Give and Take

Mathematics had changed across the centuries, like time and the keeping of time, to fit the uses of men. His personal accounting system had been ground and adjusted, by use of stones and knotted rope, notched sticks, beads, grains of sand, and a long, long, sequence of toothed tooled and jeweled brass. All given way at some point to electrical ticks and pulses, from blood and bone to nerves.

Sloppy thinking, probably because his feet were cold. Methos rubbed the back of his hand across the icy tip of his nose and tried to remember where he'd left his slippers. Across town, most likely, in his flat; he could hunt up something of MacLeod's from the closet at the far end of the barge. But Mac's skillet was just the right heat, the nugget of butter sliding across its center on a set slippery schedule. He could have two perfect eggs on toast in five minutes or warmer feet now, his broken fast coming at the cost of a little misery. Give or take.

He tilted the pan and took up an egg in his other hand, waiting. What had he been adding up? Thirty-two days they'd been together, he knew that without thinking, knew the total as every morning clicked by. Thirty-two days, and counting.

Tick, tick, tick, the butter bubbles formed and popped. If he weren't here, he'd be warm.

Mac called him a parasite once, joking. Maybe. Home ground certainly was MacLeod's. When they slept together, which was getting to be most nights, they stayed at the barge. Weekdays, long hours of them, they spent apart. They never visited Methos's flat.

Things had changed. He'd fallen into an older, wary rhythm with this affair. Not the hot, flaming passion he had feared and desired, but dangerous, nonetheless. Calculating, cautious, he took his cues from the subdued MacLeod and his chastening habitat. In the loft, in the more comfortably furnished barge, he used to spread himself around, on display, uninvitedly and wantonly at home. Now, as with some state park or wilderness, what he packed in he packed out, or used. His slippers sat this morning in his rented closet, miles away.

Mac, for his part, was warm, welcoming, subtle. Two weeks ago, stumbling sleepily to the head, he'd brushed Mac's shoulder as he sat meditating; on the way back to bed, Methos was grabbed and rolled lustily across the mats. And after that, Mac meditated behind a screen. More sloppy thinking, maybe, to take that for more than it was. He wondered, though.

He'd stopped breaking into the barge, but didn't get a key. He still borrowed Mac's clothing without asking. Sometime over the last few years Mac had stopped wearing scent, which he missed. He had a stolen sweater, redolent of the old MacLeod, stashed away against some unspecified eventuality. He'd brought a bar of soap rich with neroli, sandalwood, and thyme in his shaving kit one night. Mac liked its bumpy contour and slithery lather, so it stayed until it melted. The shower smelled of something new and common to the two of them for a while.

He cracked the eggs into the pan, continuing to add and subtract.

Mac brought his cookware out of storage. Methos changed his shoes. Mac bought a couch, a clean-lined beauty in gunmetal leather. Methos gave up his morning espresso, abandoned the dark and hot and bitter underneath three spoons of sweet. Mac was growing his hair.

His hair. He loved that hair. He flinched at the word, then bore down on it the way he'd probe a nagging pain. "One thing to do, then," he told his eggs, turning off the flame.

***

In a cavern, in a canyon, staring at a Carlsberg sign, Methos repeated the mantra of the damned: It seemed like a good idea at the time. He took a long pull at his watery draft and shuddered. Two hours hiding in a bad bar drinking bad beer under plastic lamps. The day was warm, the sky was blue, nobody was trying to kill him, and there was pleasant sex available for the asking. What the hell was wrong with him?

Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine. . .Punctuating the nagging tune in his head, a chirp sounded from his jacket. Methos flicked his cell phone open, resignedly.

"Good afternoon." Mac, rich of voice, and happy. "I thought we were meeting for lunch?"

"We were. I'm sorry, I lost track of time. Still hungry?" He thought his voice sounded high. The tabletop was retro formica with an atomic motif on speckled pink. He traced a black nuclear path with his fingertip.

"Yes. Come home, I have something to show you. I'll make an early supper."

"No. Meet me at Raq's, on the terrace. It's my turn, I'll pay."

"Are we celebrating?"

"We're hungry. See you in an hour." He was a coward and Mac was a gentleman, at heart; he might raise less fuss in public. Even at Joe's, they never touched in front of people, never exported this thing going on, beyond the barge. He thumbed the phone off and brushed its beetle casing to his lip--not a kiss, but at least a fond pass, before putting it away. Pricey place, Raq's; he'd need to change and hit a cash machine. The thought of sun shining on his head sparked briefly in his brainpan, then fizzled out.

Raq's served a citron vodka martini that was lethal and tart, a perfect foil for fusion Vietnamese. He'd taken more than usual care with his clothes. Mac noticed when he did, even teased him, physically, with sly tugs, a pass of his hand, a pinch of fabric between finger and thumb. One pair of socks had merited a slide of his strong, square hand inside the cuff and underneath, around Methos's ankle, over his heel, a lingering circling pass between cashmere and skin while they sat playing chess, until his foot was tugged to nestle in Mac's lap, snug against his sex, the long and little bones kneaded, kneading, rolling and being rolled.... Oh, sweet suffering hell, he loved that man.

