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Title: But a Day ``°°ºº¤oøO§Oøo¤ºº°°``°°ºº¤oøO§Oøo¤ºº°°``°°ºº¤oøO§Oøo¤ºº°°`` Methos muttered distractedly to himself as he headed towards town, gesticulating wildly as he went. Why the hell was he so nervous? This was Duncan, for crying out loud. Duncan the brave, Duncan the polite, Duncan the chivalrous, Duncan the friendly, Duncan the superb cook, Duncan the gorgeous... Oh, dear. Never mind that he'd been a more or less permanent guest in Mac's barge or loft for several years all those centuries ago, this was entirely different. Mac was a guest in his house, and he couldn't just pick up and leave when it got too hard to be in Duncan's presence and not throw himself at the Scot. It wasn't long before Methos' long legs carried him within reach of Shin'ra, a medium-sized town close to his mountain retreat. He strode purposefully toward the market square. He glanced around at the fair-haired, fair-skinned townspeople and winced. Duncan would never blend in. His own dark hair was enough of an oddity, but at least he had his pale complexion. Tall, dark, handsome Duncan would stick out like a black rose among lilies. He sighed. He'd have to drop some story about a visitor from far to the south, warmer climes were he hoped people were naturally darker. "Methos!" a high-pitched voice cried. He turned to see Fress, the baker's young maid, shouldering a basket of fresh bread on her way to the market. She was a petite, rosy-cheeked girl with long blonde braids who had taken a definite shine to Methos' assumed philosopher persona. Methos groaned inwardly. She was a nice enough girl, but she just wouldn't get the message that he wasn't interested. "Good morrow, Fress," he said politely. "Are you bound for the market?" A sparkling giggle spilled from her lips. "Indeed I am, as you well know," she said coyly. Methos resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I am headed there, myself. If you would grant me the pleasure of your company, I would be honored to escort you." "Certainly. I would be delighted." She batted her eyelashes. Methos decided that now was the time to drop a few strategic hints. Fress was an incurable gossip, and she'd quickly spread the story of his new visitor. "I need to purchase a few things for a visitor I have staying at my cabin today. I've not needed new clothes, myself, for quite some time. Are there any new men's clothiers I should look at? My friend's belongings were destroyed in a storm." "Oh, how awful! Is your friend unharmed?" "Yes, thank you, he is quite alright. He is from far to the south, and he is not accustomed to the climate here. He was caught asleep in a downpour, and his pack was washed away in a flooded stream. He wasn't ever in any real danger." "I shall speak to my father. Perhaps you and your friend could join us for dinner some evening soon." Methos cursed silently. He hadn't counted on this. "Perhaps. My friend is very tired from his journey. I'd like to give him a few days to recuperate." Fress' blue eyes widened. "Oh, of course, how thoughtless of me. Please do give him my regards, won't you Methos?" Methos sketched the socially polite half-bow. "Of course. And here is your baker's stand. I hope you have good business today, Shra Fress." "Good day, Ser Methos," she called as she hurried to the baker's table. Methos ducked into a clothier's he'd patronized in the past. He was friendly with Chulla, the middle-aged tailor who ran the place. "Good afternoon, Ser Chulla," he called. "Yes, who's there?" The little man emerged from his workroom, blinking owlishly after being hunched over his stitchery. "Friend Methos!" he cried happily. "I haven't seen you in nigh on a year now! It's good to see you again." "Thank you, Chulla. It's good to see you as well," Methos said with a smile. He genuinely liked the mercurial little man - he had a quick wit and was always an excellent conversationalist. "What can I get for you today, my friend? A new suit of clothes for calling upon a lady friend, perhaps?" he said with a wink. "I know young Fress has her eye on you." Methos snorted. "No, I think not. Actually, I'm here on behalf of a friend. I've got a visitor - the son of an old family friend. He's traveled here from far to the south, and his luggage got washed away in a storm. I need some suitable attire for him. Perhaps 2 or 3 suits of everyday clothes, like I'm wearing, a couple pairs of winter leggings, a few warmer tunics, um, a suit of fine clothes, two cloaks, one light, one heavy, both waterproof. Also, socks, undergarments, and a couple pairs of loose trousers. We share an interest in swordplay, and he'll need something to spar in." Chulla was scribbling rapidly. At the end of Methos' list, he squinted up at the old Immortal. "Forgive me for asking, friend, but can you afford all that?" Methos pulled out a stack of coins and raised one eyebrow. Chulla's eyes widened. "I don't know what you do to get paid that much, but your coin's as good as the next man's." Methos laughed. "I help the city council solve engineering problems from time to time. They pay me well, and I don't spend much. I've been waiting for a rainy day. Since my friend got caught out in just such a day, it seems fitting that I buy him clothes to replace what he lost." Chulla shrugged. "It's your money, friend. Why so much, though? Seems like you're