Chapter Text
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The images would fuel his nightmares for years to come, Methos knew later when he had had time to consider it. Duncan MacLeod moving just that little bit wrong. Duncan MacLeod taking two feet worth of his opponent's blade straight through the chest.
But now, as he fought to breathe around the howl trapped in his throat, anguish spitting him as surely as the sword in Mac's heart, he had no thought at all. He saw Mac's blood stain his white ascot as he felt his own drain from his face. He saw the katana pointed uselessly to the stars. He saw Mac's arms reach toward Wiley in a gesture almost intimate in the second before the Scot closed in tight, pushing still more steel through his body and trapping the sword and Wiley's hands between them.
Mac's face was chalk-white, mouth open as he struggled to breathe. Methos heard Wiley's disbelieving gasp.
"You're mad."
"Probably." Mac's lips stretched into a death's head grin.
Then the tableau shattered in a flash of moonlight on steel as the tip of the katana fell. Mac's left hand rose to meet it, catching the blade in an awkward, flat-handed grip. Grimacing with pain and effort, Mac held the sword up and, in the instant that Wiley began to struggle, jerked the leading edge through the back of Wiley's neck, splitting vertebrae and spinal cord with a sickeningly audible crack.
Wiley's mouth opened in a soundless scream as he stumbled and went limp, his hands falling away from his sword. Duncan, his left hand bleeding profusely, kept a dogged grip on his own. Staggering, he shoved his challenger away, angling the katana, two-handed now, to slice the rest of the way through the other man's throat, relying on momentum and gravity to finish the battle for him.
There were two soft thumps as Wiley's mortal remains hit the pavement. It took the clang of the katana doing the same a moment later to snap Methos' paralysis.
He reached Mac just as the other man's knees finally buckled. He managed to ease him somewhat gently to the ground, onto his side, the only position possible with the sword protruding obscenely from his chest and back. The Scot was drenched in blood, Wiley's and his own.
"Methos --" It was no more than a breath.
Methos held him by the shoulder, balancing him. He touched Mac's cheekbone lightly, heedless of the gore. "I've got you."
Mac's lips twisted in something that might have been a smile. Then he shuddered once and was utterly still.
Good. That will make this easier.
Methos took hold of the sword hilt and pulled, swore in ancient Greek when it didn't immediately come loose. Lodged in the bone -- sweet gods below, MacLeod, you don't do anything halfway, do you? Rising quickly to his feet, Methos braced Mac's body with one foot, grabbed the hilt again and yanked hard. The sword came free with the raspy, grating feeling of steel along bone. He tossed the weapon aside, knowing he needed to step away, now, but finding himself kneeling instead to pull Mac onto his lap as the mist swirled and thickened about them. He felt the hair on his nape rise in response, electric charge building, building….
Ah, Mac, you beautiful idiot, you….
And the lightning struck.
It was agony and ecstasy, as it always was, power firing every nerve with an almost sexual rush. Even now, when most of it only flowed through him, using him as a conduit to reach and ground in the body he held, that power was so painfully sweet, so sweetly addictive … oh, he hated this. Hated it and loved it and fought against its pull as he had almost every day for the last three thousand years or so … I will not go back, I will not be that man again. I will not.
Then amidst the white there was a different kind of fire, a welcoming warmth that rose up to meet him. A Quickening twining with his own, and he sobbed with the terror and wonder of it, the ease of an ache of solitude he'd borne for so long he couldn't remember himself without it. Joined -- no longer alone. Two becoming one. A thing he'd felt only once before, when the Horsemen chapter of his past had finally come to its end in that underground hellhole in France. A thing he would have given his soul, if he had one, to feel again. With this man. Yes….
Duncan's essence coiled around him, through him; Methos thought he might pass out from the sheer -- joy -- of it. An endless, suspended moment of bliss…
…gone, the bridge between them collapsing as Wiley's quickening ended and sank into Mac's body. Methos bent over the still motionless man in his arms, gasping, as the final flares vanished, and nearly sobbed again, this time with loss. Duncan….
