Disclaimer: They're not mine. They're also not usually this overtly gay, or this naked, so if that's not your thing, move along. This story hasn't been beta'd, so read at your own risk.
Methos shivered in the early morning chill as he watched Joe lock up the bar. Of all the stupid, self-destructive things you've done in your life, he berated himself, coming back here ranks right up there with burying Kronos alive and hoping he'd laugh it off when he got out. He'd done this hundreds of times, moved on without a trace whenever his cover had been blown, though he couldn't remember any time in the last two thousand years it had been blown so spectacularly. Damn Kalas, and damn MacLeod too while he was at it. It didn't matter that his time had already been running out; he'd wanted a chance to say goodbye, to cauterize the wound, to remind himself that Joe was an aging, dying mortal like all the rest, that ten years of love was a drop in the bucket. Not worth getting caught over.
The man wore suits, threadbare suits, for pity's sake, so careful of his damned dignity despite his lack of funds, and he was completely insufferable when he was hurt. He'd be a right bastard if Methos stayed around to watch him grow old and die. Why should Methos set himself up for twenty years of whining and complaining?
He looked handsome now, though, striding across the parking lot with the oddly jaunty twist of his hips that always made the cane seem more like an affectation than a necessity, humming that damned blues riff he'd been tweaking for the past month. And then he slowed, and the song faded away as he stopped to look up at the stars.
"You know, sneaking up on someone who follows people for a living isn't such a bright idea, Methos," said Joe, his back to the Immortal.
Methos froze, unable to speak, to move, to breathe.
Joe waited, then added quietly, "I didn't tell them. As far as anyone knows, you're just Adam Pierson, pain-in-the-ass researcher."
Air rushed back into his lungs. I can stay. If I want to, I can stay. I've never had a choice before. Joe turned to look at him, and Methos crept out of the shadows with his face burning and his stomach tight, feeling more awkward than he had for millennia. "Thought I was just a pain in your ass," he said, bracing himself for the questions, 'Why did you lie to me?' 'Who are you really?' 'What's it like to be older than the written word?'
Joe just looked him over and opened the car door. "From what I hear, you've had time to be a pain in a lot of people's asses." But there was no reproach in his voice, only quiet curiosity.
Methos got in the passenger side and flinched at the blast of cold air from the radiator. "You have got to get a better car, Joe. A nice big SUV with a heater that actually works."
"Says the man who was traveling cross-country before they got around to inventing the wheel."
"They may not have had the wheel, but at least they had fire, dammit."
And Joe stopped chuckling and just sort of looked at him, as though trying to gauge whether he was joking or not. Then he turned away and started driving.
Methos's cheeks heated as he stared out the window. He'd forgotten. The last time anyone had called him by his own name, it was with awe and terror in their voices, begging for mercy from the Horsemen. He'd forgotten that there were reasons he had changed his identity other than the weight of his sins; that legends couldn't crack jokes or filch snacks or have friends. He shouldn't be here.
The car stopped, and Methos realized that they were already outside Joe's apartment building. "You coming up?" Joe asked, walking over to unlock the door.
That was the question.
Joe shifted uncomfortably in the doorway and called out, "Oh for crying out loud. Come on, Methos, I'm freezing my ass off out here."
Methos smirked and followed Joe upstairs, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable with every step. In the little apartment, with the door locked behind him, he finally couldn't contain himself any longer. "Aren't you going to ask me?"
"About your life?" Joe asked. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"Not particularly..."
"Would you tell me the truth?"
Methos's mouth quirked. "No."
"I figured, or you would have told me before now. Pain in the ass." Joe met his gaze with a look of gentle frustration. "Yeah, I want to know, Methos, this is what I've devoted my life to! But there are parts of my life I don't talk about, and I'm -- God, I'm a hundred times younger than you!" Joe was staggered by that for a moment before continuing, "I know everything about you that I need to. You can keep your secrets. Just don't lie to me."
"I won't," Methos promised, and then, unable to say more without breaking that oath not two seconds past his lips, he moved closer and wrapped Joe in his arms, felt that rough, hungry kiss pressed against his mouth. He'd braced himself never to feel this again, and the reprieve made him aware of every detail, down to the warm scent of Old Spice as he rubbed his face against Joe's scratchy beard.
