Methos made a final check for his keys and cell phone as he stepped out of the dojo. The night air was brisk with the scent of fall, and the clear sky above blazed with stars. He was gazing up at them appreciatively when out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow moving swiftly at his right. Even as he moved his right arm up to block, the attacker slid an arm under Methos' armpit, and Methos' face was slammed into the wall to his left by a hand at the back of his head. The attacker kept Methos' right arm securely trapped, whirling him to the right and slamming him face down to the pavement.

Methos winced, the left side of face scraped of skin and bleeding badly. He was beyond startled. There had been no sign of Immortal presence and almost no sound. He didn't think it was a human attacking him nor an Immortal.

Methos thought briefly about trying to roll forward and out of the fall, but his arm was being held so tightly that he was fairly sure he'd only succeed in breaking it. So he cooperated with the fall, breaking it as well as he could, slamming his entire body down at once and flat to minimize any pressure on joints, taking the fall on muscles and soft tissue instead of bones and joints. The attacker landed on his knees beside Methos still holding the arm and pinning Methos' shoulder down with his other hand.

Methos rolled his eyes. Fucking bastard knew what he was doing. If he tried to jerk his arm away, it was going to be broken and useless. Methos turned his head and savagely bit the attacker's knee, his teeth sinking all the way through leather and into flesh.

The other man hissed, jerking back, and his grip slackened. Methos slammed up with his right hand and knocked the other man off balance. The attacker rolled, back, over his shoulders, onto his knees, and Methos slammed into him, taking him down to his back, and suddenly was staring into the glittering, mocking eyes of the blond vampire he knew only too well.

Methos burst out laughing. "Well, that was one hell of a creative 'hello'," he said casually. "I do know we have a relationship that's usually composed of 'fuck and fight,' but wasn't that taking it a bit far?"

Spike grinned and rolled Methos over in the alleyway. "Well," he said, "you've always been a pain-slut, swordboy. I thought you might enjoy a sudden attack in the dark. You never know." He leaned down and kissed Methos thoroughly, and then licked blood off his cheek before the healing lightings played over Methos' face.

Methos enjoyed the kiss, very thoroughly, and then drew back, looking at his former and sometimes lover. Spike licked his lips. "I do so enjoy the taste of leather in your mouth," he said.

Methos chuckled and spat out the small bits of leather remaining in his mouth. "So do I. In both yours and mine." He quickly rolled Spike under him pinning the vampire with knees on each side of the other man's belly. "I have a lover now, you know," he said, staring down into the vampire's eyes.

Spike grinned. "The studly hunk with the hair down his neck who left with a suitcase about three hours ago? I think he's gone for the night. You gonna tell me that you agreed to be monogamous? YOU? Give me a bleeding break."

Methos paused, looking down at Spike. He had never agreed to be exclusive, but his agreement with Duncan was that any time either of them wanted to step out of the relationship or have a threesome, they would discuss it first. Duncan was out of town, Spike was right here, and he and Spike had been lovers for decades. His head started to throb, his face still smarting from the smashing and scraping encounters with the wall and the pavement.

Spike reached up and brushed the hair off Methos' forehead, and he quirked up an edge of his mouth. "You're looking like a schoolboy again, schoolboy," he commented. "Your current *loverboy* like you that way?" His voice was stinging.

Methos flinched at the obvious hurt under the spite in Spike's voice, decided to ignore it, and tried not to grin. "Maybe I just haven't had time for a haircut," he evaded.

Spike narrowed his eyes. Methos just looked at him, refusing to budge. Spike knew him well enough to know the answer to the question. Spike grinned again and changed the subject, demanding, "Take me dancing."

Methos blinked. "Do what?"

Spike grinned and writhed beneath him. "Well, we have to do something between now and when we fuck."

Methos blinked again and looked at how Spike was dressed. Mesh shirt under black leather jacket, black leather jeans. "Uh huh," Methos said. "You're dressed to go dancing. I'm not. Come inside." Methos dragged Spike to his feet. "And I haven't agreed to fuck."

"Right." Spike followed him. "And I can count on the fingers of a flounder the number of times we've seen each other and haven't."

****************************

Methos rummaged in the closet. He knew he had skin- tight black leather jeans in there somewhere, hadn't worn them in ages, but he knew he had them. Ah, he thought, finally, in the back, all the way in the back, of course. He looked through the shirts on the top rung and found a black -mesh shirt, probably Duncan's.

