Fumbling Toward the Light by MacGeorge

Fumbling Toward the Light
by MacGeorge

Mac's consciousness stirred with a disorienting but delightful sense of dislocation in time and place, back to a time of childish innocence, of acceptance, of belonging and security. He lay very still for a moment, trying to capture and hold on to this precious sense memory. He could almost smell the acrid smoke of the peat fire, hear his father's heavy snores, feel the weight of the heavy wool and furs needed to keep warm through the long, cold winter nights in the Scottish Highlands.

He reluctantly opened his eyes at last, recognizing the soft morning light filtering through the high windows of his loft in Seacouver, some four centuries distant from those events. He smiled as he recognized the soft snore beside him. That must have been the trigger for that moment of pre-conscious nostalgia, he decided as his eyes focused on the lean body half-exposed beside him.

So many times in his childhood, before his first death and the painful rejection he had suffered at the hands of his father and his clan, he had tumbled into his pallet with a multitude of cousins, his best friend Robert MacLeod foremost among them. They would whisper and tell each other lies and tall tales until Ian, his father and Chief of the Clan, would threaten them with endless, onerous chores to get them to be quiet and go to sleep. The innocent comfort, the sense of belonging and family he felt with this man sleeping next to him, evoked that warmth with a strength that tightened his throat. He reached out, unable to resist lightly stroking that fine, pale skin. It was cool to the touch, and Mac snuggled up against Methos' long back and pulled him close to his own body to provide warmth to the thinner man.

As he did, more recent and far more provocative memories flooded his mind's eye. Methos' outrage at Mac's intervention the night before when he'd taken on a battle intended for the oldest Immortal. The harsh words they had exchanged while Mac was still under the confusing, erotic, electric thrall of a Quickening. Then somehow anger evolved into lust and lust into a long phantasm of intense sex. Methos had demanded that Mac let loose his inhibitions, and Mac had at last complied. The memory of making Methos come at just a word stirred Mac's blood and filled his cock. After hours of unleashing a seemingly insatiable Highland beast, Methos had laughingly demanded equal time, asking that the Highlander relinquish his obsessive need for control. The very thought made Mac's heart stutter and his skin flush. He had promised Methos time to recover from their long night, but he couldn't seem to stop his hands from roving over the beautiful, exquisitely responsive body nestled so temptingly close.
He was drifting slowly through a long, empty corridor. There was an eerie light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, washing the marble halls and floors with a false warmth that belied the deep chill of the smooth stone under his feet. Every few steps an archway would appear on one side or the other, openings draped in a rich soft material, obscuring what was beyond. A soft breeze blew through the hall, stirring the fabric, sometimes almost revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a dark interior. The corridor stretched out as far as he could see, and his feet were getting colder and colder as the gray marble seemed to suck the heat from his body.

One of the curtains stirred and billowed and brushed against him as he passed, sweeping up his legs, and he slowed and stopped, attracted by the unnatural warmth of the material, but somehow still unable to turn and see what was within the hidden room. The heavy material feathered upwards, entwining itself around his limbs, brushing against his chest, rubbing against his nipples until he felt them harden. Ahhh, it felt good. The soft fabric moved like a living thing, chasing away the cold that had crept over him, enveloping him in more than simple heat. His sex stirred, aroused from its dormant state, and he leaned into the entwining sheet that wrapped around him like swaddling clothes, pressing, pushing in places that stirred his blood.

He cracked open sleep-misted eyes to sunlight tracing a golden line through the high loft windows and spilling onto the bed. His cock was hard and hot, pressing into the warmth of hands that had traced their sensuous path over his thighs, across his abdomen, teasing his nipples. Those hands were now slipping slowly up and down the length of his fully erect sex. What had been smooth fabric enclosing him in the depths of his dream was the warmth of Mac's broad chest pressing against his back and Mac's breath tickling his neck. A low, rumbling purr emanated from the Highlander's throat, or was that his own voice? Methos couldn't tell. He had lost track of his boundaries in the dream that was no longer a dream. The hand was moving more quickly now, and his body responded, his hips thrusting forward, his lungs expanding and contracting sporadically to pull in more air. Oh, yes. Oh, my. But wait, not so fast. His thoughts whirled, trying to break the barrier between his conscious and unconscious state. A soft, wet tongue stroked the back of his neck, moving upward behind his ear where lips closed over his earlobe, nipping slightly, then sucking rhythmically, all the while sounding that low purr that set his entire frame to a responding resonance, like a living tuning fork.

"Ahh," he breathed, wanting to say more, wanting it to last, wanting to respond in kind, wanting to come. Wanting to come. Yes. Needing to come. Oh, yes. Needing...to come...now. He stopped breathing at all, feeling the warmth begin in his testicles and work its way in a flash of ecstasy up into his abdomen, and he arched back with a long, guttural groan, pressing into the hard flesh behind him. Pushing his hips into the strong hand that held him until the heaving orgasm had spent its final echoing convulsion. He sucked in air at last and let his muscles release, suddenly so heavy he could hardly move.

Mac's big arms folded around him like a blanket, and they lay in silence until Methos' breath evened out. He felt soft lips press a kiss on the back of his neck.

"Good mornin'," the Scot whispered.

"That's one way of putting it," Methos finally managed to reply. His enigmatic comment triggered a stillness behind him.

"Did I do something wrong?" Duncan asked, his tone oddly hesitant and childlike.

The oldest Immortal chuckled and felt the body behind him relax slightly. "No, Mac. It was a positively delightful way to wake up. But believe it or not, I've always thought of sex as an activity for two people unless one has no available alternative." He shifted his weight so he could look over his right shoulder to see MacLeod's face, which almost did him in. The dark hair was in a tousled halo, the expressive loam-colored eyes full of uncertainty. "And you promised to give me time to recover from last night's remarkable exertions," he managed to add, even though his voice almost betrayed him as it suddenly nose-dived deep into his lowest register.

The Highlander smiled. Oh, God, I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes me feel like a silly schoolgirl.

"Didn't appear to me you needed it," he replied. "And I didn't want to wait." His mouth descended, tongue questing and hungry. Methos felt the rough assault of the Scot's morning stubble, reveled in it, sucking on that living flesh, taking it into his own. Such a wonderful, responsive body, all muscle and sinew, a living, breathing sculpture devoted to his every whim. That thought made Methos pause, pushing on the heavy chest that pressed him into the mattress.

"Enough!" he gasped. "You don't have to prove anything, Mac. We have plenty of time. Let's take it a little slower, shall we?"

Mac looked down at him, suddenly serious. "I'll take it at whatever pace you want, Adam. I just want to please you. You have to tell me if I do something you don't like."

Methos couldn't resist tracing a long finger over Mac's heavy eyebrow, trying to smooth away the concern clouding his face. "You please me, Duncan. You please me very much. For a relative novice, you have a remarkable grasp of...well, I'm delighted to say you must have a previously undiscovered natural talent," he grinned.

That comment seemed to clear the storm clouds from the handsome face. "You are my inspiration," Mac grinned, then bent down to give Methos a huge, messy raspberry on his stomach. Methos was up and laughing, throwing pillows to keep the larger man from pouncing on him again, finally taking refuge in the shower. It was only under that stream of warm water, where he smiled in remembrance of all the wonderful, erotic responses the Highlander so easily evoked in him, that he realized that he had utterly forgotten the large, hard erection at his back which had never been addressed.

But by the time he was out and dried off, Mac had changed the sheets, made the bed and was busy in the kitchen fixing a more substantial breakfast than was Methos' preference. But he couldn't deny the Highlander the obvious pleasure it gave him to serve an omelet, croissants, fresh fruit and coffee. He sat and ate, reading the morning paper and listening with only half an ear as MacLeod chattered enthusiastically about what he had to do that day and offered up several activities Methos might be interested in joining.

"Adam?"

Oops. Evidently he hadn't been paying close enough attention.

MacLeod had long since finished his meal and finally stopped bustling around the loft and settled on a chair across the kitchen island from him. He was wearing only sweatpants, and his activity, plus the warmth of the spring sunshine pouring through the high windows, had produced a light sheen on his naked torso. Methos found it difficult to concentrate on Mac's words when his eyes kept traveling their own course down the thick cords of a well-muscled neck to smooth, broad shoulders and across sculpted pectorals dusted with a soft map of black, curly hair.

"Methos? Earth to Methos!" Duncan repeated.

"Sorry. My mind wandered. That's what happens when you get old," Methos teased. And unusually horny, he added to himself.

"I asked if you wanted to go with me to the University. I think Dr. Manton would love to talk to you about an adjunct position in linguistics. They'd be lucky to get you, and I could show you the campus."

A foreboding sense of wary stillness chilled him as Methos suddenly realized just how dangerous the draw he felt to this man was. For a few breathtaking seconds, he actually wanted to do exactly what Mac was suggesting-find a life, right here, right now, with him. Sick fear settled heavily in Methos' chest. This was all happening way too fast. He'd been down this rocky path too many times before. "Hmmm. I wasn't necessarily planning to stick around in Seacouver that long, Mac. I think..."

For all his four hundred years of sophistication, there were times when the Highlander wore his heart on his sleeve, or more accurately, in his eyes. That openness and vulnerability to those he trusted was one of his most endearing qualities. But the flash of stark hurt that shone out of those big brown eyes reflected several lifetimes of wounds that had never managed to scar over the profound pain of a rejected child. As quickly as the look appeared, it evaporated, leaving blank neutrality in its wake.

"Okay," he replied casually, pushing away from his seat and beginning to clear the dishes. "Just let me know if you ever think you want to give it a try, and I'll set up a meeting."

Methos knew he ought to say something comforting, but wasn't sure whether they were better off with a little more distance between them, or whether he should be reassuring MacLeod of his affection and regard. And almost obsessive attraction, he added to himself with an internal smirk. For a handsome, powerful, urbane alpha male, Mac seemed surprisingly insecure about their altered relationship. But then he had been emotionally battered over the past several years, and this was something quite new for him, and with someone who, for a change, was vastly more experienced than he.

