Dancing in the Dark By MacGeorge

Dancing in the Dark
(prequel to fumbling towards the light)
By MacGeorge
©1998



Mac's shoulders tensed as the booming rhythms from the nightclub reached all the way to the street, the noise a physical press against his skin.

"Adam. . ." he started again for the umpteenth time that evening as he reluctantly followed his lanky companion up the street toward the long line of people waiting to get into the "Rock On Club" - the most trendy night spot in Seacouver. A place he had assiduously avoided since it had opened the year before.

"I don't want to hear it, MacLeod," Methos interrupted. "You promised if I went with you to one of your esoteric, obscure, boring foreign flicks that you would go with me wherever I wanted."

Mac trailed behind, his hands stuck deep into his leather jacket, "But, really, Adam. . ."

"Don't tell me Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is going to renege on a promise!" Methos jabbed the fatal barb home, shutting his unwilling companion up once and for all, on that particular topic at least.

Methos walked right past all the rather bizarrely attired youngsters of indeterminate gender waiting in line to get inside, approaching the oversized doorman. "Hey, Michael!" he called and the two men went through the uniquely masculine ritual of slapping hands and joining fists like some secret handshake.

"Yo, Pierson," the black man with a neck the thickness and consistency of your average oak tree answered with genuine warmth. "Hey, man, it's been awhile. Where you been keepin' yourself?"

"Oh, here and there," Methos replied. "Good band tonight?"

"Oh, yeah! Really hot," Michael unhooked the restraining rope and waived the tall lanky white man and his companion in. He leaned over as Methos passed and whispered something in his ear. Methos jabbed his sharp elbow into the massive chest in response as the other laughed uproariously and they moved into a dark room with a decibel level so high Mac's first thought was fear of semi-permanent hearing loss.

It was too loud for conversation so all he could do was follow Methos as he wound through the crowd toward the back booths where the sound was slightly more muted, down to a mind-numbing roar from an incoherent screech, in Mac's opinion.

The press of bodies was stifling and the combined smell of booze, sweat, sex, heavy cologne, cigarette smoke and a faint whiff of marijuana were enough to turn the stomach of the faint of heart. They finally broke through into a small cleared space around an unoccupied booth with a large "Reserved" sign posted in its center, and Methos slipped smoothly into the cool vinyl seats. Looking around at the densely packed, stylish crowd, it was apparent that securing a reserved booth was tantamount to getting a seat on the 50-yard line at the Superbowl.

A buxom waitress was at their table immediately, leaning over to provide a full measure of appreciation for her endowments. She took their drink order and disappeared into the milling, twitching humanity. They sat for a few minutes, watching the dance floor, waiting for their drinks to be brought, which appeared surprisingly quickly. The waitress didn't even ask for payment, giving Methos a broad smile and turning to provide an appreciated extra twitch of a very attractive round backside as she left.

"Okay, Methos," Duncan leaned close to his friend's ear to be heard. "Why are we here and what did the guy at the front door say that was so funny?"

Methos didn't take his eyes off the undulating dancers on the floor as he leaned towards Mac. "I own a piece of this place," he said loudly, "and Michael wanted to know if you were my date. Actually that wasn't the word he used, but that was the general gist."

Mac, who was in the process of swallowing a mouthful of scotch, choked and coughed, the liquor burning his sinuses as it went places it wasn't intended. Methos looked back with an amused smirk. "Well, MacLeod, someone who looks like you arriving at a place like this without a woman on your arm . . . what are people to think?"

"But you were the one . . ." then Mac just gave up, chuckling and shaking his head. He should know better than to think Methos wouldn't always find a way to yank his chain. And he had long since assumed that the 5,000-year-old man would be fairly flexible in his tastes for companionship. It had even occurred to him that Methos might be interested in an affair with him, but he had never overtly said or done anything to promote that cause, and Mac was unlikely to be the seducer in such a bizarre turn of events. While Duncan MacLeod was sometimes painfully aware that the first thing most people thought of when they saw him was not his brainpower, the awe in which he held Methos precluded any notion that the ancient man might see a tight-assed barbarian from the Scottish Highlands one tenth his age as anything more than a casual fling. And that, Mac was certain, would be a sure route to the destruction of their fragile friendship. These days, especially, friends were a rare and precious commodity to be treasured and protected at all cost. Casual sex was easy to find.

Just as he finished that thought, a young woman approached who, to Mac's eyes, looked about 14 years old, dressed in a skirt too short to really even be called a skirt, and a tightly clinging top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She had a lovely pixyish face, though, and a brilliant, shy smile to go with long hair streaked with iridescent chartreuse highlights. She looked back to two of her friends, giggled, then stepped up boldly.

"Wanna dance?" she asked the dark, stunning man sitting in the booth.

Mac and Methos exchanged looks. "Not right now, my dear, but I'm sure my friend here would love to," Mac nodded at Methos. The young woman looked only mildly disappointed as Methos and MacLeod exchanged glances. The older man didn't move until Mac kicked him under the table.

"Ouch! What . . .?"

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to party," Mac smiled.

He watched as the ancient Immortal squeezed onto the dance floor, chuckling when he realized that despite the man's natural elegance and grace, those long, spidery limbs were not really made for today's fast dancing styles, although he certainly didn't lack for enthusiasm.

Then another dancer caught his eye. She had long dark auburn hair that reflected the myriad of colors flashing from the club's strobe lights pulsing with the music. Dressed in a rich brown dress that alternately clung to every curve and swung out when she moved, revealing long graceful legs, she danced with a self-involved abandon that was absolutely captivating. He was transported back in time over 100 years to when he made his living gypsy dancing with similar dark-eyed fiery beauties, when the dance itself was a deliberately provocative display. He rose and moved to the edge of the floor, listening to the pounding, hypnotic rhythm, unable to keep his feet and body completely still.

Carla felt eyes on her, but at first dismissed the sensation. She was used being watched, actually expected it. But the intensity of the sensation was unusual and her eyes were drawn to the edge of the dance floor, to a shadow standing, watching. She moved away from her partner, edging toward the tall figure outlined by the nightclub's spotlights swirling behind him.

He stepped into a pool of light and all thoughts of her current partner were chased from her mind. She reached out her hand and he took it. But rather than the don't-touch garden variety of dancer, his other hand reached out and held her waist, pulling her close. His hips moved to the beat of the music, perfectly matching her own undulations. Their eyes met and held and she let herself be led. It seemed completely natural when he swung her out and back again at the end of the next measure. It felt good, her skirt swinging out and settling back as he pulled her in tight to his chest, as though their bodies were somehow connected through the music's driving rhythm, each knowing exactly when the other was going to turn, to dip, to swirl. Until she found herself swung effortlessly all the way off the floor, the room spinning in an exciting kaleidoscope of color and sound. The music soared and it was though she had danced with this man all her life. She forgot about what steps to take because she knew he would guide her. She forgot about anything except the music and the movement and his smile. Then it was over, and he had caught her up close to his body, pinned her with passionate dark eyes that looked straight into her soul. There was a spattering of applause and she looked around to see that the dance floor had cleared while others had watched. She felt breathless and elated. It had been like great sex.