As if summoned, Duncan shuddered back to life, twisting, then arching, convulsing as his mind and body fought to deal with the onslaught of three thousand years of power and personality. Methos braced him through it, feeling his own tremors, knowing that Mac was being inundated with the memories of another Immortal who had seen some of the worst Death had had to offer. As the seizure eased and Mac's body relaxed, Methos loosed his embrace and crossed mental fingers. "Easy, Mac. It's just me."
Mac stilled, head cocked; then his eyes tracked, and recognition flared. "Methos," he whispered, with no more voice than before, and closed his eyes, turning his face in toward Methos' belly.
Methos swallowed hard, undone. That one small, artless motion bespoke so much of Mac's trust, Mac's acceptance….
"You want his head, you'll have to go through me."
He couldn't lose this man. He couldn't.
"Too close, Mac."
"… yeah …"
"I hope those clothes aren't rented, the waistcoat's a complete loss."
Mac grinned tiredly, eyes still closed, and whuffed a little laugh; then winced, one hand drifting up to press over his chest where Wiley's sword had been, just above where Methos' own hand now rested.
"We need to get moving…." Methos prompted gently, some moments later.
"Mmmm. 'll take … nightcap now."
But still neither of them moved. It would figure, Methos thought, a little wildly. I finally get Duncan MacLeod's head in my lap and there's no time, we've got to move before some wowzer shows up to investigate the lightshow. Oh, the gods are laughing, all right. "Mac…."
"Yeah." The Scot sighed, then rolled slowly out of Methos' lap and into a sitting position with none of his usual grace. The effects of a Quickening could be different from situation to situation, Immortal to Immortal, but the most common ones seemed to be extreme exhaustion and fierce sexual arousal. To Methos' experienced eye, Mac was somewhere between the two, and sliding toward the second one. Cold air rushed in where Mac's body had rested against his, making Methos shiver. He felt -- bereft, his body missing the heat, the touch, of Mac's, and he clamped down on the thought. Mac wasn't his, not that way, for Methos to be bereft about.
###
Mac shifted uncomfortably in the car seat, eyes closed, his coat lining rough against his sensitized skin. His bloody shirt and waistcoat were balled up in the back of the Rover where Methos had thrown them after he'd methodically taken them off Mac when they'd reached the vehicle. The ride back was a sublime form of torture as his exhaustion had mutated into rampant horniness, courtesy of the Quickening. The air was full of the scents of blood and sweat and the man he wanted so badly his teeth ached. Deep breathing did nothing to help the situation.
The car slowed, turned, and Mac opened his eyes to see the hulk of the mansion that was Methos' current London home. When it had come unavoidably to the choice of dying or inheriting, Adam Pierson had inherited in a big way. Mac could see again Methos awaiting him as he climbed the stairs, the older man's rangy form clothed in tailored pants and red silk shirt, his Presence tolling like the vibrations of an unimaginably large bell. He'd looked little like the impecunious Watcher Mac had first met, but his eyes were the same; brown, green, golden, and old beyond Mac's comprehension of the word. He'd offered greeting, and wine, and advice of a sideways sort, and the kind of understanding only another Immortal could give.
And Mac had realized that the years of separation hadn't dulled his longing for Methos, prickly, sarcastic, infuriating eldest, even one God-damned little bit.
But why had Methos brought him here? "Methos?"
Methos parked and turned off the engine, pulled the keys from the ignition. "Proximity, Highlander. You need a shower and we need to get off the street," he said, answering the question Duncan hadn't finished forming. Mind-reading again, thought Duncan. Does that come with age and when do I qualify? He wanted to laugh, felt the hysterical edge to his thoughts.
"Get inside, get cleaned up, get some rest," Methos continued, opening his door. "I'll take care of the mess." He indicated the contents of the back of the Rover with a nod of his head. To be so accommodating was rather unlike Methos, but Mac decided he was too beat to worry about it just then. His every muscle protesting, Mac pried himself out of the car and started toward the house.