"It's not that it might not be a good idea, Mac, I just had some other things..."

"Hey," Mac turned back to him with a neutral smile, "not a big deal. It's just an option if you ever wanted to pursue it. I'm headed downstairs for my morning workout," he added as he finished with the last dishes in the sink. Whatever immediate opportunity Methos had to reassure was lost as the elevator gate closed, and he was left alone with his newspaper and his coffee and his befuddled fears and regrets.
MacLeod pulled a mat out onto the floor of the dojo, out of the way of the patrons already using the weight and boxing equipment, and went through a long stretch routine. It helped focus his restless thoughts, which were bouncing down unwanted, inconsistent, volatile and dangerous roads, first one direction then another, but they all led to Methos. Then he smiled to himself. They also led to Adam. Adam was sweet. Adam was shy. Adam was funny and kind and non-threatening. But the unknown, almost unknowable Methos. That was where the true fascination lay. Methos, the Oldest. Methos, the Beautiful. Methos, the Enigmatic. Methos, Death on a Horse. Methos, who risked his life to save him from Hell. Methos, the constant critic and gadfly. Methos, the Liar. Methos, the Manipulator. Methos, the Lover. Ah, there was the rub. Now that the door had been opened, he knew he could never close it again, never see the man as just a friend. He had had a taste of ecstasy and it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted Methos-his lover.

But how many Methos' were there? he wondered. How could he possibly expect to know or understand them all? How had he managed to fall so hard for someone so beyond his ken? And a man, no less, after all these centuries. He felt like a little kid, uncertain, wanting to hold fast, to cling to the object of his desire, but knowing that the harder he worked to get close the more likely the ancient would push back, or simply disappear from his life. He had almost pushed too hard already this morning. After all, what could he possibly offer to maintain the interest of a five-thousand-year-old man? Sometimes he wasn't sure the man even liked him, given his propensity to carp and criticize about Scottish guilt and hand-wringing moral dilemmas. Then there were those wonderful times when they would sit and talk for hours, baiting each other, drinking, laughing as though time itself had stopped and let them, just for awhile, live in that moment, enjoying the long lives with which they had been blessed and cursed. In those moments he had felt a transcendent connection that somehow bridged the gap between their ages, as though Methos fed on MacLeod's exuberance and intensity, just as Mac reveled in Methos' wit and wisdom and experience. It had happened again and again until he had almost begun to take it for granted. Until now.

Now everything seemed uncertain, like traversing a long, swinging suspension bridge over a deep precipice. His footing was insecure. What had previously been solid ground moved and shifted and wobbled, and he had nothing to hold onto, no experience to guide him. And, of course, his own instincts had betrayed him too many times to rely on them anymore. Methos had been right in that respect. He had tethered himself tightly in the last few years as each relationship deteriorated into death or disaster.

What Methos had wanted-to see his beast-was as frightening as it was exhilarating, and even as he had given in to urges for control and violence he normally suppressed, he had not truly unleashed his innermost desires for fear of the consequences to Methos, to their fragile relationship. The violence of which he was capable, the dark secrets of his soul, were far too frightening to reveal to someone whose respect and affection he so deeply desired. He had come close, though, and the thought made his face warm and his groin ache. He paused in his routine, letting his forehead rest on his knees as he stretched his legs out in front of him, disciplining his unruly imagination. He chuckled to himself. What a randy bastard I am, he mused. For four hundred years I've loved women, developing it nearly to an art form, and here I am, like an over-eager, hormone-driven schoolboy with a crush, without a clue what to do.

Except provide that long, lean, wonderful body with the best, and most, sex he could possibly handle, Mac speculated. That was the only viable plan he could think of, given their vast differences-to intoxicate the oldest Immortal with pleasure, maybe even addict him with the one sure, reliable asset Mac had always had, his body. It was an instrument he had refined and molded until its resilience and control and responsiveness were unparalleled, and it was a gift he could give over and over again. He knew he was a superb lover. He had worked very hard at it, as he pushed himself to be the best in whatever he attempted. What worked for his female partners should work for Methos, with minor adjustments. And Methos was a sensuous creature, he flushed in remembrance. Lust might not keep him around forever, but it would, perhaps, tether him long enough for Mac to figure out something more permanent. Besides, it would be fun and exciting to find all the man's erogenous zones, to stimulate them, to...the thoughts made him ache with desire, and he firmly shut those images away, finally settling into a kata that was designed to be as much meditation as exercise.
Once the Highlander left the loft, it was much easier for Methos to discipline his mind to calm clarity. He methodically finished reading the paper, drank the last of his coffee, and dressed in one of Mac's numerous sweaters. The deep blue cashmere swallowed him but felt good against his skin and smelled comfortingly of Mac's unique scent. He used MacLeod's razor to shave, which only took a moment given his sparse beard, then ran his fingers through his hair in front of the mirror to tame any unruly spikes from his short haircut. The blue suited him, he realized. The surprising thing was that he took notice. It was yet another distressing sign of emotional ties beginning to tighten their grip around him. The thought sent tiny pangs of panic singing through his arms and legs as thousands of years of survival instinct demanded that he loosen, or-his heart sank at the thought-cut those bindings away.
The intensity of Mac's concentration did not prevent him from being aware when the elevator started, moving upward towards the loft. He was nearing the end of the exercise, with only a few moves remaining when he heard the elevator gate open and saw Methos emerge. Mac smoothly went through the last few forms and came to a resting position, letting his breath return to normal while his mind adjusted itself from complete immersion in kata.

Methos had put on one of Mac's favorite sweaters. It was a deep cobalt blue that contrasted nicely with his ivory skin. Mac folded his fingers into his palms to prevent himself from reaching out to touch.

"Nice sweater," he forced himself to observe calmly. Some mischievous imp took over as he found himself taking his time about casually stripping off his damp T-shirt, then mopping his dripping chest and neck with it in long slow strokes. The erection that had faded during the kata had returned, and he deliberately let it show through the thin fabric of his old gray sweatpants. He was rewarded with a subtle twitch of Methos' thin, mobile lips.

"You like it?" Methos responded, fingering the soft fabric. "I have a friend with lots of money and excellent taste in clothes."

"Ah, I see. A gift. Were you expecting more...gifts?" Mac moved a little closer, his voice low and soft.

"I don't know yet," Methos replied in a similar tone. "We're still exploring our options."

"Hmmm," Mac hummed deeply, moving closer still. "Exploring can be fun."

Methos lightly put his hand on Mac's bare chest. "But the sweater is just a loan, MacLeod. I prefer to chose my own...options."

Mac cocked his head, some of the heat going out of his eyes. "Whatever you want, Adam." He stepped back a little, increasing the distance between them, then turned his back, reaching for a bottle of water. "Planning to go to Joe's tonight?"

"I might be there, if my schedule works out."

Mac took several long gulps of water. "Maybe I'll see you there?"

"Maybe." Methos stepped up close behind his friend. "I don't want any misunderstandings here, MacLeod. You of all people should know just how difficult or even disastrous this could easily be."

Mac gave Methos a long look over his shoulder. His response was almost a whisper. "I know what you mean, Old Man. I'm not going to push."

A car horn sounded and Methos went to look out one of the dojo's windows. "My cab is here." He turned and stopped, staring at MacLeod, his mouth half open in the beginnings of a comment. "I...I'm...glad about last night, Duncan," he finally said so quietly he could barely be heard.

"Me, too," Mac answered. Then Methos turned and left.
Methos walked stiffly through the dojo and down the front steps. He climbed into the back seat of the cab, gave directions, then unobtrusively rearranged himself in his pants so he could sit more comfortably. Every second of his latest encounter with MacLeod had been so intensely charged, he hardly had enough presence of mind to breathe. From the moment he had raised the elevator, confronted with the sight of the Scot dancing kata, moving through space as though air and gravity existed solely for his use, to that deliberately provocative moment where Mac had stripped and wiped himself off, Methos' brain had very nearly ceased functioning at all as his whole being was overtaken with pure, unadulterated animal lust. In retrospect, that he had managed any coherent conversation at all seemed quite remarkable. Then, when Mac had turned from the window, the impact of the Highlander standing in a shaft of sunlight, his smoky brown eyes swirling in a myriad of complex thoughts and emotions, had shifted lust to something far, far more disturbing.

This is madness, he thought to himself. Mac is not only inherently and strongly heterosexual, regardless of any momentary slip off of that particular wagon, but he is Immortal. He is hunted as much or more than anyone in the Game. He attracts conflict and chaos like nobody I've ever known. He believes in good and evil, for God's sake! How did I get myself into this? He is my friend! One of the best people I've ever known and here I am, screwing that up just to get my rocks off? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

By the time the cab arrived at his apartment, Methos had convinced himself that the previous evening's escapade had been a monumental mistake and that he had to find a way to get back to a more even keel with MacLeod. Yes, Mac had wanted him to stay, but the sex part only came after Methos had initiated it. Was that what Mac thought he had to do to keep him around? Well, he'd have to find a way to convince him otherwise, that he didn't have to do something that was so against his basic nature just to keep his friendship. That was it. Simple camaraderie. The warm comfort he always felt when Mac was around, a reassurance that the world was, after all, not such a terrible, cruel place to be. That's all he needed from the Highlander. The rest, well, resisting temptation was not something he did all that frequently. The discipline would be good for him.
Joe Dawson was having a good evening. The crowd was heavy but not so packed that anyone was uncomfortable, and the jazz quartet was particularly fine tonight. A piano, bass, drums and sax. Very mellow, but with a sophisticated syncopated rhythm that kept the crowd lively and attentive. The other half of his life was more troubling, but marginally improved over the terrifying chaos of the past two years. Mac was back in Seacouver. Methos was keeping a close eye on him, watching for those dark, despairing moods that seemed to hit the Scot so hard from time to time. Incongruously it was even mildly reassuring that Mac had taken a head the night before. It had evidently been a relatively straightforward challenge, a difficult battle, but the outcome had never really been in doubt. Even if Methos had been irritated that Mac had fought a battle intended for the oldest Immortal, he had taken Mac home afterwards. Joe had called Methos this morning for a report on Mac's state of mind. Methos had been brief, but succinct. Mac was fine.