Joe's hands skimmed Methos's coat, slid beneath it to explore his chest, his sides, as though confirming that the same touches would still make Methos tilt his head back in pleasure. He bit and sucked Methos's throat, pausing to catch his eye as though asking, 'Is this why you like it? Because you're Immortal?' Methos bit Joe's own neck, that perfect spot above his Adam's apple, and let Joe's sharp gasp answer the question instead.
He pulled off Joe's sweater with a low, hungry cry, sliding fingers through crinkly, white chest hair, dropping to his knees to map the sensitive trail of his ribcage, feeling as much relief as satisfaction when it made Joe groan and sway and clutch the back of Methos' neck for balance.
Kneeling before Joe like this always flipped Methos' switches, and he undid Joe's fly and took him out, leaving the pants up to avoid tangling with the prostheses. Usually Joe liked to take his time, but tonight he was already hard and leaking. Methos wet his lips and took Joe in hand, rolling his tongue around the flared head, tasting the familiar, salty liquid at the tip. He'd always had a thing for blowjobs, for letting someone else dominate him, fuck his mouth. But tonight, the awareness that Joe knew who he was brought a more predatory edge to his desire. He sucked and nibbled and stroked and teased, bringing Joe to the shaking edge of orgasm over and over, but gentling his touches each time Joe came close to coming, keeping his mortal lover balanced on that knife point with every trick in his 5000-year arsenal. This is what I am, he said with every filthy slurp, every teasing flick. This is everything Adam Pierson wasn't allowed to know or want.
He slowed and gentled, brought Joe back from the edge enough for words again. "Let's take this to bed," he said, voice rough from sucking Joe, "I want to be inside you tonight." He looked up at Joe's face, expecting to see the glittering eyes and flushed cheeks of broken taboo he'd seen their first night, when Joe thought he was barely more than a kid. Instead he saw a depth of love and wonder that caught his breath in his throat and made him look away for a moment. When he looked back, it was still there in Joe's eyes. Whatever was fueling Joe's responses tonight, it had nothing to do with fucking the world's oldest Immortal.
"Sounds good to me," said Joe, still breathless and hard, and pulled Methos into the bedroom. They made quick work of their clothes and Joe lay back against the pillows, one hand behind his head so he could watch Methos prepare him. Methos reached into the drawer but, in a burst of inspiration, passed over the Astroglide in favor of the little bottle of almond oil that had migrated to the back of the drawer. Uncapping it, he drizzled some onto his fingers, teasing Joe's cleft with his fingers and tongue, the faint scent calling up bygone eras and making his cock twitch. He buried his face between Joe's cheeks, making his lover cry out from the assault of mouth and lips and hands until Methos drew himself up and slid into that glorious heat, sinking to the hilt on the first thrust. He groaned low in his throat at the sensation, feeling the luxurious, hot sheath clench and relax around him as the tight ring of Joe's entrance began to milk his cock. He canted his hips until he found the angle and the rhythm Joe needed, relishing the cries he could wring from his mortal lover's throat.
"Methos, please," Joe begged, and Methos froze and clenched his body, fighting hard not to react.
"If you're going to call me that," he finally managed, pulling out, "I can't be on top." He didn't look to see what Joe made of that, just reached blindly behind him for the oil and slicked Joe's cock with shaky hands, bracing it as he pressed it into his tight hole.
Joe screamed and grabbed his hips, too far gone to wait, and pounded into Methos, his cock like a battering ram against Methos's prostate. Methos's back arched, his balls drawing up as his immanent orgasm tingled down his spine, and when Joe's long-denied orgasm pulsed inside him, he barely needed to touch his own cock before he was coming all over Joe's chest in white-hot pulses.
Finally, Joe slipped out of him and Methos collapsed onto the bed. From long habit, he reached for the washcloth beside the bed and cleaned them both before slipping into the familiar crook of Joe's arm. He looked up at his mortal lover, trying to read his peaceful smile. "We're good?" Methos asked, and the question behind it wasn't if, but why. He couldn't understand Joe's easy acceptance of who he really was.
"You came back," said Joe quietly. "Thousands of years trying to stay off the radar and you risk it all to come see me. It's... it's been a long time since someone put me first like that. That's all I need to know."
End.