###
Mac deliberately tried to avoid his reflection in the guest bathroom mirror as he stripped, knowing he was blood and sweat and grime from head to toe. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to deal with the memories of earlier savageries on top of the roiling violence he was already trying to contain. He couldn't help the hiss of relief as he eased off the tight breeches, freeing what felt like the worst hard-on he'd had in a hundred years. He didn't even bother kicking the pants aside, just stepped out of them and left them as the last item on the clothing trail to the shower.
A minute later Mac was leaning against the back wall of the oversized stall, caught between pleasure and discomfort as the hot water sluiced away the first layers of grime and tingled his too-sensitive skin. The water pounded him like the massaging touch of strong fingers, warm hands on his arms, following the slide of fabric as they'd removed his coat, strong arm around him, holding him away from the cold, dirty ground, warm hard thighs pillowing his head, hazel eyes watching him, God, the feel, the smell when he'd turned his head toward -- so close -- almost close enough to taste --
Mac arched and came, gasping, then sagged back against the tile wall, panting and frustrated. Hell, he hadn't meant to do that, fantasize about Methos in the man's own house, but Christ, he'd barely even laid five fingers on himself before he'd come. And the release had done little more than take the edge off -- he was still half-hard. And getting harder. Mac turned, propped his arms against the slick tiles and laid his head down on them, groaning. Quietly. It's going to be a long, long night.
###
Two hours later, Methos sighed and rolled over, opening his eyes to stare at up at the shadowed ceiling. How perverse. Now that it was over -- Mac alive and installed in the rooms just down the hall, everything quiet and right with the world -- he couldn't sleep. As tired as he was, still he was jumpy, muscles bunched and twitchy. His mind would not turn off, reminding him in exquisite detail of how close he'd come to losing MacLeod for good. Losing him without ever having a single touch, a single taste of what it could be like, to run his fingers down that bared golden chest, to lick that lower lip….
Stop this, goddammit. Stop. There have been close fights before; Kell comes to mind. He shouldn't have been anywhere near that battle, but he had been anyway, watching from just out of sensing range. Why is this different?
Because it is.
Methos squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, hard; then tossed the bedclothes aside and sat up, reaching for his robe.
Back from the study, brandy and glass in hand, he hesitated at his door, listening, looking further down the hall at the slightly open door to the suite where Mac was. Or should be. He sensed no motion there, and heard no sounds save the normal noises of the house. Of course not, idiot. He's asleep, or at least resting, after no doubt making carnal use of the shower to settle the Quickening. Great, there was another image he didn't need. Have a glass or five and go back to bed.
But you don't really want a drink. What you want is in that room.
A rueful smile curved his lips a few moments later as he found himself at Mac's door. He pushed gently with his free hand, and the heavy oak swung noiselessly inward.
The sitting room was shadowed with midnight blue, light from the full moon pouring in through the uncovered windows. Beyond, the door to the bedroom was open, and Methos could hear the measured cadence of Mac's breathing.
Something in him finally unknotted. Methos placed bottle and glass carefully on the table, then sank limply onto the sofa. You are such a liar, old man.
There's nothing different about this time, nothing at all. You did the same bloody thing when he came to you after he took Kell's head. When he wouldn't speak, you lay right here and listened to him breathe.
All right. Fine. So. Shut up and get some sleep.
And maybe he did, because the next thing he knew he was being pulled out of a wonderfully carnal dream involving a naked MacLeod and sweet gooey things by -- something. A sound. A voice.
"God…."
Mac's voice. Soft, small, faint. Pained.
Methos' eyes popped open and he tensed instinctively, then forced himself to relax. This, too, was familiar.
"Oh, God."
Mac had awoken like this how many times in those first days after Connor's death, obviously trying to shake off nightmares that Methos could imagine only too well. He listened, resigned; quite sure that he couldn't help. The inspiration for Biblical Armageddon has got to be the last thing he'd want to see by his bed at three in the mor--
"Methos."
