finally to get a look at the wound. The wound that had almost brought him to his knees only moments before.
The wound that was no longer there.
"What!? Where...!?" He was in such emotional shock that he could not even find the words to ask what had happened.
Connor finally stood and came over to him, gently lifting the injured arm up. "See? That will happen to a wound anywhere on your body, no matter how bad. And you won't die. You are like me."
"No. It's not possible. It can't be true." But despite his words, Duncan knew deep inside that it was. It was the fact that it went against everything that he had learned that he was having the most trouble with.
"It is true. An' there are things that you need to learn. Things you need to know in order to survive. Not the least of which is how to recognize another of us before he takes your head." That caught Duncan's attention finally.
"There are others?"
"Of course. There are many. I don't know how many. None of us do. All we do is fight when challenged. Wait for the Gatherin. Because in the end, there can be only one." Connor spoke with the calmness of one who had had many years to come to terms with the idea of immortality and all it entailed, but for Duncan, it was too much to take in all at once. He stormed off to gather his things had hit the trail.
Connor allowed him this time, following him to gather his own things. Obviously, he intended to follow Duncan for the time being, and Duncan had not the initiative at the moment to fight him over it. Besides, there were still things that he needed answered.
Later.
For right now, he needed to move. In record time, he was through, and headed into the forest at a fast pace, not much caring if Connor was with him or not at the moment. As it happened, Connor was only a few steps behind him.
After about an hour on the trail, Duncan abruptly stopped and turned, meeting the face of the one who had disturbed his life so much in such a short time. "It cannae be." Despite his words, there was resignation in his voice. While this new information may go against everything he had learned during his life, either was he stupid. He could not ignore the proof before his eyes. His arm healing the way it had brought more memories of cuts that had disappeared in rocord time. Memories of times when he should have died.
Connor recognized the look, and knew that the time for an explanation had arrived. Time for the full story. "We are immortal. A blessing and a curse. People will not understand, and you will have to keep it a secret, possibly for centuries. But, you will have time to see whatever you want, learn whatever you want."
Duncan, ever quick to absorb shocks, was already thinking. And remembering. Specifically remembering what Connor had mentioned earlier about the death that each of them must face. Now that he had accepted the current circumstances to the best of his abilities at the moment, he wnted answers.
"Tell me about the others." Duncan had always been driven by honor as well as extreme impatience for answers. When he wanted to know something, he set about finding it out as quickly as possible.
Connor knew automatically to what his kinsman was referring. Having been raised a warrior the part of this new life which he would want to know about first would be the challenges. "That sensation you felt when I came near, ye remember it?" At Duncan's reluctant nod, Connor continued. "That's how ye can tell when another of us us near. We are the only ones who can kill each other, and that is how ye can prepare."
Duncan was a good swordsman, all things considered, so felt secure in his ability. It was a cocksure confidence that showed on his face, and one that Connor correctly understood. It had not been all that long since he had stood in Duncan's shoes himself.
"Ye may be a fine swordsman for a mortal, but you will be going up against people much older. Sometimes thousands of years older."
It was a concept that Duncan had some trouble conceiving of. In his life, people over twenty-to-thirty years were way too weak to provide adequate challenge.
Connor decided to prove his point immediately by force. His young protege would listen much better then, for only force could penetrate that thick wall of stubbornness that Duncan MacLeod was so famous for.
The sudden appearance of a blade in the other's hands shook Duncan more that he cared to admit. Where had it come from? And was he really going to fight him? Now? After telling him all that stuff? One would have thought that, if it all was true, he would have taken his head before telling him the only way death was possible.
Not taking any chances either way, Duncan too took out his sword. Immediately, the sound of clashing metal shook the forest.
For Duncan, it was too short, too exhausting, and entirely too eye-opening. Before he knew it, Connor had disarmed him and had his blade at his neck. It was then that Duncan understood that it had been a lesson. The first of many, it would seem, since it looked like Connor had appointed himself to teach those necessary things for the new life.
Perhaps most importantly, it made him understand the power of immortality. While people might age indefinitely, they would keep the same body they had when they first died. And, as in the case of Connor MacLeod, that body was whipcord strong. When that conbined with years of study and practice, it made a deadly weapon.
It scared Duncan a little to realize how very unprotected he was against this unknown force. Subdued, he surrendered to his opponent, who reached down a hand in reconciliation, understanding what the younger man was going through. Hadn't he done the same thing with his teacher Ramirez only half a century before?
They hit the trail not long after to finish the final leg of the journey, neither making any attempt at conversation. After trapping a rabbit searching for food for iteself in the melting snow, they ate at the sturdy, if not asthetically pleasing, table that stood in the middle of the main room.
