Undone

For the first time in decades he was aimless, without a job, without involvement or affiliation or profession or point. Since the O'Rourke incident, he'd traveled. He'd looked around half-heartedly for another place to make a home. He'd bedded women without attachment; he'd found himself sporadically cruising the Marais. And this week, he'd come to London to meet with the benefactors of Darius's school. For form, for appearance, he'd bound himself like a book in one of his finest suits, in the very suit that Hans was brushing and pressing for him now. His suit, his linen, his socks, all taken away. He didn't remember taking off his clothes. He didn't remember Methos making sense once he'd laid hands on him; just "please." Yes, please.

He debated, stay or go? He wasn't even sure when he stepped into the shower about scrubbing the smell of the other man from his body, of washing away the proof on his thigh that this hadn't been a dream. He ducked out of the spray to look at himself in the mirror, twisting to see along his back, his sides; no other writing, no other messages scribbled on his skin. He felt foolish. He'd been marked, but not enough, not personally enough. He didn't know this Methos. Did he know himself?

His body was sure of what it wanted, more sure than he was about giving it free rein. He stepped back into the streaming water. He wet his face then lathered his body, scrubbing himself, spreading the suds across his chest and stomach, down his thighs and legs, washing himself clean. He soaped his hands and reached between his legs and his breath sobbed when he made contact, when he slicked his cock with his loose fist and it hardened, filled, at first touch and all he hadn't thought about came flooding back, filling him, rolling through his senses and his mind. His head snapped back, his mouth opened, catching the spray of water, as he pumped into his fist, banging his knee, slipping against the tile wall, coming, coming, coming into memories of Methos exposed, of Methos unexplored, and Methos desperately, desperately desired.

***

He drew his thumb across his morning beard and remembered the feel of Methos's unshaven jaw, burning his lips. He remembered earlier, that first kiss from a Methos freshly barbered, soft-skinned, scented. He could shave with Methos's razor. He could look for that exotic scent and splash it on. He glanced at himself and turned away. Later, maybe.

It bothered him, not knowing if he'd slept alone. No physical recollection of weight next to him in the bed, of a hand on his skin under the sheets. No recall of heat and weight against him, of that now keenly hungered-for contact, of Methos's naked body pressed full length against him, in his arms, to be held and explored in the night in the dark in his bed... He was hard again, from longing and curiosity. He thought of staying here, in this room, wrapping himself in the other's strange clothes, lying back in that unfamiliar bed, and losing himself to feeling until Methos came home to him.

He had an hour, an hour he could spend up here in his fantasy or downstairs, breakfasting in the afternoon light with Hans working nearby, with the radio or newspaper or TV letting in the daily world. An hour to make up his mind and arrange his affairs, to stay in London or return to Paris. He had tickets for the 5:05 flight. Checkout time was (he located a clock on the dresser; where was his watch? His wallet? His cufflinks? His phone?) already past, though the hotel knew him. Where was Methos? What had he planned for tonight?

He needed a phone and he needed to put something on. A thick white robe hung on the bathroom door, the kind of robe offered to a guest. He passed it by and began opening drawers (and ah, more revelations there). He pulled out a white T-shirt. In the bottom drawer he found a pair of jeans, worn and familiar looking. Underneath them, familiar, too, a gray cashmere sweater he'd lent out years ago and never seen again. There was a bloodstain on its hem. He lifted it to his bristled cheek, to his nose, and inhaled. It smelled of his own aftershave, of himself. So Methos kept other souvenirs.

The T-shirt was a snug fit. The cotton knit was fine, soft and silky when he rolled it over his chest; he rubbed it across his stomach for the pleasure of feeling it and caught the movement in the standing mirror, caught sight of himself bare bottomed, half aroused, caressing himself. He faced the mirror and drew on the jeans, tucking himself inside as Methos must, his cock giving a twitch at the sight and touch. Not hot off Methos's body or smelling of him, but bearing his imprint and shape, his thighs and knees, the crotch worn almost white. You're ridiculous, he told himself. He settled himself in Methos's pants and buttoned the fly. (Methos went naked under his jeans.) He picked up last night's tie from the bed and twisted it between his fists. He thought about tying it around his cock again, to have the feel of it against his body. He threaded it through the belt loops of the jeans, knotted it, and tucked the ends in his pocket. He left the robe behind, he left his sword leaning by the bed (that, at least, had stayed in the room), and barefoot, carrying the sweater, he opened the bedroom door.

***

He made four phone calls before Hans brought him an omelette with sliced tomato and a hot brioche. The afternoon sunlight he'd anticipated was a muted white. Heavy snow threatened, according to the radio. He turned off the news when Hans came in with the coffee. "How long have you been with Michael?" He tried out the name. It felt odd in his mouth.

"A number of years, now, sir."

He hazarded a guess. "I don't know if Michael...Dr. Adams told you, but he and I have met before."

"Yes, sir, so I understood." The phone rang. "Excuse me," said Hans, and buggered off to answer it in private. Duncan prodded the eggs with his fork. The hell. Where was Michael Adams, who was Michael Adams, and how in blue blazes had he squirreled this life away for those unnumbered years? Did the Watchers know? Did Joe? He listened to Hans speak indistinctly in the kitchen. Good looking man; hard to guess his age with the white-blond hair. A scar on his chin. A tattoo on his wrist? He poked the eggs again, took a sip of cooling coffee.

"Dr. Adams for you, sir." Hans was back, handing him the phone.

"Good afternoon," said a rich, distant voice. "You're getting a late start. Have you changed your travel plans?"

"For tonight." He'd cancelled everything, booked his room for an indefinite stay. "When are you coming home?"

"I have tickets for La Boheme. Where are you staying? I'll pick you up at 7." Too far, too cold, too long to wait.

"You can meet me here. We don't have to go out."

"I'd rather not." Exasperation, there? "Would you just..."

"Expecting someone?"

"Go home, or I'll have Hans throw you out." Then Methos laughed, not the bark he used when he was angry; not polite; not cold; Mac caught himself hanging on every nuance of Methos's voice, on this strange Methos's voice, and slapped himself. "Business, Mac. If we ever get a chance to talk..."