Methos sat up so fast he nearly jackknifed off the sofa, looking wildly over toward the bedroom. That was not familiar. Of the many names he'd heard emerge from the Highlander's dreams, his own had never been one of them. Was Mac awake and calling, knowing somehow that Methos was there? But no figure stood in the doorway.
As he stared, myriad visions flashing through his mind of what Mac could be dreaming, none of them pleasant, he heard a sudden rustle of sheets and thump of feet hitting the floor. There came the glow of a small light; the shadow of a moving body. Then he heard it. The small, choked sound of a strong man in a distress too great to bear in silence.
"Methos…."
Methos was up and moving, a thousand years of learned reticence shattered this time by the urge, no, the primal need that he could no longer deny or subdue.
"Mac?" he said softly as he reached the doorway. And then all he could do was stare.
Mac was standing in front of the east window, hands on either side of the frame, stark naked. Moonlight painted him with silver and shadow, outlining every magnificent inch of him. All of him.
Methos' mind stumbled. He was quite sure that Mac normally slept in briefs, so why in the names of all the gods was he not wearing them now? Well, perhaps because he wasn't expecting to need a change of clothes tonight, idiot. Besides, could he even get anything on over that? Whatever he did earlier to settle the Quickening, it obviously didn't work. That looks downright painful.
Mac hadn't turned, but his spine had snapped poker-straight at the sound of Methos' voice. "Methos." His tone was thick, clogged. "Sorry if I woke you. Bad dream. Go --back to bed, I'll be fine."
Oh no, Highlander. Not this time.
Methos' rational voice of caution, the one that had kept him alive, and alone, screamed at him, demanding to know just when exactly he had lost his mind and would he please stop this and go look for it, now. Methos ignored it and stepped through the doorway.
He could feel Mac's tension ratchet up from across the room. Everything about him screamed it: the set of his shoulders, his bowed head, his hands as they gripped the window frame. Methos was almost sure he could see Mac's knuckles whiten as he approached.
"I'm -- all right, Methos." Mac's voice was harsh, sending clear 'back off' signals that Methos ignored.
"No, I don't think you are." Methos was near enough now to feel the heat of the other man's body. He stopped when he was whisper-close, and laid one hand on Mac's shoulder. The muscles tightened further under his touch, and he knew there was an equally good chance of one of two things: either Mac would throw him across the room, or….
"Don't. Please." Mac leaned his forehead against the window glass, the plea for -- what? -- evident in every line of his body.
Methos took a breath and braced himself, and put his other hand on Mac's shoulder as well, and squeezed. "Don't what? Let me help, Mac."
"Me-thos…." That was all the more warning he got.
The room tilted as two-hundred pounds of Highlander took him to the floor. Methos felt the pile of the rug under his back and the weight and hard heat of Mac's chest against his own as sword-hardened hands jerked his robe open. Then all was drowned under the feel of Mac's mouth on his throat. Licking, sucking, scratching; Mac nipped from the hollow between his collarbones to the one just behind his ear. Methos gasped and twisted, and Mac grabbed his shoulders, pinning them. Then the Scot closed teeth on the big tendon of his neck and bit down.
Yes … yes…. It was all his mind could manage as every nerve in his body fired simultaneously, all of them aimed at his groin. Mac had somehow found the exact spot guaranteed to make Methos come unglued. He locked his fingers around Mac's wrists, needing contact, an anchor as the blood thundered in his ears on its rush southward. Mac thrust against him, his arousal hard against Methos' hip, one thigh shoved between his own. Only distantly did he become aware that Mac was muttering something over and over against his skin. Methos tried to reassemble a few brain cells to decipher the sound. When he did, he wished to all the gods that he hadn't.