Then, Duncan broached that fiery subject again. From his words, Connor knew that he had resigned himself to being a student again. A role which he had no doubt figured was long in his past. "Teach me. Teach me what I need to know."
Connor nodded. The first lesson would be only words, not the battle lesson the studen expected. "Our battles are fierce and deadly. In some ways, more so than anything you have ever seen before. Opponents you encounter will use anything in their sometimes considerable experience to beat you. Often, that includes things from forgotten cultures of ages past. Things that will completely surprise you."
"What have you encountered?" Duncan queried.
"Among other things, the man who first killed me. And then killed my teacher. The Kurgan." Connor looked deep into the fire, unconcerned about any possible danger. He knew there was nothing around that could finalize his end. "One day, I will kill him." His words were more for his own benefit, the renewal of a vow, but Duncan recognized them for what they were. And he admired the force behind them,but wondered.
"Is he not dead yet? Have you not searched for him?" In his mind, anyone who threatened or killed one you cared about should immediately die.
"He still lives, but it is not as you think. I had other things to think about at the time, and have not found him since. I was married and she was very hurt from it. She saw it all happen. The Kurgan killed a fine, strong man, who was centuries older than you or I. I knew that I had to learn more before I stood a chance. I don't know if I would stand a chance now or not." He looked at his sword, which lay on the ground at his feet, within ready reach should he need it.
"Ye were married? What happened? Where is she now?" He realized that he knew next to nothing about this man. Would never have guessed that he had been married. Maybe too much else was on his mind, but now he wondered.
His questions were answered quickly. "She died, eighteen years ago. I loved her just as much then, when she was old and gray, as I did when I met her. I will never understand why she stayed with me, but then, she could never understand why I stayed with her. So I guess we were even," Connor finished with a grin.
"Didyou have any kids?" Even new as he was to the idea, Duncan had trouble imagining immortality and having children. But it had always been his dream to have many sons. Even with his exile from the clan, it was still his dream, but he might have to alter it a little if he was sure to outlive them. Or would they be immortal as well?
But Connor nipped that dream before it could continue flowering. "No. We cannae have children. It was the biggest problem in our marriage. Heather so wanted children, but she stayed with me, even knowing I could never give her any."
Duncan's heart went out to obvious pain apparent in the other man's eyes. It was clear that he still loved his love dead wife.
For himself, though, maybe it was best that he couldnae have children. If he couldnae have them with Debra, he was not sure he wanted them at all.
The next day began the intensive training. If Duncan had thought that he was in shape before, he soon found that he had to think again. Connor seemed to have endless energy and stamina. Duncan relearned the rudiments of fencing, followed by some things that he had never seen before.
Finally, he asked Connor about some of the new styles. "Where did ye learn this?" He asked about a particularly strange aspect of the lesson with staffs.
Connor answered, lowering his staff for the moment. "On the continent, on the other side of France and Spain in a place called the Ottoman Empire. Many strange things exist there. It is a very fierce and warriorlike country. It is a good place to learn to fight." He did not tell specifics of his travels there. In many ways, they were probably too much for the young man to understand. He had enough to handle right now as it was, and Connor could not add more without cause. There would be time for that later.
Duncan let the subject lie. His world was Scotland, and he knew little of what existed beyond the boundaries of the island. England was foreign enough for him.
Over the next year the two men worked. One taught and the other learned. Connor remained very impressed by the level of understanding that Duncan always exhibited. In all the newly made immortals that he had seen in his time, never had he encountered one as quick to understand as Duncan MacLeod. He found that, for all his faults, Duncan MacLeod was one helluva guy.
The lessons included everything under the sun that might come in handy for Duncan. In short, Connor shared as much of his seventy-five years of knowledge as he could. He shared fighting techniques, etiquette, and music. Under his guidance, Duncan learned more than he ever thought possible. He opened his mind to new ideas and concepts and was amply rewarded in newfound knowledge.
Then one night, as they sat at the fire in their cabin haven, Connor spoke. "It is time. I have taught you everything that I can. You must now go out on your own."
Duncan had felt that something like this was coming, and had tried to prepare for it. But hte reality hit him far harder than anything he could have prepared for. "Connor, no. You can't leave me. Not now." He had said goodbye too many times in his life to people that he cared about. Connor meant more than just about anyone else, and he did not want him to leave.
Connor understood without an explanation what Duncan felt, but did not think that it was a deep as he wanted. "I must. You know that. There is nothing more that I can give you."
Duncan got up, urgent in his need to keep Connor with him, and knelt before the other man. "No. Please. Don't leave yet."