"Where are you now?" Yes, he wanted to talk. He was quite pleased to hear more of this disembodied voice.

"In a cab. I'll see you in a few hours."

He wanted..."Touch yourself."

"What?"

"For me. Touch your thigh, where you marked me."

"Mac-"

"Put your hand between your legs, where you tied me. How does it feel?" He heard breathing. "Are you warm?" He was warm, sliding his own hand up the worn front of Methos's jeans. "Are you hard?"

"Mac-" with a rasp to his voice.

"Between your legs. . . Get a grip."

"Duncan-" lower, harsher.

"Tight, so you can feel it." He closed his eyes, imagining. He rumbled, "I don't give a damn about dinner and a show. I don't give a damn about your business. I want you. Here. Now." He snapped off the connection; he squeezed the threadbare denim tightening across his crotch, and grinned. He was suddenly ravenous.

***

There was disapproval in Hans's back as he cleared the table. Duncan licked butter from his thumb. His suit, as he'd been informed, was pressed. His shirt likewise, with the rest of his clothes clean and waiting for him to climb into them and get out. Waiting for him in Methos's bedroom, and there was some disapproval exuded about that, too. He'd personally be damned if he left before Methos returned. Servants, no matter how attractive or how poised, didn't frighten him. Hans would not be drawn into small talk. Larger talk might be of interest: Did you know your master lops heads off with a sword? Did you know he was ancient when this riverbank was mud? Did you know what we've been to one another? But at that point, he failed. "Could I have more coffee, please," he asked, moving to the sitting room.

He sat back in the corner of the couch and swung his legs up, crossing his feet on the cushions. He draped the sweater across his lap and passed the bloodstained hem through his hands. He couldn't recall whose blood it was, or if it had been stained when Methos borrowed it. Hans set a mug on the low table in front of the couch, with a discernable frown. "Excuse me, Mr. MacLeod, it's 4:15; I wouldn't want your departure to be delayed."

"Not to worry," he said cheerfully. "Michael's meeting me here. Don't let me disrupt your routine. I'll amuse myself." He picked up a book at random from the table. If looks were razors, Hans's would have shaved him clean, from stubbled chin to naked toes with no hair left between.

"Yes, sir," he said, and slid off to spread frost in the outer regions.

The book was a collection catalogue, a remarkably dull one, for coins of the British Museum. Below that were some equally deadly looking publications from Bremer Beiträge zu Münz- und Geldgeschichte. And on the bottom of the stack, a novel in a garish, vintage wrapper. Duncan snorted. Of all the trash he thought to find in Methos's secret stash, he never suspected this. Petronius; Sabatini; Louis L'Amour, maybe; but Anita Loos? He flipped it open. Next to the title page was scrawled, in a backslanted hand, "from one gold digger to another." And it was signed: "Love, R."

The buzzer for the door made him jump. Perfect, if it were Methos. He didn't feel Methos. Duncan twisted, to see the entry, to see Hans open the door, to see Roger, narrow Roger, horrible Roger, holding a bottle-bag by the neck. He looked almost pleasant, greeting Hans.

"I'm rather early tonight, sorry. Would you open this? Micky said salmon, but you know he never gets dinner...right." He saw Duncan. His smile disappeared like breath from a razor, and Hans gave a discreet cough.

"Thank you." He relieved the staring Roger of his coat and the bottle, with a slight tug. "Coffee, Mr. Bradford?"

"Tea. Brandy. Tea, thanks." That frown, now, Duncan remembered from the club.

Duncan dropped the book on top of the sweater and leaned further into the cushions. Right, right, and right; he felt it like a punch to the gut. Well, he was up to a fight. He bared his teeth. "Roger, isn't it?"

"And you are?"

"Duncan MacLeod." Of the clan MacLeod. I'm four hundred years older than you are and I can drop you like a rabbit.

Roger circled around the end of the couch, taking him in; Duncan stretched an arm over the back of it and flexed. The T-shirt, the jeans, the bare feet, the overnight beard, Methos's tie knotted around his waist. Plain enough, friend? And I'm rich, too.

"American?" Roger asked, with faint contempt.

"Born Scots, and a citizen of the world, son. But there's always that danger."

"From the Conservatives last evening? Thank you, Hans." It was brandy and soda, and Duncan thought he caught a grateful glance between the preferred guest and the servant. By the time he'd unbuttoned his jacket, seated himself in the armchair opposite, and taken a sip, Roger seemed to have found his fighting balance. "Quick work."

"Pardon?"

Roger sipped again, and rearranged his face into a tight little smile. "Very neat. But I wouldn't get comfortable. Micky has his -- enthusiasms. They're usually gone in the morning."

Oh, Roger, Roger. Pace yourself. "We're quite old friends, in fact. Having a reunion, a joke at the bar, last night. Didn't he explain?"

"You never came up; although I'm not surprised. Micky's a friendly fellow. He attracts all sorts."

The "Mickys" were beginning to grate on Duncan's ear, with other things. All sorts? Like the man introduced to Roger in the toilet, his mouth and hands hot from Methos's flesh, his arousal plain in his exquisitely tailored pants? Duncan shrugged and finished his coffee. "He said he was tired, when he came home. Boring company, maybe?"

The pink was rising to Roger's cheeks. Thin, tight, pale eyed: he made an interesting contrast to Methos's dark hair and eyes and lanky grace, though Duncan wouldn't have called them a handsome couple. The gut-punched hollow turned queasy. Roger didn't live here, he told himself. Methos planned to ditch Roger tonight. Again. For him. The thought made him aggressive, and mean. "He's mine," Duncan said.

"I very much doubt that," Roger replied. And with the timing of a French farce, Presence rang and Methos walked through the front door.