"No, no, not like this, it wasn't supposed to be like this…." Mac's baritone slid hotly against his skin, the tone as desperate and pleading as Methos had ever heard him, even as his hands never eased their grip, nor his hips their rude push. Methos' entire body flushed hot and cold with desire and despair. Mac didn't really want this, not with him, and he'd known that when he stepped into the room, it was the Quickening and that was all, but if this was by the gods the only chance Methos would ever get….
"It's … all right, Mac, it's okay. I'm not … Amanda, I know, but…." His heart cracked further at Mac's moan, then….
"Believe me, I know you're not Amanda." Mac tossed his head back, then heaved up onto his elbows, his hands still across Methos's shoulders, pinning him with weight and wild eyes. "But it wasn't supposed to happen this way. When I finally got you into bed, it was supposed to mean something!"
Time stopped. Mac froze, staring down at him. Methos lay equally still, stunned, as his brain shunted aside arousal and went into hyperdrive, processing words said and unsaid and the despairing, defiant, hopeless look on Mac's face as the other man realized that just like that, he'd given himself away.
"Mac," Methos whispered; it was all he could do as euphoria flooded him. Impossibly, in three sentences, Mac had just handed him the world. From the depths to the heights in under ten seconds; whatever else life around the Highlander might be, it was rarely boring.
"Mac," he managed again, sliding his hands up MacLeod's arms, framing his face. "Oh, it means something, truly. More than…. No matter what started this, it's only you and I." He'd no reason to drop his usual masks, he realized, they were nowhere to be found. The floodgates had broken under the pressure of years of helpless love and hopeless longing for this man, and it was both freeing and utterly terrifying to realize that the next words to come out of his mouth would be the absolute truth.
"I love you, Duncan MacLeod," Methos said softly, stroking golden skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, brushing the corner of that mouth with one thumb. "And I have wanted you for years."
"Methos?"
Mac's voice was faint, his expression too deer-in-the-headlights priceless for words. Methos just couldn't help the grin, even as the backs of his eyes prickled annoyingly and Mac's outline blurred a little. "Yes?"
"You -- love me."
"Yes."
The expression that bloomed across Mac's face then nearly stopped Methos' heart. Incredulous joy, and painful relief, and love so strong it was terrifying. Had anyone in five millennia ever looked at him quite like that?
"Methos." A moment longer Mac stared, then his face was buried in Methos' neck and he was holding on as though the other man was the only real thing in his world. "Oh, Jesus, Methos…."
Methos embraced him tightly, blindly, eyes screwed shut, silently singing prayers to every god he'd ever heard of for the miracle in his arms, sprawled on top of him. Mac was heavy, trembling faintly. Methos never wanted to move again.
Or at least he didn't until Mac shifted just slightly, and the hard ridge of his erection slid again in the hollow of Methos' hip.
Renewed desire slammed through Methos in glittering spikes, converging into an exquisite ache in his groin. He groaned softly in spite of himself, hips pushing up against Mac's. "Gods…."
"Methos?" Mac lifted his head, his eyes almost black with arousal, muscles quivering faintly with the control he'd mustered from gods only knew where to leash the effects of the Quickening. Barely.
Impressive as hell, but it was the last thing Methos wanted. He wanted motion. Fast, hard, skin to skin and right this very minute. And he had to have that mouth. Had to, or die. "Kiss me, Duncan."
Mac hesitated a moment, obviously gathering control. Methos buried both hands in Mac's too-short hair and dragged him down. The Highlander's mouth was utterly intoxicating, spices and whisky, lust and desperation. Methos laced the kiss with five thousand years of the art of seduction, and felt it go through Mac's precarious restraint like a sword through mist.
Groaning, Mac leaned into the kiss and fought Methos for control of it, eating at him, before wrenching away again to bury his face in the other man's neck. "Methos," he choked out, mouthing skin, "I can't -- control -- "
"Then don't," Methos hissed, shuddering as Mac's fingers raked over his nipple.
Mac growled, sending a whole new frission up Methos's spine. The Scot was on him like fury, then, and all Methos could do was hang on for the ride. Mac twisted and slid, teething down Methos' neck and chest as though he'd eat him alive before finding a nipple and latching on, hard.