He stripped off his jeans and sweater and started redressing. Boxers under skin-tight leather jeans? No. That wasn't going to work. He skinned out of his boxers and pulled on the leather pants without underwear and then pulled on the mesh shirt.

Spike lolled on the bed, clicking on the internet. He glanced up. "I didn't plan on going out as the Bobbsey twins, y'know," he said.

"Bite me," Methos said succinctly.

"Later." Spike grinned. "And thoroughly. I do love the taste of your blood."

Methos grinned back, looking at Spike through his lashes for a moment, eyes dancing. "You always have. And besides, we aren't the Bobbsey twins. You have a hole bitten in the knee of your pants. Have you happened to notice?" He pointed out politely. Spike looked down at the ragged tear and grinned. Methos went on, "and I'm going to comb hair and brush teeth. Be back in a sec, all right?" Spike leaned back against the pillows and nodded, still browsing the net as Methos went into the bathroom.

Methos grabbed a wooden box from the shelves beside the sink and pulled out a couple of gold and silver chains to hang around his neck and looked at the leather thong with the stone hanging from it. He fingered the stone for a moment, memories stirring in his mind, and then pulled it over his head. He grabbed a black nylon bracelet and anklet, each with pewter Sumerian symbols attached to them, and put them on. He looked at the earrings for a moment and put a few in his pocket. If he were going to re-pierce any body parts this evening, he'd get Spike to do it.

He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment as he combed his hair, thinking about Duncan. He knew that Duncan expected at least a notification before he *did* anything with anyone with anyone outside their relationship, and Duncan was out of town. Of course, Duncan *did* have a cell phone. He could just imagine how that conversation would go:

*"Um, hi, Mac. Um, I've had a lover from my past show up, and I'd like to boff him."

"Oh? Tell me about him."

"Well, his name is Spike, and he's funny and bright and cares about me and, oh, he happens to be a vampire."

"He's a *what*?"

"A vampire."*

He could just imagine Duncan being silent for a moment and then his voice becoming sardonic *"Meaning that he kills people and drinks their blood, turning them into vampires? Are you totally out of your mind? Just how long have you been involved with a vampire, Methos?"

"He didn't *ask* to become a vampire, Mac. It just happened to him. And I didn't exactly mean to get involved with him and well, um, about 40 odd years, and--Oh, fuck--"*

No. That was not a conversation that was going to happen over a cell phone.

Methos felt suddenly and intensely rebellious. Spike was . . .different. He had found Spike several times when he had been ready to throw his sword down and offer his neck to the next hunter who wanted to take it. Spike had come to him, surly, sullen, and wounded inside on more than one occasion when the vampire had been more than half-ready to take a stake through his heart. The two of them had snarked, quarreled, fucked, and argued until each of them had them been prepared to get on with life, the vampire ready to get on with his wicked ways, and Methos steeled to face yet another day.

Methos stroked the stone on his chest again, stared at his reflection in the mirror, picked up his toothbrush, and made a gruesome face at himself, then grinned. He'd think more about Mac later, maybe even tomorrow. After all, he reminded his reflection, tomorrow is another day. His reflection frowned at him and reminded him that he was hardly Scarlett O'Hara. Methos almost choked on the toothpaste as he started laughing at himself, made another face in the mirror, spat, and rinsed. He put Mac firmly out of his mind. Scarlett be damned.

Methos stepped back into the bedroom, and found Spike lying on his stomach on the bed, leisurely going through the drawer under the bed, taking out the toys and laying them on the bed beside him. Methos growled.

Spike looked up at him and smirked. "I see you still like the same fun and games you always have, schoolboy."

With one bound, Methos landed on Spike's thighs. He picked up one of the acrylic switches and snapped it down hard across Spike's leather-clad bottom.

Spike gasped and gasped again as Methos repeated the action. "Did you ask if you could snoop, vampboy?" Methos asked with a voice that was teasingly stern, continuing to snap the switch.

"No," Spike gasped out, writhing under the other man. "No. I didn't even think about it. Christ, Methos. That hurts. Do it again."

Methos laughed helplessly and snapped the switch down five more times as Spike squirmed and gasped. Methos fell off the vampire's legs and gathered him up into his arms. Spike nuzzled up into Methos neck willingly, nipping gently, and then reaching out to fondle the stone around the other man's neck.

"I came for this," Spike said quietly.

