Tied

He'd fallen asleep on Methos's bed fully dressed, on a scatter of pocket squares and ties. Not fully dressed, no. His jacket and shoes were off. His overcoat and scarf were draped over a chair in the living room downstairs. His jacket was across the foot of the bed. His shoes were kicked next to it. His tie was on, his collar closed, his waistband snugly buttoned. He had a tie in his hand, another across his thigh ---

Duncan had been handed a glove containing a key and a folded business card. The glove belonged to Methos. The key belonged to a two-story condo in a strikingly ugly building on the South Bank.

He let himself in when the bell wasn't answered, scratching the lock a little. He'd been drinking, not to excess, but steadily enough to maintain a certain warmth. He walked in, dropped his coat, and looked for the bedroom. He wasn't here to play chess in the sitting room, to cook and eat and banter over a midnight meal. He wasn't here for games. He was tracking his arousal, whatever the hell had happened earlier. He wanted explanations. He wanted more.

He found the bedroom. He found the walk-in closet. He found the shoes, the suits, the neatly stacked shirts. He found the swing-out rack of neckties and the shelf of rolled silk squares, a Roman feast of colors, patterns, stripes, and fabrics that stopped him dead. Like the first shock of unrecognition at seeing Methos earlier tonight, like the shock of the new cloaking the known; there was nothing stranger, more alien to the man he knew, than that riot of adornment facing him.

Methos in a tie. Methos owning, Methos selecting, this mass of ties... This was more than the work of the past year. Some were fifty, sixty years old, bow ties, a cravat. To think of him with this other life-- How many layers were there to the man? How much had he concealed? Buying these, wearing these, keeping these, was out of plumb with everything about him Duncan knew. Unless, of course, they weren't his. Unless Methos was a collector. Unless they were souvenirs. Duncan smirked. You wouldn't want the tie of a conquered Immortal, not fresh off his corpse. He slid a hand under a dark crimson tie touched with gold and blue. Unless they were souvenirs of other conquests. He frowned, he crushed the tie and whipped it from the rack. Who? He picked another, he slid his hand under a whole row and pulled them out; he flipped the first lot across his shoulder and pulled a second row, and a third, piling them on his shoulder like a trapper's skins. He grinned at himself in the mirror that stood between the dresser and the closet door. He brought his trophies to the bed, to spread them out and study.

Whiskey. He took his jacket off. He went downstairs to the sitting room, poured himself a Bushmills and splash at the sideboard, and brought the bottle back.

The ties on the bed ran the gamut of color and texture, pattern and size. He returned to the closet, to the shelf of rolled silk squares. He pushed into them recklessly, spilling them, scooping them up. He brought a handful to the bed and let them cascade over the pillow and the ties. The handkerchieves, in contrast, were fewer and of recent vintage. He picked one up, a Hermès pink with knots. Another, a Liberty paisley in violet and blue. Colors and patterns to complement the ties; nicely chosen, but not collected, it seemed, with the same avidity.

Where was Methos? The concert had to be dead and over. Was he coming home tonight at all? Tomorrow had been written on the card. Tomorrow, hell. Tomorrow he'd be out of here. Duncan drank. He sat on the bed, leaned back against the headboard, and swung up his feet. He picked up a gray knitted tie and rubbed it between finger and thumb. He did the same with a raw silk yellow, with a floral jacquard. He wrapped one around his fist, a wide, striped tie. Screwing schoolboys, was he? Old boys? The blond and narrow Roger? He drank. He looked at the silk paving the bed, the silk and textured strips laid and tumbled over one another. He stirred them with his hand. He saw men stretched across the bed, shirts open, trousers wide, ties pulled from their knots and cast aside. Ties pulled from their necks, sliding from under collars. Men, dozens of them, under Methos's hands. He drank, he refilled his glass. He saw Methos picking up a red satin tie and sliding it between his fingers; tying it around his wrist; twisting it in his fist while the latest conquest bit his shoulder, seized his hips.... Duncan closed his eyes ... draping it around his neck, reins for the man riding him.