Steady. He was early, or Mac was late. He tilted the last drop from the glass's flat, thin rim and signaled for another drink. Chocolate leather jacket, bomber style; white knotted knit sweater, that fit; khakis that held a crease, that fit; those socks, that never did fit the same after that night but that felt so comfortable, so right. His new shoes. Sunglasses against the sun that was setting now, glinting through bamboo leaves and glass.

Presence shimmered up behind him. He pulled the curl of lemon rind from his pristine, crystal potion and shook a drop of vodka on his wrist. A shadow fell across the tablecloth, large and dark and known. An indrawn breath, familiar, too.

"Adam? What the hell have you done to yourself?"

"Mac. You're late." He could do cool, he could do cheeky. He tilted his head back to take in the big picture; to better sell serenity, he pushed his sunglasses up, further up, and they slid over his naked scalp and off the other side. Oh, fuck.

Mac's eyes were wide and not happy in the least. He reached out, his hand coming down to cover Methos's bald, bald head. Hot and calloused, the hand passed over this new land revealed, rubbing the skin, cupping the curving back, fingers coming to rest flat across the ridge above his neck. It felt shockingly erotic, and Methos hardened helplessly under his lemon-colored napkin.

The waiter came. Mac tightened in, his hand, his arm, curved protectively. So much for not touching in public. Methos's snort toward Mac's front pleats broke whatever spell the Scot was under. He dropped his hand and stepped back a decent pace.

Methos gestured airily over his glass. "Two, again; and goi cuon, please, until we order."

"We're not ordering, we're going home."

"We're ordering, we're eating, we're sitting down. I'm not walking anywhere, just at the moment." He was feeling calmer. It hadn't come to blades, at least.

The waiter backed away, badly hiding a grin. Mac dragged a chair out and sat. "One drink, and then we leave."

"I'm hungry and I intend to have a good meal. I've been thinking of tamarind all day."

"Why the hell would you do such a thing? You look terrible."

"You think so?" He did. His face was too long, his ears stuck out, his nose was more nose than ever. To his eyes, in the glass, he looked punished and incomplete. He'd remembered himself as rather more ascetic and scholarly without his hair. Mirrors were better, now. His arousal began to wilt. "You'll love it when the beard grows in."

"You're not growing a beard," Mac growled. Was that warmth in his eyes?

"An evil goatee with a moustache. The better to set off the hat."

"Hat, now?"

"Possibly a turban; my turban of nefarious intent. I'll set a trend."

"Turban. Like a tea-cozy on a chamber pot."

The martinis and summer rolls arrived, with a pungent peanut sauce. Methos handed over the unopened menus. "Ah, wonderful. We'll have the oysters, goi du du, tamarind shrimp for myself and grilled yellowfin for Monsieur. Coffee and dessert we'll decide at the end. And keep the martinis coming."

"Monsieur has other plans, thank you." Mac stood. "I'm not sitting here looking at you like that and trying to eat. Let yourself in." Something metal clinked on the table. A keychain and keys. New keys. Methos keys. Mac was gone, without a sound, before he touched them.

Now, how did that add up?

***

He was a coward. He ate less than he'd wanted and drank more than he should, and took a taxi back to his place. He thought about a tattoo. He thought about an earring. He thought about a turban, and turbans past, and the fact that he held onto nothing homely from lives gone by. Just his journals, and books; but clothes, jewels, saddles, boots, all seemed to slip away. He tried to open his door with the wrong keys, the barge keys, which was just silly. He had a home here, a nice place, not that Mac even knew. He got the door open. He walked in, straight to the closet, dug out his slippers, turned around, and left.

It wasn't that late, but the barge lights weren't visible from outside. Methos unlocked the door with his stiff new keys and stopped in the hatchway, letting Mac's Presence flow over him. The lights were off, a low fire was burning, and a large television set glowed from some new piece of furniture against the wall. The couch was angled toward it, the couch holding Mac holding his robe together, getting up.

"Hello. That's your surprise?" Methos dropped the slippers, took off his jacket and hung it up. He'd forgotten his overnight pack.

"Television, VCR, DVD-CD. Those speakers you talked about."

"You didn't get this because of me!" he snapped; it came out ugly, desperate.

"I got the popcorn popper for you. It's hot air." Mac came up to him and stopped just inside the bounds of intimacy. "I'm not in the mood for nonsense. Are you all right? Is there something going on I need to know about?" Mac's hair, long enough now to curl against his neck and fall into his eyes, was mussed. Beautiful. Worth shaving his head for, and his balls as well. Good thing he hadn't thought of that, this morning.

"No. Nothing's wrong." He couldn't imagine anything reassuring to say or do. It likely wouldn't feel right until they climbed into bed and everything came down to flesh. "Popcorn and a movie? You got movies?"

"I got movies. What the hell are you playing at?"

"Call it a whim. Forget it, I didn't do it to annoy you. Didn't think of you at all, really," he lied. Mac wasn't backing off; he countered, came at him from a different angle.

"Getting ready to leave, again? Come to say goodbye?"

"No; Christ, Mac, you're making too much out of this...."