"Thank you," he said, stepping back and lifting her hand, brushing it lightly with soft lips. "You are a wonderful dancer."

It was such an old fashioned gesture that she was flustered and didn't know how to respond. Reality had suddenly reasserted itself. "I . . I . . . thank you." Well, that was brilliant, she thought.

"Carla!" the whining voice of her neglected date could be heard behind her. "I think its time to go."

"So soon?" the man with the wonderful eyes asked. "I was hoping for another dance."

"Uh, maybe later?" Carla offered hopefully, feeling her date tug on her arm.

"I'd be delighted." The smile he flashed would melt a heart of stone, Carla decided, admiring the rest of his considerable attributes as he walked away.

Methos had been peripherally aware when MacLeod had come to the dance floor. Ever since that nasty incident in Bordeaux he always seemed to have this sixth sense about where the man was, what he was doing. Even when he didn't necessarily want to. Then, when Mac had begun to dance, he stepped back along with most of the rest of the patrons to watch. Duncan MacLeod was always a feast for the eye, but on the dance floor he was riveting, like a Svengali to his lithe, lovely partner, who moved with the confidence and control that only comes with training and talent. She responded to his sensuous, sure touch, swirling out and back, then languorously leaning back over his arm, then into his body again, their hips moving together in perfect synchronized rhythm. It was like watching them make love. Sexy, lusty, romantic and yet absolutely chaste.

He heard the applause when they finished, surprised to feel a brief rush of annoyance. He decided it was because MacLeod had always eschewed the spotlight, at least in the last century or so when photographs and videos had become common means to capture images and preserve them, potentially to be used against an Immortal past a normal lifespan. Foolish of him, Methos thought. Guess his libido got the best of him. He followed the Scotsman back towards their table, watching in amusement as he was approached again and again. Each time he managed with only a word or two or a gentle press of his hand to turn the admirer away, each of them looking like they had received a blessing rather than a rejection. No question about it, the man had charisma -- in spades.

He slipped into the booth after his friend. Mac was blotting his brow with a napkin, his long mahogany hair curling damply and sticking on the skin of his shoulders and neck. Methos started to speak, but was interrupted by yet another sweet young thing, this time male, shyly asking if he could join them. Again Mac managed to gently reject the advance without being insulting or unkind.

"Starting a fan club?" Methos asked, taking a long drink from his neglected beer.

"What's the matter? Jealous?" Mac asked with a smile. He had enjoyed the dance. He hadn't let go like that in a long time. The past half-century -- no, really, just the past half-decade had turned him into a guarded, closed-up tight-ass, he decided with a frown.

"Jealous! Of you? Just because you have half the women and a quarter of the men throwing themselves at you? Now why would I be jealous?" The ancient man was well into his Adam Pierson persona, letting his tongue wield irony in near-fatal blows.

"You brought me here!" Mac responded with a laugh, but Methos had not missed the shadow that had crossed the Highlander's face a moment before.

"Seriously, Mac, it's good to see you let loose a little," Methos leaned in to comment. "After all, it's nice to see the young folks having a good time."

Mac laughed again. "In many respects you're a lot younger than me. You always seem to be fascinated by the next "new thing" - the latest in music, in pop culture, everything except, of course, fashion." He leaned forward to say a little more quietly, "Although I'm sure you would look quite fetching in black leather, my dear." His eyes were crinkled up in merriment and Methos had to laugh with him, if only because it was so rare and wonderful to see the usually dour Scot so relaxed.

"You have no idea," Methos said even more quietly, letting the Highlander interpret the remark any way he might.

The expressive brown eyes widened a little in speculation. "And what is that supposed to mean? Don't tell me you are into that sort of thing."

"At one time or another, MacLeod, I've been into just about every 'sort of thing' you can think of, and probably a lot you can't." The hazel eyes glinted mischievously in the dim light.

"Aye, no doubt." Mac downed another large swallow of scotch and signaled for a refill as his imagination spun out of control. He had to deliberately shake his head to dispel a mental picture of the lean, hard body next to him in all manner of compromising situations.

Methos carefully turned away, gazing languidly over the crowd, letting his own imagination wander in similar directions, but with a different object in mind. It was only a shadow thought, an unfulfilled fantasy. And it would remain unfulfilled, he told himself firmly. The last few months he had deliberately stuck close to MacLeod, a self-appointed watchdog against the despair that had struck the man so hard and so frequently during the past year. He had not realized how deep that river had run, and how dangerously swift its waters until Mac had offered himself up as a willing sacrifice to an old adversary who had threatened Joe Dawson and Amanda as the only real leverage over probably the best swordsman of their Race. A bargain - MacLeod's life traded for that of his friends. Methos had broken the rules, had interfered and gunned down Liam O'Rourke. Mac ultimately fought the man fairly, as was his wont, taken his head, and seemed . . . reconciled? He supposed that was the word. Reconciled to the necessity of his continued existence.

It was a far cry from the eager embrace of life he had seen from the MacLeod when they had first met, but life had been horrifically unkind in the intervening years. The Gathering had taken its toll out of the man's soul and something precious had been lost along the way. Oh, the commitment to integrity, to honor, to the protection and welfare of his friends remained an immutable aspect of MacLeod's character. But as the circle of friends diminished the sweet smile and warm laugh became a rarity and it was clear the Highlander believed his very presence to be a threat to those he loved. So these days the man who through the centuries had given away love and caring in bounteous measure now guarded his heart carefully. Not out of fear for himself but because he feared for those around him should they get too close.

"What are you thinking?" the soft baritone broke through his ruminations, and he turned to be caught in the snare of those luminous brown eyes.

"I was thinking I wished I were as good a dancer as you," Methos replied.

"Oh, that." Mac dismissed the complement. "You are an excellent dancer, Me. . Adam. It's just all this wiggling and flailing around that doesn't fit your style. You're more the smooth, elegant ballroom dancer type. I bet you were a killer on the dance floor in the last century. All that precise movement and those sensual poses." The dark eyes glittered as he pictured Methos in a richly embroidered coat and tight breeches, guiding some lovely young woman in a diaphanous ballgown through the intricate patterns of a cotillion. "I'm just a sensualist at heart," he smiled as though it were an adequate explanation for his own talent. "I like touching."

I just bet you do, Methos thought speculatively, letting his eyes linger on the broad, square warrior's hands playing restlessly with the glass coaster on the table. The brawny Scot was a study in graceful motion, athletic gifts and competitive spirit. He would have been a warrior of one kind or another no matter the era or civilization in which he was raised. It was in his blood.

Just then another bold young woman asked MacLeod to dance and this time he went willingly, literally cuddling up to her in a slow dance. Another stirring of annoyance rubbed at Methos like an ill-fitting shoe and he decided he needed a distraction. It wasn't hard to find. Just glancing towards the dance floor prompted an immediate proposition, first by a comely young man, who he considered and then gently turned aside. He was infinitely flexible, but while he was in MacLeod's company he would play by MacLeod's rules. A willowy blond approached and he smiled and took her hand, moving to the crowded dance floor.