Sensation whipped and shimmered, heaving Methos like a child's plaything. He grabbed for Mac's hair again to hold him there, but the other man was moving, biting, licking a hot trail down his torso. Hands gripped at his waist, and Methos had just enough presence of mind to raise his hips as Mac yanked at his boxers. Then the fabric was gone and Mac's hands were sliding hot up his legs, pushing his thighs apart.
The thought of Mac inside him made Methos shudder again, hard, with delight and apprehension. This is going to hurt, he realized distantly, knowing he wasn't ready, knowing it had been far too damn long since he'd been with another man this way, knowing he'd let Mac do it anyway and welcome him, whatever happened; Methos wanted him that badly.
He pried his eyes open to see, to -- what? In the next second it ceased to matter, as the dark-eyed incubus above him instead braced both arms across Methos' hips, lowered his head and swallowed him whole.
He could no sooner have stopped his cry than he could have flown as he was suddenly enveloped in hot, wet, oh gods! sucking heat. What was left of his mind abdicated as his body took over, bucking, getting nowhere under Mac's weight. Tongue and throat muscles worked at him and he was half-mad with the feel of it within a minute, shoved to the knife-edge of orgasm with unbelievable speed. The touch of blunt fingers cupping his sac, kneading not-gently, was just another swirl in the cauldron of sensation his body had become until Mac slid a slick finger back, and behind. And in.
Methos heard a fractured, choked-off howl and barely knew it as his own as his world shattered in a firestorm of light, his body seizing so tightly he thought his spine would snap. Then there was unbearable ecstasy, a long, searing slide into white-hot oblivion, going on and on as he gave over, and over, and over….
Duncan….
There was a sudden change of weight, touch, pressure. Gasping for air, Methos dragged his eyes open to see Mac's face now very close to his, contorted with need as he thrust violently against Methos' groin, sliding through the slippery fluids trapped between their bodies. It was so, so good, the hard strokes prolonging his own helpless shudders of pleasure, heat, sweat, smell, Mac, oh gods, Mac….
Just as the friction tipped over from pleasure into pain, Mac froze, then convulsed against him, face twisted in agonized rapture as he spilled, widening the wet slick between them, glistening and hot. Mac hissed out his name, his breath fiery against Methos' collarbone, as orgasm hammered through him. Then he collapsed in slow motion, catching himself briefly on his forearms before slumping down fully onto Methos, a limp, heavy human blanket, Quickening energy spent at last.
Harsh breathing was the only sound, then --
"Methos?" Mac asked in a raw whisper.
"Shh."
"Methos -- "
"Hush, Highlander." His own voice was breathless, strengthless, but sure. "Nothing happened here that I didn't want."
That seemed to divert any potential Scottish guilt, at least for the moment. Methos got his leaden arms to obey him and wrapped them around Mac's broad shoulders, and let himself drift. He had no desire whatsoever for anything else. He was replete, more utterly satisfied than he could remember being in a long, long time. It didn't really change much, of course; the problems between them yesterday and today would undoubtedly pop up again tomorrow, or the next day. But just for now, for this one remarkable, miraculous moment in time, the rest of the world could go hang.
# # #
It was who-knew-when later and they were still a tangled mess on the carpet, a shattered, satiated wreck. Duncan had shifted only enough to lay his head on Methos' chest, his weight still between Methos' thighs. Methos drew patterns across Duncan's shoulders and through his damp hair. Duncan's hand moved also, slowly, stroking down Methos' side from ribs to hip, over and over. They were going to get rather cold, Methos knew, and the rug, despite the excellent underpadding, was not the most comfortable spot in the house. But he hadn't yet worked around to giving a flying fuck.
"You've done this before," he commented softly, hoarsely.