Methos went completely still. "You want it back?" he asked very carefully.

Spike sighed. "It's nothing to do with you. It's to do with what's going on in my stupid, bloody life." He kissed Methos hard and violently. "I'll explain after we go dancing. Not ready yet."

Methos looked at the other man. His eyes were still full of the same wicked delight and mischievous joy that were always present when the two of them were together, and something 'else,' something that Methos had never seen in Spike's eyes before, a deep pain and a 'presence' that had never been there before. Methos felt a stir of curiosity, but put it on hold. Clearly Spike wasn't ready to talk about whatever was going on with him.

"However you want to do it, killerboy," Methos said with an evil grin, "however you want play out your game-plan. But first you put away the toys, and I switch your ass until they're all back in place."

Spike's eyes gleamed. "Oh? You're topping are you, swordboy? When we get to the dance club, we flip a fucking coin, hmm?"

Methos grinned and picked up the switch, bringing it stingingly across Spike's leather-clad bottom. "Whatever you say," he agreed as Spike yelped and jumped to get the toys put away. As Methos switched, he leaned over and used the bedside phone to call for a cab.

Spike's eyes' glittered at him as the switch snapped across his ass, and there was no mistaking the hard shape growing inside the front of the black leather pants. Methos felt himself hardening in return and resolutely thought about other things, like a certain Scottish Immortal, and when that thought became a bit uncomfortable, what he was planning for the next night's dinner, and trying to remember the recipe for chicken cacciatore and, oh hell, but Spike looked damn good in a mesh shirt and black leather . . .Methos sighed and brought the switch down with stinging snap. Spike yelped.

Spike took his sweet time putting the toys away, picking up each one individually and putting it carefully in place. Methos growled again and snapped the switch across the leather-clad ass much harder. "YOU could move a little more quickly," he suggested, snapping the switch even more briskly.

Spike straightened up, yowling, then grinned over his shoulder at the other man. "I could," he said, "but I don't particularly *want* to." Methos narrowed his eyes and gave Spike the look, the look that indicated in about two seconds this is no longer going to be fun and games, and Spike was going to have one seriously pissed off Immortal on his hands.

"On the other hand," Spike said hastily, gathering up the few toys remaining and replacing them in the drawer. "I really *do* want to go dancing."

"Then time to go," Methos said abruptly, getting off the bed, grabbing Spike by the wrist, and pulling him up, too.

Spike gasped, his eyes half-glazed over. "Can't we stay right here in bed for just a bit?" he asked huskily, so turned on he was walking awkwardly.

Methos grinned snarkily. "You're the one who asked to go dancing, vampboy," he crowed triumphantly, grabbing his coat with his weapons, and leading Spike down the stairs to the waiting cab.

*******************************

The taxi deposited them at The Sanctuary, the local dance and BDSM club. The music was throbbing, and Methos started to bounce slightly on the balls of his feet. He detected no Immortal presence and checked his coat at the door, grinning at Spike. "We flip the coin now?"

Spike guide them over to the bar and grinned back, his need for sub-space having ebbed on the ride over. "Oh, yeah."

Methos pulled a quarter out of his pocket and handed it to Spike to check. "It has two sides," he said casually.

"Oh, does it?" Spike examined and handed it back. "I call tails. Tails I top and you bottom. You flip, schoolboy."

Methos flipped carefully catching the coin on the back of his left hand. He lifted his right hand and looked. "Tails," he said with a relieved sigh.

The bartender was waiting for their order, and Spike ordered double bourbon on the rocks for Methos and a Coke for himself.

Spike waited for the man to leave and grinned. "Wax," he said. Methos went wide- eyed and nodded. Spike went on. "Wax and blood. Public scene." Methos stared and immediately started sinking into sub-space.

The bartender came back with drinks. Spike gave the man a credit card, asking him to start a tab.

"Drink," Spike ordered Methos who obeyed, starting to feel a buzz.

"But, now," Spike whispered, still ordering, moving even more clearly into 'top' space, "now, 'my' loverboy," using their most private and intimate nickname. "We dance."

Methos sank even farther into subspace and followed Spike to the dance floor. The beat was throbbing, and he felt it inside his guts, but he was not about to move until Spike gave him permission. Methos stared into Spike's eyes, which flickered with a smile as he raised one arm, barely moving it to the beat. Methos raised a mirroring arm. Spike's mouth quirked approvingly as he raised the other, and Methos copied him. Spike gave a slight nod of his head and gradually began to rock his hips to the music. Methos fell three floors further down into sub-space and followed suit.