And here he was, speak of the devil, Joe observed. He had looked up when the door opened, and MacLeod stepped in. Methos had been right. Mac looked good. Always handsome, Mac looked particularly fine tonight in a brown cashmere sports jacket tailored to conform to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The sweater he wore underneath was a soft cream v-neck that clung close to his skin. He wore his hair loose around his shoulders, and Joe noticed it was growing really long again. The longer it got, the heavier it got and the less curl was evident in the shiny, thick mass that he usually kept tamed in a ponytail.

"Hey, Joe," Mac had worked his way to the bar.

"Hey, Mac, you're looking rather spiffy tonight. Got a date?"

Mac shrugged. "No, just got tired of wearing sweats all the time. Seen Adam?"

"Not yet. Talked to him this morning, though. Told me a little about last night."

Mac looked up sharply from the glass of scotch Joe had automatically put in front of him. "He did?" A subtle tension in the Scot's body language made the Watcher wonder if something had happened last night that hadn't been reported.

"Yeah. He was still a little pissed at you for taking Dimitri's head, but he laughed about it, so I guess he can't be too angry. You know, Mac, you've really got to rein in those protective instincts of yours. You can't fight everyone's battles for them."

The criticism bounced off, unnoticed, as MacLeod relaxed and smiled. "Oh, I don't know, Joe. Getting Methos really pissed is almost worth it. You should have seen it. He was sputtering like a wet hen." In retrospect, and without the hot agony of the Quickening still skittering along his nerves, Methos' flushed face and close-fisted ire was amusing. But the memory stirred more than humor as a sudden picture of Methos flashed in his mind's eye, head thrown back, vulnerable long throat exposed, pale, lean chest gleaming, dripping with sweat and cum, impaled on his cock again and again until he exploded inside him.

"Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"I was asking if you expected him."

"Who?"

"Adam, of course. That's who you were asking about."

"Oh. Right. I don't know. He said he might make it."

Mac hung out at the bar the whole evening, drinking a little, watching the crowd, glancing over every time the door opened.

Joe's curiosity finally got the best of him. It frequently did. It was a hazard of his profession. "Who you waitin' for, buddy?" he managed to ask as he served him his third scotch. "A new lady friend? Never knew the great Duncan MacLeod to get stood up before." He intended it as a tease, but Mac's smile was tight and grim.

"Oh, no one in particular. Just thought Me...Adam might come in."

"Yeah, right," Joe growled. "As if you wouldn't know he was coming long before he walked in that door." He leaned forward on his elbows. "Who is she, MacLeod?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

"All rumors to the contrary aside, Dawson, you don't know everything about me," Mac snapped. He yanked his money clip out and threw some bills on the bar. "Some things are private, and I'd prefer to keep them that way!"

"Hey, Mac, I didn't mean..." Joe protested, but before he could finish the sentence, the Highlander had swept out the door.
After two more days without a phone call or visit from the oldest Immortal, Mac was beginning to panic. His seduction plan couldn't possibly work if he never even saw the man. This whole thing was dependent on physical proximity. Snare him with sex, keep him with...well he'd think about that once he'd solved the first problem.

He needed a Plan.

The only real problem was he wasn't sure that Methos' lust for his body was a weakness, but it was the only exploitable trait he had, and he intended to use it with great care. It would be easy to go after Methos in full-scale warfare, wasting all his ammunition in an ill-timed frontal assault. But the oldest Immortal had apparently become skittish. Understandable given the difference in their experience and ages. With a warrior's instinct honed in a nightmarish multitude of hideous bloodlettings, he knew this battle would be won only with stealth and wit and ruthless exploitation of whatever assets he was prepared to sacrifice to the cause.

First, there would be a gathering of his forces while the enemy grew uncertain with waiting.
The phone rang ten times before a gruff, grumpy voice answered, "What!"

"Uh, hi. Methos. It's Duncan."

There was a pause. Whether it was significant or only represented Methos' need to change hands with the phone receiver, scratch his nose or some other part of his anatomy, Mac couldn't tell.

"Yeah?" The oldest Immortal finally prompted. On the one hand, he was irritated at being interrupted. He had been right in the middle of a tricky translation of an ancient Sumerian accounting stone. One wrong object or missed verb could mean being off by hundreds of vats of wine that had been stored in a warehouse in 3800 B.C. On the other hand, the sound of Duncan's voice sent a warm thrill straight up his spine, then settled somewhere much lower.

"Well," Mac continued heartily, "I hadn't heard from you in a few days." Mac heard the uncertainty in his own voice and stopped to clear his throat. "I was under the impression," he said, smoothly this time, "that there was some unfinished business between us."

There was another pause. This time Mac decided it probably was significant.

"I told you I liked choosing my own options, MacLeod. I think...I think I may pass on this one. It's not your usual style, and it would complicate both our lives more than either of us needs right now."

Mac knew the next pause was significant because he had to stop while his heart attempted to crawl out of his chest through his throat. Okay, this was no time to panic. He knew what Methos' weakness was, and he could guess what his hesitation might be.

"Okay, Methos. If that's how you feel."

Methos clamped down on the surge of irrational anger at MacLeod for so easily accepting his rejection. "Good," he heard himself say. "I'm glad you understand."

"I didn't say I understood, Adam. I just said okay. I hope..." Mac's voice faltered a bit and Methos didn't think it was a good sign that Duncan had called him Adam. He only did that in private when he was feeling particularly intense, as though he found "Adam" a little less threatening to talk to than "Methos." "I hope this doesn't mean we can't be friends."

"Of course not, MacLeod, don't be ridiculous!"

"Then is there any reason for you not to go with me to an auction tomorrow? I'd like your opinion on some old German liturgical texts becoming available in an estate sale."

Methos' first instinct was to decline. It was too risky. But then he chastised himself. The whole point was to keep the man's friendship, after all.
Mac dressed carefully for their outing, chuckling to himself at his mental use of the term. The dark jeans were old and soft, clinging but comfortable. The light-blue silk mock turtleneck hugged his torso, and he let his hair loose, remembering Methos seductively trailing his fingers through the curls.

Throughout the day he was very careful, never overtly touching, but managing to orchestrate several opportunities to put himself in the way of Methos touching him. Passing the car keys. Sharing the feel of the soft, antique leather of an old book. Even asking Methos to move his hair out of his eyes for him when his hands were full of boxes he carried to the car.
It was the most distracting, frustrating day the oldest Immortal had spent in ages. Duncan looked...like Duncan. Magnificent, subtly sexy, exuding strength and health and life. He was observant, intelligent, witty, his bright, white smile almost eclipsing the sun. But the man was clearly being cautious, avoiding incidental physical contact. Methos was careful as well, resisting the constant urge to touch, to put his hand on Duncan's back, to catch his arm when he wanted his attention. But there were unavoidable moments that sent sparks along his skin. The touch of his hand when he handed over the car keys. The sensuous shared moment over a beloved ancient book, and one moment that almost cost all his hard-won resolve, when the wind blew Mac's long, dark curls across his eyes while his hands were full, and Methos had to brush his fingers across that bronze skin. It made him break into a sweat.
A few days later, it was an art film Mac wanted him to attend. This time, Methos was glad to note that Mac was a little less self-conscious about physical proximity, leaning close a couple of times to whisper an observation in the darkened theatre. Methos could smell the scent of soap and subtle aftershave, and during a long, erotic scene where the actors on screen were wrapping their bodies around one another, gasping and crying out, he was embarrassed when he got hard at the combined visual and aural stimulation, but mostly at the merest hint of a touch of Mac's hard thigh against his own. His cock ached and he wanted nothing more than to touch it. No, what he really wanted was for Duncan to touch it, but the blunt fingers were reaching only for the popcorn, each kernel taken one by one, delicately slipped between perfect bowed lips. How extraordinary that such blunt warrior's hands could be so gentle, so careful.

Mac sat in the dark, keeping his hands occupied with the popcorn, barely aware of the action on screen. Methos was draped in the seat beside him, scrunched down, one knee levered against the seat in front, barely touching his own thigh, the other long leg stuck out into the aisle. Sprawling in a theatre seat seemed like a physical impossibility for his own meaty frame, but not for the loose-limbed ancient. It was one of the many things he found so utterly fascinating about the Old Man.
At the end of a month, Duncan wasn't sure he could stand much more of the game he was playing. Sure, he could feel the sexual tension between them gradually ratcheting up, but it felt oddly empty, knowing that sex was all it was, perhaps all it would ever be.

Patience, he told himself. Patience. I can make it more someday. Give it time.

But it was time to move to the second phase of his battle plan.
Joe was behind the counter on a moderately busy afternoon, keeping a simultaneous eye on his regular customers and on the two Immortals he called friend-and who had been exhibiting some very odd behavior lately. They were like those metal balls in pinball machines, constantly bouncing off each other, lights flashing, bells sounding. This afternoon they had come in to have lunch, arguing noisily about the nature of continental drift and which large land masses had split apart and which would eventually touch again in a few million years. Joe supposed that things like that might actually matter to someone who might live to see it. Now, the two men seemed to be just sitting comfortably, listening to the latest CD of jazz greats Joe had acquired.

"We haven't sparred in weeks," Mac noted. He nibbled at a jalapeno pepper slice that had somehow managed to escape his companion's notice and dangled on the edge of his plate. He carefully licked the pepper juice off of his fingers as Methos watched him out of the corner of his eye.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Mac sat back, looking appraisingly at the oldest Immortal. "You need a workout and so do I. Come over this afternoon. I'll close the dojo and we can use the swords. Full spar."

"MacLeod, the more sane among the human population do not find pleasure in getting hot and sweaty and trying to hurt one another."

Mac leaned close, nudging Methos' sharp elbow with his arm. "Come on, Adam! You're getting lazy! And getting hot and sweaty isn't all bad, you know," he said quietly, leaning close.