***

Snow came in with him, on his shoes and coat. Mac was struck anew by the strangeness, the beauty, as off came the coat and scarf into Hans's custody. He glittered, he glowed from the cold, and his hands were bare. He wore a different suit, dark gray this time. Under his jacket was a striped shirt with a gold and pink tie. Not Mac's tie, that Mac had half-hoped to see around Methos's neck. But it drew the eye. He looked back at Mac, briefly, without expression. He picked up the attaché case he'd carried in, and when he straightened, he was wearing that polite, alien smile. "Hello. Traffic's immobile. I had to leave the car and walk." He stepped with his wet shoes onto the carpet and Hans gave the warning version of his cough. And was ignored.

"I was early," said Roger. "Look what I found."

"We've had a pleasant chat," said Mac, sitting up.

"I had a feeling you'd hit it off." Methos laid the case flat on the table and took off his jacket. Mac caught a whiff of his cologne as he sat down, facing Roger. Mac wondered, if he touched him, if he'd be slapped. Or shot.

"Nice tie," said Mac. Shot. Definitely shot. But the feel of Methos weighing down the other end of the couch, the look of him, made his gut settle, made him warm, and made him smile.

"Nice jeans."

Roger set his glass down with a clunk, and Methos turned back. "It's just as well you're here. Plans have changed for tonight." Behind Roger, Hans materialized with the brandy decanter.

"Excuse me, sir. Is it dinner for three?"

"No, it bloody well isn't," said Roger, rising.

Methos made a soothing gesture. "No, no. That's what I mean. I have reservations."

"Good chance for a pun there, Rog," said Mac. Damned right it wasn't dinner for three; but Roger seemed to be blowing himself out of the water, unaided.

"Ponti's, at 6:30," continued Methos, treading with a wet, hard shoe on Duncan's foot. "Sorry, Hans. And we have that other matter to discuss, first. Mind leaving us for a minute, Mac? Fancy place, Ponti's; socks preferred."

"I might even shave." He squeezed Methos's shoulder and backed around the table. He went upstairs, listening to the lack of conversation behind him, everyone holding their breath until he shut Methos's bedroom door.

***

They didn't make valets like Hans anymore. The ties were rehung, the silk squares rerolled, and the bed made, though he was only upstairs for a minute or two. It must have killed him to see the rumpled and twisted tie wound through the loops of his jeans. Duncan's suit was laid out, with his shirt and socks and underwear and shoes. His phone and cufflinks and wallet and watch were in a china bowl on the dresser, with his hotel keycard. Methos's gloves were gone. The key to this place wasn't here, either, but Duncan couldn't remember whether he'd trousered it or put it in his coat. He'd have to make up to Hans somehow. He heard raised voices downstairs, and a door slam.

He didn't want to dine out, he didn't feel like opera. He didn't want to change out of Methos's clothes or shave; he wanted to undress with Methos's hands on him, he wanted skin on skin and Methos's cheek burned by his jaw, he wanted to redden the fine flesh of his inner thigh that he'd yet to touch and explore. He wanted -- he wondered. He opened the drawer of the night stand table and rummaged through its contents; he went into the bathroom and did the same to the medicine chest, to the metal basket on the towel shelf, to any likely looking collection of tubes and jars and vials. He found the condoms. He found a vivid blue tube of water-based slick that boasted Horny Goat Weed as an ingredient. It was unopened, and a speck of glitter clung to its base. A gag? One he was meant to use?

There were no hints of any female presence or accommodation. His own bathroom had oddments left behind by the occasional repeat guest... Amanda left in reserve her favorite hand creme and always an experimental scent or soap or rinse. This was all male, maybe more than one male, from the shaving supplies. There were several razors, including a straight razor with a bakelite handle and a boar-bristle shaving brush. He tried to remember what Methos shaved with in Paris, or at the barge. Disposable plastic? It distressed him that he didn't know.

There was a tap at the bedroom door before it opened. Methos stood there, looking at him, seeing him unshaved, unchanged, holding a big blue tube of homeopathic lube. "Bloody hell, Mac," he said, quietly.

"Are we three for dinner?"

"Roger left. He didn't care much for your company."

"Bright boy."

"And I repeat, what the hell?"

Who didn't know whom? He dropped the tube in the sink. "Did you sleep here last night, with me?" He moved into the room and Methos circled away from him, around to the other side of the bed. The side the katana was on, he noticed.

"No. Look, clean up, come downstairs. We can talk; Hans is cooking."

"Why didn't you?" Methos's color was high, but he didn't seem angry. It hurt that he hadn't stayed. It felt better, that Mac hadn't held him and not remembered it.

"Forget that; what the hell did you get into with Roger?"

"He thinks I'm a threat."

"He thinks you're a maniac. He doubts your intentions."

"They're entirely dishonorable. Right now, I want to put you in that bed and fuck your brains out, and then I want to do it again and keep doing it until we both can't walk."

"Oh, lovely. Very appealing. Do you know what you're saying? You're playing with fire." Mac moved closer, herding his prey, and Methos edged up to the katana. "Six fucking years we were friends. Is this what you want?"

"God, yes. And stay away from my sword, you idiot. I'm unarmed."

"Playing with fire, Mac. Live ammo."

"You didn't think that last night."

"I didn't...think last night."

"Last night, this morning, when you wrote on me, when you left your necktie tied around my balls."

"I wasn't thinking."

"Not thinking for six fucking years of flirting your ass off at me. You grabbed me, you wrote on me, you wanted me. You want me now. I want you, and I'm not walking away this time." Getting louder, getting closer, and Methos couldn't make it out of the corner of the wall and bed before Mac had him blocked, before Mac was more than close enough to make a grab. He didn't. He let the air crackle between them. He let Methos stand there breathing heavily and feeling him, smelling him, and deciding what he was going to do with that desire building so visibly under his trousers, under his fine batiste shorts.

Breathing heavily, and his eyes glinting. Mac pinched the end of Methos's tie between his fingers and thumb. "For me, Methos. Take it off. Now."