The sight of Duncan's incredible body on his knees before him was more than Connor could handle, and he reached up and put his hand to Duncan's cheek. Against his will, Duncan leaned into the caress a little, and the air between them charged with something that Duncan had never felt with another man before. But it was not in him at the moment to challenge his feelings. Now, it felt too good, was too necessary, for him to argue with it.
No other words were spoken before Connor bent his head to take Duncan's lips in a gentle, but unmistakably erotic kiss. When they broke apart, Connor lifted his head. "Do you want this, too?" He would bide by the decision, whatever it was. His friendship was the most important thing.
After a moment of thought, Duncan replied. "Aye, I think I do. I didnae know it, but I think I do. But..." Connor put a finger over the delectable lips, forstalling further words.
"Ye've never been with a man. I know. That's alright. We'll only do what you're comfortable with."
No further words were needed and the two met for an even more heated kiss than the first one was. When they pulled apart from this one, they were both on fire, but knew now what they wanted. Connor pulled Duncan up farther, so they could meet on a more even level, and wrapped his arms around his friend and newfound lover. All inhibitions were forgotten as they engulfed each other, passion reigning supreme.
Taking the initiative, understanding that Duncan could not this time, Connor began to pull the clothing off the other man. He broke off only to send a questioning look upon reaching his breeches. It was another chance to call the whole thing off before things went too far.
But Duncan met his eyes with a look of determination and reached down to help him with the fastenings. When Connor got the message, a sense of relief filled him. He had been so afraid that it would not happen, and when he felt Duncan's hands on his own clothing, he knew he was lost. Whatever happened now, he knew that Duncan would remain one of those closest to him.
Connor explored Duncan's face with his hands, as a blind man would learn what another looked like, memorizing every contour, before continuing on his fantasy trail. He nuzzled Duncan's neck while his hands foraged farther, whispering over the tiny pebbles that were the other man's nipples.
Duncan drew him up, and for half a second, Connor was afraid that it was being called to an end. But Duncan merely grabbed his hand and gestured toward the bed, and said, "C'mon." That suited Connor just fine, and his divested himself of the rest of his clothing and took a long, lingering look at the beauty that lay before him, before leaning over Duncan, who had already lay back against the pillows in anticipation.
Once they met, skin to skin, there was no holding back. Duncan no long cared that the one he was with was a man. All he knew was that he felt a passion that he had thought never to feel again.
Connor remained somewhat aware that he had to take care, but knew that it would not end. They were both too far gone to call it quits now. And with that, he threw caution into the wind, drawing his leg up between those of his partner, forcing them apart to rub his thigh against his erection, drawing a tortured moan out of Duncan's throat.
After what seemed like ages to Duncan, Connor began again his southward exploration, drawing the hardened nipples into his mouth, rasping them with his teeth before soothing away the pain with his tongue. Duncan's feeling that they could not get any harder was proven wrong, as Connor reached down an grabbed his sex, giving Duncan more sensation than he thought he could handle.
When Connor's mouth joined his hands, Duncan thought for sure that he would explode. How could any man withstand such feeling? Then, when Duncan teetered on the edge of climax, Connor broke contact with his mouth, looking up with a grin. "Do ye want to?"
Duncan's answer was an emphatic nod, and he turned over obligingly. Connor reached out, unable to help himself from caressing Duncan's perfect backside. He leaned down to kiss the perfect globes and run his tongue between them.
"Oh Gods, Connor.Just do it, mon. I can't take this any more." Duncan's voice was rough with need.
With a gentle laugh of understanding, Connor moved back up and positioned himself to gently begin his entry the innocent before him. When he was about an inch inside, and Duncan stiffened in pain, his own heart stopped. "Do you want to stop?" He didn't know where he could find the necessary energy to stop, but he knew that he would if Duncan needed it.
But Duncan shook his head."No. Go on."
Connor breathed in Duncan's ear, knowing that the younger man was doing it for his benefit rather than his own, and he vowed to make Duncan enjoy it, as well. No matter what it took. "Relax, lover. Let me love ye." His words, accompanied by his tongue tracing the inside of Duncan's ear, sent a thrill of excitement through Duncan's body. When Connor moved, lifting them both off the bed a little, and reached down to grasp Duncan's cock in his roughened hand, Duncan knew he was lost. While an element of fear of the unknown still remained, he knew that he wanted it all.
When Connor knew the immediate fear was over, he continued his entry, taking care to keep Duncan's thoughts and feelings occupied elsewhere with his hands and tongue.
Under his careful ministrations Duncan was surprised when he realized that Connor was fully inside him. He had been so caught up in Connor's other actions that his slow movements behind him were a sideline.