Mac watched over his partner's shoulder as the spare form that was Methos molded itself to the blond resting her head on his lean frame. This was more a style of dancing that suited the ancient man. The slow rhythms governed the smooth slide of his steps. His long fingers wrapped themselves around the small waist, holding the woman in a secure embrace. For a change the man had changed out of his usual tattered jeans and over-sized sweater and dressed in soft slacks and a loose silk shirt in a deep almost iridescent green. I'm not the only sensualist in the crowd, Mac thought, a little surprised at the eldest's willingness to get so physically close to another person in public.

His enjoyment in watching Methos dance brought home to him just how important the man had become to him. He had few friends left after the decimation of the Gathering. Methos had come to him like a gift straight from heaven. Or maybe not exactly heaven, he thought with a smile. Strong, wise but with his own heavy load of grief. For reasons unknown to Mac, the Oldest Man had saved him from the Dark Quickening and had befriended him again and again. The terrible tragedy of the Horseman had, after long reflection, only revealed that the ancient had lived a life far more complex and convoluted than Mac could hope to understand. Part of him feared that he was just a pawn in some larger scheme Methos had devised for his own long-term survival, but he had ultimately decided that it was something he could live with for the privilege of knowing the enigmatic and fascinating Methos.

Duncan MacLeod knew he needed people around him, needed to care, or he stopped feeling alive at all. And he had come to care a great deal about Methos. But that was the rub, wasn't it, he thought sadly. The more I care, the more I'm afraid to have them around. I really don't want to lose him.

The room suddenly felt too close and warm. With an apology he broke off the dance and left the floor, seeking a little quiet, a little fresh air. He edged through the heavy crowd toward the front door. Halfway there, he paused, his head snapping up in surprise. An Immortal presence. Not Methos', because after Bordeaux he could always identify Methos' signature thrum of power. He cautiously continued towards the front door, scanning the faces in the crowd.

The music ended and the woman, Andrea was her name, smiled up and him. Methos kissed her lightly on the forehead, thinking how very, very young she was. Sometimes mortals seemed like such children. It was such a shame that Immortals were normally only interested in killing each other. It reduced the possibilities for friendship or meaningful relationships of any kind to . . . almost no one. He edged through the thick wall of humanity back to his table but Mac wasn't there. He ordered another round of drinks assuming his companion had made a trip to the men's room but a few minutes later Michael appeared at the table and handed him a note.

"Sorry, man. The guy must be a real asshole to desert you like that," Michael rumbled, his black eyes angry and a little embarrassed for him.

"What?" But Michael just indicated that he should read the note, and walked back to his station at the front door.

Adam,

Taking Carla home. Sorry to leave you in the lurch, but I had a good time. Thanks. I'll call you tomorrow.

D.

P.S. This time, you get to pick up the tab.

Carla? Oh, yeah, that was the brunette dancer from earlier in the evening. The annoyance that had nagged at him all evening resurfaced. What the hell. He wiped his mouth and threw down the napkin. The drinks arrived just as he stood. He left them untouched, shrugging into his coat, heading for the door with his hands stuck deep into his pockets. Oh well, it was good to see Mac having a good time for a change. Wasn't that why I dragged him here? Why am I in such a funk?

He shouldered his way through the almost impassable crowd to the front door and took a deep breath as he stepped outside into the chill evening air.

"G'night Michael," he said as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

"G'night, Adam. Sorry your date went off with another guy like that. Really rude," he said quietly.

"Yeah, well, it happens," he replied. He got another five feet down the sidewalk before he stopped and turned back.

"Another guy?" he asked.

"Yeah. Big guy, a real jerk. Lookin' for somebody named Benjamin Adams. From the description it sounded a little like you, but I didn't like the look of him. Told him to get lost when he tries to slip me a sawbuck to get past the ropes. I was about to send for you when your pretty-boy date came out. The two of them talked for a minute and then your guy gave me the note to give to you and the two of them disappeared."

"Which way did they go?" A cold chill had settled on his shoulders and his mouth was suddenly dry as dust.

"Look, the guy's not worth ..."

"Which way did they go?!" he insisted.

"I think they headed east, toward Lamar Street, but..." his voice trailed off when Pierson whipped around and set off down the street at a fast trot.

"Damn you, MacLeod, don't do this," was his mantra as he searched, letting his instincts guide him toward the darkened, deserted part of town, a commercial warehouse district. Two blocks, three blocks. They would have gone far enough away so that the Quickening would not be seen from the club, he reasoned as he kept moving, searching. Then he froze. An intense cold sensation hit the base of his spine like a blow, sending him staggering to a nearby wall for support. It moved up and spread out across his shoulders before a second pain slammed him right between the eyes, making him gasp, his fingers instinctively digging into the rough brick wall until they left bleeding tracks. He pushed away, stumbling towards the flashes of light he could see brightening the night a couple of blocks away. It seemed like miles. Halfway there the streetlights all blew out, plunging the whole area into darkness just before the lightshow ahead of him sputtered and died.

He found him in a deserted parking lot, huddled in a trembling ball against the chain link fence, the bloodstained katana on the ground beside him. The body lay in a grotesque sprawl in the center, its head a dozen feet away. He forced himself to casually walk over and nudge the head with his foot to turn it so he could see the face.

"Dimitri," he murmured to himself. "Son of a bitch."

He turned to the still-shuddering Highlander, standing over him in the dark like a vulture. "Give me your keys. I'll go get the car and bring it around. It'll take me about fifteen minutes."

"Methos...," the man whispered.

"Don't, MacLeod. Just wait for me," Methos snapped, knowing his words sounded vaguely like a threat. Mac fumbled in his coat for the car keys, passing them to Methos in bloodstained fingers.

Mac was in a little better shape by the time he pulled the car up into the lot and together they gathered the body parts, stripping off all the identification and putting them in the extra large Hefty bag Mac conveniently kept in his trunk. Bloody Boy Scout, Methos thought irrationally, his anger barely contained. By the time they had weighted the bag with rocks and dumped it in the river it was past three o'clock in the morning. Methos drove to the dojo, following MacLeod to the freight elevator and up to his apartment.

They had hardly spoken while attending to the familiar and distasteful chore of disposing of the body. Mac immediately went to the liquor cabinet, pouring each of them a large scotch, handing Methos his and sinking stiffly into a chair.

But Methos just put his drink down and stared at the Scot in mute hostility.

"You're angry," Mac observed.

"Is that supposed to be an example of your great insight into my character?" he snapped.

Mac closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the chair for a moment, then rose and peeled off his coat. His sweater and dark pants were shredded and bloody.

"I'm sorry, Methos," he said at last. "I don't know what else to say."

"Sorry. Now there's a pathetic word if I ever heard one."

Mac started to respond and then stopped. If I say anything more it will just scare him away and it will have been for nothing, he thought.

"Well, you're the man of infinite words, Methos," he dropped into the oppressive silence at last. "Go ahead, yell at me if you want."

"As if it would make a difference," the man scoffed. "Did you think you could do it and hide it from me, MacLeod? That I wouldn't know? Well I've got a news flash for you Highlander. Ever since Bordeaux I can feel you take a Quickening."

Mac's eyes widened in surprise as his attention centered on the hard angles and planes of Methos' face. "What are you talking about?"