outfitting him for a year-round stay." Methos nodded. "He's going to be with me for quite some time. He's a military expert, and he wants to observe the province's forces while they train after spending a bit of a holiday at my place." "Ah. I see. And what size is your friend?" Methos paused for a moment. He was unnaturally tall compared to the native people here; surely Mac would be a giant. Well, it wasn't like he could get Mac to fit into smaller clothes. "He's probably a good three inches taller than I, perhaps 50 or 60 pounds heavier, very broad in the shoulders, barrel-chested, muscular all over." Chulla blinked. "Bigger than you?" he squeaked. "Lords, he must be a giant!" The tailor started pacing. "You'll have to bring him in so I can get accurate measurements. I can probably scrounge up something from what I've got on hand. That should get him here tomorrow. Fair?" Methos nodded. "Certainly. At the moment, he's trying not very successfully to fit into some of my things." Chulla rummaged in a few chests. He came up with two tunics, a pair of leggings, and a pair of loose trousers. "There you are. That should tide him over." "Thanks, friend." Methos made to hand over all the coins. "No, Ser Methos, I'll take ten tranas for what you've got there, not a penny more until I've completed the rest to your friend's satisfaction." Methos nodded. "Fair enough. I'll bring my friend in tomorrow morning. You mustn't let him put you off, though. He's a rather imposing figure." Chulla snorted. "After meeting you, I'm sure I'll never find anyone imposing ever again. You're even bigger than the governor, and he's the largest man in the province. Or at least he was until you appeared." The tailor cuffed him affectionately on the shoulder. "Get yourself home and see to your guest. Tell him that Chulla will outfit him in the morning." Methos grinned. "Will do, my friend. A good evening to you!" Whistling merrily, he stopped by the baker's stall on his way out of the square for fresh bread. Fress, of course, was there, and she latched onto Methos almost immediately. Methos, for his part made polite but firm excuses that he really had to get home for his friend. Methos escaped the town gratefully, beset with ludicrous visions of Fress trying good-naturedly to trap him and tie him up with her braids. At length, he approached his cabin, pleased to see the Kats napping on the "rocks" and soaking up the last of the sunlight. //Are you well, friends? Is your new home to your satisfaction?// Skyrr never stirred, but Hrryn raised his head and regarded Methos sleepily. //Most satisfactory. You chose a good spot - plenty of game and fish available near here. Our new den is warm and dry. Most satisfactory, indeed.// Methos smiled. //Excellent. Enjoy your nap; I must see to Duncan.// Hrryn yawned and sank back into sleep. Methos stepped through the door of his cabin and was met with the aroma of something delicious coming from the kitchen. "Mac?" Duncan had clearly made a trip to the stream. He'd washed away the evidence of his crash, and his hair was loose and damp. Methos couldn't help but gaze appreciatively at that hair for a moment. Duncan had let it grow; the older man imagined that this was closer to what Mac must've looked like while he was still a Chieftain's son all those centuries ago. It was no longer the short cap of black curls that Mac had worn when they parted company, nor was it the shoulder-length waves that it had been when the two of them first met. No, it was now a glorious fall of rippling ebony that reached all the way to the middle of the Scot's back. Methos forcibly suppressed a groan. For a thousand years, he'd wanted to bury his hands in that hair, and now there was so much more of it to enjoy. "Dinner's almost ready, Methos." Duncan carried a couple of covered dishes to Methos' small dining table. He'd removed Methos' spare tunic, both because the evening was balmy, and because he didn't want to stretch the seams unnecessarily. As a result, Methos was treated to the vision of a half-dressed Highlander serving him dinner, and the half that was dressed filled sleek black leggings that looked like they'd been painted on. Stuff of fantasies, indeed. "Mac?" he croaked, then cleared his throat to cover his reaction to the Scot. "I've got some new clothes for you - all the tailor had in your size. We'll have to go to town tomorrow to get you measured for the rest of it." Duncan accepted the bundle Methos handed him. "Thanks, Methos. I'll pay you back as soon as I find something in the way of gainful employment." He started to turn towards the spare bedroom to change his clothes, then turned back, glancing quizzically at his friend. "What do you mean, 'all the tailor had in my size?'" Methos grimaced. "Sorry to tell you this, Mac, but you're going to stick out like a sore thumb in town. I'm unnaturally tall compared to the indigenous people. You're going to be seen as a veritable giant. It's all he had large enough to fit you." Duncan rolled his eyes. "Delightful. Ah, well. They'll have to get used to me, I guess." "Oh, and by the way, if anybody asks, you're the son of an old friend of my father's family, come up from far to the south to visit with me for awhile. You've been in correspondence with me for some years, and have been looking for a new challenge, new occupation, new home, you get the idea, for quite