And it was not as bad as he thought it might be. It was a burning sensation, and an incredible fullness that he had never felt before.
When Connor started moving in the rhythm as old as time, Duncan was lost. The feeling of being joined with Connor is such an elemental way, combined with the work of his hands and mouth brought Duncan over the edge.
Connor had no time to savor the taste of victory because the tremors that began deep inside his partner triggered his own response, and he joined Duncan in the mind blowing climax.
It was a while later when Connor enough energy to get up and wet a cloth, bringing it over the bed to gently cleanse Duncan's body. There was nothing overtly sexual in his actions. Rather, they were actions of love and caring, which Duncan reciprocated. And as they lay snuggled against each other, Duncan broached the subject of their loving.
"I didnae know. Connor, I..." It was clear that he was still trying to understand the jumble of emotions inside himself, and Connor put his hand over his mouth to quiet him.
"Shh. No need to speak. I know." And he did. He had always been able to understand Duncan's thoughts, almost before Duncan himself did.
That night was full of firsts for them, as they made love several more times before finally deciding that food was a must in order to continue. That night began a new relationship for them, where neither was teacher and neither was student. It was a time for them to share, equally and alike. They both learned from the other about love and caring. Never before had either had a relationship such as this.
They also learned about the trials of having a relationship with another immortal. As was innevitable, they eventually had to go their separate ways. But they would always have each other, whether as a friend or a lover. And when Duncan left to seek out new things, as all students must, they did not say goodbye.
The sound of the television being turned off snapped Methos out of his reverie, and he turned to his friend in question. He had not been paying attention to what was on, but he wondered why Duncan had turned it off.
He did not have long to wait. Duncan put the remote control on the side table before sitting on the sofa and facing Methos, better known to the outside world as Adam Pierson. When he could not think of anything to say that would adequately get his point across, he decided that actions spoke better than words, and he leaned over and kissed Methos full on the lips.
It was not a passionate kiss, but neither was it one that could be misunderstood. And Methos was no fool. He understood full well what Duncan was offering and took him up on it, resolving to find out later what had inspired his decision. But for right now, he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he returned the kiss wholeheartedly. He wanted to get the most of this gift, in case it went no farther, and he also wanted to see if Duncan was going to shy away.
No matter how deep the kiss went, Duncan did not back up. Indeed, he participated to the same degree, passion rising between them by the second. Methos knew that before long, it would be too late to turn back. But his fears were for nothing, for Duncan took the initiative, kneeling between the ancient's knees, his hands moving the zipper on his jeans.
Methos felt a shiver pass through him as cool air hit his midriff between the top of his boxers and bottom of his t-shirt. When Duncan moved to take the shirt off, Methos raised his arms to help, allowing the shirt to be drawn off of his body before moving to unbutton the shirt covering the gorgeous body before him.
Then Duncan lowered his body over the older man's, pushing him to the couch beneath him, and a fire exploded between them. No longer was there any inhibition about where to put hands. They were everywhere. For Duncan it was an exploration that he had not done for years. Since his time with Connor. And that former relationship had never been picked up in later years, regardless of how many times he saw his kinsman. It had always seemed wrong for one of them. And there had never been any other man in his life whom he felt that way about.
Until Methos.
For the first time, he got to see the body of the oldest known immortal in all its splendid glory. The baggy clothes that Adam Pierson preferred hid one that set all his senses on fire, and he wasted little time in his exploration.
Finally, Methos spoke up. "Do you have anything?" He did not much care, he decided. It was not like he had never done it without added lubrication, and he figured there was a real chance that Duncan would not have anything on hand.
But that thought was groundless when Duncan remembered a tube that Amanda had brought on one of her trips a while back, and got up to get it, telling Methos to go ahead over to the bed. Methos did so with great excitement, and Duncan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as Methos reclined on the piled pillows, pushing the covers out of the way. There was not way that Methos was "just a guy," as he always tried to say. No way anyone ordinary could capture his attention like this.
When Methos sensed that he was no longer alone in the room, he looked up, and there eyes met across the way. Duncan thought no more about how good the bed looked with Methos adorning it, but rather how much he wanted to be inside of him. And he walked over, never breaking eye contact, to sit on the edge of the bed.
He leaned down to taste Methos, his hand reaching the destination just before his mouth. Methos gasped as wet warmth enclosed his cock, trying hard to catch his breath despite Duncan's actions. "Duncan...Oh God!..."
Duncan finally looked up with a devilish grin, looking very unlike the boyscout all his friends accused him of being. He did not argue at all when Methos grabbed him around the neck to draw him down for a deep, soul-stirring kiss.