***

Mac jerked awake, clutching the tie. He heard the door downstairs, he felt someone. He took his sword to the stair railing overlooking the entrance, just in case, but it was Methos, at last. He could see his back and someone else, outside the open door.

"Sorry," he heard Methos say. "It's the old complaint: new composers, old bottles." A protest from the man out there, then Methos: "No. Thanks for the ride. I'll call you. No." He jerked back, he closed the door. He stood with his hand on the knob for a breath or two, then turned around. And damned if he hadn't had a gun in his pocket, after all. "Don't get cute. I'm in the mood for a murder."

Mac raised his hands, holding the sword and the bottle, in mock surrender. Methos scowled up at him. "I said tomorrow, dammit."

"It is tomorrow. Come on, the party's up here."

"The guest room's down here. Go to bed, I'm tired."

Mac shrugged and went back in. What he wanted was in the house. He yawned and stretched his back. He ran his finger inside his collar; he'd wanted Methos to unbutton it, to slip off his tie, but if needs must, he'd undress himself. Find Methos's pajamas, or sleep naked? Sleep on or under the slippery pile of ties? Another little unbidden image, a snaking slide of silk between his legs, wrapping around his sex, tightening...something else he'd rather have a hand with, but that he could do himself...He heard steps on the carpeted stairs and grinned. Games tonight, after all. He pulled his tie to the side and back, loosening the knot. Too late, Methos. He had a head start.

"Screw it, you take the guest room. I want my... what the fuck did you do in here?"

Mac let his tie hang nooselike on his shirt and unbuttoned his collar. "Come here." Methos was still in his jacket. The linen shirt, the blood black tie, again. Mac wanted another chance to see how they felt, how he felt feeling them. Another fistful of that brocade. He stepped forward, he held out a hand, and Methos knocked it aside.

"No." Methos shook his head. "Hands off. Got a headache. Not in the mood -- no up against the wall, no dresser knobs in my back; I've been pawed at enough, tonight."

"Pawed at?" He could smell him from here, and his pulse kicked. The peppery scent had faded; there was smoke, there was alcohol. There was cold, still clinging to his hair. There was something else, something male.

"Not-- it's late, Mac, I'm tired. We don't know what the hell this is yet."

"Who's been pawing at you?" Fuck tired. He'd get over tired. "Roger? Oh, did I break up your date with the horrible Roger?" Someone else's scent on him?

Methos raised his hands, and Mac stepped into the gesture. Stop: the pressure of those hands on his chest said Stop, but he had contact at last, and he wasn't backing down. Methos gave an exasperated snarl. "Son of a bitch, slow down." His hands were flat on the front of Mac's shirt, but he wasn't pushing him away. It was late. The shadow of a beard darkened Methos's chin, his jaw, his upper lip. Eye to eye, breath to breath. No resistance.

"You'd rather have Roger than me?" Joking, joking. He took Methos's tie, he wrapped it in his fist, slowly, and pulled, gently. "Slow. Nice and slow." He bent his head and kissed Methos, slowly, gently, on the mouth. Curious, how it would feel when he was calm. In control, this time. "Look, no hands," he murmured against his lips, and kissed him again. Curiosity indulged, a little, then more, then calm began to slip sideways and he was not so gentle or in control; he yanked the tie, he opened his mouth, he ran his hand under Methos's jacket to grip him by the back and pull him close, hard. He tasted like brandy, still, his mouth was hot and wet, his chin rough, and he was clinging to Mac's shirt, to his braces...