Methos dropped onto the couch, long legs sprawled out in front, fingers laced together over his belt buckle. "Remember Kronos and Silas? Remember that moment when it seemed like we were both together, standing in the same body, thinking the same thoughts?" The tight-lipped expression on MacLeod's face was a tacit admission that he did. "Well, suuuprise, suuuprise, Highlander. The next time you took a head it hit me like a sack of bricks."

"Why wouldn't I have felt that?" Mac asked, clearly astonished.

"Because, you idiot, I don't take heads! While you," he surged up and paced the room, his hands stuck into his pockets. "You lop them off like some demented gardener with an out-of-control weed-whacker!"

Mac shut his eyes briefly. Methos wondered what was going on behind that closed, hard expression.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly.

"I didn't want to take the chance that it would be a distraction at a critical moment."

"That's Bullshit! And the first time you took a head? Didn't you think I should know about this little . . . phenomenon so I could be prepared for it?" Mac asked.

"Beside the point, MacLeod. You knew Dimitri was after me, not you, and you stepped in anyway." Methos seemed anxious to move the conversation away from his own motivations.

Mac hung his head, then looked up at his friend.

"Don't you do that, MacLeod. Don't you give me that lost-puppy-dog, 'I'm so sorry, please forgive me' look!" Methos snapped. "If I had done what you did tonight you would have cussed me out six ways from Sunday and not spoken to me for weeks!"

Mac nodded, then stood, pulling the tattered sweater off over his head revealing a blood-streaked torso. "I understand, Methos," he said quietly. "I was wrong. I didn't realize the guy was important to you. I just . . . well it doesn't matter now." He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, leaving Methos standing, fuming.

Mac awkwardly yanked off his pants as he turned on the shower. He knew he wasn't handling this well, but his mind was in a complete turmoil and his body . . . well his body was worse and it made trying to deal with Methos rationally almost impossible. He stepped under the tepid water and gradually turned it to cold until it felt like knives slicing right into his skin. The erotic afterburn of a Quickening was uncomfortable and often embarrassing for a man who prided himself on physical control, but it wasn't usually quite so debilitating and downright painful. And this one just seemed to get worse the more he was forced to deal with Methos' anger. For some reason just standing there looking at the ancient, trying to corral his thoughts into coherence made his body go into overdrive until he thought he would scream, and that really would scare the bejeezus out of the Oldest Immortal.

Methos heard the shower go on, wondering why his brain seemed to disassociate from his mouth whenever he was around MacLeod. He hadn't intended on telling him about the bizarre overflow effect of the Quickenings. It had seemed too private, like giving the Scot some sort of power over him. Now Mac thought he was angry out of some proprietary notion over Dimitri's head. That was a laugh. A part of him was delighted the Highlander had done the bastard in. A part of him was also intensely aware of what MacLeod was doing right now, almost as if he could feel the burn in his own flesh.

If only he could make Mac understand that his actions made such a difference, that others were affected by them in ways he evidently didn't understand. Somehow, though, as that thought meandered through his mind, his body made a totally independent decision. Later he would rationalize that what he did was a means to an end, a way to dramatize a point that needed to be made. But at the time it just ... happened. The bathroom door was open, he was inside, his clothes had dropped away and the shower curtain was flung back, revealing the magnificent realization of his imaginings, the fodder for his fantasies for the past five years.

"Methos! What...?" Mac's shocked face turned to him as he was joined under the freezing cascade.

"Be quiet!" Methos snarled, pushing him, turning him so he faced the hard spray.

The long arms reached around, adjusting the water temperature and volume to a soft, warm rain.

"Methos, please, this isn't the time or place..."

"This is exactly the time and place, Duncan," the low voice whispered just behind his ear. "You took something from me, and now I will take something from you, except you will enjoy it. As a matter of fact you need it, don't you? Rather desperately."

"Methos, I . . .uh, ..." the voice trailed off as big hands moved over his chest, gently circling his nipples. He tried again, trying to ignore the urge to lean into those long fingers. "Please,...don't do this," he gasped, twitching as one of those clever hands now had a bar of soap and was moving ever closer to his groin.

"You can stop me if you really want to, Duncan," the voice whispered. "But I don't think you really want to. I know how it feels." The soapy hand moved into the dark hair between his legs, never quite touching his straining, Quickening-engorged cock. "You've been with women after a Quickening, no doubt. Like a rutting stallion, weren't you? Afraid you'd hurt her, every move an agony of marginal control. But have you ever been with a man afterwards? An Immortal man? No? I thought not. No need for control, no necessity to hold back." The soapy hand was now behind him, rubbing over his buttocks, reaching under, gliding smoothly over his scrotum, cradling his testicles, kneading them gently. A mindless groan escaped him, his fingers digging into the tile wall.

The other hand -- he had momentarily forgotten there was another hand -- crept down over his abdomen, finally touching then enfolding his rigid penis, and he could not stop the cry that escaped his lips.

"Oooh," the maddening voice in his ear continued. "My, my, that's a hard one. Solid bone. Not even enough loose flesh to slide -- back and forth." Mac's hips jerked forward in a completely involuntary response.

"Methos, stop! I can't take this!" he finally managed go choke out.

"You have to, MacLeod. You know you do. None of us knows whether it's the orgasm that finally settles the Quickening, or the fact that the Quickening has finally settled that triggers the orgasm, but without release you will be like this for a long, long time." The soapy hand slid up and back along the huge, purple shaft. Mac's response was a strangled whimper and gasp, and he reached down to snatch the tormenting hand away, only to have himself slammed into the cold tile wall.

"No! This is My game, MacLeod. It's time for you to let somebody else play, for a change. Let yourself go, Duncan," the voice added more gently. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

Methos waited for a moment to let Duncan decide, his arms folded gently around the heavily muscled torso. He could feel Mac take several long, deep breaths, the broad back expanding and releasing. Then the dark head nodded slightly and he felt some of the tension drain away. It was a supremely frightening moment. He hadn't really intended things to go this far, but it was too late to back out now. His own cock was hard and trembling under the twin stimulations of the residual Quickening effect and the touch and feel of the beautiful, responsive, desperately needy body under his hands.

Mac didn't know why he acquiesced. Guilt for taking Dimitri's head? The gut wrenching need that was screaming for a release he couldn't seem to reach by himself? Or was it the sensual pleasure of feeling Methos at his back where the smooth broad chest fitted against him like a second skin? Perhaps, though, it was some deep unacknowledged desire to give over control, to let someone else carry the burden, just for awhile.

The long fingers clamped around his cock again, and again he jerked. The tension was making his jaw ache and he realized he was going for long moments without breathing, his teeth clenched until he could hear them grind inside his head. Again the hands trailed over his chest, kneading his nipples until they burned and he strained into the touch.

The voice whispered in his ear once more. "Hang on, Highlander. This may be the wildest ride of your long life." Methos grasped his forearms and moved them up, directing him without words to hang on to the showerhead as he nudged his legs apart. The extraneous thought entered Mac's head that this would have been difficult but for the extra large shower stall he had installed. One of his few real concessions to personal luxury. Until this moment he hadn't considered the other possible benefits.