He saw the balance tip in Methos's eyes before he moved, and he was ready. As long and as strong as Methos was, he didn't have the same training Mac carried coiled inside him. He didn't have the will, maybe, to escape. Mac ducked, he blocked. They tripped and fell together, rolling on the carpet, bringing down a table and a lamp. He had Methos on his back under him, trying to bring a knee up where it would do some good, a fist in his hair and in his shirt. He had an elbow pinning Methos's arm with his forearm across Methos's throat, and his other hand where it would do some damage. His lips drew back in a triumphant snarl, his vision narrowed, and the need to take burned through him like a flame. His rabbit froze, giving no resistance: breathing heavily, still, eyes glinting back at him, still; mouth twitching, between annoyance and what might be ridicule. Mac drew a ragged breath and reined in, hard.

He shifted his throttling arm. He gave a firm squeeze with the hand lodged tight up Methos's crotch--he was human, it had been a frustrating day--and rolled aside. "Fuck. You don't want me, I'll leave."

"Says the man with my balls in a vise."

"Yeah." Maybe not ridicule? The fist in his hair opened to fingers sliding to his neck. The fist wound in his T-shirt twisted, pulling it up. The eyes narrowed. Duncan cupped the fullness he'd captured, he slid his fingers back and under, and felt...

"Go on," said Methos, licking his lower lip.

He wrenched open the belt. He popped buttons, he pulled the zipper, he spread and opened cloth and bared Methos's sex, fat and heavy and bound behind the balls with Duncan's tie -- looped snug in the middle with the long ends hanging down his leg. All day? Just now? Mac stared, and Methos laughed, and Mac pulled the tie's ends free with a jerk, cock and balls on a leash, and Methos hissed and arched, and Hans rapped at the open door.

"Is everything all...ah," he said.

Methos blinked. Mac gaped.

"Fine. We're. Broke a lamp," said Methos, craning his neck to look up. Hans was in his shirt sleeves, with a half apron round his waist. Methos's luger, safety off, was pointed politely away.

"You did say dinner," said Hans, reproachfully.

Mac hitched up on his arm. "Time for a quick shag before starters?"

"Thirty minutes, sir." He looked at Methos and sighed. "Forty-five." The door shut, as did all doors behind Hans, with a whispered click.

***

Mac wound the tie around his fist. Methos crooked an elbow under his head and looked at him inquisitively. "You going to use that?"

Mac yanked on the tie and Methos's hips came off the rug. "Playing with fire? Weren't thinking?" He yanked again, and Methos yelped. "You still have a problem with me?"

"Ask me later," Methos panted.

Mac shook his head. This whole day, wanting this. What was it; his cheek burning Methos's lips, his beard scraping the inside of his thigh; his mouth, his hands, discovering this body, so known and still unknown. This damnable pain in the balls. He unwound the silk from his fist. He reached in and loosened the knot (brushing his knuckles into the crease of Methos's thigh, across the heat and texture of his sac, his thick, bobbing cock) and was lost. He bent over; he gripped Methos's cock in his fist, the velvet glans exposed round and plump above his fingers. He bent lower and licked the pearling slit. Kissed it. Snaked his tongue around the fat, hot head, then rubbed it across his lower lip. Rubbed it over his chin, his rough and stubbled cheek. Methos was pushing him, was sliding and moving around, and pulling at the knotted tie around his waist.

Mac licked the side of Methos's cock, and Methos bit his stomach, over fingers busy tugging buttons open and pulling the worn denim wide. Methos bit again, and pushed a pointed tongue into Mac's navel, thrust his hand inside the jeans and underneath Mac's balls, untucking, exposing him. Mac swallowed the head of Methos's cock whole, and gasped when Methos returned the favor, opening his mouth wet and wide and going down on him, taking him in almost to the root. Mac's attention shattered, he clung to the flesh slipping from his lips, as Methos hummed, sending shocks up his spine; and then, when he took Methos again into the hot haven of his mouth, Methos began to suck.

It was over too quickly: Duncan bucked and thrust; Methos moaned around his cock, when Duncan used his teeth. They rocked out of synch. They clutched at pants and shirts and Methos slapped Mac's ass when he came, Mac choking as Methos spurted deep in his throat, when he wanted to yell. When Methos sucked him dry, and sucked after, keeping him in his mouth through the trembling aftershocks.

They lay in a tangled mess over each other. Duncan was half hard, in Methos's toying fist, not spent of his desire. He felt good. Quiet. He turned his head, pillowed on Methos's thighs, and kissed the flesh under his lips. Bit it, gently. "You want me?"

Methos stroked his hair. "I've always wanted you. You great fool."

"But."

The long, strong fingers stroked down his neck, dipped under the T-shirt. "Buts later. When you're not talking into my lap."

"I like your lap." He nipped again, to feel the flesh quiver away from his teeth. He rubbed a spot with his chin, then licked the redness away, sucked it, hard enough to bruise, making Methos shudder. He watched it fade. "Hans had a gun."

"You had a sword. Come up here."

"He knows who you are?"

"Up here. Oh, hell." Methos pushed at him and struggled to sit up. "Dinner. Come on, get decent.

"Bah. Tell him to make up a tray."

"He doesn't like you that much. Come on: shave, wash, get respectable."

"It's just all coming off again. Isn't it?" He didn't want to think about finally getting dressed, about putting the suit back on and leaving for the hotel. He wanted as much as he could get, while he was here.

"Shave, socks, shoes. Here." Methos threw him the gray sweater.

Mac rubbed his chin. "Too rough for the milkmaid?"

"Not my favorite look on you. Not at the moment."

So, harried into the bathroom and lathering, finally, shaving with one of the razors and a fresh blade, he looked into the mirror and remembered. Taking Methos down, he recalled the wanton, the beast. That wasn't me, he said to himself. And even so, I let him go then. I let go, now. He lifted his chin and drew the razor under his jaw, down his throat. The emptiness, the hunger under the rage, he remembered. The lust for the prey. Was that the look Methos recalled? He remembered plundering the closet of a victim, drawing on his clothes.

"I need the sink," said Methos, barging in. "Push over." With a corner of a towel, Duncan wiped away remnants of shaving cream. Methos leaned in and brushed his lips against his cheek; then his mouth; then they were kissing violently, holding each other hard against the sink, while the tap splashed them both. "Dammit," breathed Methos. "Don't touch me. We'll never get downstairs."