"Ow!" The damned elastic snapped against his back again, hard. "Ow!" He backed off, but not far; Methos had his arms around him, gripping the braces. "Slow. Nice and slow," Mac promised. Methos's eyes were bright and narrow and fixed on him. His lips were wet. His face was flushed. Mac dropped the tie. He touched Methos's jaw, and he flinched. He smoothed the rumpled tie. Carefully, two handed, he loosened the knot; he flipped one end through, he pulled it open so it hung, undone, under his collar. The starched linen was less crisp now, softer, wrinkled. The buttons were mother of pearl and thick. Mac slipped the first one through its hole, holding the shirt edges, not to touch the bit of throat exposed. He unbuttoned the next. And the next...Methos's hands slid down the braces, to Mac's hips. He unbuttoned two more, still without touching skin, the nakedness that lay underneath, and reached the belt. He pulled harder at that, two handed again, a tug to bow the stiff black leather, to loose the hole from the buckle's tongue and slip the end through. He went in between the hanging ends and unbuttoned the top button of the trousers waistband, and touched then, stroked his fingertips across the skin through the opened shirt, over the open waistband, over the wrinkles compressed by the trousers and belt, above the boxer shorts. Soft skin, warm skin, pink skin. Mac tilted his head, considering the layered clothes, the buttons, the plackets. His breath against skin exposed made Methos shiver; Methos held his shoulders now, the wings of his jacket open and flanking the progress of those gentle hands undoing him, opening him, all the way down.

The fly first, Mac decided. He unbuttoned the second waistband button, inserted his thumb behind, and drew the zipper down. He was delicate, spreading it open touching only the placket edges, nothing underneath, below, to the side. He finished unbuttoning the shirt. He dipped his fingers inside the waistband of those coveted shorts (yes, a flat waistband and button, blue and white striped batiste). He stroked that warm skin, the fine drift of hair tickling his knuckles. "Just..." whispered Methos, but Mac shook his head. He unbuttoned all, he spread the layered fabric wide, and stepped back. Methos slid his hands down his sleeves, and Mac pushed them down, pushed his arms back, to rest straight at his sides. He looked at him, at Methos flushed and bright eyed and waiting. He pulled open Methos's shirt now, wide, exposing his chest; he pulled the belt and trousers wider, making them bag; the black wool jacket hanging open, its rose lining bright against the linen shirt, the shirt fine and almost sheer in this light, under the tie; the open belt, the black trousers peeling back over the white and blue boxers, and at base, between, underneath, exposed in a long ivory, blushing, muscled swath, Methos's body.

Mac laid his fingers on Methos's jaw, stroked across the rasp with his thumb. "May I?"

"Please," said Methos. His pulse leapt under Mac's hand, his breath was rough. "Do something." He moved to take Mac's shirt, to unbutton, and Mac turned his hands away, again.

"Patience." He looked at the layers lovingly, peeled back over each other, down to the fundament -- he touched. He stroked between the open collar, under the moving adam's apple as Methos swallowed; he stroked underneath the linen, along one collarbone to the central notch; he spread his fingers and passed his hand over the flat plane of breast, watching his wide, square hand, gold against that lighter flesh, the hairs catching against his watchband... He flicked his thumbnail across one dark nipple, and Methos made a sound; he slid his fingers, his wide, blunt, calloused fingers together and pinched and Methos grabbed his wrist. He grinned, and pinched harder, he slid his free hand under the shirt to trap the other nipple, pinching and twisting. Methos had a fist in his hair, then, pulled him in roughly to his mouth, bit his lips, opened wide and gasped when Mac dug in with his nails.

They struggled, kissing; Mac raked his nails down Methos's sides, thrust his hands deeper under his jacket and shirt, inside his clothes, and pushed down his trousers waist, pushed under his belt, under his boxers, gripping a handful of warm, muscled flesh. Methos gasped again, and Mac hauled him closer, twisting to get a leg between his thighs.

"Damn it, Mac, let me in." Methos tugged at his trousers, at the back fastening of a brace.

"Wait," Mac breathed. "Wait, I want..."

"Take it off," said Methos. He rubbed against Mac's thigh; Mac could feel him, hot and hard, through two layers of fine wool. Methos got a hand between them and started to undo his flies, to inch his hand, flat, inside Mac's pants.