Finally, when he could take no more, Methos turned over, drawing his knees a little under him. Duncan picked up the lubricant that had fallen to the bed moments before and pushed a little onto his hand, which he warmed up before applying it the rosebudded entry.
Only seconds later, he was imbedded as deep as he could be, and kissing the side of Methos's neck tenderly. He began moving slowly, always changing the rhythm, teasing. Backing almost all the way out before plunging back in, until they were both ready. It was then that he relied on the old straight and narrow to bring them both over the brink.
When Methos could get his breath back, he said, "Well MacLeod, you do know how to bring a man to his knees."
Mac laughed and responded. "Only you, my friend. Only you." And he knew it was true. Now, he could look back and realize that he had wanted this all along. This was why he could not take his head when he had offered it when they first met. This was why he had not been able to believe that Methos had been able to send mortals to kill Amanda for the crystals.
This was why he had felt so betrayed when he found out about the four horsemen.
They had meant too much to each other, been through too much together, for anything to come between them now. And this was only the next element in their relationship.
When they stood in the kitchen later, each wearing one of Duncan's robes, they talked about what this would mean and where it would go.
"Methos, we have to talk." Duncan brought it up.
"About what?" Sometimes Methos had some trouble being serious, and when he was afraid that this was coming to an end he did not want to hear it.
"Us. What are we going to do about this thing between us?"
Methos could tell from his voice that Duncan was not in the mood for games. "What do you want to do, MacLeod?"
Instinct told Duncan what his lover's fear was, and he put turned off the stover where he was cooking to walk over to him and kiss him gently. "I am not asking to end it. I want to know what you think we should do about living arrangements, who we should tell. That sort of thing."
Methos breathed a sigh of relief before answering. "I usually stay here when I come, so that won't be out of the ordinary for a while. As for the rest, let's just see how it goes? Ok?" He punctuated his questions with nipping kissed on the corners of Duncan's mouth.
Duncan nodded. "Ok. Now you, back to work. We need food." He turned back to the stove to finish dinner, ignoring the look of hunger for something entirely different that was on Methos's face.
Dinner was spent in quiet while they each basked in the company of the other. Neither could quite believe the new development in their relationship, and were almost scared to talk about in case it should all be a dream.
Three weeks passed while they experimented with their relationship, getting to know each other more than ever before. But the idyllic peace was shattered one evening as they sat, Methos in his usual sprawl over the sofa, and Duncan at the table writing. That familiar feeling that all immortals recognize washed over both of them.
Methos looked at Duncan curiously. "You expecting someone?"
His answer was negative, but silent. Richie was out of town, and last he had heard, Amanda was on some island in the Caribbean taking advantage of the local sun.
Duncan headed for the door. Like he had told Methos earlier, he liked knowing who was around. And this time was no different. Once out of the street, a figure stepped out of a shadowed alley, sword in hand.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Came the immortalized words, as he held his sword defensively. "Who are you?"
"Simon Cain," came the clear response. He was about the same height as Mac, but stockier. If he could wield a sword, he would be quite an opponent. One that, given a choice, Duncan would rather not face across the wrong end of a blade.
"Do I know you?" Duncan really hated random people hunting for him for no apparent reason. There was so much else that seemed to him to be more fun to do.
But he would not let that interfere in what he had to do. He never had before, and he would not stop now.
"No, and there is no need for us to know each other. I am not here for you. I search for another. One who killed my teacher."
"Then we have no business. You had best leave." Duncan refused to relax, not quite believing that he and the man before him would not battle it out.
Cain started be back off before his face turned ugly, looking at something, or someone, behind MacLeod. Duncan did not need another set of eyes to know that Methos had just come out of the door. So much for keeping his presence a secret. He still was not confident in his lover's fighting abilities, despite the practice he had been forced into over the last couple of years.
"Methos." The word sounded kin to a curse coming from the other man's lips. It seemed that Duncan had not been the only one to accumulate enemies. His erstwhile friend had, as well. And someone who knew his true indentity. This was not a good sign, and he was back on full guard, using his blade to stop the approach of Cain.
Cain stepped back for a moment before deciding that the situation was too risky as it was. He would have to take some time to plan around this new problem. He had heard of Duncan MacLeod and did not want to mix swords with him, but revenge was even more important. He would have to figure out some way to deal with it. So, with one last glare and an ominous sounding, "I'll be back for you," Cain turned on his heal and left.
Once sure that the area was temporarily safe, Duncan returned to the loft, following Methos into the kitchen, where the ancient immortal was pulling a beer from the fridge. "What was that all about?"