Methos shot him a hard look. "Don't go there, MacLeod. We already talked about that."

"What's the matter, Old Man? Don't have enough self-discipline? We can't even spar anymore?" Duncan challenged.

Methos slowly cocked his head at the Scot, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "You're questioning my self-discipline? Be careful, Highlander, about challenging your elders and betters or you may find yourself on very thin ice."

"Then it's a date," Mac announced as he stood and threw some bills on the table. "Four o'clock. My place. Catch ya later, Joe," he called out as he snatched up his coat and disappeared out the door.

Methos could have sworn Mac had winked at him just before he turned. Nah. Totally un-Highlander-like.
"Come on, MacLeod, that's the second time you've left me an obvious opening. Now concentrate. You're supposed to be giving me a workout, right?" Methos had been aggressive. An undertone of tension and anger about his movements had turned the spar into more of a battle, and both men were flushed and sweaty. Methos was in worn gray sweats, sleeves torn out of the top, leaving ragged armholes. Mac was in baggy dark exercise pants and a loose sleeveless top, now soaked and clinging like a second skin.

"Sorry. My mind was on other things." The apology seemed less than completely sincere, having been said with a gleam in his eye and a smile curling his mouth. Then he attacked without the slightest warning, forcing Methos back towards the stairs, up to the locker room, and back again, until the lithe, lean form reached behind, grabbed the railing and vaulted over, landing near the dojo exit doors in a crouch. The eldest Immortal rose up and swirled when Mac followed, coming down with an overhead slash of the big Ivanhoe blade. Mac caught the strike with his katana then pushed Methos back with a blow from his free hand to the other man's chest, slamming him back against the wall. The Scot pressed close, the two blades locked together over their heads, each sucking in air to feed oxygen-starved muscles. In the clinches was where the Highlander had the most advantage. Heavier, stronger, he leaned his body into Methos, pressing the older man's blade back and back until his wrists were touching the cold wall.

"Give?" MacLeod gasped.

A tiny feral smile warned the Highlander and he twisted, barely avoiding the sharp blow from a bony knee aimed for his private parts-a blow that one man rarely does to another in unconscious acknowledgement of that unique vulnerability. The quick turn threw them both off balance and they tumbled to the floor. Somehow, Methos ended up sprawled full length on top of the Scot where they paused, gulping in air, their bodies practically glued together by sweat.

"Are you comfortable, or did you want to take this upstairs?" Mac asked breathlessly. There was a malicious twinkle in his eye, and Methos belatedly realized he had been expertly manipulated. Part of him admired the strategy, but mostly he was pissed.

He rolled off and retrieved his blade in one smooth move. "Are we done?" Methos asked, ignoring Mac's provocative comment. He picked up a soft rag from the bench against the wall and carefully wiped his blade, facing away so he wouldn't have to look at that body stretched so invitingly on the floor.

"I don't know about you, Methos," Mac said softly. Methos felt broad hands rest lightly on his shoulders. "I'm not tired yet." The hands turned him around. "Are you?"

Methos looked straight into those dark, sweet eyes. He had been telling himself for weeks now that this silly infatuation was something he could control, that his physical responses were just that-products of hormones triggered by the proximity of someone who just happened to have a fortuitously delightful genetic combination. Unfortunately, his heart did not seem to have learned the lesson as it was suddenly thumping so hard he was certain Mac could hear it.

When Mac didn't get an immediate answer, like the experienced warrior he was, he seized the opportunity and leaned close, feeling the warmth of Methos' breath, catching a kiss from that slightly open mouth before any objection could be spoken. He opened his lips, inviting deeper contact and felt a response, knowing it was instinctive, unintended, but exploiting it anyway. His hands sought flesh and touched warm damp fabric clinging to lean, hard hips that he pulled into his own. He let his tongue explore, finding smooth teeth and another questing tongue, then Methos froze and Mac instantly stopped.

"Mac..." Methos was slightly breathless, spots of color high on sharp cheeks.

"It's okay," Mac said, stepping away, noting the dazed look on the other man's face and thrilling with the notion that he had put it there, along with the sudden bulge throbbing between Methos' legs. "I know." He backed further off, raising both hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry, Methos. You're just so...irresistible," he grinned, turned and picked up the katana from the floor. "I'll be at Joe's tonight," he called as he turned and headed towards the elevator, leaving Methos standing there, fuming in frustration.

"Mac, you can't just..." Methos shouted after him. But evidently he could. The man disappeared as the elevator clanked upwards towards the loft. Methos wasn't sure whether he was angry or amused. He gathered up his sword and workout bag and headed towards the showers, for once not really minding that the dojo's recalcitrant water heater was not working again.
Mac pulled on a comfortable white sweater Methos had admired a time or two, tucking it carefully into tight, black jeans and put on his belt with the big silver Celtic clasp. He brushed his hair until it shone and pulled it back into a ponytail. He didn't want to be too obvious, after all. Methos was close to capitulation, Mac was certain. His body wanted to give in, but the Old Man's fears were standing in their way. Exactly what aspect of their potential relationship bothered him, Mac wasn't absolutely certain. Was he afraid of hurting Mac's feelings if Mac knew it was just about sex? Was he afraid of getting involved with any Immortal because of the Gathering? Or was it just too soon after Alexa's death for Methos to want to make any commitment to any relationship, casual or otherwise?

Well, whatever it was, Mac would wait for the right moment to reassure the oldest Immortal that he need not worry. Mac could deal with a purely sexual relationship, if he had to, if that was all that was possible. If it never went any further, then at least he had tried. And Mac wouldn't press for more, wouldn't ask for something Methos couldn't give. The problem would be if the Old Man couldn't accept what was being offered, was afraid of it. Mac smiled to himself. How could he possibly be afraid of something so freely given? Nothing in the world felt better than to love someone so much you would do anything for them. Surely Methos knew that.
Methos critically looked himself over in the mirror. His hair was getting shaggy again. He had put on an old oversized flannel shirt he had hiked over half of Tibet in, and it was almost, but not quite, ready for the rag bin. The baggy jeans were also well-worn, almost transparent at the knees. If he slouched and kept his eyes down, he could just about disappear in any gathering of more than two people. It was a talent he had developed over thousands of years-being utterly unremarkable. Tonight would be a test to see whether he could do it around MacLeod. The searing kiss Duncan had burned him with still lingered on his lips, its tingling aftermath replaying itself over and over again across his skin.

He and Mac were friends. That was all. Just friends. He would make it clear and unequivocal. He would do whatever was necessary to convince the man that he did not want a sexual relationship. If it came to it, he had the means to convince Mac that such a union was just not practical given the differences in their age and experience. He hoped it would not come to that.
Joe didn't know how long Duncan had been standing at the bar before the man got his attention. The place was jammed with a Friday evening crowd, and a new band was scheduled for the night, its members nervous and demanding about the speakers and sound levels, taking up a lot of extra time and attention before he could finally get back to helping Mike serve drinks.

"Hey, buddy!" he called over the crowd noise. "Where's your sidekick?" He automatically pulled out a beer, knowing that in this noisy group, with the heat and sound that would be generated during the evening, the Scot would defer his Scotch for awhile.

"He may be in later," Mac called back, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. Joe wasn't sure how he did that. Maybe it had to do with communicating over the noise of battle, maybe it had to do with four hundred years of living, maybe it had to do with the power of the massive number of Quickenings the man had taken over his many lifetimes. He seemed to be wearing that power visibly tonight, moving lightly on his feet, subtly energized, his dark eyes flashing and moving over the crowd.

"Ah, a booth has opened up," Mac observed. "I better grab it while I can. Why don't you have the kitchen send over something to nibble on just in case the Old Man drops by?" Mac quickly slipped through the crowd and into the back booth.

Joe watched, eyes narrowing. There was something going on. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Mac seemed...excited about something. Damn. And here he thought things might settle down a little. He had been looking forward to some peace and quiet.

The issue slipped into the back of his mind as the evening continued. This was his favorite time, well into the evening when the crowd was relaxed and jovial and the musicians were in a groove, the audience feeling their energy and creativity and giving it right back to them, magnified and intensified. He checked on Mac a couple of times, but Adam hadn't showed up. Mac seemed disappointed but stayed anyway-to enjoy the music and the crowd, Joe assumed.

It was almost midnight when the old Immortal finally arrived, hazel eyes quickly scanning the room and finding his fellow Immortal at a back booth.

"Hey!" he greeted Mac with a shy smile. He was wearing his usual starving-graduate-student attire, tattered loose jeans, a dark oversized shirt and worn boots. He dropped the borrowed blue sweater on the table before he slipped into the vinyl seat. Mac's golden brown eyes caught the dim light reflected from the candle on the table. He looked a little disappointed.

"I wanted you to keep it, Adam."

"It's too big for me anyway, although I appreciate the thought." For a moment he felt the tension between them like a bare electrified wire, then Mac took a deep breath, shrugged and smiled resignedly.

"All your clothes are too big for you. But that's okay. I understand." He slipped the sweater off the table and onto the seat, out of sight. "I had ordered some snacks, but ended up eating them all awhile ago. Want something?" Even as he offered, he was signaling for a waitress.

"Just a beer," Methos replied. God, Mac looked delicious tonight.Stop that, he chastised himself. This was what he needed to control, those vivid and visceral memories that seemed to be triggered with the Highlander's every breath, every move.

They spoke with slightly exaggerated casualness of Mac's classes that were now underway at the University. MacLeod's skin gleamed warm and golden in the dim light of the table's single candle. Methos' eye was inexorably drawn to those full lips and the pink, wet tongue that gently licked away a stray drop of beer, the sculpted musculature of the big neck dropping to a light dusting of dark hair visible at the bottom of the v-neck sweater. The eldest deliberately turned the conversation towards a neutral topic, the quality of the music, which was building to a peak as the band worked toward the finale of their set. They stopped to listen, and Mac watched Methos out of the corner of his eye, fascinated by the play of light and dark across the sharp angles of that unique face.

