Warning and comments: Slash. Duncan/Methos. Explicit sex
and spanking. In the alternate universe in which I write, neither
Connor nor Richie have been killed. I am deeply grateful to
Tansy, Suze, and Diana for beta reading, comments, and
suggestions. Suze out and out wrote so many lines and
paragraphs that I really should make her a co-author. More
credits at end.
This began as a Lyric Wheel story (which did not get finished
in time to be on the Lyric Wheel) with the challenge being to
set the story at the place where you live. I did. If anyone
recognizes Atlanta, I did as I was told. Lyrics were kindly
given by Johanna ladynmare@hotmail.com and are quoted at
the end of the story. Story is set on down the road in the
on-going relationship between Duncan and Methos which is
being developed in earlier stories of mine which can be found
on my web site.
No Deposit. No Return.
Methos was loading dishes into the dishwasher, carefully not
looking at the other man occupying the barge. Duncan was
staring at him stonily, while clearing the table.
"You know this time, Methos, you've really blown it," Duncan
said angrily. "I've had it with secrets and lies. I want you out of
here. I want you out of my home and out of my life."
Methos looked up in total, blinding shock, his stomach sinking
to his knees. "Are you serious?" His hands faltered around a
fork as he put it in the silverware container.
"I'm totally serious," Duncan said, glaring into Methos eyes.
"You've lied to me one too many times. I'm over it. I'm over
you."
Methos felt his breath catch in his chest. He rinsed another
plate, his hands shaking, and as he was transferring the dish to
the washer, dropped it. He watched with dismay as it
shattered on the floor. "Oh, fuck," he mumbled quietly.
Duncan stared coolly at the wreckage of pottery on the floor
and got out the broom. Methos reached for it and Duncan
grabbed it away from him. "I said we're through, Methos,"
Duncan said sharply. "I'll clean up your mess, and I'll pack up
your stuff and send it to you. Get OUT of here. I'm sick of the
sight of you." Duncan turned his back .
"Duncan. . ." Methos stood frozen. "I'm sorry," he said dully.
"You think apologies will cover this? Get out of here. I never
want to see you again. As far as I'm concerned from here on
out, you're on your own." Duncan went on sweeping up the
floor of the galley. "GET OUT!" he said firmly.
Methos stared at Duncan for another moment and then fled,
grabbing his coat which held all his weapons and running up
the stairs and out to the streets.
Methos took a sharp, deep breath and found himself, hands in
pockets, trudging, through the usual muck in Paris. *I thought
this was real,* he thought numbly. "I thought what Mac and I
had was real and. . . .important."
*You fucked this up,* MacLeod's voice echoed in his mind. *It
could have been real, if you'd been honest with me, Methos.
But all you wanted was to play games and tell lies.*
*Oh, not true,* Methos thought with a inner moan. He truly
hadn't meant to play games or tell lies. He had just been
waiting for the right moment to tell Duncan . . .He moaned
aloud, realizing that he was now lying to himself.
Methos paused to lean against the entrance to a shop, letting
the waves of grief wash through him. He broke out in a
freezing sweat and shivered in the vestibule for a moment. How
on earth had he let it go so far? Tears burned in his eyes, and
he ducked into a nearby alleyway to get away from the Paris
crowds.
Immortal presence suddenly burned along his nerve endings,
and Shelly was standing there, sword drawn, her mouth set and
determined.
"Ready to meet me, now, Rob?" Shelly asked coldly. "Ready to
pay for all your treachery and lies?"
Methos stared at the woman, blinking back the tears. *Oh, for
fuck's sake,* he thought with disgusted exhaustion.
"I don't want to fight you, Shelly," he said. "I've already told
you that about 27 times, twice in the last week. And I-- "
"*YOU* don't call me *Shelly,*" the woman spat out. "You
forfeited that right when you walked out on me. You can call
me Rachelle."
Methos blinked. "A rose by any other name," he murmured
quietly. "Fine. I'll gladly call you Bathsheba if it makes you
happy, but I do *not* want to fight you. And I never bloody
betrayed you or lied to you." he said emphatically. "We had a
fling "
"It was *not* a fling," Shelly said furiously, raising her sword.
"This is a challenge, Rob. I'm not joking. I'm not teasing. I'm
not playing. I *want* your head. Draw your sword, or I'll take
you down without a fight."
Methos took out his sword, sighing heavily, and met Shelly's
first swing. He continued to meet her blows with careful
parries, testing her moves, and admiring the skills she had
developed. He was thoroughly grateful he had been working
out almost daily with Duncan for the past year, three months,
two weeks, three days, seven hours . . .He shook his head and
went back to concentrating on the fight in front of him.
"All right," Methos said conversationally. "It was more than
just a *fling,*" But, you have to admit, *Rachelle,* that
relations between us had broken down to fairly sorry levels.
We were not happy. You didn't much like me. And to be
honest--" He paused as Shelly feinted back, circled her sword
behind her head, and came at him. He met the swing with his
blade and nodded his head in acknowledgment.
"I know you didn't much like me any more," Shelly said
bitterly, drawing her sword back, swinging it down and to the
side and toward his thigh. Methos moved inside her swing,
grabbing her sword arm and cracking her wrist down over his
knee. Shelly gasped, almost dropping her sword, but held on
and rolled forward. She rolled to her feet, panting hard, backed
off, and regrouped.
"At times," Methos admitted. "And times that I still cared. Can
we just not *do* this?"
Shelly glared at him. "You promised me your heart," she
snapped.
Methos stared. "I did no such thing," he said irritably. "I cared
about you. There were times we enjoyed each other. But I
never made promises to you. Never."
Shelley's eye's glittered with rage and she moved in, swinging
her blade again. Methos simply lost patience. He parried her
sword with his and snapped his right wrist dagger out of it's
concealed sheath and into her heart. She fell, and he turned his
sword to her neck.
"I don't want DO THIS!" he cried out.
******************************************************
"Methos . . .Methos," Duncan was saying quietly as he shook
Methos gently. Methos jerked awake with a start, staring into
Duncan's concerned face and looking around the airplane. No
one seemed to be looking at them. He shuddered and put his
head on Duncan's shoulder.
"I . . .was--" Methos said dazedly.
"You were having a nightmare," Duncan said simply, stroking
the other man's hair. "You want to tell me about it?"
Methos sighed, starting to relax as Duncan stroked. "You
threw me out,"he said quietly. "Told me you never wanted to
see me again." He paused a moment, continuing to relax, and
went on lightly, "You aren't thinking about throwing me out of
your life right this minute, are you?"
Duncan's fingers tightened suddenly in Methos' hair, even as he
answered as lightly as Methos had asked, "No, I wasn't really
thinking about it. Is there some reason I should? Hmm?"
"Ow," Methos grumbled, protesting the tightness of the grip,
and Duncan relaxed the hold. "I hope not. I don't *think*I've
done anything to fuck up that badly." He paused, thought for a
moment, and then went on with a slight grin, "I .. . uh . . .left
my towel on the bathroom floor, I think."
"Obviously, a reason to shackle you to the bed and get out the
implements of torture." Duncan said dryly.
Methos chuckled, grabbed the hand that was still stroking his
hair and kissed the palm quickly as he sat up. "Promises,
promises," he said, then stretched and looked around. "How
far are we from Atlanta? Where's my lap top? Where's my
briefcase? Where in hell are my goddam notes? Mac?"
Duncan shook his head and rolled his eyes. "We're about an
hour away from Atlanta. Your briefcase is under the seat in
front of you, under your jacket, right where you left it. Your
laptop and your notes are in your briefcase which is where you
put them. I swear you were sleep-deprived brain-dead when
we got on this plane. And I swear you are never again going to
submit proposals for three papers at the same conference."
Methos moved his jacket, reached for his briefcase, pulled out
his laptop and his notes, and groused back at Duncan, "Dr. Pate
asked me to submit all three proposals. I didn't have a fucking
idea all three would be accepted. And I'm going to fucking
track down and fucking kill whoever put me on the fucking
program for a presentation at fucking 8:30 am." He clicked on
the computer.
"Do you think you could fit another 'fucking' into that sentence,
oh erudite one?" Duncan asked.
"Probably," Methos answered absently, as he pulled up his
Power Point program to open and edit his presentation,"Growth
and Change in the Philosophy of Science: From Revolution to
Evolution, from Paradigms to Research Traditions."
Duncan looked over his shoulder. "Methos, in the first place,
you've been fiddling with that damn thing since Saturday before
last. Why don't you just leave it alone? In the second place, I
don't think Dr. Pate would appreciate it if you hunt down and
kill his older daughter."
Methos grinned. "Probably not. Besides, I like the younger
Dr. Pate. Not her fault that she had more papers to schedule
than times to schedule them. And I have to be prepared to
present this damn stuff, Mac. Sensibly. Intelligently. Perhaps
even with an amusing anecdote or two. Here." He reached
into his briefcase and pulled out his second paper. "Read this
and see if *you* can find any typos."