***

The salmon was a little dry. Hans, however, looked properly appreciative of clean shining faces come to the table-- Duncan in his sweater and jeans and Methos in a pullover and khakis.(And shoes, Duncan willed Hans to notice.)

Over the wine there was time to ask some simple questions. "Who's Dr. Adams?" Duncan began.

"At the moment, he's a highly respected numismatist."

Well, that explained the boring books. "You have a PhD in coin collecting?"

"Acknowledged expert on ancient coinage and author of the highly useful and entertaining Coins of the Roman Empire, in two volumes. Soon to be augmented by a similarly brilliant work on the Republic."

"All this within a year?"

"Hardly. I wrote the manuscript in 1948. It only needed a rub and polish to bring it up to date. The degree's genuine, several times over."

"What's the vintage on that?"

"I'm told I look young for my age."

"So, where does the respected authority conduct his business?" His gold digging?

"Here and there. Freelance curating, appraisals. There are rumors of a substantial private income." That expression Duncan had seen before, over facts, if not hidden, then hard to locate with any accuracy. He made a mental tick against the subject and went on.

"You've been coming here, under our noses, all this time? Not Tibet, not Bora-Bora, but London?"

"Adam Pierson went to Tibet. Michael Adams's family have kept a house in Sussex for generations. I've only been in London since Pierson's passing."

"And the Watchers...Joe..."

"What do you think?"

He thought he'd been made a fool of, if Methos was telling the truth. He hadn't talked to Joe much about him, but he'd asked.

"I needed a break, Mac. Needed to settle into a new life."

"Without your friends."

"Without you, you mean? You're the one who left. Gone a year, after Richie. Another year with, what, two, three contacts? No letters, no phone calls. I cut my losses." They were beyond simple, now. Duncan could only remember coming back to Paris and finding Methos gone. Coming back, month after month, to find him away, and Joe mum on the topic. But to speak of losses, there had to be something to lose.

"I didn't leave you. You could have found me any time, anywhere I've been this past two years. It's been quiet, too. Very few challenges." You'd be safe with me, he wanted to say; but was that true? And with him? With him, how?

"I was in Paris two weeks ago."

"When I was in New York."

"I'd have said hello if you were there. I've missed you, bad idea or not."

"Did you bring Roger?" Getting on with his life and Roger was the best he could do?

"And we're back to you being an ass."

Still not an answer. "Is Roger your lover?"

"Are you?"

Hans came in to take the dishes. They were quiet, watching each other, until he returned with coffee and dessert, two perfect brandied pears. Methos raised his eyebrows. "Thank you, Hans. This is lovely."

I'm eating Roger's dinner, too, thought Duncan.

"Will you be needing me after dinner, sir?"

"No, thank you, we'll take care of ourselves. Mac will stay the night, I expect." Duncan felt that swirl in his stomach with the wine. Hans gave him a noncommital glance and left.

"You expect?"

"Yes. Oh, yes." Methos licked a drop of syrup from his spoon. "Now, tell me what you've been up to lately."

***

There wasn't much to tell, Duncan found. After Hans cleared, they moved into the sitting room. "Did you really have opera tickets?" Mac asked. The room kept secrets too, behind cabinets and doors. It was mildly modern, white-walled with one painting, three rich overlapping carpets, and a few objets lounging on shelves. A side table held a chessboard and a boxed Go set. A second table functioned as a dry bar.

"I have access to a stall. I thought you'd like this production." Methos knelt in front of the square, glass-fronted hearth and switched on a fire.

The long wall of the room was a picture window that overlooked the river. "Do you mind?" asked Methos, as he turned off the lamps. In the dimness, the view shone. Snow fell in veils, softening the distant glare of lights from the city and bridge and giving the scene a wavering, silvery glow. Methos poured something at the side bar, and brought two wide glasses to the couch. Brandy, thought Duncan, with the aroma of the pears still haunting his nose and palate. With the memory of Roger being served. It was Drambuie. The sweetness was a surprise.

They sat in companionable quiet for a few minutes, watching the fire and the snow. Questions, more questions, easier to ask in the darkness? Easier to put aside? Duncan rolled the liqueur on his tongue as Methos moved and resettled, his leg now pressed warm against Mac's thigh. "There used to be a tavern here," he said. "Hanging over the riverbank, with just this view. I liked to sit at night, by the torches, and look across." His fingertips touched the nape of Mac's neck, lightly, then stroked, following the curling swirls of hair.

"Feeling nostalgic?" Mac asked. Who did he sit with, in that byegone time? Who did he caress, with those fingers that made his skin tingle in their path?

"Nostalgia's a wasted emotion. It's meaningless, when the present is so precious. So alive."

"Is that why you cut your losses?"

"I'd never lose you completely. I couldn't."

"But now?"

"Well, now." Methos's voice, soft and deep, so close, sounded in Mac's chest. "Now is this." His other hand slid up Mac's thigh to his lap, twisting under the hem of his sweater, to rest over the soft, tight T-shirt. "That feels sinfully nice on you," he mused.

He wasn't a fool, though he'd been acting like one. He still wanted this man, desperately; but he needed some edges and limits, some landmarks of this terrain. "I stay tonight..."

"Fuck my brains out, I think was the plan," said that cultured, that deep and untamed voice, close to his ear.

"And in the morning?"

"Again and again, until we can't walk, you said."

"And then?"

"Then you leave." Methos laid his hand over his breast, over his heart.

"Not..." but Methos's mouth stopped his. Not urgent, this time, but sweet and slow and soft. This was honey, this was wine; this was slowly, surely, spilling in to fill the void. Methos in his arms, warm and pliant, mouth to his mouth, kissing him. He laid him back into the cushions and stretched out along the length of him. The fire crackled. The snow silently fell outside the magic window.

***

Mac's lips were swollen and tingling; Methos sucked on his throat, one hand tucked tight between them, tracing the firm outline of his cock in the worn denim. His other hand knuckled his breast, twisting a nipple through the cotton T-shirt made damp by his tongue and teeth. Mac lay there and let Methos play, let him wring sensation from his body. He held this creature in his arms, stupefied by comfort and pleasure, and thought, this is Methos, Methos, doing this to me.