Then any rational thought fled as a hand slid down between his buttocks. It was slick, but not with soap. Something cool and oily. He gasped as a finger played gently at the small pucker of flesh that was the gateway to a sexual experience that was not unknown to him, but very rare and not always pleasurable.

"Relax, Duncan," the voice whispered. "I promised I wouldn't hurt you. Just let it happen. It will be unlike anything you've ever felt." The voice was hypnotic, carrying him past the threshold when the finger actually entered, then paused. It moved again, sending strange sensations chasing up his spine, affecting his already ragged breathing. Then again, a second finger, enlarging the space, and all the while the voice whispering. He couldn't concentrate on the words anymore, just the sounds and the feelings as the ache that was tormenting him continued to build.

"Breathe slowly, Mac," the voice broke through the haze of sensation. "You're hyperventilating." Mac realized his hands and face were tingling and he forced himself to take long, slow breaths as the intruding fingers moved and stretched just inside him, careful not to touch that internal cluster of nerves so integrally associated with sexual pleasure. It burned, it tingled just at the edge of pain, it did things he couldn't even describe and still the ache built until it reached intolerable levels.

"Now, Methos!" he finally growled.

He felt Methos' stiff cock at his back, pressing for entry, then it slid smoothly inside him, moving inward in a long slow expert motion, pressing at last that magic internal trigger point in a body already charged like a bomb waiting to explode.

"OH, CHRIST!" he screamed, pulling on the showerhead, slamming up against the wall with Methos' weight pressing against him, inside him, surrounding him. The warmth, the tightness, the sense of being filled overwhelmed his senses, but the white-hot sexual electricity that crashed through every barrier he had ever erected was nearly enough to make him pass out. And Methos just held him there tight against the wall while he sobbed, so over stimulated he was no longer able to distinguish pain from pleasure.

"I told you it would be like nothing you'd experienced before, Duncan," the voice whispered after a moment. "Now just let it happen." Methos pulled him slightly away from the wall, and reached down to grasp his cock. His hand was hard, oily, wet and warm.

Duncan could feel the Oldest Immortal's calluses through his over-sensitized flesh and he leaned heavily into the touch, needing it, wanting it. Then a totally new realization rolled over him in a flash of stunning insight. Here was a strength to equal his own, someone on whom he could lean, someone who knew him, understood him, who sought him out not for protection but for companionship. Someone to trust, not just with his life, but with his weakness, his unspoken and unfulfilled desire that, for once, he could be cared for, instead of caregiver. The world shifted, and what had been an exercise in self-control suddenly became something else entirely, something new and incredibly precious.

Methos felt the body under his hands go completely still. The breathing evened out and he could feel muscles relax fully at last and he thought he heard his name whispered on the Highlander's lips like a blessing.

"Yes, Duncan," he answered softly. "I'm here." More words fell out of his mouth, but he no longer knew what they were as his own body began to respond to an ancient urge and he pulled out of that tight, wonderfully warm place and pushed in again, hearing Duncan's wordless cry as he again pushed against nerves that fed a direct, electric path to Quickening-enhanced pleasure so intense that it was almost pain. His hand began sliding in time to his thrusts and the burn that started deep in his gut spread, contracting his hips and pushing them forward hard, harder. His breath became ragged and he knew he could not hold back for more than a few more seconds when the body under his hands seized, every muscle contracting into tight, motionless, warm, wet marble.

Duncan felt it coming at last as Methos pressed deep inside him. Time stopped. Breathing stopped. He almost thought his heart would stop as the sensation began in his heels, flashed warmly up his calves to the inside of his thighs. The cock buried in him moved out and slammed deep again and this time the heat expanded up into his groin and belly in a violent surge, exploding at last in long sweet waves. If he had had any breath he would have cried out as his hips jerked forward into Methos' strong hand, finally, finally spilling warm fluid in heavy spurts over those sensitive fingers at the same moment he felt heat filling his insides to overflowing. Methos clutched him around the chest, his teeth dragging over his shoulders in a rictus of release as he reached his own long shuddering climax. Then all Mac knew was a roar of sound in his ears, an intense wave of relief and pleasure that lifted him right out of his body, and the comforting certainty that Methos would be there to catch him when he came back to earth.

Methos lay his head against the broad back, catching his breath, subliminally aware that Mac had stopped breathing at all for the past moment or two as hot semen spilled in copious quantities over his hand and washed away in the warm spray of the shower.

"Oops," he grunted as the big Scot sagged, knees buckling. It was a controlled fall, with Methos taking the brunt of the bruises, desperately hanging on to the slippery hard body that outweighed him by twenty pounds or so. They ended up in the bottom of the shower against the back wall, Mac's back cradled against him, the Highlander's long hair spread across Methos' pale smooth chest.

As Oldest Immortal gradually caught his breath he gently moved one errant wet curl off the Scot's cheek. He wished he could look into that face right now, to see it flushed with pleasure. From this angle he could see long eyelashes brushing against the golden cheeks, water drops clinging to their tips. And he could see Mac's lush bottom lip where a line of teeth marks had almost broken through the skin, bruises now quickly fading. The head moved. The chest expanded and contracted with a breath and the eyes fluttered open. Just before his friend came back to full awareness, the Oldest Man dropped a gentle kiss on that dark head, not knowing if he would ever have another opportunity to acknowledge, even to himself, the depth of the passion he felt for this man.

"Methos?" the gentle baritone rumbled after a few minutes. "Are you okay?"

Mac felt the chest behind him vibrate with laughter. Almost a minute went by as Methos chuckled, then put his long arms around him, one thin hand wrapping around another lean wrist. Finally, he gasped, "Only you, Duncan. Only you would ask that at this particular, strange, wonderful moment!"

He looked down just in time to see a puzzled frown cross that classic face. "Why?" Mac asked with such simple sincerity that it set the Oldest Immortal off again. He felt the arms tighten around him.

"Damn you, MacLeod," Methos spoke at last, but his voice was gentle. "This is what pissed me off in the first place. You seem to think your life, your welfare, your happiness are, by definition, less important than almost anyone else's."

Mac reached for Methos forearm, folding his hand around it, leaning his head back a little to catch a glimpse of the sharp-angled face hovering over him. "Is that what you thought I was doing?"

"Wasn't it? Another heroic intervention. The Clan Chieftain throwing himself between anyone in the Clan and danger?"

The dark head slowly moved back and forth. "No," he said quietly. "That's not what I was doing at all." He leaned forward, climbing a little unsteadily to his feet, then turned to the pale man still on the shower floor. "Come on. We're running out of hot water." Mac reached out a hand and Methos took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. The two men stood for a moment, so close they could each feel the other's breath.

Then Methos reached past MacLeod and turned off the water. He stepped out, grabbed a towel and threw it in MacLeod's general direction, then found a second one for himself.

Mac watched Methos dry off, fascinated to see the long lean muscles so taut and clearly defined under alabaster skin, so different from his own dark, heavy, earth-bound frame. The incredible age of the ancient man with his perpetually youthful exterior was evident in a body that was honed down to a minimum of muscle and tissue, just enough and no more. Burnished by time and experience into an essence of life that transcended cultural heritage, race and gender.