Duncan sighed and took the paper. "No one is going to be
reading the damn paper, idiot child," he said with a grumble.
"You're going to be presenting it."
"Then read it and tell me if it makes *sense.*" Methos looked
up from the laptop and fixed Duncan with a pleading gaze.
"Please."
Duncan sighed, signaled the flight attendant to bring both of
them coffee, and settled down to read.
******************************************************
"This bloody airport constantly yammers," Methos grumbled as
he and Duncan exited baggage claim. "The escalators in the
transportation terminal chatter. The damn underground
carriages chatter. Everything chatters away. And it's bloody
larger than your average small town." Duncan smiled as he led
his complaining lover to Hertz.
Methos sank into a chair in the waiting area, his paper in hand,
busily making notes on his presentation. He looked up after a
second.
"How long is this going to take?" he asked.
"Why?" Duncan turned away from where he was waiting to
pick up the keys.
"Loo," Methos replied succinctly, starting to head for the
nearest Men's room sign as Duncan nodded.
Methos pulled out his cell phone and dialed as soon as he was
in the door.
"Joe's." Joe answered on the second ring.
"Me," Methos said. "Did you find them?"
"I didn't find a damn thing," Joe said. "I spent two hours
looking. And that hair-brained Shelly woman has been in here
looking for you again."
"Fucking Shelly. Tell her I moved," Methos said with
exasperation. "And it's the 15th, Joe. I *told* Mac I mailed the
bloody taxes. If they're not in the mail, it's going to cost a
fortune in interest and penalties. And there are bills that'll be
late and there'll be late charges. He's going to kill me."
"Has it occurred to you that he-- " The phone sputtered and
went dead. Methos stared at the treacherous little machine
which informed him that the battery was dead.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mumbled, as he briefly contemplated
flushing the little Nokia down one of the toilets. He stuffed the
phone back in his pocket, shook his head in exasperation, and
went back to the Hertz waiting area.
"Car's ready," Duncan said. Methos nodded, gathered up his
luggage, and followed Duncan to the Hertz bus. He sat down
and started methodically going through his briefcase, hoping he
might come across the stack of mail that was supposed to have
gone to the post office that morning.
He scratched his head absently, then scratched his arm,
suddenly aware he was itching and his eyes were watering. He
sneezed.
"What on earth?" He complained. "I'm itching all over." He
sneezed again. "And I'm sneezing, for god's sakes."
Another passenger on the bus, a middle-aged black woman in a
business suit, looked over sympathetically, reached into her
carry-all, and handed him several tissues. "The pollen count is
about 2500."
Methos stared at her, his mouth falling open slightly. "What
does that mean?" He sneezed again and used a tissue to blow
his nose. "Thank you."
"It means that there are 2500 particles per cubic meter.
Anything over 200 is considered very high and will trigger
allergies," she explained. "At 2500, even people who don't
have allergies are affected."
"Tell me about it," Methos said, shaking his head. "Thanks."
He went back to cleaning out his briefcase, carefully piling the
papers on the seat beside him, and sneezing again.
Duncan was watching him with amusement. "Looking for
something?" he asked.
Methos looked up at him through his lashes, glaring slightly.
"No," he said caustically. "I just thought *now* would be a
good time for spring cleaning."
He kept scratching his scalp and sneezed again. "This is
horrible. How do the natives *stand* it?" He had emptied the
briefcase without finding any mail. He sighed and then sneezed
again, starting to put the papers back inside.
The bus driver laughed. "We stay inside. In air conditioning.
And you might try taking a shower as soon as you get to your
hotel. Get the pollen off of you. And we're here." The rather
elderly man stopped the vehicle.
Methos hurriedly stuffed papers back into the briefcase as
Duncan got off the bus and claimed the car. Methos went to
gather their luggage and turned. His eyes widened.
"You rented a fucking Mercedes?" he sputtered. "A Mercedes
convertible? Why in the fuck do we *need* a fucking
Mercedes, MacLeod?"
Duncan opened the trunk and started putting in the luggage.
"What's wrong with a Mercedes, Methos?" he asked mildly.
"You know how I feel about Mercedes," Methos grumped,
sneezing again. "fucking ostentatious, grandiose . . .What if
some of my colleagues see me in this thing?" His eyes watered
and he sneezed again. "Goddam this pollen." He scratched
furiously at his scalp.
"Get in the car, love," Duncan said sympathetically. "We'll
leave the top up and put on the air. And get you to the hotel
and a shower. Do you have the directions?"
******************************************************
Methos sank into a chair in the room at the Ritz-Carlton in
Buckhead rubbing his itchy nose and blinking his eyes. "I'm
fucking pollinated, Duncan," he complained. "At any moment,
I'm going to bloom."
Duncan grinned at the thought of a Blooming Methos, served
with honey mustard and a beer, no doubt. He hung another
shirt in the closet then looked over at his lover.
"Always knew you were a blooming idiot, my love," he said.
Methos mock-glared at him. "Takes one to know one," he said
in a sing-song voice, rubbing his nose again with both index
fingers.
Duncan started laughing. "You look like a mouse," he said,
affectionately, "my Methos-mouse. Rubbing at your nose over
and over. Will you, please, go get in the shower and get the
pollen out of your hair and off your skin. Throw those clothes
in this bag and let me seal it."
Methos got up and wandered into the bathroom of the suite
which Duncan had insisted upon over Methos' somewhat
perfunctory objections of conspicuous consumption. "Duncan,"
he called out.
Duncan went over to the windows and looked out, bemused,
wondering if there were anything in Atlanta but shopping
centers and traffic. "What?" he responded. Methos appeared
back in the doorway and then joined him at the window.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
Duncan grinned. "Shopping possibilities. There seems to be
something for everyone. Look. A Comp USA and a Tower
Records over there for you to play in."
"Uh huh. And a Lord and Taylor's where you can go buy more
cashmere sweaters to tie loosely around your shoulders so you
can look like a fashion pouf." Methos commented blithely.
He ducked away from Duncan's swat to his head. "How many
bloody department stores does this city need? A Saks, a
Macy's. What the hell is a Rich's? And I'm not going
shopping. I'm not leaving the hotel and going back out in that
fucking pollen. Speaking of which-- "
"You were calling from the bathroom, oh complaining one."
Duncan turned away from the window.
"We have a Jacuzzi sized tub," Methos said. "I think I'd prefer
a bath. And we could bathe together, yes? After all what good
is it going to do to get the pollen off of me if you don't get it off
of you?" he went on plaintively, "Why aren't you itching and
sneezing and eye watering?"
Duncan grinned. "I guess I'm made of stronger stock than you,
my lad. No--don't swat me." Duncan backed away laughing.
"Do not swat me. Do NOT. . .OW--" He pulled Methos into
his arms, still laughing and kissed him hard. "Did you start the
tub?" Methos nodded and kissed him back, then sneezed
again.
"Goddamm, mother-fucking, dick-sucking, cock-biting,
ass-licking, camel-frigging, sheep-shitting, earthworm-eating,
demon-spawned, useless pollen," Methos spat out, banging his
head on Duncan's shoulder.
Duncan stared at his lover in awed admiration. "Nice," he
commented. "Could you improve on that?"
"Probably," Methos admitted, starting to strip Duncan of his
clothes. He paused for a moment, dragged his Nokia out of his
pocket, searched in his suitcase for his charger, plugged it in,
attached the cell phone, and then turned back to Duncan who
had finished stripping and putting his clothes in the plastic bag.
"Are you expecting a call?" Duncan asked politely, as he
started to help Methos get his clothes off.
Methos shrugged and cooperated with the efforts to make him
unclothed, kissing Duncan and pulling him into the bathroom.
The tub was almost full.
Methos climbed in. Duncan paused a moment. "Oops," he
said. "Forgot our shaving kits. I'll be right back." He ducked
out of the bathroom and was back in moments with their
respective toiletry bags.
Methos had lowered himself into the bath water, putting his
head completely under water three times. Duncan stared in
amazement. "Ummm, Methos," he said quietly, "your bath
water has turned yellowish green, and there are clouds of
yellow and white pollen coming out of your hair every time you
go under water."
Methos looked at the water, glared, and pulled the plug. He
looked at Duncan. "You. Shower off. Then let's refill the
damn tub. This is fucking ridiculous. How do people
*live*here?"
Duncan smiled and stepped into the shower, sluicing the pollen
out of his hair and off his skin. Methos sighed with exhaustion
and rose to shampoo his lover's hair. He leaned into Duncan's
hard body, letting the water from the shower wash over both of
them, and stroked a soapy hand down Duncan's hard chest to
his belly and lower.