He stirred. He kissed Methos's forehead. He clenched a fist in his hair and pulled his head back. "If I make you scream, will Hans come running?"

Methos stuck out his tongue and licked the wet spot he'd left on Mac's throat. "You have plans?"

"Where does he sleep?"

"He has his own flat, attached. But he's always on top of things."

"Monitors?"

"Maybe."

"You need that kind of security? Bring a lot of rough trade home?" His cock pulsed at the thought of manicured and suited Methos with other men. Enthusiasms, who came and went. Rent boys? Pickups in bars? Or were they soft and cultured, groomed and tailored men seeking indulgence, overseen by faithful Hans?

"Do I ask about that endless caravan across your sheets?"

He tugged his hair. "I'm a two-night stand, at least. Show me the drill; do you fuck them all down here, in front of the fire and the view? Do you make them go down on you, while you reminisce? Or do they fuck you?" That image drove a spike from the base of his balls through his head. He rasped, "Do they do you naked on the carpet? On your hands and knees? On your back?" One at a time, or more than one, together, ravishing him. He twisted his fist in Methos's hair. He unzipped Methos's fly and worked his hand in, roughly, under the cinching belt.

"Where do you want me?" Methos squirmed under the assault, under nails digging into his belly.

"Do you take them upstairs, to fuck you in your bed?" He found what he was groping for, and squeezed. Methos closed his eyes.

"No."

"Then I want you there." In that bed, where he'd been abandoned last night, where Methos had pushed him, marked him, and left him alone.

"Mac." Methos held his arms, his eyes slitted. "That hurts."

He'd gripped in passion close to fury, crushing tissue that was soft in his calloused fist. "Sorry." He forced his hand to relax, he pulled out of the binding space. "I'm sorry. You, you make me..." reckless. Hungry. Mad to take him apart at the seams.

Methos grimaced. "I could do with a little more of the romantic and a little less of the Beast MacLeod."

"Romance? This?" Mac rubbed his mouth with the offending hand. "Is that what the others call it?"

"You could break my heart, you idiot."

"I didn't know you had a heart." He was joking when he said it, but Methos looked like he'd been slapped; and then his face closed down. Before he could say Sorry, again, Methos pushed him away and sat up. Mac touched his side, trying to see his face.

"I'm not quite the libertine you imagine."

"Roger said..."

"Oh for fuck's sake! Roger's jealous. You don't even know the man and you have me worried for his life. Can you for the love of God shut up about Roger and my phantom league of lovers?" He turned, and Mac could see him in profile now, sharp as a knife. "You wanted me now. You've got me, now. If the whole fucking world falls apart tomorrow, can't I have this, tonight?"

Mac tried to sit up, to get some purchase on the soft cushions. He pulled at the shoulder of Methos's sweater. "Come back. Come down, listen to me." Methos stood up, and settled his clothes. He walked to the fireplace and turned off the flame; then he blinded the window with curtains. He felt for the lamp switch, but Mac was in front of him, stopping his hand. Standing in the dark, gripping his wrist. "Playing with fire; is this what you meant?"

"Upstairs, bed. Let's get on with it."

"Break your heart?"

"It was a stupid thing to say. Come on." He moved in the dark, he was caught against Mac's chest.

"You make me lose control. You're so different..."

"Is that what this is? You want the difference?"

"I've always wanted you. I want the difference. I want you naked under the difference. I want you naked under me." Kissing his neck, talking into his skin.

"In spite of my hundreds of men?"

"Well, that," said Mac, relishing Methos's press against him, "That was hot." Methos choked and he let him go, slapping his ass. "Right, upstairs, bed."

***

Immortal memory is a blessing and a curse. He'd never forget tonight. Neither would Methos, he swore, though their memories wouldn't likely be the same.

They started so civilly. They undressed apart, hands off each other, laying clothes aside. The slick Methos preferred was in a box on the dresser that Mac had overlooked. Lights full on; bedclothes turned back; sitting naked on either side of the bed; then Methos handed the tube of silicon lube to him. "Please," he said politely, as though offering a guest the first cake on the tray. But Mac ignored the hand and the tube and gripped him by the arm and pulled him within reach, bodily across the bed, until they were matched muscle to muscle, haunch to haunch, and he could roll over full on top of him. Then, with Methos lying quiet, his hand resting on Mac's head or shoulder or back, he mouthed and touched and tested with his teeth. He traced lines of bone and muscle, pressed and rubbed, lifted and spread Methos's thigh with a firm hand under the knee to explore, seeing him plain and unadorned. Curious, intent, determined. He pinched the navel's rim. He pulled at the foreskin, squeezed and turned aside the thickening penis. He held the heavy scrotum in one hand, rubbing its contours with his thumb; then, with his longest finger, pressed behind, following the seam, searching. He found the furled anus, he pushed with his fingertip. Methos hissed as he twisted and pushed further in, curling his finger to feel the muscled grip around it. His other hand was planted on Methos's thigh, fingernails pressing into skin. "Anything special you're looking for?" Methos asked.

"You," he said. He'd lusted for this, for the chance to know and see. It should be right. He pulled his hands away, he rolled off and sat up. He was hard, he was discontent. He tossed the tube onto Methos's stomach. "So, what do you want?"

When he didn't hear an answer, he turned around. Methos lay with an arm behind his head, looking at him. Tapping the tube against his stomach (against his cock, Mac noticed). "There's no hurry. Feel like a drink?"

"Why, changed your mind?"

"I'll kill you yet." Methos smacked him on the back of the head with the tube and slid off the bed. He opened the closet and snagged a silk dressing gown, then more silk from a shelf. "Here." He dropped a pair of pajama bottoms on the bed and left.

It was stupid to put clothes on over a perfectly good erection, even one he'd declined to use. The silk felt nice, though, cool on his lap and in his hot hands. They were dark green paisley and must look fine with Methos's eyes and hair and skin... he pulled them on and gripped himself through the sleek, sliding fabric. Leaned over, to see himself in the mirror. His face was shockingly his own.