"Mmm-hmm." Duncan chuckled; the sound vibrated through him and succeeded in awaking a few nerve endings Methos had thought completely burned out. "Well, yes and no. I soldiered for a long time. But I…." The petting hand slowed, stopped; its owner took a deep breath. "I'd never made love to a man before."
Methos had to close his eyes for a moment as the sharp, painful sweetness of it arced through him. He swallowed, looking for his voice; Duncan's stillness told of his need for an answer. And do you have one? If you muck this up, you may never forgive yourself, old man.
"I have. Or I thought I had, until now. This…. I have no words for this, Duncan."
Duncan sighed, tension running out of him as quickly as it had come, his body melting back into Methos'. "Then I'd say we'd better practice, often, until you find some. I'd hate to see your reputation blown like that." He snickered, then grunted as Methos gave a sharp tug to his hair. "How long might it take, do you think?" He sounded far more hopeful than repentant.
"Hmm, decades, at the very least. Centuries, possibly."
"That long." Now Duncan sounded more satisfied than hopeful, even, and Methos swallowed again as the ache of old, far too familiar pains rose behind his heart.
"Mac, there are no guarantees in our lives. There can't be. If you live long enough, you will break every promise you've ever made."
Duncan stilled again; then Methos felt his head come up, and the broad hand at his waist slid up to rest over his heart. "Methos."
Methos opened eyes he didn't remember closing, met the other man's gaze. Mac had never been terribly good at hiding his emotions and they were all laid out now in his coffee-dark eyes: relief, nervousness, worry, affection; and the deep, abiding courage that never failed to take Methos' breath away.
"I'm willing to try. The chance to take that chance, that's all I'll ask."
All. Gods above and below, that's all, he says.
He couldn't speak, saw the pain that flashed through Mac's eyes and was swiftly hidden at his lack of an answer. Mac reached up and brushed fingertips gently along the side of Methos' face. "I have wanted this for so long, but…."
He had to ask. "How long?"
Mac's smile was a small, wry thing. "When you fell in love with Alexa."
By anything holy…! "Then why -- " And stopped as their mutual history flashed through his mind and events took on a rather different cast. Warren Cochrane, hard on the heels of Alexa's death. Jakob Galati. Ingrid Henning.
Kronos. Byron.
Mac's on-again, off-again body language since Bordeaux, edging closer then pushing away again. Methos had thought it disgust, distaste. Now, like sudden light through a newly opened window, it took on an entirely new appearance. His highly developed sense of the absurd laughed at him: five thousand years and he could still completely misread the signs.
It wasn't that Mac hadn't wanted to touch him, but that he had.
"You've been afraid. Afraid of this. Us." It was out of his mouth before he knew, his voice a soft, mystified tone that didn't sound like him at all. "Why?"
Mac stilled, a stunned look on his face. His lips parted several times before he made a sound, then -- "Why. Why? I … God's Teeth, Methos!"
The Highlander was up and halfway across the room before Methos could do more than twitch. "You've known me for how long; hell, you've read my God-damned Chronicle and you can ask me why?!"
Post-orgasmic languor vanished like morning mist, drowned under the wave of apprehension. Methos rolled up onto his knees, letting his much-abused robe slip off his arms to puddle on the floor. He watched Mac stalk the perimeter of the room and end up in front of the fireplace, one hand clenching on the mantle. He was a marble Atlas come to life, head bowed under the weight he insisted on shouldering.
"Relationships … do not go well for me, Methos. I've never had even half a lifetime with anyone I've loved. Either they leave, or they die. Always." The breath Mac drew in looked like it hurt.
"Tessa was the longest, barely over a decade. When she was killed, I damn near…. But I had to -- stay, for Richie."
Methos was up now, moving soundlessly over to Mac, behind him, laying his hands on the broad, tense shoulders. Déjà vu all over again….
"I loved Tessa with everything I had, but I knew she was mortal. But you -- to lose you…." Mac's voice ground like shattered glass.