Methos surrounded Duncan's cock with his hand and stroked,
pulling back the foreskin and slipped his finger over the top of
the exposed head. Duncan shivered and leaned back in
Methos' arms. Methos fished the lube out of his nearby
shaving kit and slid his fingers between the ass cheeks pressing
up against his belly. One lubed finger slid up inside the
opening in front of him.
Duncan gasped and pushed back against the invading finger.
Methos slid another deep inside, while stroking and caressing
the cock in front. Duncan gasped again and leaned forward,
spreading his legs and opening his buttocks for Methos'
explorations.
Methos pushed in a third finger, stroking hard and insistently at
the sensitive gland inside. "OH. .. ." Duncan moaned, "if you
don't fuck me, soon, I'll kill you slowly and painfully."
Methos grinned, teased again with all three fingers, pulled them
out quickly, still stroking his lover's cock, and positioned his
own hard shaft at the opening at Duncan's cleft, pushing in
suddenly, moaning with pleasure. Duncan braced himself
against the wall of the shower enclosure and thrust back.
Methos kept thrusting, still stroking and caressing the hard
cock in front. Duncan kept shoving back, moaning quietly and
then gasped sharply as he went over the top.
The muscles contracted around Methos' cock and he started
coming helplessly, his knees giving way. They both went
down in the shower, Duncan in Methos lap, as Methos chortled
helplessly.
"Oh, my gods," Methos said, dreamily, holding Duncan
closely.
"Yes, that was wonderful" Duncan said, pulling himself out of
Methos's lap, turning and kissing him. "But you don't need to
be crushed by me."
"Uh huh," Methos agreed as Duncan started washing his
hair."Let's do it again."
"Certainly," Duncan agreed. "Tomorrow. This evening you
need to get registered for your conference, find Dr. Pate, and
let him know you're here."
"Details, details, details," Methos grumbled, not protesting very
vehemently as Duncan pulled him out of the shower, dried him
off, got him dressed, and headed him down to registration.
******************************************************
Methos yawned as he and Duncan came back into their room.
"It was fun, having dinner with Dr. Pate and his family, yes?--
Goddammit!" He picked up his cell phone. The battery was
still dead.
When the housekeeping staff had come in to turn down the
beds, someone had apparently tripped over the recharging wire
and disconnected it. Methos stared in dismay.
"Yes," Duncan said easily. "It was fun having dinner with Dr.
Pate and his family. I truly enjoyed the conversation about the
Academy Awards. And why are you so worried about your
damn cell phone? Just plug it in again. You have to be up and
presenting a paper in less than eight hours. How about some
sleep?"
Methos hesitated. "Ummm. . .I really need another drink.
Would you get me some ice, please?"
Duncan just looked him for a moment and then took the ice
bucket out the door. Methos hurriedly latched the security
lock, picked up the room phone, and dialed Joe's number.
"Joe's"
"Me," Methos said. "Joe, have you looked again?"
"There is not a trace of any un-mailed mail in the loft. Have
you considered-- "
Duncan banged quietly on the door.
Methos sighed. "I have to go, Joe," he said hurriedly, hanging
up the phone, and calling out, "Be right there." He opened the
door. "Sorry," he said contritely, "I don't know how it got
locked."
Duncan raised an eyebrow and made Methos a bourbon on the
rocks. "Drink and go to sleep," he said firmly. "You have to be
up at seven, and you're jet-lagged. You need to be in bed."
Methos took the drink and gulped, looking at his notes. He
hardly noticed when Duncan took the pages away from him
and pulled him under the covers, turning out the lights.
******************************************************
"You're on your own," Duncan announced brusquely. "I'm
tired of your games and LIES!"
Methos grabbed his coat and fled out into the streets. He
trudged through the streets of Paris, pausing in the entrance of a
store.
He ducked into an alley and found his nerves bristling with the
announcement of Immortal presence. Shelly stood with her
sword drawn.
Methos plunged his dagger into Shelly's heart and swung his
sword to her neck.
"NO!" he protested. "I don't WANT to DO THIS!"
******************************************************
"Methos," Duncan's voice was soft and warm in his ear, as
Methos woke up shuddering, "you're having another
nightmare."
"No shit," Methos said quietly, clinging to his lover and trying
to let go of the horror.
Duncan held him, stroking and soothing. "It's all right. It's all
right. Was it the same dream?"
Methos held on tightly, saying shakily, "You're really not
planning on throwing me out, are you?"
"I can't imagine anything you could have done to inspire me to
do so, love," Duncan said patiently. "Unless you've snuck
around behind my back and killed Amanda, Rich, Robert,
Gina, Joe, and every other person I care about. I imagine any
other sin you might have committed would be forgiven."
Duncan went on very gently. "Of course, you might need to
confess first, baby."
Methos shivered. He was not in the mood for confession at
that particular moment. "What time is it?" he asked.
"Time for you to be up and getting ready for your
presentation," Duncan said pragmatically.
******************************************************
Methos sat at the breakfast table in the hotel restaurant,
drinking coffee, reading his paper, making notes, and eating the
finger foods that Duncan shoved in his directions. He was
totally focused on his work and looking at his watch every two
minutes. At 8:23, he got up, looked at Duncan, face
determined, and said, "I'm ready," and went up to the
conference area and into the conference room.
******************************************************
An hour and a half later, Duncan found himself surprisingly
engrossed in a lecture on the psychological processes in early
childhood learning. Methos stirred restlessly, looked at
Duncan, and said, "I have to go to the loo."
Duncan nodded, and moved his knees aside to let Methos pass.
Methos went to the men's room, came out, went over to
registration table, and sat down next to Dr. Pate's wife, Sue.
"How did Dr. Pate think I did?" he asked quietly.
Sue smiled at him. "He didn't get to hear much of your
presentation, Adam," she said. "But, he knows you're always
going to do a very good job. He trusts you."
"Oh." Methos blushed and busied himself with helping to sort
out the registration materials. "Thank you," he mumbled.
Sue smiled warmly. "You do know that he thinks you're one of
the best students he's ever had, don't you?"
Methos stared down at the Registration materials, surprised by
the sudden tears tickling at the corners of his eyes. He shook
his head. Five thousand years old. More advanced degrees
from various institutions than he could count on available
digits. It was absolutely bloody ridiculous that he could be so
bloody touched by the respect and affection from a professor
he admired. Well, maybe not. They had only spent six years
mutually struggling with bludgeoning a bloody 400 page
dissertation into submission.
He grinned. "I guess I have him fooled, huh?" He looked up at
Sue. "I know I should be sitting in on the lectures, but I'd
rather sit out here and talk to you. Is that all right?"
"You think I'd rather be out here by myself?" Sue asked
acerbically. "I don't think so. Besides, I've missed you. You
and Duncan don't spend nearly enough time in Paris since you
finished your degree."
Methos smiled at Sue and then looked up as some people
approached the registration table. "Hello. Are you
pre-registered?"
******************************************************
Methos flopped down on the bed and groaned. "Did I really do
well?" he asked for the third time.
"You were wonderful," Duncan assured him. "You were
articulate. You were funny. You handled those idiotic
questions from that strange little man brilliantly."
"That was George Robbins from Notre Dame. His specialty is
the history of psychology. He always asks weird questions that
have nothing to do with the topic at hand so he can talk about
what he's interested in. Best to just let him ramble a bit and
then get back on topic." Methos yawned.
"Which is what you did. You did fine. I was proud of you,"
Duncan smiled as he took Methos' shoes off. "And you need a
nap."
"I need a drink," Methos protested, getting up. The room had
been cleaned and Methos grabbed the ice bucket which was
full of melted water. "I'll go get some ice." he said.
Duncan grabbed the bucket. "No," he said. "I'll get the ice.
You get undressed."
Methos groaned and flopped back on the bed. Duncan had
hardly left his side all day, not giving him a chance to call Joe
again. He rolled to his side, noticed the message light was
blinking on the phone, and hurriedly picked it up.
"Hey, guys. This call is for Adam, so hand the phone over to
him if you picked it up, Mac," Joe paused for a moment before
going on. Methos tensed. "Listen, buddy, watch your head.
That Shelly broad found out you're at that damn conference,
and she's on her way to Atlanta. Be warned and prepared. Be
careful, will you, and call when you can."
Duncan came back in with the ice and raised a curious
eyebrow. Methos lifted a hand in the air, signaling for the
other man to wait. Joe went on, "Oh, I went to the loft again.
Didn't find a thing. And for fuck's sake, why don't you just ask
Mac what the hell happened to the goddamm mail?"Methos
groaned, hung up the phone, and looked over at Duncan.
"Joe," he said, thinking furiously.
"And?" Duncan asked, putting the ice down and starting to
make drinks for both of them.