Methos listened to the band, working to focus his mind on something other than the big, warm, muscular body next to him, when he felt a gentle pressure against his jeans and froze in place. The pressure moved over his thigh and down between his legs, the big hand stroking slowly. His heart thudded unnaturally in his chest, and he felt his face grow warm.

"Mac! What the hell are you doing?" he whispered, refusing to look at him.

"What comes naturally." The low voice was right next to his ear, and he felt the tickle of Mac's breath on his neck, then a soft kiss.

"Jeez, MacLeod, we're in public here!"

"So? Nobody's watching, and I'm not sure I care even if they are." The big hand continued its teasing, the individual fingers separating, tweaking and rubbing until Methos squirmed in his seat. The outrageous incongruity of what was happening swirled together with his own long-frustrated desires in a potent mix to bring him to immediate hard, throbbing arousal. He could barely keep still, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Shit, Mac, stop!"

"Why?"

"Why?! Because...because it's...obscene, right...here in front of...everybody!" Methos' mind was hardly functioning, as the hand was now rubbing in a rhythm that had his hips involuntarily rocking, pushing into the terrible, wonderful pressure.

"Damn...Mac...I...stop!" Methos was on the verge of coming right in his pants, his hands convulsing around the cold glass of the long-neck beer bottle as the band built to an impressive crescendo of hot, grinding rhythm with the deep bass underscoring what the Highlander was doing, which was playing him like a companion instrument. Just as the crowd burst into enthusiastic cheering and wild applause, Mac stopped, leaving his table companion gasping and sweating, hanging on to his beer like a life preserver.

"Well, okay, Adam. If that's what you really want," Mac whispered with only the slightest edge of humor in his voice.

It took several minutes for Methos to get his composure back, and he shifted uncomfortably several times, drank a few long swallows of his beer, and turned to his companion at last. His face was hard and angry.

"What on earth made you think you could do that?" Methos growled.

But MacLeod refused to be intimidated. He leaned in close. "Because you wanted me to," he whispered. "And you always had the option of pulling away."

It was true, of course. He had been sitting there, secretly thinking just how erotic it would be to touch and be touched, right here in public. How had Mac known?

"In your dreams, Highlander!" was the only brilliant defensive riposte his befuddled brain came up with. The danger signals flashing through his system finally overwhelmed the beclouding haze of lust and pushed him out of the booth. "Don't presume to know what I want, Mac!" he whispered harshly. "I'm not your catamite! That one night was amusing, but don't spoil a perfectly good friendship by reading too much into it." He snatched up his coat, spun away and headed toward the door, his angry and dignified exit partially hampered by the fact that he could barely walk.

As soon as the metal door slammed shut behind him, Methos stopped and took a deep breath of the cool night air. All that outrage was fine for Mac's benefit, but what he had really felt was astonishment and no small embarrassment at his easy, no...eager participation in such a juvenile act. He willed his body under control as he walked slowly to his car, letting the fresh river breeze and solitude cool his fevered state. He wasn't certain whether he was angry or glad when he heard the bar door slam and quick steps crunch towards him over the gravel.

"Methos, it was just a game, for God's sake! I enjoy touching you. Is that so terrible?" The last was said in a sweet, pleading voice as Mac caught up to him, enclosing his elbow in a big hand and turning him around.

But the sharp corners of the old man's young face were distorted in anger. With a quick twist of long arms, Mac had been turned and shoved against the car. Methos pressed against him, his voice grating harshly in Mac's ear. "Yes, MacLeod, it is so terrible! Don't you get it? I can't do this the way you want, the way you need! You want some touchy-feeley relationship out of a romance novel where everyone lives happily ever after. Well, you and I know that's not what happens with us, don't we? The best we can hope for between our kind is a little friendship and occasionally some really hot sex before one of us tries to kill the other, then one of us dies and we move on. Of course, there is the very real question of whether you can handle my...needs, Duncan. I have somewhat eclectic tastes on the topic of pleasure, but I'll be happy to teach you," he growled. "And that's what it will take. So if this is what you really want, it happens on my terms!" He twisted harder, levering up Mac's arm hard enough that they both heard an ugly, fleshy popping sound as tendons and muscle tore.

Methos let him go and stepped back, a little appalled at his own violence but unwilling to apologize. Mac curled in on himself, clutching his damaged shoulder. "Why?" he gasped. "I thought you wanted me. You said..."

"I say lots of things, Highlander. You are a fool for believing them."

"No!" Mac said, straightening and testing his healing shoulder. "I am a fool for believing I could determine the course of any relationship with you, Methos. But I am not a fool for wanting one. Or for believing, even if only for one night, that you wanted one, too. But if the only way to have it is on your terms, then that's how it will be." His face was stony with resolve.

The smile that moved the corners of Methos' lips was neither warm nor humorous. "You want to see my beast, MacLeod? My, my, the stories must be true, you are a brave, if foolish, soul."

"Stop it, Methos! You can spin all the tales and spit out all the ugly cynicism and irony you want, but you will not convince me that you don't want me!" He moved close, hovering darkly over the slightly smaller man. "You may not want to care, and maybe you've convinced yourself that you are safer not caring. So if you want to just call it lust then so be it," he said softly. "As long as you don't leave, I can live with that, Adam. Do you hear me? I can live with that."

"Can you, Highlander? Can you really? Does keeping me around mean that much to you?" The hazel eyes glittered hard, metallic gold, but MacLeod didn't flinch.

The Scot nodded. "Aye, Old Man. If there's one thing I've learned these past few years, it's that what I feel for you comes all too rarely to ignore or neglect. And I won't let your fear steal it from me. I'll care enough for both of us, if necessary." The words may have been tender, but the tone was battle-hardened and cold.

Methos' laugh was soft and full of malice. Any onlooker would have thought these two fierce, growling warriors were on the verge of battle-except when the larger one reached out, running a knuckle gently along the taut line of the pale man's neck. "And you said you'd stay, remember, Adam? I intended that to mean stay...with me."

"And as I recall, MacLeod, you said you owed me," Methos whispered maliciously. "Tell you what, I'll stick around long enough to collect on that debt and we'll see if you still want me to stay...with you." He walked towards Mac's T-bird, turning when he had the passenger door open. "Coming, my dear?"
Mac opened the dojo doors, and Methos strolled ahead into the semi-dark room. A few feet into the large, empty space, the elder man paused as he cast a glance back, then allowed his coat to slip off his shoulders and slither down his arms, the various weapons it held thudding heavily on the wooden floor. With a look, Methos signaled for Mac to pick it up then headed with self-conscious grace towards the elevator. Mac leaned down to pick up the coat, and when he looked up Methos had stopped again, turned and was undoing each button of his shirt until the pale skin of his chest was revealed from his long throat to the dark indentation of his navel, visible just above his jeans. Then the shirt fell away. Mac held his breath, now acutely aware of the feel of his own clothing against damp, oversensitized skin.

He followed as Methos turned away and moved further into the room. Mac stopped to pick up the shirt, looking up in anticipation as the other man paused once more. The dark head fell back as the hands moved in front, and a moment later, the jeans began to slip lower, and the tantalizing flesh of pale, lean hips was exposed.

"My shoes," Methos commanded over his shoulder.

Mac obediently moved in front, knelt and undid the laces on Methos' boots, then pulled them off, along with the socks. Through it all, Methos was still, imperious, as though having someone else undress him was both proper and expected. Mac wondered how many lives Methos had lived as master, and how many as servant. Mac stood, watching as Methos looked up into his eyes. The eldest's pale skin was luminous in the moonlight streaming into the tall windows, gold-green eyes cold and utterly confident, in control. Methos let the jeans fall without breaking eye contact and stepped away from the garment. He was wearing nothing underneath and seemed amused by the deep dilation of Mac's dark, swirling irises. Mac reached out to draw his mouth in for a taste of those lips, but Methos slipped away and entered the elevator, leaning seductively against the back wall.

"Come on, MacLeod, " his smile was speculative. "I'm getting a chill."

Mac, his arms now burdened with Methos' clothes, lowered the gate and pressed the security code for the loft, riding up in silence, as aware of Methos' presence behind him as if the man were pressed directly against his skin.

Methos moved into the loft, completely relaxed and unself-conscious about his nudity. No, Mac decided. He was actually quite self-conscious, every move done for effect. Muscles rippled under smooth skin as the man stretched then leaned languidly against the column near Mac's big leather chair. He looked like an artist's rendering of human perfection, every long limb a testament to sensual beauty.

Mac put down the clothes, took off his own coat and hung it up before turning back to the man displayed so provocatively in the center of the room. He felt his groin tighten, unconsciously broadening his own stance to accommodate his growing passion. He started to move closer when Methos stopped him with a gesture.

"No, MacLeod.'' The voice was so softly modulated he had to strain to hear. Methos came to him, catching Mac's hand as he reached out to touch, firmly moving it back to Mac's side. Methos circled behind him, tracing a finger over Mac's collarbone, around his neck, leaning close so that his breath was a warm whisper near his ear. "Here are my rules. You do exactly as I say, no more, no less."

"I...understand," Duncan said. For the first time a tremble of fear skittered across his oversensitized skin. There was something in the sound of that voice that both chilled and excited him. "What about a safe word?"

"There are no safe words!" Methos said harshly. "Don't you understand? Nothing in our lives is safe! If you want to stop, all you have to do is either break the rules or tell me to leave, and I will go." He had circled back around and was standing directly in front of Mac. "Do we understand each other?"

Mac shook his head slowly. "No, Methos," he observed sadly. "If nothing in our life is safe, then we should seek out every possibility of joy, not just avoid the possibility of pain." He shook his head distractedly. "I may never understand you. All I know is that I don't want you to leave. And in your heart I don't think you want to, either."

The oldest Immortal smiled. "You have no idea what I want, Duncan," he said. "That's what this is about." He moved back. "Right now I just want you to watch and learn." He came around front again, touching each hand firmly to make sure the Highlander knew he was not to move. With a final, tantalizing brush of his hips into Mac's, he slid back to the column, stretching out against it, bracing himself, legs slightly spread. His hands traveled over his chest, up to his neck, splaying fingers across the delicate tracing of muscle and bone and blood underneath his skin. Fingers played over his chest, circling each nipple until they stood dark and taut. Methos' eyes closed as he touched himself, head back, a smile playing across his lips as a pink tongue emerged to wet them.