Methos mirrored perfectly every move Spike made, their eyes locked, their motions seemingly perfectly choreographed as they moved as if synchronized. Out of the corners of his eyes, Methos was vaguely aware that other people were watching them as the music pounded and the lights strobed. It hardly mattered. Spike turned. Methos turned. They were back to back, touching from shoulder to buttocks, moving against one another, arms touching from shoulder to elbow, bodies rippling in time with the pounding beat, and then with the barest signal, they turned again and were face to face. Again, Methos was mirroring every metered, careful move.

The lights flashed and Methos stared into Spike's eyes, suddenly remembering every instant of their history together. Both of their bodies were gleaming with sweat, and Spike's eyes were full of the memories of the two of them together. Spike brushed each forearm against Methos', and closed his eyes to lose himself in the memories, leaving Methos to close his eyes and lose himself in the music.

***********************************************************

New York. 1967

Spike strode down the street. Bloody bored. Had been bloody bored. Being a bleeding evil vampire gets so damn routine, he thought. In bed by sunrise, up at twilight, find some hapless mortal, drink blood, do it all again. Boooorriiing.

He glared at a coffee shop, thinking, I swear I'd give my incisors to find someone who could string ten words together into an interesting sentence, and all I run across in this damn village are stoned-out bloody children who think they've discovered profound philosophical truths. Make bloody peace not war, my ass. What do they think humans are? Geese? Going to migrate south and north and never declare war on same species? Fucking idiots.

He wandered into a bar and saw a lovely man sitting at the bar having a solitary drink. He paused, staring at him. Shook his head, looked again and saw a gangly, skinny man with a big nose. Blinked and looked again as the man shifted his posture and saw a gorgeous man. Blinked again.

He sat next to the man and offered to buy him a drink. The man looked at him with eyes glinting and asked, "Why would you want to buy me a drink?"

Spike threw caution to wind and said dryly, "Because I'm trying to seduce you, dumbfuck."

The other man burst out laughing. "Oh? And you think you can do so by calling me a dumbfuck?"

Spike grinned cheekily, "Well, thought it might amuse you." He reached out carefully and ran a finger down a prominent cheekbone.

The man reached up and took the finger, gently removing it and putting it down on the bar. "And why exactly do you want to seduce me, blond boy?"

"Because I don't think you're a dumbfuck. Because you're reasonably attractive," Spike considered and went on, "and bright and because you happen to be here."

The man stared at him. "What on earth makes you think I'm bright? We've hardly exchanged ten words of conversation. You've bought me a drink. You've expressed an interest in my body. How on earth do you think you've established an interest in my mind?" He took a swallow of his drink and looked at Spike coolly.

Spike sat up on the barstool. "Umm," he said.

"Oh," The lean man said mockingly, "so astonishingly articulate. Shall we discuss the war in Vietnam, in which I have little interest, since humans insist insistently on killing each other for little reason? Or perhaps we should discuss existentialism?"

Spike narrowed his eyes. "Why the fuck would I want to discuss existentialism?"

The other man looked at him even more mockingly, "Oh, I don't know. I mean we could natter on and on about the existentialism of Jean Paul Sartre or the existentialism of Martin Buber or the existentialism of Kierkegaard-"

Spike shrugged. "What in hell makes you think I know what the fuck you're talking about?"

The lean man blinked innocently and took another sip of his drink. "Consider it a mid-term," he suggested off-handedly as he reached for the bowl of peanuts on the bar.

Spike glared for a moment. What a fucking arrogant son of a bitch. God, I can't wait to drain his blood. He took a deep breath. "Heidegger," he said evenly. "If you really want to talk about existentialism, let's talk about Heidegger."

The other man almost choked on his last swallow of his drink. "Heidegger?" he coughed out. "It's 10:00 on a Saturday night, and you want to talk about fucking, complex, convoluted, idiotic Heidegger?"

Spike grinned and grabbed a handful of peanuts. "Well, did I pass your midterm, Professor?" he asked snarkily.

The lean man grinned, waved for the bartender to bring him another drink and held out a hand to Spike. "My name's Robin Adams. Yours?"

"Just call me Spike." Spike grinned fiendishly, sure that the rest of this seduction and blood-taking was going to be a walk in the park.