"I forgot to put a reference in the paper I'm presenting
tomorrow. I called Joe and asked him to go to the loft and look
it up for me. He left me a message and said he couldn't find it,"
Methos lied glibly, starting to feel nauseated. He took the
drink that Duncan handed him, knocked it back, and then had
to swallow hard to keep it down.
"I see," Duncan said, quietly. "Is that a problem?" He started
straightening the room.
Methos shook his head. "I'll find it later." He reached for the
paper he was presenting the next day and started to take notes
for the presentation.
Duncan shook his head. "Methos, you look totally exhausted. I
think you need a nap. You're not presenting until 2:00
tomorrow. You have time. Would you like a back rub?"
Methos looked up from the paper and stared. "Bribe me," he
suggested.
Five minutes later, Methos was moaning happily as Duncan
smoothed massage oil into the knots of tense muscles. "I don't
deserve you," he mumbled.
"Probably not," Duncan agreed cheerfully. "No, more than I do
you."
"You know, you don't have to go to all these lectures with me,"
Methos said softly. "You could go out and explore Atlanta."
"And get pollinated? I don't think so." Duncan chuckled.
"Besides, we have an extra day to do so together. And I like
going to lectures with you. I enjoy the questions you ask and
the discussions you start. I'm proud to be at your side. To be
here as your partner."
"You are?" Methos rolled over and stared at the other man.
"I am," Duncan kissed him and pulled him into his arms,
pulling the covers up over both of them. "Sleep, Methos. I
love you."
******************************************************
"You're on your own," Duncan said coldly as Methos stared in
dismay.
Shelly swung her sword and Methos parried. He snapped his
wrist blade out of the sheathe and into her heart.
His sword came down toward her neck and he paused again,
calling out his protest, sweating and shaking . . .
******************************************************
"Fuck!" Methos sat up in the bed, wide awake and shivering.
"Same nightmare?" Duncan asked quietly, reaching for him.
Methos settled into the Scot's arms and took deep breaths.
"Methos, don't you think it's time you talked to me about
what's bothering you?"
Methos took another breath. "Need a drink," he said shakily.
Duncan shook his head and released him. Methos went over to
the dresser and fumbled with the ice bucket and bourbon bottle.
"Fucking hell. I've spilled booze in the ice. I'll get more." He
pulled on jeans, and a t-shirt, grabbed the bucket, dumped the
contents into the sink, and went out the door. Duncan sighed
and pulled on clothes himself.
Methos went down the hall, taking his cell phone out of his
pocket and calling Joe again. "Well?" he demanded
desperately.
"Well, what?" Joe snapped at him.
"What on earth happened to the tax return?" Methos asked.
Joe sighed. "Methos, has it ever occurred to you that Mac
might have decided NOT to trust you? That he might have
checked through your papers and found it un-mailed and taken
it to the post office, himself?"
Methos' heart paused as he stood in the hotel hallway. His
voice was strangled as he said, "You think Mac would have let
me . . .worry and . . .and jesus fucking christ, Joe. . ."
"Whatever. I don't think he would have done that to you on
purpose. And, kiddo, this Shelly broad seems dangerous as
hell. What on earth is her beef with you?"
"Not important right now. Duncan is going to fucking think I
went to Alaska to get ice . . .OH." He felt an Immortal buzz.
Duncan came up from behind him and took the cell phone.
"Hi, Joe," he said, pleasantly. "Yes, I mailed the taxes, myself.
Thank you for trying to take care of it." Methos' froze and his
stomach started to flutter with icy butterflies.
Joe chuckled. "Glad you're on top of things, Mac. I'll see both
of you when you get home." He paused. "I assume you aren't
actually going to *kill* him?"
Duncan thought about it for barely a moment. "I'll probably let
him live." He looked at Methos. "Back to our room. NOW."
Methos stared for one moment, eyes wide, and fled down the
hallway and into their suite, as Duncan filled up the ice bucket
and said good night to Joe.
Methos was pacing furiously up and down the suite when
Duncan came in with the ice bucket. He grabbed it, shaking so
hard he nearly spilled it, and made himself a drink. "I can't
fucking *believe* you made me go through days of
nightmares," he spat out at Duncan,"when you *knew* what I
felt so miserably guilty about and could have-- " His stomach
was sinking and shaking simultaneously.
"You lied to me," Duncan pointed out calmly. "And kept lying
to me when at any moment, you could have told me that you
had*not* gone to the post office and not mailed the taxes."
Methos stopped dead in the middle of the floor, gulped back
the rest of his drink, put down the glass, and stared at Duncan
with bleak frustration. "Oh? As if it's okay to *lie* to you. As
if I didn't want to put off dealing with it. As if I didn't have
anything else at ALL on my mind," he gulped out, tears
suddenly welling in his eyes, his stomach seeming to be full of
humming birds.
Duncan moved toward him quickly, arms out, gathering him in,
and dragging him in tightly and down to the bed. "Shhhh,
love," he said softly. "I know you had a lot on your mind."
"There's more," Methos said raggedly. "There's more I didn't
tell you." He swallowed hard, aware that Mac was soon to be
truly furious with him.
Duncan stroked the other man soothingly and asked, "More?"
"I don't even want to go into all the ways I've fucked up paying
our bills recently," Methos choked out. "That can wait. But. . .
I haven't told you that there's been someone in town, in
Seacouver, who's challenging me, who's after my head."
Duncan drew his breath in sharply and smacked Methos on the
ass hard. Methos winced. "All right," Duncan said firmly,
pulling Methos to his feet. "You lied to me about mailing the
taxes out. Lying is a violation of our agreement. I *might*
have let that go, considering the nightmares you've been
having. But there's been a challenger in town after your head
and you haven't*told* me about me about it!"
Methos gulped. "I don't suppose this is a moment at which I
can change my mind about our agreement, is it?" His stomach
was turning somersaults.
Duncan looked at him grimly. "I think this is a moment at
which you can go the bathroom and get the hairbrush."
Methos' eyes widened again. "Not the fucking hairbrush.
Duncan . . ." He looked at Duncan again, stomach sinking,
went to the bathroom, came back, and threw the hairbrush
down on the bed.
Duncan grabbed Methos by the waistband of his jeans, pulled
him over and started undoing the button at the top. "What do
you have coming when you lie to me, Methos?" he asked
quietly.
"I don't want," Methos whispered, closing his eyes, tears
leaking, "a spanking."
Duncan paused. "If you really don't want a spanking, you have
safe words and you can use them. Do you want to?"
Methos shook his head, eyes still closed, tears still leaking. "I
fucked up," he whispered. "I deserve . . ."
"You fucked up," Duncan agreed. "You lied to me, more than
once. You scared yourself silly and tormented yourself with
guilt. You didn't tell me that you had a challenger after your
head. And what exactly do you deserve?"
He went on unfastening the jeans, pulling them down below
Methos' ass, pulling Methos down over his knee, positioning
him so that his body was comfortably supported by the bed,
and pulled down his boxers. Methos grabbed and hugged a
pillow on the bed, tears still welling and spilling. He shivered,
abruptly plunged into a sense of total vulnerability as he laid
over Duncan's knee with his bottom bare and his jeans and
boxers half-way down his thighs. He suddenly felt very young
and oddly enough very safe and protected.
Duncan looked down at Methos' face which had smoothed to
the face of a worried schoolboy. He stroked the smooth bare
skin of Methos’ ass possessively. A part of him simply wanted to pull
the other man back up into his arms and hold him, but then he
reminded himself of all the lies and, even worse, the secret about the
challenger. Duncan steeled himself and asked again, "What
exactly do you deserve?"
"Deserve to get my arse blistered," Methos whispered, wincing
as Duncan's hard hand descended for the first time, but feeling
strangely relieved to finally have all the lies and secrets out in
the open. As Duncan's hand descended again, Methos
gasped. He never quite remembered from one time to the next
just how much it *hurt.*
"And blistered it shall be," Duncan said firmly, smacking his
hand down hard again, resolved to spank, paddle, and scold
until Methos had sobbed the stress out.
******************************************************
Duncan held Methos closely as the sobs started to subside from
body-wracking spasms to quiet gulps. "You're forgiven, baby,"
he said gently. "Forgiven. Stop saying you're sorry. You've
been spanked and scolded. It's over and done."
Methos nodded and reached out blindly, groping for a tissue.
Duncan put several in his hand, and Methos pulled out of
Duncan's arms for a moment to blow his nose. "Thank you,"
he said, still crying quietly.
Duncan pulled him back in tightly, making sure Methos was
lying on his side on the bed, with no weight resting on his
seriously sore ass.
"When you came in from teaching your class and asked if I'd
gone to the post office . . .I wasn't even listening," Methos said.
"I was hung up on a problem in Power Point. I just said 'yes,
yes, yes,'without thinking, and then two hours later when we
were getting ready to leave for the airport . . .I suddenly
realized what you had asked, and I panicked . . .and then I
couldn't find the damn mail."