"Where's your backpack?" He pushed forward, herding Methos against the counter. "You didn't leave a toothbrush behind, or a book, not even a shirt in the hamper."

Thirty-two days and he just realized? "I brought slippers," Methos said defiantly, pointing.

They both looked down. "Those are mine," said Mac.

A long pause, while caravans of thought trudged across the flats behind Mac's eyes. A smile, finally, a half-smile. He tweaked the hem of Methos's sweater, then gathered a handful of it to crush in his fist. "I do notice you, you know," he said, as though Methos were a child, or one of his women, begging for attention. The ego on the man! The man who had just vaulted from concern to attack to comfort. Was it Methos's imagination, or was Mac actually radiating heat? He could get runny in the middle, standing here, so close, so well regarded. He poked him in the ribs. "Got a toothbrush I can borrow?"

Mac sighed and turned away. "You get a manicure and a cat, and you're on your own. Make the damn popcorn."

It didn't take long to work the machine. It was easy. Food was always easy, food he could do, food they both liked, thank god. He filled the wooden salad bowl with hot buttered corn and carried it over to the couch, with a bottle of beer.

Mac was sitting back, with his own drink. Methos sat on the floor in front of him and set down the bowl near a bag of discs and tapes. "What are we watching?"

Mac clicked the remote, and the picture bloomed in black and white. Three knocks: a theater curtain rose on a bustling Boulevard du Temple.

"Les Enfants du Paradis?"

"All right?"

"Mmhmm." Very right; one of Methos's favorites, in fact, and one Mac had never mentioned. Figures it would appeal to the highlander, though: love, death, loss, revenge, and Jean-Louis Barrault. "It's the second half; you're past my favorite part."

"You shouldn't have been so late. We can watch it over, later."

From the corner of his eye, Methos saw Mac twist and put a leg on the seat; then felt a firm pull on the back of his sweater. "Come up here." There wasn't much room. He perched on the edge of the cushions, between Mac's legs. "Here." Arms came around him and he was urged back, gently, until he was lying with his head against Mac's chest, cradled in his arms. He shifted, they shifted, long legs nested together and they fit, damn it. He lifted the popcorn bowl to his lap. Mac slid one hand under his sweater and with the other, stroked Methos's head.

"It looks very naked, all that skin up here. I might get used to it. You're growing your hair back, though." (Was that a kiss?) "I'm too fond of that hair. Did you even think to ask me?"

"Would you let it go? I just felt like...I can't say." I can't say. Give, take, the world is keeping score. I love you, I'll lose you, some day. Just not now, if I can help it.

Onscreen the assassin faced the actor over a love token, a hairpin shaped like the moon.

Mac kept his hand under the sweater and tee shirt, warm against Methos's ribs, stroking his thumb across the swell of his chest. Petting, not sparking, not pressing for a sharper response. Methos nudged his head into the valley of Mac's chest. The robe parted and he could feel skin against his skull, the crisp silkiness of the fur MacLeod, and, gratifyingly, a deep rumble of content. Mac brushed his jaw against the top of his head. Methos felt ridiculously close to purring, himself.

"What are we doing?"

Mac pinched his nipple. "Waiting for Arletty. Shush."

He tried to sense Mac's arousal behind him, but there were clothes in the way. There wasn't room to drop a hand between his legs to start the usual routine, their regular move along the road to sex. He could grab himself underneath the popcorn bowl, he supposed, or keep on as he was, eating with one hand and curving the other up to cover Mac's hand as it moved slowly on his chest. It felt like heaven. It couldn't last.

"What's wrong?" Mac rubbed his jaw again over his head.

"We don't do this."

"Do what?"

"This, this...snuggling. Domestic bliss. Pigs in a poke, puppies in a basket, rats in a sock...."

"Sure, we do." The rumble deepened, curling around his skull like a snake. "Rats in a sock?"

There was no place safe to put an elbow for leverage. He grabbed the back of the couch at the same time Mac tightened both arms around him, holding him securely down.

"Methos, let go. We're fine, really."

He was shaking, just a little. With clothes, maybe MacLeod couldn't tell. Mac was still talking, pulling down his sweater, rubbing his hand across his denuded head.

"Listen to me: when was the last time you took a Challenge?"

He slackened in surprise, and Mac took advantage. "Morgan Walker."

"How long ago was that?"

"Two years. A little more, maybe."

"My last fight was O'Rourke." He had Methos snugged against him again and was back to rubbing his chest, stroking down across his ribs to the top of his stomach. "I asked Joe. Things have slowed all over. It's quiet."

"It won't last."

"Nothing lasts. Carpe diem: We're alone here. We're happy. We deserve it." He kissed Methos's head. "Just shut up and enjoy the show."

Happy. He gave, he took, he settled back to be held and petted in Mac's arms. They watched until the fool and the one he loved embraced in the room of memories and the fool conceded, "C'est si simple, l'amour."

"I love this part," Mac murmured drowsily. Methos loved it too. And the scenes after that, when the movie ended, as it always did, in justice, in heartbreak and lovers parted by the world. As Mac slept, safe under his head, Methos backed up to the beginning, and watched everyone fall in love, forever, from the start.

*****