Sure until he found himself slammed to the floor in Robin Adams' apartment with a sword held to his neck, the same Robin Adams standing over him, looking furious.

Spike stared up at the other man, dazed and confused. "I just killed you," he sputtered out helplessly.

"I got *better*, vamp boy," the lean and furious man said dryly. "Now give me one good reason not to take your head. I mean, you just gave me one of the best blow jobs I've ever had, but draining me of blood just when I was coming was a tad interesting for just a few moments and then it got freaking, seriously scary." His voice went cold. "I don't *like* dying, you fucking bastard. Even if I do come back."

Spike stared. Come back? This man *came back* from being dead? What on earth was he?

"I said," the other man repeated coldly, "give me one good reason why I shouldn't take your head, vamp boy." He drew his blade along Spike's neck, slicing flesh and drawing blood.

"I amuse you?" Spike tried, his mouth dry, wondering why this man came back to life and starting to wonder if it had anything to do with why his blood has tasted so *different* and so wildly invigorating.

The lean man considered. "Not quite good enough," he said, slicing, again, along Spike's throat. Spike felt more blood trickle.

"I'll give you an even better blow job than the one before," Spike offered hurriedly.

Robin Adams considered again and withdrew the blade. "You're on," he said, "but if ever you put those teeth near a vein again without permission, I'll knock them down your throat."

Spike grinned and took the other man's offer of a hand up. "No prob . . ." he started to utter as Robin Adams abruptly threw him over his hip and helter skelter across the room.

Spike landed up against the wall and picked himself up warily. What was this man? And what the hell did the man want from him? Besides another blowjob?

****************************************************

Seacouver. Present.

Spike opened his eyes and checked on Methos who was lost in the music. He waited for the song to end, for Methos to still, and guided the other man back over to the bar. Methos' eyes were glazed from the endorphins waltzing in his brain from non- stop dancing and constantly deepening sub-space.

Spike signaled the bartender and ordered another double bourbon on the rocks for Methos and another Coke for himself. Methos looked at him closely.

"There's something different about you, vampboy," Methos said quietly.

Spike almost laughed. "Took you this long to notice, did it?" he said.

Methos drew away in irritation, and Spike shook him gently and pulled him back. "No, just took me this long to comment," Methos said acerbically.

The bartender returned with the drinks. Methos knocked his back. Spike stretched and looked carefully at the other man. "I'm not ready to talk about it," he said quietly.

Methos started to draw away again, still deep in sub-space and feeling unreasonably irritated that Spike was withholding from him, feeling as if it somehow made him unsafe.

Spike pulled Methos back into the vampire's arms. "It's nothing to worry about," he murmured, reassuringly. "It makes you safer if anything. You're safe with me. You've always been safe with me. Well, mostly." He looked away suddenly, blinking and clamping his teeth tensely.

Methos relaxed into Spike's arms, drew the other man's finger up to his mouth and nibbled on a knuckle gently. He did know he was safe with Spike, had been safe with Spike for decades, though few mortals were. Of course, he wasn't a mortal.

Spike stroked Methos' hair and fingered the amulet. The vampire's eyes went cloudy, and he was lost in memories again.

************************************************

New York, 1977, 4:00 am

Spike banged furiously on Methos' door, panting and exhilarated. Methos opened it, bleary-eyed and blinking. His eyes opened more widely when he saw Spike. "Well, where the fuck have you been for the past two years? Never mind. Why don't you just go back there?" He started to shut the door again.

Spike simply wasn't having any of that. He slammed the door open and barged in, dragging Methos into his arms and kissing him long and hard. He then leaned his head back and crowed. "I KILLED the bloody SLAYER!!"

Methos pulled out of his arms and shook his head. "Well, bully for you. Want some coffee? I bloody well need some." He headed for the kitchen to get coffee grounds out of the freezer.

Spike grabbed the Immortal, stopped him, pulled him down to the rug, too turned on to wait for even a moment, and started stripping the clothes off both their bodies, slipping a tube of KY jelly out of his jacket pocket, and dropping it on the rug. Methos froze for a moment and then cooperated, body straining up towards Spike, meeting each passionate kiss with one of his own. He gasped as Spike's nails drew rivulets of blood down his torso and gasped again as Spike's teeth locked into a vein at his neck.

"Do not KILL me," Methos said firmly.