When Methos turned to face him, his face was angelically innocent, as if he had not a care in the world. As if his life had not been threatened only moments before. "What?"
"C'mon, Methos. I'm not in the mood for games. What was that all about?" Duncan was in his height of impatience.
But Methos was supremely calm. "I've never seen him before in my life." That, at least was true. He had never seen Simon Cain face to face, but he had an idea of why he was there. And he had been afraid of something like this happening.
"Why am I not convinced?" Duncan knew the old man better than most, but there was no way you could know everything there was to know about a five thousand year old man. Especially not in only three years of only sporadically seeing each other. Duncan still could not tell when Methos was lying, kidding, or anything else the ancient wanted to keep it a secret.
But keeping secrets was not all Methos was good at, and he soon had Duncan distracted and forgetting the questions that he wanted the answers to.
Methos managed to evade the questions for the next few days. But on the fourth day, he wondered if it was the best thing. Duncan was three hours late getting home from the university. He had called his office, and no one answered. The secretary had said that Duncan had left shortly after his class that day. She had seen him walking down a path surrounded by some of his students.
Beyond that, he could find nothing out. Even Joe did not know where he was. When there was a knock on the door later that evening, he felt a sense of forboding. When he answered it, no one remained, but a piece of white caught his eye and he saw an envelope lying on the ground. With with his name on it.
He picked it up quickly, looked for anyone who might be lingering, who could perhaps give some more information, but no one was around. After closing the door, he ripped open the envelope, apalled at how his hands shook.
When he looked at the typewritten sheet, all his fears were confirmed. Duncan had been kidnapped, and if Methos wanted to see him again, he would come to an old warehouse about three miles away. And he certainly knew what for. He would not be doing anything without his sword ready for whatever might come. Immortals sometimes had the worst, or the best, timing, showing up at inopportune times like in the middle of showers and such. He'd had a bad feeling from the time that Cain had shown up, and it seems that they were right. Why hadn't he told Duncan to be careful? That Cain was not going to go away?
But then, Duncan was no fool. And it would be hard to take him down, regardless. And he would know without being told that Cain was still a threat, even if he did not know the specifics of why. And for being so young, though it inevitably bothered him to hear that, Duncan was certainly paranoid. His sword was as much a part of him as his hands, his feet, his heart. To separate him from it hurt him almost physically.
Methos put the note down to get ready, and to let Dawson know what was going on. It was a thing that they had worked out. Joe would not snoop as much if they let him know when something was going on.
Now, something was definitely going on, but Methos only wanted Joe to know about it. If anyone else did, there was a real chance that his cover would be blown high and wide. He had managed to exist as a mild mannered watcher, then ex-watcher, for more than a decade, and he did not want them to know he was really immortal. Not yet, if ever.
"Hi, Joe. It's me, Adam. Listen, something's come up. Duncan's been kidnapped. ... No, I don't think he's in immediate danger. It's me they're after. I'll keep in touch. Just thought you should know." Even though he had not given any specifics, Methos knew that Joe would be at the warehouse as well. The man had more contacts than anyone Methos had ever known.
That done, he did a little cleaning. Though that was by far one of his least favorite things to do, he needed to be occupied. Give him time to think without going crazy. At about 8:30, an hour and a half before the scheduled meeting time, he picked up his sword and coat and walked to the door, looking back longingly before his left. The last three weeks had been wonderful, and he did not know if they would ever be the same. No telling what would happen tonight. His first priority was to get Duncan free. Then they could worry about anything else.
He knew the warehouse Cain spoke of. It was an eyesore, and one that just happened to be on the way to Joe's, so they saw it all the time. Methos wondered if it had been chosen on purpose for that reason, but doubted it. There was no way Cain could know about Joe.
Rather than draw attention with a car, Methos walked, entering a back door that he knew about. When he reached the big, central room, he saw Duncan, tied to a chair to one side. Getting closer, he saw that it was not just a simple job of one or two knots. Cain was not taking any chances, and there were numerous and confusing different kinds of knots. Doubles and triples. The ropes going every which way. It was a maze that could, perhaps, mean the difference between life and death.
Without wasting a moment, Methos set to work, ignoring the look in Duncan's eye that told him to leave. Duncan was like that, entirely too self sacrificing, and rather than listen, Methos left the gag in. He knew he would catch hell for it later, but right now it was needed for his own piece of mind. A verbal Duncan would only distract him, and he needed all the energy he could muster for this fight. Hopefully, he would be able to release Duncan first, though.
That was not to be. After only unfastening three knots, they both felt the Presence. Methos stood. It was all on him now. He had to defend not only himself, but Duncan as well. Briefly, he wondered if the irony had hit Duncan yet. Duncan, the defender of the innocent, was in the unenviable position of having to accept defense from someone else.