Methos glanced up and saw Mac watching, but the blush that brought a distinct pink to that angular face was not for being seen, it was for what he saw. If the oldest man was all lean essence and ethereal energy, the Highlander was life itself. If ever there was a man who should be a god, this was he, Methos thought to himself. In all his millennia he had never, ever known anyone who affected him like this. From the very moment he saw him standing in the entrance to his Paris apartment, wide-eyed, square jaw agape, instantly recognizing him for who and what he was and calling him by a name no one had called him in hundreds of years, he had been ... smitten? That was hardly an appropriate word, he decided. Entranced? Enthralled? He couldn't really think of a word, for all the tens of thousands at his disposal in more languages than were worth enumerating, many of them long since vanished in the dust of the ages he had traveled. Reluctantly he looked away, sensing Mac's discomfort.

Mac brusquely toweled himself off, reached around Methos to a long, hooded robe hanging on the back of the door and slipped past him. Oh well, Methos thought with a sinking feeling, so much for that brilliant idea. I guess I'm lucky he didn't deck me. Okay, you old fart, the only way you're going to get out of this one with your dignity and his friendship still intact is to make light of it and move on. Some fantasies were never meant to be fulfilled.

He wrapped his towel around his waist, picked up the trail of his clothes that extended past the bathroom door and followed the Scot into the main room. MacLeod was busying himself in the kitchen, putting on a kettle for tea.

The silence was awkward and uncomfortable.

"You don't need to worry, MacLeod. It was just a convenient way of doing what needed to be done. I enjoyed it, but I don't expect you to suddenly start watching The Martha Stewart Show, or to redecorate the loft in chintz and start working out to Richard Simmons tapes," Methos finally said in a deliberately bantering tone.

"Is that so?" Mac asked in a neutral voice.

What the hell does that mean? Methos groped for what the man might be feeling or expecting. Does he hate me? Is he disgusted with us both?

"Is that all it was then? A convenient fuck?" the Scot's tone was still calm and even, belying the harsh words.

"No, of course not!" Methos dropped the towel and yanked on his underwear and then his pants. "It was a way to make a point. That you are not the only one in the universe who likes to have control over his life. That there are times that it's okay, even pleasurable, to let others be in charge." He pushed his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, now wrinkled, dirty and spotted with blood. Ruined. What a shame. Ithad been one of his few really nice shirts. Methos watched his friend for a minute as Mac pulled two cups down from an upper shelf, then reached for an elaborately decorated tin of exotic tea. There was no evidence that he had heard a word he was saying.

"MacLeod? Are you listening?" He was across the room in a few strides, stopping the Scot by planting himself in his way. "You also seem to have no idea about the effect of your actions on others! You think it's somehow okay for you to die in the cause of saving the rest of us from our own folly, rather than for you to step back and let others deal with their own trials and tribulations."

"That's not true!" Mac growled, pushing Methos out of the way so he could measure tea into a delicate antique celedon pot.

"Isn't it? How many times have you stepped in when Amanda was in trouble? Or Richie, or, just as a 'for instance' earlier tonight when you intervened on my behalf."

"It's you that's not listening, Methos," Duncan said quietly.

"To what? You haven't said anything!" Methos finally snapped, worried and embarrassed that he had made a terrible, terrible error. "Look, it's very late and we're both tired. I'm not going to apologize for what happened because I think we both enjoyed it. But I also know it doesn't really mean anything, Mac. We're both old enough and experienced enough to deal with that, I assume." He snatched up his coat and pulled it on. "See you around." He turned to the door.

"Ask me why I did it, Methos."

Methos stopped and turned, annoyed that this discomforting conversation was continuing, afraid of where it would lead.

"What?"

"I said, ask me why I did it."

"Why you did what?"

"You are determined to make this difficult, aren't you?"

The Scotsman should register those eyes as a lethal weapon, Methos thought, knowing he was held in thrall to their liquid brown gaze as surely as if his feet were encased in cement. He steeled himself against the ugly rejection he was sure was coming. The Highlander was a straight as an arrow, with Calvinistic underpinnings to boot. He would be lucky if the man would even want to be seen in public with him again.

"Duncan, I haven't a clue what you're talking about," he finally said, throwing up every emotional barrier he could think of. This was going to hurt.

Mac took a step towards him, and another, then another, until he was so close Methos could smell the clean, soapy fragrance from his skin distantly tinged with the slightly acrid and tantalizing scent of his sex and post-Quickening charged male hormones still surging just beneath the surface.

"I'm talking about why I went after Dimitri. It wasn't because I didn't think you could take him," he stated matter-of-factly. "It wasn't because I was trying to protect you," he added. "It wasn't out of any altruistic or self-sacrificial motive at all." Mac's eyes followed the prominent Adam's apple of his friend's long, pale elegant neck as the man swallowed before the long pause in the conversation forced the old man to speak.

"Okay, I'll bite, MacLeod. Why did you do it?"

Mac looked down at the floor. Color crept up past the shoulders and into his neck, finally flushing his cheeks. Methos did not recall ever seeing the Highlander blush before. "Because," he stopped, then took a deep breath and the words came out in a rush. "Because I was afraid. I was afraid if you knew you were being hunted, that you would disappear, go into hiding." The dark head rose and those big, sad eyes caught his once again. "And ... I wanted you to stay."

He wanted me to stay. He wanted me to stay?

"I still do." The big, square hand reached up and knuckles softly grazed his cheek. "More than ever." The hand traveled, one finger trailing over his ear and down, tracing a path over the tendons of his neck, finally resting the big palm solidly on his shoulder, just where it curved up towards his neck. It felt warm and alive and somehow managed to occupy every nerve ending in his body as Methos closed his eyes in order to concentrate on the sensation, felt his chin lift, his neck stretch up as a broad thumb stroked his skin.

Then there was a soft brush against his lips, teasing, gentle, chaste, and he was enfolded in a blanket of pure living warmth and strength. The soft lips traveled, moving up, landing on his forehead in a gentle blessing. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to break the spell. "Stay," the voice whispered next to his ear as the soft silk of long hair brushed his cheeks.

Methos tongue suddenly seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed again to release the tension. "Duncan, are you sure? This..." But his words were cut off by the play of soft, sensuous lips against his own, this time accompanied by the barest tip of a tongue, questing, moistening. With a hungry gasp, Methos opened his mouth, his heart and his mind and let his arms seek his heart's desire, pushing underneath the robe to the smooth, broad shoulders, feeling through the soft curly mat of hair on the deep chest.

The answering kiss was deep and sweet and achingly gentle even though the ancient could feel the bigger man's erection throbbing hotly against him. Methos forced himself to stop, to pull back and look into the deep brown eyes, now widely dilated, the lips red and moist.

"No, Duncan," he said breathlessly, reading sudden confusion in the dusky, beautiful face. He reached up and grasped thick handfulls of long, damp hair, holding the man still. "I'm not some fragile flower!" he insisted, his grip tightening. "I don't want your tenderness, not now!" He went on the attack, ripping the robe off the rest of the way and closing over that incredible mouth with his own, tasting, pushing back until Mac was trapped against the kitchen island, finally biting down until Mac gasped and turned away.