"Wait," said Mac, and hissed when Methos's hand (smooth, manicured, came the irrelevant memory) touched the base of his cock. Mac leaned back, he grabbed Methos's dangling tie, and pulled, slid it, the way he'd been picturing, slid it from around Methos's neck and threw it across his shoulder. "Mine," he said, and they stumbled together, falling with Methos's back against the dresser with its objectionable knobs. The tall standing mirror next to it trembled and tilted, but Methos's hands were at work, long, busy hands holding open his flies, wrapped around his shaft, cupping under to free his sac -- Mac's concentration was going sideways again. He put a hand on the dresser for balance, he reached into the open V of Methos's pants, brushing his palm over the rosy bulb rising from the ruck of fabric.... he pulled him out, exposed him, saw in the flesh, in the mirror, his hand clutching Methos's cock (a hand-and-a-half-hilt, that irreverent voice butted in again). He laughed, and Methos echoed. "Look at us," he said. Methos licked his lips, turned his head to see; he stroked Mac's cock; Mac tightened his fist around his, and let him go.

"Now look." Mac took the captured tie, the blood-black, textured tie, and looped its middle with a sliding knot. He grasped Methos's cock by the tip, sliding the silk brocade over it, down, the loop around and behind his balls. He pulled, he tightened the silken noose, he pulled Methos to him, sex to sex. "Look." He pushed Methos's hands away, he coiled a loop around himself, around the root of his cock, up between his balls, and pulled. Methos grabbed his arms and looked, between the mirror and the flesh, as Mac wrapped and bound, tied them together, pulled the knobbed silk tight around them both; shuddering as their heated flesh pressed together under the strapping silk; he looked at skin shining between the gaps of the blood-black tie, at the two heads tight together above, swollen, tender, one darker than the other, one plumper, both glistening... Mac yanked the wide, hanging bit of silk and Methos's back arched with the pressure, with the almost pain; his mouth opened in a stretched and shining O; Mac pulled, Methos reached under and stroked the taut, silk-divided sacs within the opened flaps of dampening cotton, of prickling wool, of wrinkled grainy linen, catching in his grip against exquisitely sensing skin. Watching the mirror, watching as he squeezed them together in his hand and Mac tugged and released, tightened and... tightened and.... "Christ, Mac, hurry up..." released, until he finally, finally, let a little slack in the wrapping silk and began to pump, hard and fast, gasping, shaking, until with a shout Methos came, they came, bound together, spurting, spattering, shooting over their hands, the silk, the wool, the linen, the batiste, their flushed and sweating skin.

***

It could have been a dream. It wasn't.

He remembered Methos untying them, leaning his head on Duncan's shoulder. He remembered being urged backward, falling on the bed, onto the sliding ties. He remembered lights out.

It was bright when he woke, naked under the sheets, alone.

Before he could think, or replay the night in his mind -- had he slept alone? -- there was a tap at the door. It opened and Hans came in, carrying a tray. "Good afternoon, Mr. MacLeod. I hope you slept well." He stepped over a shirt, shoes, an empty whiskey bottle, and turned aside a tumbled mass of silk with his foot. "Coffee," he said, succinctly. He opened the tray's legs and set it on the bed. "Breakfast downstairs, sir, when you're ready."

"Where's..." damn, what was his name? "When will, ah..."

"Dr. Adams is not at home." The tray held a carafe of coffee, a cup and saucer, a small pitcher of milk, a napkin, and a spoon. No sugar. He didn't take sugar. Duncan recognized the spoon as one of his own, with a little shock. But he knew he was awake.

"Do you know when he'll return?" he asked.

Hans stooped, retrieving clothing from the floor. "No, sir."

Clothes, a shower, water. "Is there a message for me?" The hotel. Tickets. He was scheduled to leave today.

"No, sir. I'll have your suit for you in an hour." Hans closed the door soundlessly.

So, Hans was a -- did they still have valets? Did Methos -- well, apparently he had someone in. Someone who would be cleaning proof of the night's activities from his linen and his trousers -- their linen and trousers and -- Duncan threw back the covers, unsettling the tray. The blood black brocade was looped behind his balls, knotted around his cock. Tonight was written in red across his thigh.

Not a dream.

   End