Spike squeezed out a handful of KY jelly, coated his cock, pushed in, and started thrusting, while still drinking at Methos' neck, delighting in the sensation and taste of exhilarating Immortal blood. He thrust hard and deeply, gasping as he started to come, feeling Methos' muscles contracting around him as Methos gasped and came, and drank again at the Immortal's neck.

Spike stared in dismay when he finished, realizing that Methos' body lay lifeless in his arms. "Oh fuck," he muttered, smacking himself in the face, stroking and caressing the corpse in his arms.

Methos started back to life, glared furiously, pulled himself out of Spike's arms, and threw a roundhouse punch, breaking the other man's nose. Spike fell back, howling with pain, and sat up again, holding his bleeding face.

"Okay," he mumbled, "I deserved that. I really did. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kill you. I really didn't."

"Fuck you," Methos said still glaring, and keeping his distance from the vampire. "I HATE dying. You KNOW that."

Spike felt vaguely irritated. He was doing the best he could. "Goddammit," he said. "I didn't mean to kill you. I just got . . .y'know--carried away--I mean, like, HELL! METHOS--I just KILLED the fucking SLAYER!"

Methos kept glaring at him and said coldly, "Well, bloody good for you, fucking vampboy. And I'm fucking delighted it was such a fucking aphrodisiac. Now, will you get dressed and out of my apartment and out of my life?"

Spike stared as he started pulling on his clothes. He took a stone out of his pocket and handed it to Methos. "I want you to have this," he said quietly. Methos looked at it. "Just take it," Spike urged. "Drill a hole in it and wear it. It'll protect you. I promise. If you ever forgive me and want me around you again . . ." Spike shrugged helplessly.

Methos shrugged just as helplessly as he opened the door to his apartment to show Spike out. "Yeah, well, check in about every decade or so," he suggested. The light in the hallway caught his face, highlighting the faintest gleam of tears sparkling in his eyes.

Spike paused in the doorway, looking at Methos holding the stone in his hand, the faint gleam of tears still shining his eyes. He hesitated, his own eyes burning, and then vanished into the night.

******************************************************

Seacouver. Present

Spike came back to himself and fingered the stone at Methos' chest again as Methos stared at him from deep in sub-space. "Oh hell, loverboy," he murmured. "You trust me enough to go back into sub-space with me after all the times I've betrayed your trust?"

"You've never really hurt me, Spike," Methos said quietly. "And--what I see in your eyes, right now-" he paused for a second and went on, "we do it, like--now?"

Spike looked around. It was after midnight. The club had shut its door to non- members and brought out the BDSM equipment. There was an ebony-gloss tabletop up on its side, slanting slightly back at about a 20-degree angle with brackets set in each corner. Spike's eye's gleamed as he led Methos over to it.

Spike took one of Methos' arms and fastened the wrist to the bracket at the far right corner of the table with a black leather cord. "I'm tying a slip knot," he whispered. "What's your safe word, if you feel another Immortal buzz in the room, loverboy?"

"My head," Methos murmured, his eyes hazing.

Spike grinned and tied Methos left wrist to the other corner. "And if you're deep in sub-space, and another Immortal happens along and tries to challenge you?"

Methos eyes glazed, staring at Spike, murmuring, "You take them. Not their head. You just take them out until you can bring me back. Yes?"

Spike nodded approvingly. "Good boy. Good loverboy." He tied Method's ankles to each of the other two corners of the ebony plank with black leather cords and whispered, "What's your safe word for too much pain?"

Methos face went blank for a moment, and then he said softly, "Firetrucks."

Spikes smiled. "Good," and asked, "and your safe-word for being emotionally overwhelmed?"

Methos looked totally confused and shook his head. "I don't remember."

Spike said, gently, "That's fine. How about . . ." Spike hesitated, his eyes suddenly shimmering with tears, "New York?"

Methos stared at him for a moment and whispered, "I forgive you, love. I long ago forgave you. You should know that."

Spike leaned over and kissed him long and deeply. "Thank you," he said softy. Methos nodded, his pupils so dilated that his irises were almost obliterated. "New York work for emotional safe word?" Spike's voice was calm and even.

Methos nodded and lay back against the gleaming ebony tabletop. Spike reached out and ripped off the mesh shirt, tearing it from neck to waist. Methos shuddered. A spotlight shined down on their stage. Methos' pale skin gleamed against the shining black, the gold and silver chains around his neck glittering, and the dark stone amulet and dark leather cord against his chest standing out in stark relief.