"Wait, Methos...just wait a minute. I want this, but...this is not the way I make love, to you or anyone else. It's too...dangerous." The bronzed body was trembling, fists clenching, the muscles across his back rippling with tension.

"Look at me, Duncan," Methos commanded. When he got no response he moved, deliberately placing himself in front of the Highlander. "Look at me!" He took the beautiful face in his hands and held it until their eyes met at last. "If this is what you want, let's not do it by half measures. You've been locking yourself away more and more and more, afraid to let your passions loose. I bet you've never let them entirely loose. Oh, I have no doubt that you are an exquisitely tender and thoughtful lover, Duncan MacLeod. But there's an animal inside, a beast you feared would cause pain or damage. But with me it doesn't matter!"

"O' course it matters, and you don't know what you're asking!"

"But I do!" Methos insisted. "Your passion is what thrills me, Duncan. But you've become afraid. Ever since the Dark Quickening you've tethered yourself so tightly it's slowly strangling the life out of you. Where do you think this despair comes from, the lack of hope that almost blinded you into sacrificing yourself to O'Rourke?" He threaded his fingers through the soft hair, wanting to kiss away the desperation and fear and raw need he saw written on Duncan's face. "But I have dealt with my own demons, Highlander. And I've already seen the worst of yours. Don't confuse your passion with the hate of the Dark Quickening, Duncan," he said with a smile.

He guided the tense man towards the bed and pulled him down to sit beside him, letting his hands roam lightly over biceps and deep chest, neck and chin. "I need your passion, Duncan. And for me to be the one to set it free, to be allowed to see what no one else has seen?" he took a long, anticipatory breath. "I've lived for a long, long time, MacLeod. I don't know that I've ever wanted anything this much."

He stood and deliberately, provocatively, slid the silk shirt off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, matching the intense dark stare with his own. When his fingers went to the button on his trousers, Mac reached out and he stopped, stepping closer, letting the Scot's broad, trembling fingers loosen the fastening and lower the zipper. The clothing slid smoothly to the floor and Mac folded his arms around him, holding him so that the slim hips pressed against his chest as his tongue began a heated exploration of the hard, rippling muscles of Methos abdomen, moving up to suckle the nipples in turn until each was purpled and taut in response to the stimulation. At last Mac slipped both hands underneath the waistband of his shorts and slid them to the floor and Methos stepped out of them, letting MacLeod feel him with his eyes, and doing the same in return.

Mac's whole body was flush and a sheen of sweat made him seem to almost glow in the lamplight as his chest rose and fell quickly. "Methos, I think..." he began.

"No, Duncan," Methos whispered, stepping close, sitting and drawing his lover - my lover, he thought with a sense of wonder -- down onto the covers. "Don't think. Just feel. If you let yourself truly feel and allow yourself to act on those feelings, you cannot hurt me in any way that's important."

Their eyes met for a long moment, and Duncan moved over him, his hair a black curtain blocking out all other awareness, and his mouth descended....

And pulled all the air right out of him, first with a tongue that swept through his own hot mouth, then pulled, drawing Methos' in, setting up a rhythm and a suction that would have made him pant, if he'd had the breath to manage it. And when accompanied by the hand that had slipped between his thighs, cupping his testicles and kneading them just at the edge of pain, his body lit up like a candle with the flame burning bright and hot all the way from his hips to his navel. And still the mouth wouldn't let go. Sparkles began to form behind his eyes, but he didn't pull away, couldn't bring himself to make Mac stop and he got harder and hotter.

Air. He sucked in great gulps of it even as his hips lifted right up off the bed, straining to be touched, to be held by that warm hand that hovered between his legs. But instead it went lower just as Duncan's dark head dove down, moving across his chest again, nipping sharply in random places, his shoulder, his nipples, his abdomen, suddenly delving his tongue into his navel. The hand pressed behind his scrotum, brushing, then pushing at last against his most private places.

"Mac!" he gasped. "I thought I was going to be the one to drive you over the edge, not the other way around."

MacLeod loomed up over him and Methos thought he would come right then and there. The dark eyes glittered, the sensuous red lips were swollen, his hair fanned around him like the aura of a dark angel. He was magnificent. A lion. A wild, untamed beast.

Mac said nothing, just straddled him, settling his weight high on Methos' thighs, letting his rock-hard shaft brush against Methos' each time the older man's cock throbbed and moved. He ran his hands over his torso, pinching his nipples enough to make him flinch. Then big hands closed around each arm, pushing them behind his head until he could lock them tight together in a one-handed, steel grip. Then he slipped off, going back to what he had been doing before, his face a mask of concentration, watching every twitch and gasp of the lean and finely honed body he was molding into something of his own making.

Methos was determined not to deny Mac anything, but his own need to come was getting fierce and all the Highlander seemed to be doing was dragging out his torment. Those lush lips kept tracing over his nipples, biting down hard enough periodically to keep him tense in anticipation, nearing but never quite touching his cock no matter how hard he strained. And one hand kept periodically brushing up against his anus, just enough to keep him aware and sensitive but not enough to bring any real satisfaction.

Then with a suddenness that forced a startled cry from his throat, the hot mouth closed over his cock, taking him deeply even as the roaming hand finally penetrated, moving inside him, the twin stimulation taking him right over the edge as he felt the orgasm sweep upwards in a strong contraction. He arched into the warmth of his lover's mouth, panting, gasping, wanting to dig his fingers into that long mane of hair, but his hands were still firmly pinned. The force of it, of coming in Duncan's mouth as his finger moved inside him, left him gasping. His skin tingled as though static electricity clung to every surface. Mac released his wrists at last and Methos closed his eyes and let his breath even out, physically sated yet oddly still dissatisfied. Then the light on the surface of his eyelids changed and he opened his eyes to see Duncan looking down at him, an almost feral smile curving the corner of his mouth.

"Duncan," Methos managed to murmur past his lethargy, "I thought...what about you?" He could feel the man's erection still stiff against his thigh.

"I can wait," was the answering whisper. "This is my fantasy, Methos. And I want to make you come so many times you beg me to stop."

"But..." his protest was lost as the first intruding finger was joined by a second. The other hand stroked his face, his eyes, his neck. Finally it found his mouth, tracing across his lips, seeking entry until Methos opened and now found a thick hard finger in his mouth moving in concert with the fingers below, setting up a slow rhythm. When Mac's mouth closed again on his chest, sucking his nipples in the same rhythm, he was realized he was quickly getting hard again. So hard. It throbbed. It ached. It felt so good. It seemed to go on forever and still the fingers worked until he was sucking frantically on the callused digit, desperate to have Duncan inside him.

Then all movement stopped. There was a long empty pause as Methos waited, eyes closed, spreading his thighs as far apart as Mac's nearness would allow in invitation. But the absence of sensation made him tense, then finally open his eyes. Mac was just looking at him, dark eyes swirling in a myriad of muted autumn colors. Methos felt like his whole being was suspended in time, aching at the sudden lack of stimulation as though it had become an addiction that defined his existence.

"Come," Mac whispered. The vibrations from that one word rolled around in his head like the echo of his deepest, hidden most secret desire.