Cain spoke first. "Ahh. Methos. I knew you'd come."
"Oh you did? Why?" Methos, calm on the outside, was thinking furiously, trying to figure how the best way to deal with this would be.
"Dishonorable as you may be, you could not allow your latest sex toy to be taken without a fight." Cain answered. He must have seen an element of surprise on one of the faces before him, because he continued, "Oh yes. I knew about that. I didn't at first, but it was very sloppy of you to leave the windows open at night."
Methos did not look at his lover, not wanting to see his response, as he silently berated himself for giving his enemy something to use against him. That was exactly the reason why had had spent the last centuries not getting involved with anyone. Instead, Methos kept all his focus on his opponent. After all, he had had more time to perfect the art of not letting someone get a rise out of him. He did want to know something though. "How did you get MacLeod?" MacLeod was not an easy man to cross, as he knew first-hand.
Cain laughed. "Some friends helped, so he didn't feel it coming. And now it's time for you to die, old man."
"How did you find out about me?" Methos wanted to know. Few people alive knew his true identity. And he like to keep track of who did know. He knew who Cain was, and why he was after him, but he wanted to know who told who was responsible for Silas's death.
Silas. The one of the four horsemen whom Methos had actually liked. The one who wasn't evil to the core. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Now was not the time for distractions.
Secure in his power, positive he would win, Cain felt free to share his answers, his deep, oddly accented voice rang out. "Silas was not as dumb as he appeared. It took him centuries to tell me the truth about you guys, but he finally did. From there, I figured it out. You could not have killed Kronos. You're not good enough, but he is." Here, Cain gestured to the trussed up man nearby. "Way I figure it, you decided to stick with MacLeod here after he took Caspian. Then, in order to not seem totally inept, took on Silas."
Methos saw a hole in his reasoning. Mainly the fact that Cain had no facts to go by. With luck, maybe he could get out of it. "What if I were to tell you that I was not there at the time? How do you know for sure that it was me?"
But since when had luck been on his side recently. With the exception of the last three weeks, recent past had been full of less than wonderful experiences. Not the least of which was having to watch a lover die. Dear Alexa. She hadn't been lying that he was only about a year too late. He would have given much for more time with her. But it was not to be.
"You did kill Silas. There was only one, super large quickening when Kronos and Silas were killed. So it was you two taking the two of them, since MacLeod could not have taken them both at one time." Cain let a moment pass for his words to sink in before he pulled the clincher. "Besides, Cassandra told me."
Methos knew then that any hope of solving this without a fight would fail. "You do know she is just using you, don't you? Out of duty to MacLeod, she can't kill me, but she still wants me dead."
His words made no impression on his revenge driven opponent. "The person who killed my teacher must die!!" And with those words, he attacked, driving the Methos back with the force of his blow.
Even though Methos knew what to expect, had recently fought someone even bigger and stronger, the force came as a surprise, and it took him a moment to gain some control in the fight. He lost some ground, giving Cain even more confidence of winning, before holding his own. It was a touch and go fight, even though Methos knew that in order to win, he had to move quickly. There was no way he could holdup against the force behind Cain's blows for very long. At one point, he was even down on his knees staring death in the face.
But he had not lived 5,000 years by giving up before the very end. While there was still breath in his body, he would fight. Besides, he had to save MacLeod. He was the best man Methos had ever met, and if at all possible, he had to rescue him. MacLeod had rescued his share of people during his long lifetime; it would be a shame to fail to save him.
Meanwhile, MacLeod sat, unable to move, to interfere. Helpless to do anything but watch. He could not bear to see the progress of the fight, but every time he shut his eyes to block the view, the picture in his mind was even worse than reality. Watching his lover fight a life or death battle, unable to save even himself should Methos lose, was by far the most difficult thing Duncan had done in ages, and he did not know quite how to deal with it.
After what seemed to Duncan to be an eternity, Methos managed to detach Cain's head from his body with a solid swipe of his sword. Methos turned his exhausted countainance toward that of his lover and their eyes met in silent communication in the moment before the quickening took over the area.
It was one of the few times that Duncan had had the opportunity to observe a quickening as opposed to being the recipient of it, and the sight of the lightening flashes rippling through the slender body that he had come to know so well over the past weeks was almost more than he could take. He could well imagine the peculiar sensation that was the quickening, the sensation which immortals eventually got used to. It was a sensation that defied description, try though he might to find the words to do just that. Tessa had wondered what it had been like, especially after seeing him behead someone. He knew he had not conveyed it well, but he had done the best he could.