Spike lit a black candle and a red candle and then pulled Methos leather pants down from his hips to the top of his groin, revealing a soft line of downy, fine, dark hair trailing up toward his navel. He stroked the hard cylinder of Methos' cock inside the leather pants, lifted the black candle and dripped wax on Methos' right nipple.

Methos gasped. At the same time, Spike put his mouth to Methos neck and bit. Blood flowed into the vampire's mouth, and he gasped with pleasure as blood trickled down Methos' chest.

Methos groaned and writhed, getting harder, thrusting into Spike's stroking hand. "Don't kill me," he pleaded softly.

"I promise I won't kill you," Spike mumbled as he drank his favorite blood carefully, stroking Methos' cock, dribbling candle wax on each nipple, dribbling candle wax down Methos' belly, alternating the black and red candles, alternating hands on cock and candles, maintaining perfect control, continuing to maintain perfect control. Stroking Methos' cock and stroking, until Methos exploded, screaming . . .

Methos threw his head back and shuddered . . . screaming and coming . . .his eyes rolling back in his head . . .

Spike caught his breath, starting to come himself as he pushed his cock through the pliant leather into the soft skin of Methos' stomach, leaning into him, kissing him deeply. At the same time, Spike angled this chest back slightly, leaning back to let hot candle wax unobtrusively drip down to his own nipples through his mesh shirt. He exploded, gasping, his arching back turned away from the watching crowd who were gazing on with appreciative awe.

Spike buried his head in Methos' shoulder breathing deeply and gratefully listening to Methos' continued breaths. He licked the blood from Methos' shoulder and chest and mouthed off the candle wax, his mouth going deeper and deeper down the other man's soft belly. He had been very careful not to drip wax into hair, and the wax came off easily. His head came up as he heard Methos moan slightly, and he quickly raised his head to kiss Methos on the mouth.

He drew back and looked at his lover. The eyes were starting to focus again, just a bit. "Are you back with us?" Spike asked softly, caressing gently. Methos batted the hands away, cringing away from the touch, his skin still too sensitive to bear even the lightest of feather strokes, shuddering, and going into another after-shock orgasm. Spike removed his hands carefully, watching as Methos shuddered, stilled, shuddered, and stilled. Methos struggled against the bonds at his wrists and ankles, and Spike quickly released them.

Methos stretched out across the ebony table top, groaning and still shaking with multiple after-shocks. He raised a finger and opened his eyes, looking at Spike. He closed his mouth, opened his mouth, closed his mouth, and shut his eyes again. Spike almost burst out laughing. "Mmm," he said quietly, "That was a very good fish face. Blub, blub, blub. But, do you think you might could like, maybe, communicate."

Methos raised a finger again and started laughing helplessly. Spike gathered the Immortal into his arms.

"I almost passed out," Methos said quietly, curling into Spike's arms as the audience applauded, both of them ignoring them. "Not from blood loss, but from . . . the intensity . . .of--"

"I know," Spike said softly. "Shall we leave now?"

Methos nodded, and Spike bowed quickly to their audience, guided Methos off the stage, collected their coats, caught a cab, and took them back to the dojo.

*******************************************************************

Methos allowed Spike to guide him back into the loft, slowly recovering from sub- space. They stripped out of their pants, the remains of what had been Duncan's mesh shirt, and Spike's shirt and left them on the floor.

They showered. Spike reached for Methos' cock with a soap-slicked hand, and Methos pushed the hand away.

"No," he said gently. "I'm in a relationship. We haven't talked about me being with you."

Spike stared at him as the water streamed over both of them. "Then what did we just do?" he asked bluntly.

Methos sighed. "I think I did what I needed to do, and I think I just fucked up . . .badly." He kissed Spike hard and climbed out of the shower, grabbing a towel. He grabbed another large bath towel and threw it at Spike as the other man climbed out.

"Are you really in trouble, swordboy?" Spike asked roughly as he toweled his hair.

"I don't know yet," Methos said, shrugging. He finished toweling off, wrapped the towel around his waist, dragged a comb through his wet hair, brushed his teeth, and rummaged in the drawers under the sink.

Spike stared. "Can you just not *tell* him?"

Methos raised his head and stared at Spike, his eyes wide for a moment, and then narrowing. "I do NOT lie to Duncan," he said, coldly. "I do not keep secrets from him." He glared at Spike. "I happen to love the man. Which might be a concept you might not be able to understand. I *love* him. That doesn't include telling lies or keeping secrets."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it," he said with a sigh. "Sorry I even suggested it. Just a passing thought. Okay?"