Methos came back with two steaming mugs. The robe, the mate of the pajamas, hung open with its sash trailing on each side, with Methos naked between. Mac sat back on the bed and Methos dragged an armless padded chair up alongside. The mugs held hot milk, with a slick of yellow butter and cinnamon. "Warm milk? What am I, Christopher Robin?"

"It's a toddy," said Methos.

"Toddies have rum in them." His stomach was grateful for the heat and feel, though. Sugar in it, but he didn't mind.

From a pocket of the robe Methos produced a silver flask. "Cognac?"

"You are the perfect host." He didn't hold out his mug; it was just right, as was.

"That's a turnaround, isn't it." Methos licked his upper lip. "So, speaking of, you screw a lot of men?"

"Lately, no," said Mac. He wondered if Methos had some biscuits in the other pocket.

"Ever?"

"My share." Not hundreds. Not dozens; but enough.

"You pissed at me about something?"

He didn't see what one had to do with the other. Hell yes, he was mad. He was always mad at Methos about something. He tried the thing closest to the top. "More sorrow than anger. Can't say I'm wild about Roger. That's a serious lapse of judgment, there."

Methos shrugged. "I like him. He has taste, he's educated, he's easy to talk to. He thinks I'm funny."

"So much for taste and education."

"His uncle has the largest collection of Rsoman coins in private hands."

Hah! Methos looked down, tipping a trickle of cognac into his milk.

"Isn't that more Amanda's M.O.?"

"I'm not a thief. He's a real collector, only in it for his own enjoyment. It's largely unpublished. Very seductive."

"So Roger's a cat's-paw as well as a catamite?"

"I like Roger. He suits me. And Hans approves, which believe me, makes life much much easier chez Adams."

"And you entertain yourself on the side." There, another flare of anger; of prurience, too, if he was being honest.

"Lately, no." He wasn't making eye contact, now. "I'm not as safe as Adam Pierson was. I'm in the Watcher database, I'm known. I don't go where trouble's likely to find me."

"You can't hide at home." Another bubble of anger rose. "Or is it enough, being away from me?"

"Well. It's quieter."

"Running away, ducking fights."

"Staying alive." He pleated and released one end of the green silk sash.

"Is that why you want me to leave?" None of them answers he wanted to hear, but the pain was leaching away.

"Self preservation? Yes. Yes, I think that's fair to say." And while Mac was calming down, Methos's cheeks were rising pink and his lips were thin. "You show up out of nowhere, you go from hello to sex in sixty seconds. You insult my guest"

"Your lover," said Mac, quietly.

"...my staff,"

"Your man, your guardian," said Mac.

"...me. You want, you need. You smash and grab. Did I miss some evolutionary step in this relationship?"

"Used to be a friendship."

"Used to be." That sounded bitter. "Now I don't know what this is." He shifted and propped a foot on the bed; the robe slithered off his thigh, exposing him. "I thought you had a plan."

"Oh, the clothes and the toddy break were your idea," said Mac. The dark green silk did suit his skin and glinting eyes, the sash falling between his legs looked tempting across his flushed and thickened cock.

"It used to work with balky slaves," said Methos.

And the mental images pricked by that sent heat directly south. "Break's over." With a hand on Methos's ankle, he picked up the tube from the bedside table. He slid (the silk slid, across the sheets) to sit on the edge of the bed, lifting Methos's foot into his lap, between his legs, and leaned over to drop the lube on silk and flesh. "Get yourself wet," he said. "Nice and deep." He pressed Methos's foot tight against himself, stroking the delicate long bones, watching.

***

When he had Methos trembling under him; when he was kneeling hot and hard behind his thighs, driving into him, fingers denting his hips; when he shuddered at his peak and shot hot into the channel that clutched and anchored him; when he fell across that white back in a heavy sprawl, it all felt right. He ran his hand along the long flank beside, and thought blessedly nothing, nothing at all. He dozed. He woke when Methos sat up, reached after him and closed his hand on empty cloth. He woke again when Methos came back to bed, and kept awake, this time.

"I can still walk," said Methos, propped up on pillows against the headboard.

"I'm not leaving tomorrow," Mac said.

Methos smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "You're leaving here."

"I have things to do in London. We could meet, somewhere." He trailed the green sash across Methos's knee. "That opera stall. I'd like to see you in evening clothes. I'd like to touch you there, in the dark. In public, with the music all around. I'd like to hear you, underneath the arias." He kissed the smooth curve of bone. "I'm not done with you yet."

"No. Not yet."

"I meant... there's more I want to do with you." He tied a knot in the sash.

"Like what?"

He tied another knot, next to the first. "I don't want to leave. Not after this; we can't just say goodbye, see you around. I want you."

"You've had me. I'm right here, now."

"Methos..." He couldn't see letting go of this so soon. He'd just got his hands on him, he'd just...he kept knotting the heavy silk, in round, walnut sized knots.

"What exactly do you see yourself doing with me, Mac? Outside of bed?"

There's the floor. There's up against the wall, which I'd dearly love to try, maybe next, if I can find the empty space. There's bent over that chair, there's in my lap with me in the chair, and there's tying your wrists to the balcony railing and fucking you like a plow. There is, you lazy bastard, you fucking me.

"Mac?"

"It's more than sex." I want to take every tie in that closet and find a different way of binding you. Gagging you. Strapping your ankles, your wrists, your balls, your cock, and trying out those reins.

"Mac?"

"What we've always done."

"Ride around in the Macmobile, fighting crime?"

"I'd fit here." The resistance rankled. He'd been looking for a new situation for himself. "I have contacts, friends, business connections; I've been a member of that club for over a hundred years."

"You hate living in England. You're not that fond of me."

"I'm sitting here naked with your dick in my ear and you tell me that's not fond?" He pushed himself up to chest level and slapped Methos's open thigh. Kept his hand there, caressing the spot, sliding up.