Tears kept running down his face. "I didn't mean for it to be a
lie, and then I realized I'd lied, and I really panicked. I didn't
want to be punished or have a punishment hanging over my
head before I presented."
Duncan stroked him soothingly and sighed. "Sweetheart," he
said carefully, "if you had told me then and there what had
happened, I wouldn't have counted it as a real *lie.*"
He kissed Methos on the forehead. "I knew you were totally
absorbed in preparing for your presentations. When you told
me you had to go the post office anyway and would mail the
taxes, I had not one clue when you'd find the time. And when
you said 'yes, yes, yes,' I suspected you hadn't. So, I waited for
you to go finish packing, went through the papers on your desk,
found the un-mailed bills and taxes, ran down to the post-
office, and sent them off myself."
Methos sobbed again. "Why didn't you just tell me?" he asked
miserably.
Duncan looked slightly guilty. "Love, I think I wanted to see
just how deep a hole you'd dig yourself into before you
confessed to me. I didn't know you were worried about this
challenger, too."
"Oh," Methos said quietly, "then you're a fucking bastard, aren't
you? How many nightmares were you going to let me have?"
"The last one was the absolute limit," Duncan said firmly. "I'd
decided we were going to talk it out no matter what. Even if
we missed this evening's events which we seem to be doing."
"Doesn't matter," Methos murmured, curling up more tightly in
Duncan's arms. "Not that important. Just more presentations,
none of which I care about, and I'd rather make up with you."
Duncan smiled. "Now tell me about this challenger. Who is it?
What's the problem?"
Methos sighed. "Her name is Shelly. I met her in the 60's. She
was and still is bright and funny and interesting. She's lovely.
Looks a bit like Amy Irving. Lots of curly dark hair. I fell in
lust with her, and I did like her. Duncan, I really did."
Duncan continued to hold him. "I believe you, love. What
happened?"
"We were lovers for about a year and half and . . .well, it kept
going downhill. We argued and argued and argued. She
wanted me to agree with every opinion she had about music,
art, politics, economics, history. Even comic books for gods
sake, which was NOT to read them." Methos' voice went
plaintive. "I like comic books, sometimes. I love the X-Men."
"Comic books?" Duncan said dubiously.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Duncan. I'm going to make you read
'Sandman.' One of those got fucking nominated for a Hugo
award," Methos complained.
"Is that a science fiction award?" Duncan asked. Methos
rolled his eyes and nodded.
"Anyway, I got to the point where I couldn't stand it any more.
I broke up with her. I walked out. She wasn't having that. She
kept turning up everywhere I went arguing with me about
ending it. I finally 'died,' changed identities, and continents,
and she's been furious ever since. She's found me and
challenged me about 147 times since then. I keep refusing,
walking away, and disappearing. Then she comes looking for
me again."
"A hundred and forty-seven?" Duncan interrupted, his eyes
sparkling. " Love, l know you're good, you're *damn* good.
Fantastic even. On your best nights, you approach miraculous,
but--147 challenges because you broke up with her?"
"Fine. Six. She found me six times. Happy?" Methos
grumbled.
Duncan went on as if Methos hadn't spoken. "As I was saying,
at your best, you're close to miraculous, but she's been chasing
after you for over 40 years. What did you *do* to her? I
mean, literally. Have you been holding out on me? Is it
something you can do with your toes, maybe, or your
tongue--Oh-- OH-- I'll stop. I'll stop. I promise " Duncan
laughed helplessly as Methos repeatedly banged his head into
the Scot's rib cage.
Methos put his head back on Duncan's shoulder, grinning. "Are
you quite sure you're finished?" he asked politely. "I mean God
only knows, I'd hate to stop you if you're on a roll."
Duncan smiled and ran his fingers through his lover's hair.
"Why on earth does she want your head?"
"Well, it took me fucking forever to figure it out, but I think I
finally got it that she's one of those really bright, sensitive,
narcissistic personality disorders who does a good job at
looking like a normal human until she's in an intimate and
on-going relationship. Then the monster comes out and
everything is about her and what she wants and needs," Methos
explained.
He thought about it for a moment and went on, "She wanted me
to be a reflection of her, to be her perfect mate. I think when I
broke up with her, she experienced it as a narcissistic wound to
her ego." He paused and admitted, "Joe told me she's on her
way here to Atlanta."
Duncan started, rolling Methos to his back. Methos winced as
his sore ass hit the bed. "DUNCAN!" he protested.
Duncan ignored Methos and reached for the phone, tapping in
his phone card number and calling Joe.
"Joe's."
"What fucking ever," Duncan said irately, as he settled back
down on the pillows, pulling Methos back into his arms.
Methos put his head back on Duncan's shoulder.
"Mac?" Joe said, blinking. "You sound like Methos. What's
wrong now?"
"When did this Shelly person fly out? When can we expect her
here?" Duncan demanded.
"She was out of the bar about six hours ago," Joe said
quietly."I guess you guys have had it out. Is Methos still
alive and all right?"
Duncan gave the phone to Methos. "He wants to know if
you're all right," he said.
Methos took the phone."I'm all right. Duncan and I are all
right. I think." He looked at his lover. Duncan seized the
phone.
"Methos and I are all right," he told Joe firmly.
"Goddammit, Mac," Joe spat out irritably. "Put Methos back on
the goddamm phone." Duncan blinked and did as he was told.
Methos put the phone back to his ear.
"I'm here, Joe," he said.
"Are you really okay?" Joe asked gently. "You're beyond a
pain in the ass, but you happen to be my favorite pain in the
ass."
Methos chuckled, reached back to rub the very real pain in his
very sore ass, and winced slightly. Why did he never
remember just how much a spanking really *hurt*? "I'm really
okay. I promise. Why on earth are you so damn worried about
me? I'm probably the least fragile person you've ever known."
"Not when it comes to Mac, you're not," Joe said pointedly.
"And why the hell shouldn't I worry about you? You've been
so idiotically frantic about the damn mail for the last day and a
half, I've been about ready to call the men in the white coats."
Methos started laughing. "I'm not sure I would have blamed
you. I don't think I've been quite . . .um . . .rational."
"Exactly," Joe said. "You were acting like you thought Mac
was going to skin you alive."
"Um, metaphorically speaking," Methos said quietly, "he kind
of did." He thought about the scolding Mac had delivered
while blistering his ass, and tears suddenly welled in his eyes
again.
"Um, Joe," he said quickly, as his throat tightened. "I swear I'm fine.
So, so long, thanks for all the fish, and let me
hand you back over to Mac." He put the phone back in
Duncan's hand.
Duncan looked down with concern as tears started spilling
down Methos' face. He took the phone. "Hold a minute,
Joe," he said quickly, putting his hand over the mouthpiece.
"Methos?" He looked questioningly at the other man.
"I'm all right," Methos said, tears leaking quietly. "Just
finish up with Joe."
"Sorry, Joe," Duncan said into the phone. "Mm. . ."
"I could hear him choking up," Joe said gruffly. "Goddammit,
Mac--What did you do to him?"
"I haven't damaged him," Duncan said patiently, holding
Methos tightly. "He's just been stressed out of his mind for
days. He'll be fine. Now, what else can you tell me about me
about this Shelly woman?"
Joe sighed. "She's about my height, in good shape, moves well.
Looks like she's been working out, and looks like she's spitting
nails when she asks about Methos. I really think she wants to
kill him, and she's on her way down there."
"Thanks, Joe. She isn't going to kill him. I promise you that,"
Duncan said. "G'night."
Joe sighed. " 'Night, Mac. Tell Methos I said good-bye."
Duncan hung up the phone and pulled Methos even more
closely into his arms. "Joe told me to tell you good-bye, and I
need to know what you set you off again."
"Joe said I was acting as if you were going to skin me alive.
And I told him you did, metaphorically speaking," Methos said
quietly, tears still leaking. "I know I lied over and over. I kept
having to tell more lies to cover up the--well hell, we all know
how that goes. Oh, what a tangled bloody trap we weave. . ."
His voice went plaintive. "I'm usually better at this kind of
thing."
"Not with me, love." Duncan chuckled. "You always end up
confessing to your various sins and crimes."
"You've robbed me of my devious, manipulative nature,"
Methos grumbled.
"Oh, I don't *think* so," Duncan said affectionately.
Methos grinned. "No, I just don't particularly want *that* to
be a part of *us*." He took a breath and went on. "And I
really was going to tell you about Shelly as soon as I finished
my presentations. "
"Methos, I understand that you simply couldn't cope until you,
at least, finished presenting your first two papers. I truly
understand ," Duncan said gently.
Methos nodded, curled around Duncan. "I was just too
stressed," he said quietly.