Finally, Methos dropped the floor, the last of the flashes having disappeared, unable to rise for the moment. His arms felt like lead, the last of his strength had gone into that last cut, trying to make it work.
And it had. When he gathered his thoughts, he savored the victory that had, for the moment, saved both him and his lover from death. That was certainly something to feel good about.
Slowly, he got to his feet, making his way to where Duncan sat, still trussed like a Christmas turkey, his eyes drinking everything in. The mussed hair. The reddened ropes where Duncan had cut himself trying to get free. Blood was the only evidence of it, since his wrists had already healed. Most of all, the eyes that held a mixture of fear and relief.
Quickly, Methos removed the gag. Not a moment too soon, in Duncan's opinion, who felt that it should have been removed when Methos had first walked in. As soon as Duncan's mouth was free from the gag, Methos lowered his own, communicating through his lips all the emotion of the last hours. It was a passionate kiss, but not one that inflamed passion. Rather, it was a kiss of the joy of being alive. The rest could come later.
When they broke apart, Duncan spoke roughly, "Will you please untie me?"
His words brought them both to their senses, and Methos immediately turned to untie him, a word of apology on his lips.
They left the scene, sure that someone else would take care of it. Outside, they met with Joe, who took in their appearance without comment and offered them a ride home.
Back at the loft, Methos and Duncan got out of Joe's van, saying that they would talk with him later, then walked upstairs. Upon reaching the big, main room, they both pulled off their ruined bloody shirts. Once they had cleaned up a little, getting over the worst of the mess, Methos broke the silence.
"Mac, are you ok?" It had not passed unnoticed that Duncan was unusually quiet, and he was concerned.
Duncan turned a visibly shaken face toward his lover, his facade lowered suddenly. He could no longer keep his feelings hidden.
"Methos," here he grabbed hold of his lover to draw him closer," Methos, don't ever do that to me again. I couldnae bear it. Not knowing." Conciously, he knew that what he asked was impossible, but he couldn't resist it. Always before, when a loved one faced death, he had been the one to wield the sword of protection. Not doing that was more difficult that he had imagined, when watching someone else you loved protect you.
Ever understanding, Methos understood what Duncan wanted. "Now you know what it's like. And we both know it will happen again, to both of us. And we'll just have to deal with it as it comes." Methos laid his hands on Duncan's face, looking earnestly into the face he loved. After a moment, he gave Duncan a quick peck on the lips. "C'mon. Let's eat." Then he turned toward the kitchen, giving his lover a chance to compose himself.
While Duncan was putting dishes in the dish washer after they spent a quiet dinner, enjoying the fact that they both lived, Methos came up behind him and put his hands on his hips, pulling the younger man back against him. Duncan stilled, feeling the erection already present and not at all upset about it. Perfectly willing to leave the dishes until later, he straightened and turned, meeting his lovers lips full on.
But both were periodically plagued with bad timing, and the phone rudely interrupted their pleasures. Reluctantly, Duncan turned to answer it. "Hello. Oh hi, Joe. How are you?" Upon learning who it was, Methos abandoned decorum and continued kissing MacLeod, settling for his jaw and neck, followed by fondling the hardness between his legs.
Duncan tried to stop him, ineffectually batting his hands away, while trying to carry on a coherent conversation."Methos, stop that. I'm trying to talk here. No, Joe. I'm listening." But Methos had not spent 5,000 years always doing what someone else wanted, and he was being particularly stubborn.
Finally, after stammering an answer in obvious passion, Duncan gave up. Almost rudely, he said to Joe, "Listen, I'll call you later." Without waiting for an answer, he hung up the phone, dragging Methos up for a kiss.
Before willingly meeting his lips, Methos said, "That wasn't a very nice thing to do to Joe. How do you think he feels now?"
Duncan's voice was rough when he gave his answer. "That wasn't very nice to do to me, and right now, I don't care about how anything but how I feel. And I'm awfully hard." He thrust his hips out to prove his point.
Methos and Duncan found that a relationship between immortals could work. While it shocked some people to see the "most devoutly heterosexual man" in a physical relationship with another man, the people closest to them accepted without qualms. They could be seen at Joe'ss often, enjoying the company of the mortal and the atmosphere. But to anyone who looked, the love they felt for each other was there to see.
Right before they went to sleep one night, comfortably entwined in each others arms, the kiss they shared said it all. It was a kiss that held passion, but a passion which was not immediately urgent. It was a kiss of promise for much to come. A kiss of love and understanding. And friendship. They had years, decades, perhaps centuries, to spend together, and were in no hurry.
"Good night, MacLeod."
"Good night, Methos."
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