Mac's heart sped as he watched and his hands ached to touch either the apparition in front of him or himself. Either would do, but he forced himself to stillness as his cock hardened and lengthened uncomfortably in his constricting clothes. Methos' eyes opened and met his and what had been warm desire quickly accelerated to hot need at the look that passed between them. Methos could communicate more passion and heat with those green-gold eyes than most lovers could with a thousand caresses.

Methos left one hand toying with a nipple as the other crept down, gently carding his fingers through the curly hair between his legs. His cock had risen and was jutting out, throbbing with the stimulation. But the hand went further, deeper, rolling his testicles, and Methos groaned, his breath coming faster as his shaft began to leak, the soft light reflecting in the pearly drop of pre-cum on its dark, engorged head.

Mac could hardly breathe. The answering ache in his own groin was quickly stealing his strength, his resolve, and his attention, and when that low groan escaped, even his knees begin to weaken.

Slowly the pale hand finally ran its fingers up the long shaft, just tracing a path over and under. Methos' breath was coming fast now, the broad swimmer's chest rising and falling, rippling in the light. Then the white fingers closed over the fully risen cock. His knees bent slightly and Methos head went back with a gasp. He moved his hand slowly back, then down, and again, and again, his other hand now pulling hard at his nipple, his breathing harsh and loud in the silence.

As much as he wanted to for his own sanity, Mac couldn't tear his eyes away. Methos was the most breathtakingly erotic being he had ever seen in his four hundred years, and the urge to stroke himself was so fierce that he had to dig his fingernails deeply into his palms. He staggered slightly but stilled when Methos' eyes immediately flashed with a warning look that turned into pure challenge as their eyes met again. Methos thrust his hips forward into his hand, grunting slightly now with the effort, but his eyes never left Mac's. Again he thrust, and again, until he sucked in a great gulp of air and held it, letting his head fall back with a long groan as he came, semen pouring over his fingers and spilling onto the floor, the smell of it filling the air like the world's most exotic perfume.

At last he relaxed and looked over to the other man, reading the dazed, flushed expression on the Highlander's face with a bemused smile. He straightened and slowly, languidly moved close. He traced his finger over Mac's lips, spreading a light film of semen. When Mac's tongue reached out to touch and taste, he pulled back. "Ah, ah, ah, MacLeod," he whispered. "Only what I say, no more, no less," he reminded him. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?" The hand slid down, deftly undoing the large, silver buckle at Mac's waist. The clever hand moved inside and Methos chuckled. "I thought so," he whispered as he felt the warm dampness there. "Lesson number one, Highlander. I've been using sex to manipulate for thousands of years, and you thought you could use sex to manipulate me?! You're just a child who is about to learn a few of the lessons I've been teaching since long, long before you were born." He paused. "Are you still certain you want me to stay?"

"I want you to stay," Mac said unevenly. It had been unexpected and humiliating to come in his clothes, but he would not let a little humiliation get in the way of his goal. He suspected it was only going to get worse.

"We'll see," Methos smiled. "Strip," he ordered as he crossed to the bed and sat, leaning back on his hands to watch, splaying his legs open in an act of conscious exhibitionism. When Mac obediently reached for the hem of his sweater, Methos stopped him with a gesture. "And I want to enjoy it, MacLeod."

Duncan MacLeod had, in his tumultuous four centuries on this earth, spent many a pleasant hour teasing and coaxing and seducing for sexual pleasure, his own and his partner's, but he could not remember ever having been ordered to perform in such a cold, calculating fashion. He closed his eyes, feeling his cheeks grow hot with an automatic surge of shame and resentment. He took a steadying breath and forced his mind to concentrate instead on the intense attraction he felt for this man, reinforcing his resolve that if Methos would only admit to wanting his body, he would use that bait in the hope that eventually the Old Man would admit to more.

Mac had only his eyes to communicate the strength of his determination as he slowly pulled his sweater over his head and dropped it to the floor. He unfastened the silver clasp at the nape of his neck and shook out the thickness of his hair, letting it fall loose around his shoulders. He paused, feeling his resentment build again as Methos' gaze traveled over his torso with a look of distant amusement. He wanted to ask the ancient man if he liked what he saw. He wanted to whisper words of seduction in those delicate, pale ears, but he was bound by Methos' rules, so all he could do was speak with his eyes. For a brief moment deep brown and complex hazel locked together, and Mac's heart surged as he thought he saw a momentary flash of longing and sorrow flit across the sardonic mask the Old Man was wearing. It gave him hope as he reached down, finishing the job Methos had started by slowly unzipping his jeans and moving them down his thighs. He toed off his shoes, then stepped away, leaving him standing only in briefs-briefs with a telltale damp stain that plastered them to his body, outlining his partially aroused sex and emphasizing the dark hair underneath the soft fabric.

Mac hesitated. He felt intensely vulnerable and even though it was only a scrap of cloth, he already felt more naked than he had ever felt in his life.

"Finish it, MacLeod," Methos prompted at last. "I want to see all of you." He stood, moving in front of his 'student,' arms crossed, waiting until Mac finally pulled the shorts down and off.

Methos carefully maintained his mask although every instinct, every one of the multitude of voices in his head, save one, was urging him to touch, to feel, to stroke, to whisper intimate words of endearment. But it wasn't the beauty of Duncan's face and form that moved him so. It was those sad, dark eyes and the determined but gentle and generous spirit reflected in their depths that drew him like a moth to flame. The analogy seemed all too apt since the fire of Duncan's passion would surely be his undoing.

But that one powerful, persistent voice of survival that had governed his actions for five millennia counseled that he could not endure the loss if he let this man get one centimeter closer to his heart-and loss was the inevitable definition of their lives. If he allowed Duncan to become his lover, his mate in heart and spirit, eventually his death would kill what remained of his ancient soul just as surely as a blade through his neck would kill his body. This was the best, the only, compromise available among all those arguing voices in his head-the ones that said he needed this man desperately versus the one that insisted that Duncan MacLeod was the biggest threat to his survival he had ever encountered. Convince Duncan that he could not deal with an intimate relationship with the oldest Immortal, and he would be humiliated, perhaps, but ultimately he might just settle for friendship. With enough emotional distance between them, it might be possible to survive that loss when it came. It was best, Methos told himself. The other course was a sure path to disaster for both of them.

He circled around behind MacLeod to give himself a moment to gain firmer control of his desires, paused for a long cleansing breath, then let his hands glide over the broad back and trail below, feeling the trembling muscles of the curving buttocks. He ran a finger lightly along the crack there and reached down even more, folding Mac's balls into his hand and squeezing gently. Mac stiffened, but didn't try to move away.

"Lesson number two, MacLeod," Methos said, reaching around to play gently along the sculpted muscles of the Highlander's broad chest, ending at a dark nipple. "Your body is here for my enjoyment, and I like it ready and willing at all times. That means you come if, as, and when I say so, and only then."

"Adam, I..." Mac started to protest, but stopped when his testicles received a tight squeeze.

"Oh, come now, MacLeod," Methos scoffed. "Surely you have learned control after all these years? Over the centuries I've usually had my partners use cock rings, but that's unnecessary for us, don't you think?" He leaned close, tweaking the nipple painfully. "We'll just find out, won't we?"

He moved around to the front, pressing close, rubbing his enlarging cock against the bigger man. Mac leaned down, reaching again to capture Methos' lips, but the older man turned his head away to suck on Mac's nipple. A hand went down, trailing through the wiry curls at Mac's groin before tracing a path across his trembling sex.

Mac closed his eyes, breathing deep to control the need to move, to grasp, to do something other than just stand there and let himself be touched and licked and felt. He didn't really want to be aroused this way but his body had other ideas, and Methos was obviously a master at this. An artist. In moments he was hard again, and the pressure in his gut to push into the hand that was teasing his cock was strong and building higher by the second. Then Methos stopped and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"There!" he said in satisfaction, noting the quickened breathing, the flush of the golden skin, the hard, straining erection throbbing between the heavily muscled legs. "That's how I want you, Highlander. Beautiful and needy and wanting and ready." He circled him again, just enjoying the view. "You really are magnificent, MacLeod, but then you know that, don't you? You were going to use it like I was some schoolgirl in heat." Methos' chuckle was low and malicious. "Well, my egotistical friend, be careful what you wish for."

Methos took his arm and led him toward the bed, sitting on its edge and leaning back on his hands to look up expectantly. Mac knelt between the older man's thighs, thankful for an outlet for his pressing need to give and receive pleasure. He reached for the lean body, running his hands over the rippling abdomen, anxious to stroke and smooth and suckle, only to have his hands slapped away.

"You are to do no more and no less than what is required, MacLeod!" Methos snapped.

Mac jerked back, now uncertain what to do, then more tentatively just touched Methos' flagging cock. When Methos didn't object, he leaned forward, letting his tongue slide along its length, feeling it grow and harden. His eyes traveled up the long torso. He wanted to watch his lover's face but Methos' eyes were closed, his expression distant. He bent down and took Methos' cock in his mouth, letting it slide towards his throat, using his tongue to stimulate and soothe. In a moment, he felt Methos press forward as his hips began to respond to the ancient urge. He took him deeper, setting a strong rhythm, wanting to feel him come, wanting to know that he had given this man pleasure, but just as he thought that would happen, just as his own pleasure in the act was peaking, Methos grabbed his hair in a tight hold, freezing his movement.

"Enough!"

Mac was breathless and had to ball his hands into fists to keep from grabbing the man and sucking on him until he begged him to stop. For a moment both men were still until Methos let go, then let his head fall back, breathing deeply.

"You do that very well for a novice, MacLeod," Methos finally said. "Did you enjoy it?"