Duncan nodded patiently, still holding Methos closely. "I have
that solidly in my head," he said gently and then went on more
firmly, "and you, now, have solidly in your head and in your
very sore bottom that I won't tolerate lies or secrets being kept
from me?"
"I think I kind of got that." Methos reached back again to rub
his very sore butt.
"Good," Duncan said simply.
Methos took a deep shuddering breath and then looked up at
Duncan with grin determination on his face. "But, I can
fucking take Shelly's head if I have to," he said starkly. "I
don't need the clan chieftain Duncan MacLeod of the fucking
Clan what fucking ever to step in and rescue me. If it comes
down to it, I will. Take her head and take her quickening. I
just don't want to. I liked her. Much as I can't stand her, I
liked her. Hell, your cousin, Connor liked her."
Duncan's eyes widened. "Connor knows this woman?" he
asked incredulously.
"We hung out with him in New York back then," Methos said
quietly. "I can't for the life of me remember what name he was
using. I was Robin Adams, usually called Rob. Dr. Robin
Adams. I was a psychoanalyst, from *London.*" Methos
drawled out the word, archly. "Very posh office and apartment
on the upper East side. I was actually making some money.
She was a professor of philosophy at Barnard."
"Wasn't he Russell Nash then?" Duncan asked.
"Could be," Methos said. "I think we knew him before and
after he was Russell. Wasn't he like Rupert, before? Gack.
What possessed him to choose Rupert as a name? It sucks."
Duncan shrugged, "You know how he gets names. He uses the
names of infants who died at birth."
"What fucking ever. There had to have been a dead infant with
a better name," Methos started rocking his hips against Duncan
and said, half plaintively, half dreamily, "You spanked me."
Duncan grinned. This was his Methos, the one who wanted no
sexual play during punishment, but who got turned on like a
rocket after being spanked for real punishment. "Yes, I did,"
he said softly, reaching down to stroke the soft skin of Methos'
belly, gently and sensually.
"You took my pants down," Methos went on, his eyes glazing
over slightly, thrusting up into Duncan's strokes, getting harder
and harder. He reached for the button of Duncan's jeans,
unfastened the fly, and started easing both jeans and boxers
down, kicking off his own pants at the same time.
"Um hmm," Duncan agreed, starting to stroke Methos' cock. "I
took your pants down, bared your lovely, round ass, and
spanked you hard. Does that turn you on?" Duncan helped get
his own jeans the rest of the way off.
Methos stared at him. "Are you trying for an entry in the stupid
questions contests, Mac? When does it not turn me on?" He
rolled on top of Duncan, rubbing their cocks together, reaching
for the massage oil to slick both of them.
Duncan grinned. "While it's happening to you," he suggested,
cooperating fully.
"Depends on the circumstances," Methos whispered hoarsely,
as he started to nuzzle at Duncan's neck, directly below his
right ear, running fingers through his hair.
Duncan stopped him, long enough to pull his shirt off over his
head, and Methos reciprocated by getting Duncan's shirt off at
the same time.
Duncan suddenly rolled Methos to his back, grinning as
Methos gasped when his still sore ass hit the bed. "I'm going to
fuck you while your ass is still hot and red and sore," the Scot
announced firmly, reaching for the oil.
Methos stared at him from under his lashes. "I'd fucking kill
you if you didn't," he said quietly.
******************************************************
The phone rang only once before Duncan rolled over and
picked up quickly. "MacLeod," he said briskly into the
receiver.
"MacLeod?" a female voice made the inquiry hesitantly.
"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan said. "How
can I help you?"
She paused and then said firmly, "I'm looking for Dr. Pierson.
Is this his room?"
"My partner?" Duncan asked. "He happens to be sleeping. Is
this important enough to wake him, Shelly? Do you really feel
inclined to challenge him tonight? Because if you are so
inclined, it won't be him, you'll be meeting. It'll be me."
Her voice was bitter. "I don't want you. I want him."
Duncan stared at the phone receiver. "You'll never take his
head, Shelly, and he doesn't want to take yours." He went on
grimly, "But I'll take your's in a moment. Get over it, why
don't you?" He hung up and dialed Connor's number in
New York.
******************************************************
Methos woke up to the phone ringing. He heard the shower
running in the bathroom, surmised Duncan was in it, rolled over
and picked up the phone. "Pierson here," he said groggily.
"Meet me," Shelly said abruptly.
"Oh, fucking hell," Methos said irritably. "I don't want to meet
you."
"Give me a time and place to meet you, or I'll hunt you down
and take you where you stand," Shelly said.
Methos thought. "I have plans for today," he said sleepily. "I'll
meet you on the fucking roof top at midnight. Can you, please,
for the day, go shop at Saks or get a pedicure or get your hair
done or write a paper on Kant's views of empirical positivism
or something?"
Shelly started laughing. "Fine, Rob. I swear you'll never
change." She stopped laughing and went on grimly. "I'll see
you on the roof top at midnight. And I'll take your head."
"What fucking ever," Methos responded, hanging up the phone,
and looking up at Duncan, as the other man came in, wrapped
in a towel. "It was Shelly. I agreed to meet her on the roof top
at midnight. Can I go back to sleep, now?" He was exhausted
and querulous.
Duncan chuckled and laid back down on the bed, gathering
Methos into his arms. "Go back to sleep," he said, gently. "It's
only 8:00. You don't have to present for hours. And midnight
is a long way away." He held Methos tightly.
"Duncan," Methos murmured sleepily.
"Mm?" Duncan responded, as he stroked Methos' back.
"You know I set myself up," Methos mumbled into Duncan's
shoulder, curling up around him.
Duncan smiled. "I suspected you might have. You've been
running on adrenalin and caffeine for weeks now. I've found
you asleep with that damn computer in your lap five mornings
in the past week. I didn't know anything about this Shelly
woman, but even without her on your plate, you more than
needed to get yourself spanked hard and cry yourself out."
"You know me too damn well," Methos complained.
"I took a course," Duncan offered, voice deadpan. "Methos
901. It's only offered on a graduate level. About the middle of
the semester, there's a lecture on why a perfectly intelligent,
sensible human being would *not* turn to his partner and ask
'What on earth happened to that stack of mail on my desk?'"
Methos started laughing. "I really did consider asking you,
Mac. Honestly, I did. Then I started imagining the trouble I'd
be in if I'd lost all the mail." His mouth wandered to Duncan's
neck, and he began nibbling, gently, under the right ear.
"And since a part of you *wanted* to be in trouble, you
decided to panic," Duncan said matter-of-factly as his hand
strayed down to Methos' ass.
"It wasn't really a well thought out, conscious plan, you know,"
Methos said, stripping the towel off Duncan, reaching for the
oil on the night table, coating his hand, and starting to stroke
the other man's hardening cock. "And I think a part of me
knew that you'd mailed it."
"I think you did, too," Duncan kissed him, long and hard and
then asked, "So why were you having nightmares about me
throwing you out, love? Where did that come from?"
Methos went still for a moment and then said quietly, "I think
I'm frightened that you'll get sick and tired of taking care of me
the way you do."
"I don't think so," Duncan stroked gently, brushing his lips
against Methos' cheek. "And I think you're forgetting all the
ways you take care of me. Little things like Dark Quickenings.
Big things like listening to what goes on with me, like, at least
semi-annually. Even bigger things like making me deal with
my feelings when I don't want to." His voice got husky. "Like
making me take the time to grieve for Sean."
Methos licked along Duncan's neck, from under the chin to
below his ear, then said lightly, "Yes, but 'dahling', you are so
simple minded, it's bloody easy to take care of you. I'm the one
who's a totally complicated pain in the arse-- OW--" He yelped
as Duncan gave him a ferociously hard smack on the ass and
grinned as Duncan rolled him over and mock-glared at him.
"I'll show you simple-minded," Duncan said. "I'll fuck you
stupid"
"You can tr-- " Methos was cut off as Duncan's mouth covered
his.
******************************************************
Methos got through his third presentation, the social hour, and
the president's reception. He and Duncan had a brief and fierce
argument about whether he was going alone to the rooftop and
midnight. Methos finally agreed to allow Duncan to come
along, as long he stayed well behind and, of course, did not
interfere.
When Methos got to the roof of the hotel, he was totally
confused when he experienced more than one Immortal buzz.
"Shelly," he called out. "I'm here. I fucking don't want to fight
you, but I'm here. And who else is here? Did you bring a
friend?"
Shelly stepped out from behind a column. "No, I didn't. There's
someone else up here. I don't know who it is. I see you
brought a friend," She looked over at where Duncan stood, a
good 15 feet behind Methos and nodded. "You must be
Duncan MacLeod."
"I am," Duncan said. "Don't worry about the other presence.
I'll make sure that no one interferes."
Shelly nodded and looked at Methos. "Are you ready?"