Impossibly, at that one word, as though his soul were no longer his own, his body obeyed. He gasped and his back arched and he came in long undulations of heat, warm semen spilling over his belly as Duncan watched.

He was sinking into oblivion. Somewhere warm and safe and secure. His body was spent beyond capacity to feel anything, know anything. And it was wonderful. Except he was being moved, turned. With a deep breath he forced himself to open his eyes, finding himself pillowed on that great, bronzed chest against a soft mat of hair, listening to the deep thrum of a fast, steady heartbeat. For a few moments it was glorious as the broad hand stroked his hair and back, petting him like a cat. Then the hands moved over his back, across his buttocks. It was the teasing again of his entrance there that made him groan. No more, he wanted to say, but no words came out of his mouth. Instead his body pushed into that sensation, seeming to have given over all control, all will, all power to another.

And he was aware of the huge cock still throbbing against him, and knew Duncan was not done with him yet. His shoulders were lifted and he felt the chill of the drying semen against his stomach as their bodies parted and he was propped up against powerful legs. Mac's erection was trapped underneath him, awareness of its heat and length becoming the center of his universe. His hands were moved, his fingers dipped in the fluid smeared on both their bodies, then pressed against the hard shaft and he knew what Duncan wanted.

He trembled in almost fearful anticipation as he stroked, spreading the liquid, mixing it with the precum that glistened at the purpled head while at the same time the big hand behind him pressed again for entry, stretching him, teasing him, letting him push back. Methos was well past the point of comprehension of his own physical reactions. When he felt his own cock stir all he could do was continue to let MacLeod touch him, move him like a puppet, control him like he had controlled the dancer earlier. Was it only this evening? Dancing. It was like dancing, being led to the beat of a rhythm that erased rational thought.

At Mac's guiding touch he lifted himself up and pressed, pushing back and down onto that engorged cock until he could take no more. A part of him screamed. It hurt. Mac was huge inside him, filling him, ripping him apart. Completing him, making him whole at last. When he felt the hit against his prostate he froze, the sensation sizzling through him, making him gasp. The combination of size and pain and stimulation made him instinctively pull away, but Mac had a firm grip on Methos' rising cock now and his movement pushed into that warmth, triggering another pulse backward.

It set up an insane rocking motion, intense pain with intense pleasure until Methos was crying aloud with each movement, not knowing which was which anymore. Duncan pressed his hips upward, pushing in with each stroke, his expression finally transported to some far-off realm of internal ecstasy, rocking faster and harder. With a roar he finally grabbed Methos' hips and slammed into him. Methos screamed as something inside tore and the acid burn of hot come filled him, the pain and pleasure peaking and pushing him over the edge as he fell into one last impossible orgasm that melded agony and ecstasy into an indecipherable tidal wave of completion.

As he trembled and shivered in over-stimulated aftershock, big arms folded around him, lowering him to the bed and they lay together, gasping for air, Mac stroking Methos' short, silky hair as he murmured words Methos didn't understand. When Duncan pulled out of him Methos hissed with the pain as blood and other fluids spilled over his thighs, and he felt the arms tighten around him, finally hearing what the Highlander was saying.

"I'm sorry, Methos," he was whispering. "So sorry. I hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Stop," the Oldest Immortal finally managed to say. "Stop it, Duncan." He captured one of those big hands and laced it with his own fingers, bringing it to his lips, kissing each digit in turn, tasting himself there. "It wasn't what I had expected, but it was wonderful. I said you couldn't hurt me in any way that was important, and you didn't."

Ancient hazel eyes caught and held deep, sweet chocolate ones. He let Mac's hand go and traced a long finger over an unruly black eyebrow. "You have given me a great gift, Duncan. You let me see the beast...and he is beautiful beyond imagining."

The dark head bent and buried itself in his shoulder. He heard Duncan's breath catch in his throat, almost letting a sob escape.

"What is it?" Methos asked, knowing but wanting his friend to express his thoughts.

The voice was slightly muffled, and he could feel his soft breath against his skin as he spoke. "I don't understand you, Methos. I don't understand why you're here." A small chuckled vibrated against him. "I was thinking this evening at the club, watching you, that a foolish, young, tight-assed barbarian like me could never be more to you than a brief affair." The head came up and their eyes met. "And I was afraid that if we did that, it would ruin our friendship. Then...you...surrendered to me," he said breathlessly. "But now..."

"Hush!" Methos scolded. "You may be a young, tight-assed barbarian," he smiled. "But you're my barbarian. My magnificent barbarian," he repeated. "And it's not just that you are beautiful beyond belief, it's because you have a passion and commitment to living that fills and warms my old, empty soul. You make me feel alive again, Duncan, like there's a purpose to all this." He paused, soaking in the sheer life energy that the Highlander exuded like most people expel breath. "And yes, to answer your earlier question," he smiled. "As if there were any doubt or, at the moment, I had a choice...," he moved uncomfortably, trying to avoid quickly darkening bruises and stiffening muscles, "I'll stay."

He was rewarded with the most brilliant smile the gods had ever graced on a human countenance, followed by a long, sweet, lingering kiss.

Mac gave his friend a warm sponge bath, gently washing away blood and semen and sweat, then lay down beside him and pulled the smaller man close so that Methos was resting against his chest. Methos ached, inside and out, but was as totally relaxed as he ever remembered feeling. He started to drift to sleep when a low rumbling question at his back stirred him back to consciousness.

"What?" he murmured.

"You said what I did wasn't what you expected." Mac commented. "I just wanted to know why."

"Oh." Oh dear. This could get him into trouble.

"I guess I expected you to just...take me. But I think I understand. You need to feel in control. What you did was to take that to the extreme. But..." he wasn't sure if he should continue.

"But?" Mac prompted.

Methos made his stiff, reluctant body move, turning until he could see the Highlander's face. "But there was a moment there, when we made love before, when you let go, Mac. When you truly relinquished yourself to me. I guess I was hoping...someday..." he let the thought hang in the air.

Mac looked into that sharp-planed face, the complex green-gold eyes full of hope and concern. It was the most completely unguarded expression he had ever seen there. He was deeply moved and had to swallow past the sudden stiffness in his throat. He put his hands on that long neck, stroking his thumbs along the ivory skin of Methos' jaw. "I've never surrendered to anyone, Methos, not completely. Not in four hundred years. Mortals are far too fragile, and until you there was no one I could trust, no one who could deal with my demons, my beaste. I don't really know if I can. But I can try. Certainly after what I just did, I owe you equal time," he smiled a little tentatively.

Methos' head lowered to rest on Mac's chest, where he stayed for a moment, privately struggling to quell the surge of strong emotion the man's words had triggered. It almost felt like love, but it was too soon, too frightening to acknowledge. Then he chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't worry about it right this minute, Highlander. I'm not up to the challenge. I may not be 'up' to anything for at least a week!"

Mac raised Methos' face to his own for a hard, bruising kiss. "That's what Immortal healing is for, Old Man. I'll give you twelve hours, max."

One long look at the passion written in those dark eyes was enough to convince the ancient man anything was possible. That was the true essence of the Highlander's magic.


-finis-