Mac sat back on his heals and nodded, not trusting his voice. Methos sat up again at the edge of the bed, ignoring his own straining cock for the moment as he guided the Scot to his feet, directing Mac to clasp his hands behind him. Methos pulled Mac's hips close so he could nuzzle along the flat stomach, letting his tongue explore the dark crevice of the bellybutton before traveling down, licking at thighs, moving his hands between Mac's legs to feel the skin of his scrotum, trailing further up that path to the tight opening behind. One finger tickled at and around that sensitive pucker of skin as a warm tongue finally found Mac's cock, lingering along its straining length, tasting the pre-cum at its tip before tracing a warm, moist path underneath. Methos' throat vibrated in a low hum of pleasure as he explored all Mac's cracks and crevices, treating the other man's most private parts like new and fascinating toys.

Mac was required to stand helpless, hands locked together behind his back as Methos played with his already heated sex, teasing, stroking, pinching and pressing unmercifully at every sensitive part of his body. He attempted to fall back into centuries old meditations to control his reactions, but when Methos finally took him into his mouth, an animal groan involuntarily escaped his throat. He instinctively pushed into that warm, moist place, only to have Methos pinch him hard on the ass as a reminder not to move. In a few heaving heartbeats Mac could hear his teeth grind, and his knees were shaking with the effort to hold himself up. He desperately fought the urge to push, knowing that if he established any kind of rhythm he was bound to come and thus break Methos' rules. But his efforts at control were wasted when Methos established a steady rhythm for him, softly stroking with his hands and moving over his cock with his clever, warm mouth again and again to take him straight to the brink when the heat and pressure in his groin built to an intolerable level.

"Methos...I can't..." he finally gasped-and Methos stopped. For a few agonizing seconds Mac was sure he was going to come anyway, and he panted shallowly, willing the urge to pass.

Methos leaned back on his hands again, watching the obvious struggle with amusement. "About to lose control already, MacLeod? We've hardly started."

Mac desperately wanted to sit for a minute, to regain a little physical and emotional balance, but his tormentor seemed to be aware of every thought flashing through his mind, every unspoken need and desire. Methos rose, forcing Mac to step back, and he stumbled. Methos reached out to steady him, holding both his shoulders, and for a moment their eyes met, the hazel eyes flickered and Mac thought he would finally be allowed a kiss. He leaned down, only to again have the wraith slip away, ducking around behind and putting warm hands on his hips.

"Kneel," Methos instructed, waiting until his new student complied. "Now rest your forearms on the bed." Mac did as instructed, every move jarring an erection that seemed to have taken on a separate identity. He had known sexual need before, even painful, unrelieved need. It was a frequent by-product of the pervasive violence of his life, of the Quickenings. But this servitude, this intimate vulnerability to the whims of another, a vulnerability to which he was willingly subjecting himself, was intensely frightening, and the fear only heightened his desperation for release.

Mac rested his head on his arms, listening to Methos moving around the loft. The awkward and submissive position only magnified his vulnerability, but still he was grateful for a few seconds alone to breathe deeply, to force himself further back from the brink. At least he was until the warm hand on the middle of his back startled him and he jerked away.

"Easy, MacLeod. It is not my intent to do you any damage. Inflicting physical pain has never been my 'thing.'" The hands moved, and the air filled with the earthy perfume of almonds as he felt the slide of oil-slicked hands across his back. "No, when I see a beautiful body such as yours, I want you to want me so much that you would die for it, would kill for it," he crooned, running a finger down between the crack of his bottom, letting oil trickle through. "I want to see that gorgeous cock so hard and hot that I will come again and again and you will watch and pleasure me for as long as I wish it." The finger explored further, entering him and moving just inside, making it ever more difficult for Mac to concentrate on Methos' words. "There have been whole centuries in my life devoted to pleasure, MacLeod. I once knew a delightful young man who could keep at this for over eighteen hours at a time! Of course, it was his only talent, and after a few years he became impotent. But he was mortal, after all, and not entirely sane. I'm sure you won't have that problem."

Mac wasn't so sure about the sanity issue as the first finger was joined by a second. He wanted to beg, but it would be pointless, and if Methos was expecting him to play boy toy and sex slave, he was damned if he would give into his own needs so easily. His mind and body were starting to separate into independent entities, though, and the burning craving for release was in immediate danger of overwhelming whatever capacity he had for rational thought.

Then Methos was in him, over him, around him, and he couldn't contain a shout of either pain or ecstasy. A hand reached around, pressing hard at the base of his cock as Methos surged into him again. His body, already pushed well past readiness and need, was ordering him to release, the flash of searing heat wracking him with tremors, but the exquisite, expert pressure of Methos' fingers created an impenetrable barrier. Again Methos surged deep inside, pressing electrically against his prostate. By now, Mac was sobbing words he couldn't contain, begging in every language that came to his tongue, but he didn't even think he was heard as the man inside him slammed deep again and again, ever maintaining that hard, painful grip that kept him from deliverance.

Methos moved deep inside the hot, tight body beneath him. He intended to make this part last, partly because it felt so good, but also because this was the moment where, in centuries past, during darker days, he had always drawn things out to an interminable, terrible, wonderful nightmare of sexual deprivation, an intensity of need that bordered on torture. He moved again, feeling Mac convulse as he stroked against his prostate once more. Mac was gasping, pleading in French, in Italian, in Gaelic and English, nonsense words now, incoherent. Ah yes, here was the moment when the sense of absolute control plus the erotic stimulation should have catapulted him into ecstasy.

But Duncan's distress was too real and tangible. There was no joy in this torment and the control was ephemeral, for in a very fundamental sense it was Duncan who was controlling his actions. He stroked hard again, closing his eyes, reaching for that pleasure plateau, but all he found was an image of those soulful dark eyes. With a shout, Methos slammed home one last time and let himself come, finding no gratification in the act at all.

Duncan finally felt Methos' warmth spill into him and heard Methos' guttural cry as he convulsed a few last times over his back, then collapsed against him. When Methos slipped out and off his back, the sudden relaxation of the grip on his cock, combined with the chill of cool air against overheated, sweaty skin, made him shiver and moan as he curled to the floor, wrapping himself around the acid eating through his insides. For the first time that night, he began to seriously wonder if he could do this. Whether Methos' expectations and experience were so vastly different from his own that he would simply be unable to meet the ancient man's needs.

Methos lay back against the end of the bed, getting his breath back and watching the Highlander contract into a gasping, whimpering huddle of desperation. Methos had not been exaggerating about the nature and extent of his experiences. At one time in his life his whole existence had revolved around pushing the boundaries of endurance, of finding precisely where pleasure became pain. But there was no pleasure here.

He gently moved a sodden dark curl away from the anguished face. "Enough, Duncan," he said. "You don't have to do this to impress me. We can stop. I treasure your friendship and that is enough." The muscles of the broad back trembled and when Duncan didn't answer, Methos was certain he had won, even though an acerbic internal voice reminded him just how Pyrrhic a victory it was.

"No!" It was hardly a word, only a harsh grunt. "It's not enough!" The trembling arms struggled and pressed, and Duncan slowly sat up, his breath coming in gasps. He draped his arms over his bent knees and doubled over, his erection still hard and weeping, swollen an angry red. Untouched and unrelieved, Methos noted. Still the Boy Scout, honor bound to follow the rules.

"I want more, Methos. And you know that between us, it has always been more than friendship. I thought..." he took a deep, calming breath. "I thought that I could show you, that you would see past your fear...but perhaps I was wrong."

Methos closed his eyes and laid his head back against the bed. "My fears have sustained me for thousands of years, Duncan," he sighed. "If you take them away, I'm not sure I even exist." It was time to go, he thought, but he could not summon the strength or will to move until a shadow fell across his face and he opened his eyes...to meet the sad, liquid gaze of Duncan MacLeod, only inches from his own.

"Duncan, I said..."

"I know," he answered. "But now we're following my rules."

And at last Duncan stole the kiss he had wanted since this awkward mating ritual had begun. A kiss Methos had desperately avoided for fear of drowning in the seductive whirlpool of the Highlander's touch and scent and taste, of soft, swollen lips and hot, probing tongue. Methos sank down and down, pulled deeper into the swirling depths he had so feared and desired. There was warm weight on him, over him, and his ears hissed and sang with the sound of skin sliding against skin, of breath against breath. The healing lips traveled across his jaw and the tongue caressed his ear, sending waves of warm chills across his flesh. Then the mouth found that special place just behind and beneath his ear, lingering there, and Methos thought he might weep with pleasure. The sweet trail of saliva cooled his heated flesh as it moved down and across his collar bone, and he arched his back and cried out at the sharp sizzle of teeth at his nipple, which turned into a groan as the hurt was instantly soothed with a moist, soft tongue.

Strong arms circled him, lifting him effortlessly, and he was cradled like a child, pulled in to straddle Duncan's thighs, and his head nestled instinctively into the curve of a golden neck where soft, dark hair tickled his cheek. Then there was pressure at the base of his spine, gentle at first, then a tingle and a sense of stretching that made him arch his back, leaning into the touch. The intrusion went deeper and he was pulling in more air as the sensation of warmth and need spread in concentric circles outward towards every internal and external surface of his being.

The persistent voice of survival, the singular instinct that had guided his fate since the beginning of memory so long ago, was a distant, uncomfortable high-pitched whine signaling danger...danger. If this had just been sex, he would have heeded the voice. But then if this had just been sex, the voice would never have been so shrill, so insistent. But strong arms lifted him once more, and the pressure grew and grew and grew; he was lowered and filled and filled until he was gasping and crying out and the voice was overwhelmed by a deep moan.

With a long, slow press the pressure increased and moved against his prostate, sparking a wave of bliss before it slowly backed off, and Methos realized the ecstatic moan had come from his own throat. He had never felt so vulnerable and yet so safe, like a helpless child cradled and buffered against the ills of the world. Again Duncan moved, using his strength to lift his lover just enough, then settling him back again with aching slowness. Methos was in no rush. There was no surge of frenzied passion, just a stunning prolonged ecstasy. The rocking continued, again and again and again, creating friction against Methos' cock, exquisitely trapped between the silk skin of two hard abdomens. At that moment, his only wish was that it never stop.