"I don't want to fight you," Methos said wearily.
Shelly glared at him. "I haven't wasted the last ten years
studying with the best sword master I could find, just to let you
beg off," she said bitterly. "I want your head."
"Why?" Methos asked desperately. "I never treated you badly.
I just wanted to get away. It wasn't working out between us."
"I know it got to the point where you thought I was just a
spoiled rotten JAP, you fucking bastard," Shelly said irately.
Methos stared at the woman with open-mouthed astonishment.
"I never thought you were a bloody JAP, for god's sake. I
thought you were a pushy, opinionated, demanding,
know-it-all, but I *never* thought you were a JAP."
Suddenly, the absolutely worst Jewish American Princess joke
he'd ever heard popped into his head. He couldn't stop himself.
His mouth opened and the words spilled out. "I mean for gods
sakes, do you know how one can tell if a JAP is having an
orgasm?" he asked helplessly.
Shelly stared at him. "No, how?" she asked.
"She loses her place in the magazine she's reading," Methos
said.
Shelly stared at him for a moment and then lost herself in
startled laughter. "Oh, God, Rob, it was never that bad," she
said.
"Exactly," Methos said, with a slight grin, and went on softly,
"Rachelle, we always had great sex, but you wanted to change
everything else about me. The books I read. The art I liked.
The decor of my apartment. The music I listened to. You
wanted me to be your creation. I didn't want to change into
someone you wanted me to be. Can't we let it go and make
peace?"
"No!" Shelly said with cold determination, pulling her sword
out, raising it, and coming at Methos. He turned out of her
path, pulled his own blade out, turned to meet her as she came
back at him, parried and fought her away, sighing. He didn't
want to kill this woman, but he also didn't want to lose his
head. He continued to meet her blows with careful parries,
testing her moves, and admiring the skills she had developed.
"You know," Methos said conversationally, "you've obviously
learned a great deal from whomever has been teaching you.
Have you ever considered going out for the Olympic fencing
team?" He ducked inside her blow as Shelly went for his knee,
grabbing her wrist, and cracking it against the knee. She
almost lost her sword, but held on to it, furiously, rolling to her
feet, and glaring at him.
Methos felt a peculiar sense of deja vu as Shelly came at him
again, circling her sword behind her head and swinging it at
him. He met her blade with his and deflected the blow.
"Really, Shelly," he said. "If you study for about. . .oh, maybe
another 500 years, you might be good enough to take me." He
smiled suddenly, Death's confident smile.
Shelly's eyes widened in fury and she swung at him wildly.
Methos whirled inside the swing, snapping the knife
out of his wrist sheathe and burying it in her heart. She gasped
and died and Methos paused, shaking his head. He lifted his
sword over Shelly's neck and stopped.
"Goddammit, you, woman, I don't want to DO THIS!" he said,
angrily, dropping the sword back to his side and pulling his
knife out of her body. He took a deep breath and raised his
sword again over the woman's neck. A hand caught his arm.
"Then don't," a rasping voice spat out. "Let her revive. I'll take
care of it."
Methos looked up, staring in shock, "CONNOR?"
Connor. Deep inside Methos' stomach, the knot that had been
slowly tightening around his guts for weeks finally began to
loosen. He probably should have expected it. Just when he
was on the verge of giving up on finding a solution to the
Shelly problem that was less than fatal, just as he had reached
the point where he was ready to go ahead and put at least one
of them out of their misery, the long arm of the Clan MacLeod
reached out to rearrange his fate, again.
The elder MacLeod was standing in front of Methos, scratching
himself and yawning. It was the better solution than Methos
had given up hope of finding. A much better solution -- one that
would end with both he and Shelly still alive, with their
respective heads still firmly attached to their respective necks.
Connor. Here, in Atlanta. On a rooftop. In the middle of the
fucking night. Son of a bitch. Maybe appearing out of
nowhere in the nick of time was a MacLeod family trait.
Maybe Connor was psychic. Maybe he should give them the
benefit of the doubt.
Methos looked at Connor for a moment, then looked over at
Duncan and cocked an eyebrow in inquiry. Duncan looked
back at Methos, answered the raised eyebrow with one of his
own, then looked at Connor. Connor included them both in a
two eyebrow salute, then looked down at the woman at his
feet, and sighed.
The long arm of the Clan MacLeod indeed. Maybe he should
just shut up and be grateful he wasn't going to have to kill
anyone tonight after all. "Connor," he said again flatly. "Have
you been appointed my deus ex machina for the evening?"
"Aye," Connor said, with amusement. "Let her revive, and
don't call me Connor. She still knows me as Russell Nash."
Methos backed off, and Shelly came back to life with a gasp.
She looked around, grabbed her sword, and started to get to her
feet again. Connor stepped between them, and Shelly stared at
him.
"Russell! What the hell are you doing here?"
"Lass, " Connor said gently, "do you think I've been teaching
you for the past ten years so you can behead my cousin's lover?
I don't think you want to wreak that kind of heartbreak inside
my family. In the first place, he obviously doesn't want your
head or he would have had it tonight." His voice became grim.
"In the second place, if you do succeed in killing him, then
either my kinsman or I will have to kill you. Do you want that,
lass?"
Shelly took three sharp breaths and her voice caught. "Rob is
your kinsman's lover?" she asked. "You mean-- he's *gay*?"
Methos searched his memory, frantically trying to remember
how Rob would have reacted, then he gave up and let Adam
Pierson handle it. As Shelly turned to look at him, his face
assumed a look of affronted innocence, highlighted by an
attractive pink flush of embarrassment, with just a hint of guilt
implied by the flutter of the lashes shielding his downcast eyes.
He cleared his throat, trying with only partial success to cover
the muffled snorts coming from Duncan's direction.
"Yes. Right. Exactly. Two days after I met Duncan, I came to
the astonishing realization that I was--gay."
"Two days? After all those months with me, it only took two
days with him for you to realize you were gay?" Shelly looked
at Duncan with a new glimmer of respect in her eyes. And
more than a little curiosity.
"Well, he was bending me over a counter-top at the time, so my
recollection of events may be a bit fuzzy, but. . . yeah. I'm
pretty sure it was two days," Methos lied glibly.
"What the hell did you think I meant when I said he was my
partner?" Duncan interrupted before Methos could get too
carried away with his new role of Ravished Innocent.
Shelly stared at Duncan. "Business partners, co-presenters . . .
how was I to know?" She stared at Methos in shock and shook
her head. "Well, why the hell didn't you just tell me?" Shelly
said sharply. "That I could have understood." She picked up
her sword, nodded at Connor, and disappeared into the dark.
Methos started to shake with laughter and looked at Connor.
"Oh fuck" he said. "Can I pick 'em, or can I pick 'em? And
where the hell did *you* come from?"
"I flew in this afternoon." Connor said easily. "I wasn't going
to allow you to be hurt. Not if I could put a stop to it."
"Damn, Connor. I know we had some good times, but I didn't
know you cared *that* much. Is Duncan going to have to
defend my honor after all?" Methos put his hands over his
face and continued to laugh helplessly. "Is that all it took? I'm
not really gay, you know."
"I know that." Connor said sardonically. "You'll fuck anything
that'll stand still long enough: women, men." He looked at
Duncan, his eyes moved up and down his cousin's body,
considering. "The odd domestic animal."
"Oh, thanks a lot, Connor." Duncan laughed.
"You're welcome, cousin. Anytime." Connor looked at Methos
and said "You're my own kinsman, now that Duncan has
chosen you as his own. Not to mention that you're one of my
oldest friends."
"Damn good thing," Methos muttered. "I'd hate to have to
take *your* head." He snorted with another burst of laughter.
"Mac might get annoyed." Methos looked from between his
fingers at Duncan. Duncan's face he could read like a book,
and what he read was amusement, long suffering patience, and
a close encounter with a hairbrush in his future if he didn't
straighten up and fly right.
Connor laughed and shoved Methos toward Duncan. The long
arm of the clan MacLeod reached out and gathered Methos in.
"I'm going to go find Shelly before she does something stupid.
Something *else* stupid. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Connor," said Duncan. "Say thank you to the nice
man, Methos."
"Thank you, nice man," Methos responded obediently, as
Connor, too, disappeared into the dark.
They stood there for long minutes, neither of them speaking,
neither of them prepared to move just yet. Duncan held his
lover with a degree of firmness that spoke of possession
achieved and yet to come, and Methos relaxed into his arms,
gazing over Duncan's shoulder at the city lights. They stood
twined together, enjoying the moment, enjoying the relief from
tension, enjoying the blessed, and probably all too temporary,
peace.
"Come on, love. What do you say we go downstairs and put
the bed to use?" Duncan's voice was low and sultry, promising
sexual delights too intense for mere mortals to endure.