Methos nodded his head slightly and quirked a corner of his mouth. He found a new toothbrush in the drawer in which he was rummaging and tossed it to Spike. "Here." He grinned. "Your breath smells like tired Coke."

Spike caught the brush, opened the package, and put toothpaste on the brush. "Better than it smelling like used blood," he commented as he started to brush.

Methos shuddered and nodded in agreement. "A-fucking-men," he agreed. "I couldn't stand it when you came to me with your breath stinking of a kill." He went out of the bathroom, dropping the towel on the floor, and headed for the dresser, pulling out two sets of black silk boxers and black cotton t-shirts. He pulled on boxers and t- shirt and tossed the other set at Spike as he came out of the bathroom, letting his towel fall to the floor beside Methos'.

Spike raised an eyebrow. "We're getting dressed for bed?" he asked.

"Yes," Methos said, firmly, "we are. Less temptation that way, loverboy." His voice softened. "I really want to make love with you. And I really can't. We've done enough as it is."

Spike pulled on the boxers and t-shirt, joining Methos in bed, pulling him into his arms. "Do you really think you might have damaged your relationship with this lover of yours?"

Methos was quiet for several moments. "Permanent damage? I don't think so," he said softly. "I think what we have is built to last. We'll survive." He put his head on Spike's shoulder and closed his eyes. "Just like you and I have always seem to survive; just like what we have seems like it's built to last. Damn good thing since it seems like we both seem destined to be long-term survivors. Can't hurt to have someone around to watch my back." He grinned.

"It's so very gratifying to know I'm good for something," Spike said with a snark in his voice and then leaned over to kiss Methos, "and I love you, too, schoolboy. And is this bloody bed out direct sunlight in the daytime?"

"Completely out of sunlight, vampboy. Now shut up and let me sleep," Methos mumbled, his eyes drifting shut, as he curled up against Spike.

"Me? You're the bloody blabbermouth," Spike objected, as he put his arms around Methos, pulling him close and shutting his eyes himself.

"Blabbermouth," Methos repeated sleepily. "Me? A blabbermouth? I don't *think* so. . . Oh . . .are you going to tell me what's different about you and why you want the stone back?"

"I went to a master-sorcerer. I got my soul back. I'm in love with the Slayer. I want to give her the stone. Got the stone from the Slayer I killed. Think I need to give it to one I love now. I think she needs it," Spike said, sleepily, without opening his eyes.

Methos didn't move a single relaxed muscle. "Oh," he murmured, half-chuckling. "That's interesting. Tell me more, tomorrow."

**************************************************************

Duncan sighed wearily, got into the lift at the dojo, and hit the button for the loft. He was more than grateful that he had concluded his business and was home a day early.

He stepped out into the loft, crossed over the living area into the bedroom area, and stopped short. Methos was in bed with another man. A blond man. A very blond man. Methos was curled up in the very blond man's arms, with a Methos head on the blond man's shoulder. The floor was cluttered with a chaotic mess of black leather pants, mesh shirts, one of them in tatters, and used bath towels.

Duncan took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back against the wall. It seemed Methos had a story to tell.

Finis

Lyrics provided by ysanne_1@yahoo.com who gave me lovely lyrics that provided mood and spirit for the story above.

BUILT TO LAST

Garcia/Hunter

There are times that you can beckon
There are times when you must call
You can take a lot of reckoning
But you can't take it all
There are times when I can help you out
And times that you must fall
There are times when you must live in doubt
And I can't help at all

Three blue stars / Rise on the hill
Say no more, now / Just be still
All these trials / Soon be past
Look for something / Built to last

A wind held by the collar
Yes, a cloud held by the breeze
You can walk on coals of fire
But sometimes you must freeze
There are times when you offend me
And I do the same to you
If we can't or won't forget it,
Then I guess we could be through

One blue star / Sets on the hill
Call it back / You never will
One more star / Sinks in the past
Show me something / Built to last.

Built to last till time itself
Falls tumbling from the wall
Built to last till sunshine fails
And darkness moves on all
Built to last while years roll past
Like cloudscapes in the sky
Show me something built to last
Or something built to try

There are times when you get hit upon
Try hard but you cannot give
Other times you'd gladly part
With what you need to live

End.



Email Diane at dswdiane@aol.com
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