As Duncan gently rocked him, Methos gradually became aware of a breathless suspension of time and space, as though the planet had ceased its motion and the heavens were all waiting, for what he didn't know. He cupped his lover's chin and brought it up so their eyes met, and he was overwhelmed and mystified at what he saw.

"Damn the rules, Duncan," he whispered.

Duncan captured his mouth, invading it roughly with a sob and surged hard. Between the pressure from inside and the near bone-breaking crush of the Scot's arms, Methos could no more breathe than he could fly, but it felt like flying nonetheless. The strength of the surge lifted him off the floor, and the lack of oxygen aroused him even more as their bodies found a harmony of sensation, raising their flesh and spirits in a delirious crescendo whose notes filled the whole universe before they faded slowly, gradually, until only their unison heartbeats remained.

The oldest man in the world rested his cheek against the dark curls, feeling the warmth of life that was embodied in his arms, and listened to the lingering echo of that last grand chord...and one other small sound. It was his voice of survival, just a whisper now, like a tiny, buzzing insect in the corner. Not really so scary, after all.

In the lingering near-silence he sighed at last, propping his sharp chin on Duncan's head. "What am I going to do with you, Duncan MacLeod?"

He could hear the smile in the soft brogue. "I'm sure you'll be able to think of something," Duncan offered. "After all, you've got all that experience to fall back on. But, uh, could we move this to the bed? My legs are going numb."

It took a moment to untangle limbs, by which time both men decided a shower was in order. Under the comforting stream of warm water, Duncan took his time soaping Methos' long back and broad shoulders in silence. He imagined he could almost hear the thoughts churning in the Old Man's brain. It required swallowing twice to unlock his throat, but he had to ask. "Does this mean...I mean, I broke your rules, but you..."

"Didn't leave?" Methos finished for the stuttering Scot. He turned and draped his arms onto Mac's shoulders, feeling the other man's hands at his waist. It felt completely natural, as though they had been this familiar, this comfortable, all their lives. The sense of completion it brought him was profoundly moving. "Not today. Probably not tomorrow, either. After that, Highlander...we'll see. Can you live with that?"

The handsome face relaxed into an angelic smile. "Aye, Old Man." He pulled him close, nipping him lightly on the shoulder. "Today. Tomorrow. If ye must know," Duncan sighed, letting his sorrowful brogue darken his words, "I hae always been a verra slow learner. Ye may hae to repeat yer lessons o're and o're agin." He shook his head and let it hang in shame. "It could take years!"

A childlike grin brightened Methos' sharp features as his head went back and a deep, delighted laugh shook his whole frame. "For such a Boy Scout, Highlander, you can be very, very bad!"

Mac ran his hands over the older man's head pushing the last of the soap out of the short hair. "Aye," he whispered. "Let me show you just how bad I can be." He leaned in for a long kiss designed to incite and enflame. Methos finally pulled away, pushing his hands against the broad chest and creating a little distance between them as he leaned breathlessly against the tile wall. The easy affectionate mood had somehow altered into something almost sinister. "I never knew you were so insatiable. We don't have to do everything tonight, you know."

Mac put his hands on the wall beside Methos' head and leaned in. "We can do anything you want. I just want to please you," he whispered. His lips brushed the hard jaw. "Teach me how I can please you. Teach me everything." The tongue flicked out tracing the cartilage and flesh of his ear, sending chills rushing over Methos' skin even under the warmth of the shower.

"Mac, stop!" Methos gasped, feeling oddly alarmed. "Why are you pressing so hard?" Mac's dark eyes were fixed intently on him as though the man were trying to read his every thought. The smile that finally found its way across those perfect lips was slightly sad.

"I don't ever want to hurt you, Methos. You've spent so many years, so many centuries so full of hurt, and I know I've caused some of it. All I want to do is bring you pleasure. Intense...prolonged...pleasure." The full lips moved down as he whispered against his neck, the soft voice vibrating against his flesh.

Methos took possession of Mac's face with both his hands, lifting and pushing back until he could look into those eyes again. What he saw made him take a deep, shaking breath. "Oh, Duncan," he breathed. "We're in trouble."

The head cocked to one side and the pupils dilated even more. "Trouble?" The word rumbled reluctantly out of the broad chest. "No, Methos. No trouble." The smile was clearly an attempt at reassurance, but Methos' heart only thumped harder. "No demands, no need for promises. Just pleasure." The big hands traveled down his torso, resting on his hips before moving around to cup his ass in a firm grip.

The Scot's voice was thrumming again. That low vibration that set the older man's whole body to tingling. Gods, but the child was gifted! It would be so easy to surrender himself to those hands, that magnificent body, those soft, pliant lips. Too easy. A completely physical relationship. It was exactly what he had originally intended-to convince Duncan that it was the only possibility, and that even that alternative was out of reach. And it had utterly, completely backfired.

He reached around Mac and turned off the water, forcing him to stop his explorations, then stepped out of the shower, throwing the Highlander a towel and grabbing one for himself, turning away so he wouldn't be any more tempted to take advantage of what had been offered.

"We need to talk," he said gruffly, wrapping the towel tightly around his waist before he left the bathroom, opened the converted antique wardrobe and pulled out the scotch to pour them each a stiff drink.

It took a few minutes but Mac finally appeared at the door, steam billowing out from behind him. He had pulled his robe on and was toweling his hair. His expression was distant, unreadable. He took the proffered drink and sat heavily on the bed, not meeting Methos' eyes.

Methos studied his companion for a long moment, then sat down next to him. He took a large gulp of his Scotch, grimacing at the hot trail it left in his esophagus.

"Look at me, Duncan."

The broad chest expanded and released in a gusty sigh before the brown eyes reluctantly met his. "Methos, I know I'm young and inexperienced compared to you, but I can learn, really! It was foolish of me to think..." but the man stopped as a flush crept up his neck and stained his cheeks.

"Think what, Duncan? That I am so utterly shallow and self-absorbed that I am incapable of seeing beyond what you look like? That for six years I have just been following you around, nagging you, prodding you and occasionally saving your admittedly admirable ass just so some day I could fuck you?"

"No! Of course not!" Duncan sputtered indignantly.

"But that's what this is about, isn't it? This whole...seduction thing you've been doing?" His hands waved descriptively in the air. The more Methos spoke, the more Duncan seemed to sink in on himself, his chin lowering to his chest.

At last Methos cupped his chin and tilted his head up until their eyes met. "What do you want, Duncan?"

The callused hand gently moved Methos' hand away, then Mac stood and crossed to the tall window, gazing out into the darkness. "I just want you to be happy."

"And you think perpetual sex with you will do that?"

"No," he sighed. "I thought it might keep you around until..."

"Until what?"

The broad shoulders crawled up and sank back down again. "Until you stopped being afraid of me, of us. Until I could think of something else."

"Until you could think of something else," Methos repeated, studying the last half inch of liquid in his glass before swallowing it down like medicine. He rose and marched straight to his friend, carrying his anger and dignity like royal robes even though his sole attire was a white terrycloth towel. "And what was that going to be? Dancing girls? David Letterman? Penn and Teller? Gods, Duncan, what kind of person do you think I am, anyway?"

"You are Methos!" Duncan growled back, startling the Old Man with his intensity. The meaty hands reached out to caress the ancient man's shoulders. "You are breathtakingly intelligent and wise, witty and strong and beautiful. You carry the burden of more loss and love and endurance than any person who ever lived. I...I have so little to give you," he whispered at last. "I have been the cause of too much pain already, and what I want to give you most frightens you." He turned away, shaking his head. "I am a fool. I thought I could get you used to me as a lover, that you would start to care a little, maybe before you even noticed it, before you had a chance to be afraid."

"You're right, of course. You are a fool, Duncan MacLeod," Methos responded, watching the shoulders and chin sink again. One graceful finger touched a mahogany curl that had separated from the rest of the dark mass and twined it round and round. "I started to care the moment you stepped into my life. At the sound of my name on your lips, a name no one had spoken in too many years to count. But you knew."

"Methos, don't..." the Highlander whispered, his frame suddenly tense and still.

"Don't what, Duncan? Don't lie to you anymore? Don't lie to myself? Don't be afraid?" He turned the broad shoulders until they faced each other once more. "You've taught me to live in spite of fear," he whispered. "That's your greatest gift. All the loss, all the ugliness, all the mistakes, all the tragedy you have suffered since we met, and yet you endure and seek joy and cleave to your belief that good can overcome evil." He paused and took a deep breath. "I ask again, Duncan, what do you want from me?"

Duncan closed his eyes, realizing that for all Methos' kind words about his bravery, he would almost rather not know, would rather continue the charade of a simple affair than see that flash of disdain before the oldest Immortal covered it up with kindness and gentle rejection. Do it, he ordered himself. Do it and get it over with.

"Your heart," the Scot finally said, his chin lifting as he looked him straight in the eye.

Methos smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, Duncan, but it's already been taken." He watched as the muscles of the thick golden neck contracted, and the adam's apple moved up and down with a swallow. "Some Celtic bastard strolled into my life a few years ago and took it. Never gave it back."

As he watched those perfect lips curve and move towards his own, the oldest Immortal listened carefully. He stopped Mac with a hand on his chest and cocked his head, a curious expression on his face.

"What is it?" Mac asked. "Do you hear something?"

"No," Methos said quietly. "No." He shook himself as though someone had walked across his grave. "The only voices I hear are yours and mine." He looked oddly surprised.

"You were expecting someone else?" Duncan asked.

"No. Just old ghosts, whispering," Methos smiled, pushing a damp strand of dark hair away from Duncan's face. "But...I believe you have chased them away."

"The only whispers I want you to listen to are mine," Duncan instructed, his face serious, as though he knew. But how could he know, Methos wondered, then lost that train of thought entirely as the soft baritone voice murmured in his ear, making him smile as they moved like dancers toward the broad, inviting bed.