Methos turned his head into Duncan's neck and breathed in the
fragrance of the long, soft hair, savoring the familiar scent that
had come to mean home, and safety, and love. He opened his
mouth to answer, and sneezed. Then again. Three times, and he
started to curse: Atlanta, the South in general, the night air, all
things green and growing, the "goddamm , mother-fucking,
dick-sucking, cock-biting, ass-licking, camel-frigging,
sheep-shitting, earthworm-eating, demon-spawned, useless"
pollen count.
"Can I take that as a yes?" asked Duncan.
"Probably," Methos said, looking up at Duncan through his
lashes with a glimmer in his eyes, before sneezing once again.
******************************************************
Methos, Duncan, and Connor wandered along Highland Ave.
in a neighborhood in Atlanta called Virginia-Highlands, drifting
in and out of art galleries, consignment shops, gift shops,
antique stores, and other odd little shops. Methos sneezed over
and over, and stopped several times to put drops in his itchy
eyes.
"I love the azaleas and dogwoods and all the flowers," he said
miserably. "But the pollen is *killing* me."
"Do you want to go back to the hotel?" Duncan asked a lot
less sympathetically than the first twelve times he'd made the
suggestion.
"No," Methos said. "I want to go to our dinner reservations at
the Tiburon Grille place. It looked excellent. I want to try
their crab cake appetizer with Hollandaise sauce. You know
this area reminds of the Village in the 70's."
"Greenwich Village?" Connor asked.
Methos nodded. "Mmhmm. And Little 5 Points reminded me
a bit of what Soho was like in the 70's. Very artsy fartsy. Too
hip for words." He smiled happily. "I loved 'Wax and Facts."
He patted his package of records lovingly.
Connor chuckled evilly. "I can't wait until Duncan hears
'Kicks' from Lou Reed's 'Coney Island Baby.' He's gonna love
that one." Connor grinned again, quoting from the song,"Hey,
man, what's your style? How do you get your adrenaline
flowing?"
"Hey," Methos protested. "It's not out on CD. Can I help it if I
think of it as Kronos' theme song?"
Duncan stopped dead on the sidewalk and sputtered, "You
*what*?"
Methos grinned. "It's a song about snuff movies. About
getting kicks from *killing*." He thought a moment and
quoted. "'When the blood runs down his neck, it's 'a better
than sex. Oh, gimmee, gimmee, gimmee some kicks. I needa,
needa, needa some kicks,'" Methos grinned, again. "I guess it
could be Death's theme song."
Duncan grimaced, and Connor grinned, saying, "Stop shocking
the hell out of my cousin, Methos." Connor chivvied Duncan
along and went on, "Besides, you also bought, of all fucking
things, Paul Revere and the Raider's 'Here We Come.'"
"Also not out on CD," Methos said, walking with the other two
men, "and it has the most kick-ass version of 'Louie, Louie' that
I've ever heard. Really. I'm serious."
Connor started laughing with his rasping, almost choking laugh.
"Methos, you slay me. You always have," he chuckled out.
"I loved that Junkman's Daughter Shop," Methos said
cheerfully.
Duncan chuckled. "Did you read the literature. The owner of
the original shop really was the daughter of a real junkman and
to start she set up shop with his wares."
Methos grinned and then sneezed again. "And now she sells
sex toys, water pipes, and all kinds of kinky stuff. Hey, Mac,
how would you feel if I bleached my hair and died it neon
purple and blue?"
Duncan considered. "Well, you bought the damn colors. Punky
Purple and Blue. Why didn't you buy the Green? I think it
might look interesting."
Methos stopped on the sidewalk, blocking traffic and stared at
his lover. "Are you serious?"
Duncan grinned. "It's your hair. Do with it what you like. I
think it would be. . .colorful. Of course, then you'd look
about17 years old, and I'd look like a pedophile."
Methos glared. "I don't *think* so," he said crisply and then
sneezed again.
"But personally, I thought they had the most amazing collection
of paddles I've ever seen," Duncan said innocently. "I guess
you were too busy with the hair dyes to notice." Methos
looked over at Duncan, eyes widening as he looked at the large
shopping bag, labeled 'Junkman's Daughter' hanging from his
lover's arm.
"You told me you were buying those Star Wars action figures,"
Methos said acerbically.
"Aye, I did," Duncan said cheerfully. "Doesn't mean I didn't
buy anything else, and they do mail order too, if you want the
green dye or anything else, love," Duncan found it impossible
to hide the grin in his voice.
Connor shook his head. "TMI, lads," he said with a grin. "I
mean, really."
"TMI?" Duncan asked blankly.
Methos and Connor both stared at him and said
simultaneously, "Too Much Information."
Methos went on, "Dude, I mean like, how could you not know
that with, like, as much time as you've spent with Rich?"
Duncan shrugged, grinning.
"I liked that Urban Tribe store," Connor said. "I think I want
one of their tattoos. One of their designers had the most totally
cool asymmetrical bizarrely designed tattoos. I mean like
totally cool." He grinned. "Am I doing a good job at sounding
like Richie?"
Methos grinned at him appreciatively. "Like, totally," Methos
said. " And, I thought so, too. Hey, kins-man-in-law, we could
both get tattoos. I've been thinking about, like, an ankle one
with an asymmetrical design all around."
"Ankle tattoos hurt like hell," Connor warned.
Methos grinned. "I kinda like pain," he confided.
"No shit," Connor rasped out, grinning, punching Methos
lightly on the upper arm.
Duncan shook his head again. "Both of you are crazy," he said
decisively, as he guided them across the street.
"Hey," Connor said, protesting, "I died when I was 18. I
doubt the honorable Dr. Pierson was much older when he had
his first death. We both still have our adolescence to work
through, cousin. Unlike you who died as a mature adult."
Connor winked and grinned at Methos. "Even if you do
sometimes act more immature than both of us put together."
Duncan rolled his eyes. "I do wish both of you would fucking
get *over* it."
Methos stopped on the sidewalk and stared at Duncan. "You
really *want* me to get over being *me*?" he asked.
Duncan stopped dead, too, and moved the three of them over,
away from the crowd. He looked Methos straight in the
eye. "No," he said quietly. "I want you to go on being
yourself. I love you more than sunrise in the Highlands. You
go right on being you. I was joking."
Connor leaned against a brick wall, arms folded over his chest,
as Methos stared at Duncan.
More than sunrise in the Highlands. Methos looked into the
warm brown eyes and felt his own eyes crinkle as he smiled.
He reached out and tangled fingers in a few of the strands of
hair lying on Duncan's shoulder. More than sunrise in the
Highlands. Trust the bloody Scot to say something lyrical and
romantic right out in public. He felt his insides melting and
pulled gently at the hair tangled in his fingers.
"I love you more than. . .MacDonald's french fries," he said
lightly.
Duncan chuckled and raised his hand to briefly encircle the
fingers in his hair. "I'm thrilled to hear it," he said dryly.
"You guys think you can manage a romantic tete a tete without
an audience?" Connor laughed out as he peeled himself off the
wall and headed toward the Corner CD shop.
Methos sneezed as he and Duncan followed. He paused just
inside the door of the shop and looked at Duncan with
amazement in his eyes. "I actually won the award for the best
paper presented in psychology," he said quietly, almost too
quietly for Connor to hear.
Connor grinned and went to the CD bins. Duncan looked at
Methos, and said, softly, " I'm so proud of you. One way or
another, I'd say this has been a successful trip."
Methos blushed, thought for a moment, and drawled out with a
grin, "I'd say the most outstanding accomplishment has been
convincing Shelly that I am 'gay.' Wouldn't you agree,
'dahling?'" He fluttered his eyelashes at Duncan and then
totally ruined the effect with a series of sneezes. Duncan
started laughing and nodded.
Methos shrugged, sneezed once for emphasis, and wandered
away to harass Connor.
End
Notes:
1. Tansy contributed suggestions about Duncan's shopping at
Junkman's Daughter and wrote some of the lines.
Lyrics:
"Not Forever"Tsunami Bomb
I thought that this was solid
Stability and safety sitting in my hand
Just take a look at your life
You're all alone
Who'll be there when I need someone
Count on nobody and no one will let you down
I don't care, just let me go
I don't need this anymore
Love is not forever
Friendship is not forever
There is nothing set in stone
You're on your own
Dependence is followed by weakness
Don't be your own hostage
If I know so many, why don't they know me?
They don't know me
Now I know what we're made of
Confusion, complication, and uncertainty
I thought this was real, I was wrong
So I don't know
Who'll be there when I need someone
Count on nobody and no one will let you down
I don't care, just let me go
I don't need this anymore
Who'll be there when I have no one
Don't expect that anyone will go out of their way
I don't care that I'm all alone
I don't need this anymore.
Email Diane at dswdiane@aol.com.
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