The words both voiced and silent, and the sheer breadth, height and depth of feeling in Mac's voice washed over Methos like a wave closing over his head, scouring away the apprehension and leaving something far more seductive, infinitely more dangerous in its wake. He could drown so damned easily … oh hell, who was he trying to fool? He had drowned a long time ago. He'd just never admitted it. "I'm damned hard to lose, Mac, unless I wish to be lost. And I don't, not now."
"Methos…."
"Shhh." Methos squeezed Mac's shoulders, working at the tightness there for a minute, then slid his hands down and around, fitting his chest against Mac's back. He kissed the nape of Mac's neck, long and slow, felt him shiver. He tucked his head in close, his cheek to the other man's neck. "Five millennia, Duncan. Five thousand years and counting. No, there are no guarantees, but I'd say the odds look pretty good." He felt the vibration through his chest as Mac gave a choked sort of laugh.
"They do, don't they." He laid a hand on Methos' arm. "I meant every word I said earlier, about wanting to take the chance. Whether I'm terrified or no." Mac's voice, already low, dropped to a near whisper. "I … I need you, Methos. I need you in my life."
Say it. Say it, old man. "Then take the chance, Duncan."
A moment of stillness; then Mac exhaled as though he'd push out every bit of breath, the tension running out of his body like water, and tilted his head back to rest against Methos' shoulder. Methos turned his face into Mac's strong, vulnerable neck, suddenly fighting the absurd sting of tears, wanting nothing more in that moment than to hold on. To hold tight and feel the steady drum of Mac's heart beneath his hand, feel Mac's warm skin against his face, feel the faint tremor of his own body; hold tight until the racing of his own heart slowed and he could draw a deep breath again.
"Methos?" It was only a whisper.
"Yes?"
"I love you."
Breathe. Breathing is good. "Yes."
Oh, gods. Despite the fear and heartbreak and pain, you step again into the breach. You humble me, Highlander.
###
Eventually the deep breath did come and Methos felt the pieces of his world settle again into their new, satisfying, utterly terrifying pattern. With that came the sudden awareness that not all the tremors he felt were his own. "Duncan?"
"Hmm?"
That didn't sound so good. Methos drew away enough to see Mac's face, and realized why. "You're knackered. Come lie down before you fall over, you need sleep." He shifted his weight back, and Mac let himself be turned and walked over to the bed. But as soon as Methos pushed him down, he was trying to rise again.
"We … I should clean up…." One hand moved in a vague reference to the sweat and other fluids that Methos had utterly forgotten still painted them both.
Methos kept him on the mattress with a firm hand to the shoulder. "I'll do it. You. Lie. Down."
"Yes, mother."
"No, that's your role; mine's enlightened self-interest. I don’t want to be sticking to you until we've done something more to warrant it," Methos tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the ensuite bathroom.
"Ah."
Methos had to smirk -- Mac sound entirely too smug for his current worn-out state.
Finishing wiping himself off and then wringing out another washcloth in warm water, Methos straightened up, and was caught for a moment by his reflection in the mirror. Naked, still flushed, his hair every which-a-way -- rather debauched, he'd say. A look he hadn't seen on himself in too long. A look with which he hoped to become well re-acquainted.
Duncan was nearly asleep when he returned, sprawled on his back amidst the kicked-down sheets. Methos spared a moment to miss the hair -- he had rather been looking forward to seeing it fanned out around Duncan's face. But he had time, now. Hair grew back, after all.
Duncan barely stirred as Methos cleaned him; in fact, he was snoring softly by the time Methos stretched out beside him and pulled the bedclothes up to cover them both. Propping up on one elbow, he watched Duncan's face in the moonlight, the younger man's frequent lines of care and caring temporarily vanished in his sleep. Something lodged and expanded in Methos' chest, making it hard to breathe. I will not leave you again, Highlander. Not now.
As if to mock him, his own earlier words rang in Methos' ears: If you live long enough, you will break every promise you've ever made.
His hand clenched in the sheet atop Duncan's chest. Well, then, for the first time in two thousand years or so, he would just have to dare to hope.
finis