"Fond. Is there another language you're more comfortable in?" Methos drew up a knee; Mac's hand was someplace interesting now, curved around his scrotum, tickling his thigh. "That's...nice. You've been..." He swallowed. "Tell me about your other lovers. Men." The tickling was firmer fingering, now. Mac flicked his nipple with his tongue.

"Nobody you'd know. Nobody like you." He shifted for a better angle and reached the puckered opening. He stroked the edge; it was slick. His finger slid in, slowly, easily. A traveling companion across Russia, one long fierce winter, into the mud of spring. A warrior in Morocco. A sweet, sloe-eyed painter in Montparnasse. And brief encounters, fumbles, brothels, alley nights. Friends. "Friends, sometimes." He really didn't want to talk about dead men now. He slid in two fingers; he teased the nipple with his teeth.

"Immortal friends?" Methos squirmed and curled his hand in Mac's hair. "And did you, oh, good grief." He'd replaced his fingers with the first knot of the sash, gently prodded, stuffed, worked inside.

"Let's compare notes later." He drizzled a small puddle of lube on Methos's stomach and swirled his fingers in it. The second knot joined the first. "Why don't you put that busy brain to work and think of something nice to do for me."

"Screw you," panted Methos, as the third, and fourth, were firmly urged inside. "You tell me," he arched as Mac bit down, hard, for knot five, "You tell me what 'He's mine' meant." Six. Seven.

"Roger has a big mouth." Cocksucker; and I bet he's practiced at it. With his thumbs he packed in the last three knots. He must be hitting the sweet spot pretty steadily now, from the scraping of Methos's heels across the sheet. He twisted the end of the sash, bunching and rolling the knots, and Methos called on a deity unfamiliar to a simple Highlands lad.

"Let me know if inspiration strikes." He swept his palm through the rest of the puddle, then painted Methos's cock with the slippery gel.

***

The most coordinated warrior can go crashing off a bed; the superior man maintains his focus of mind and hand. Upside down with his back on the carpet, feet in the air, and Methos on his stomach, thrashing in climax, Mac yanked out the sash in even, forceful jerks, until each last fat knot had Methos screaming his name.

He liked the sound. He liked Methos sweating and spent, spread across him in a long, muscled mess. He wrapped his arms around the slippery body, and thought: Mine. That's what he meant. That irritating, seductive, manipulative, duplicitous, unfathomable, priceless son of a bitch caught, right here, in his arms.

***

"What do you mean, not fond of you?"

Duncan fell back into bed after a slapdash wash to spare the sheets and Methos turned out the lights. There was a curtained wall here, as well, but no offer of a romantic view. Would he want witnesses to tonight's performance? His eyes closed on the thought. Oh, possibly. But the only person he saw watching them, from the shadows, was Methos himself. The bed dipped, and a soap smelling body slid under the sheets. Not touching him, arranging the pillows.

"Get some sleep."

He waited for a touch. When it didn't come, he reached out and connected with a shoulder. Methos lay on his side, curled away, close to the edge of the bed. Not a move when Duncan felt down to the long waist and settled his hand there. He fell into blackness with that one warm spot connecting them.

***

He woke heated, with pressure against his face. An arm around him, a foot hooked around his ankle, a long, strong, naked body snugged close to his, angles fitted to his curves. Breath on the top of his shoulder. With sleep fumbling fingers, he touched the back of the head, the nape of the neck. Methos, sound asleep, clinging to him. He shifted to find a position he could keep, without breaking Methos's hold. He needn't worry; the body moved with him, the arms clung tighter. Duncan curved his hand around that hard and elegant head. He slowed his breath to match the breath sighing on his skin; he tried to slow his beating heart to the rhythm of the pulse against his ear. Break his heart. Oh, hell. Oh, night of rarities and wonder.

***

He said "Another time," and maybe he meant it.

He said "Another time," and maybe he lied.

The curtains kept out the light but he'd known it was morning. He'd thought for long hours, lying there, holding on. He'd come to this, as to so many things in his life, wanting to know. There was carnal knowledge, borne of his body's sense. There was knowledge gained from experience beyond mortal years. There was knowledge given and wrested from his teachers' hands. There was knowing what he had in his arms and what he did and did not, after knowledge, know.

The Russian had been a teacher. It was natural to progress from the paths of learning to explorations of the flesh. That education was a long, cold winter ending in mud and blood-soaked furs. The warrior tasted of poppy and smelt of roses and brass. He bound his eyes with an indigo band and throttled him with a strap. Not a teacher, he, and not one he companioned for long. The painter was the first he patronized, kept as comfort and solace after a loss. He dressed him in velvet, he posed for him nude. He left him before age touched his eyes. The friends... Methos sighed and burrowed into his shoulder. The friends were all dead and gone. He traced the curve of Methos's nose and jaw, his to touch in the dark and private bed. He kissed his forehead and whispered in his ear.

While he'd slept, Methos had rolled aside, still within the pool of their bodies' warmth. His head rested now on Duncan's outflung arm; his fingertips lay on Duncan's wrist. He didn't wake when Duncan eased away, out from under, and off the bed.

He'd planned, lying there, what he would put on to leave this place. The T-shirt under his shirt, the sweater over it. No tie. That was in his pocket. His own tie he left on the doorknob. He'd carry his shoes, his jacket, and put them on downstairs, under Hans's watchful eye.

He'd thought, lying there, about a kiss before leaving. About making love before leaving, about asking Methos to make love to him. No and no. No. He had to go. He sat on the bed, anyway. He leaned over, anyway, and kissed Methos on the shoulder. He touched his hair, slid his fingers through his hair, and Methos was stirring, turning to him, reaching for him; he pulled Methos into his arms and kissed him, and it was the sweet slow honey of the snow-lit evening before, curling in to fill the emptiness, curling around his heart. "Sorry," he whispered.

Methos was dark eyed in the dimness, sleep voiced, when he asked, "You're leaving now?"

"I'm dressed, I'm ready. Don't get up." He whispered against Methos's cheek, his lips, still kissing him goodbye. He pulled away.

"Another time," he said.

He held his breath.

"Another time," Methos agreed.

*** End***