awhile. That's the story I dropped to a couple of the town gossips." Duncan nodded. "Why so detailed? Why can't I just be a visitor from a few towns away?" he asked, curious. Methos shook his head. "Everyone in this part of the world tends toward the blond-haired, blue-eyed, milkmaid pale end of the spectrum. My dark hair makes me stick out, but at least I've got the right skin tone. Nobody'd believe you're from anywhere near here, not with your dark hair and complexion. I'm hoping that everyone in this place is provincial enough not to have traveled very far south, in case I'm wrong." Duncan grinned ruefully. "So much for blending in with the local populace. You're nothing if not devious, Methos," he said, affection warming his voice. He ducked into his new quarters to change, donning the tan suede breeches and loose linen tunic, which he belted with a dark brown leather belt Methos had given him. He put his standard issue boots on over the stockings. They looked a bit strange, but they'd serve until he could buy a more appropriate pair. He examined his reflection critically. Not bad. Refreshingly familiar, even, though he hadn't worn clothes like this in nearly 1200 years. He pulled the tie out of his slightly tangled hair, dragged a comb through it, and tied back just a topknot to keep the long black waves out of his face. When he returned to the kitchen area, Methos was sniffing approvingly at the steaming dishes on the table. "Not bad, Mac. Your first day on the planet and you already have a good idea of what goes well together. I'm impressed. Maybe you should open a restaurant," he kidded. Methos was desperate to keep the mood light. The Scot looked good enough to eat in his new clothes, and the older man could definitely see why he never lacked for female attention. If he could manage to keep some humor in their exchanges, then maybe he could keep the younger man from sensing his interest and desire. Duncan ducked his head, abashed. They sat down to a companionable dinner Duncan's culinary instinct was right on target. Despite his lack of familiarity with local foodstuffs, the simple meal he'd prepared of roasted fish, boiled, seasoned grains, and sautéed vegetables was excellent. The meal was completed with Methos' bread and a bottle of replicated wine. Methos sighed contentedly after he finished eating. "Best I've had in a very long time, Mac. My compliments to the chef." Duncan chuckled. "D'ye mind if I cook in lieu of paying rent?" His brogue was more pronounced, thickened with wine, fatigue, and general contentment. Methos grinned. "Sounds like a fair exchange to me." He cast a quizzical glance at the Highlander. "Let your hair go, eh, Mac?" Duncan ran a hand self-consciously over the drying black waves. "Ragos II has a cold climate. At first, I grew it out for the warmth. Then Connor challenged me to see how long it would get before it drove me completely insane. I should probably cut it so that I blend in a little better." "No, don't," Methos said a little too quickly. To cut that beautiful hair seemed sacrilegious. He chuckled to cover his error. "You'll never blend in anyhow. Might as well give them something to look at." "So I'm a little on the tall side," Duncan griped. "Surely I'm not all that conspicuous." Methos laughed. "Mac, even I stick out, and you know I've made blending into the background a personal goal for the last six millennia." Duncan chuckled. "If even you stick out, then I guess I haven't got a prayer. Seriously, though, I think I'd like to take off about 6 or 8 inches. It'll be short enough then that I can wear it in a queue without it getting in the way. I've been wearing it braided for the most part." Duncan mused contemplatively for a moment. "You must've been a barber sometime during the last 6000 years, Methos. Can I trust you to give me a trim without butchering it?" he ribbed. Methos raised an silent eyebrow, at which Duncan exploded into laughter. Methos agonized privately for a moment. To cut that gorgeous hair seemed wrong. But then, he'd have license to run his fingers through the silky stuff like he'd always wanted... Decisions, decisions. One look at Duncan's deep brown eyes, and Methos buckled, as he knew he would. "Sure, Mac. If you really want to cut that impressive hair of yours, I'll do it for you, and I'll do it right. You can trust me," the older man said softly. "Well a'course I trust ye, Methos. There are verra few people I'd trust with my life, old man, and ye're at the top of the list." Duncan's accent thickened a bit more with the emotional declaration. Methos blinked. "Do you really mean that, Duncan?" "Aye. Ye may be a devious old bastard, but there's no one else I'd trust so much to guard me back." He flashed Methos a thousand-watt smile. Methos' mouth quirked in an answering half smile. "Thank you, Duncan. I'm honored. Of course, it goes without saying that I trust you. If you don't trust Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, eternal boyscout, then there really isn't anyone you trust at all." Duncan's eyes narrowed. "Nay, Methos. I dinna think it goes without saying. Ye've had only yourself to trust all these long millennia, and I count myself blessed to have broken through that instinctive suspicion of everyone but yourself and earned your trust." Methos flushed under his friend's serious regard and felt the conversation start spiraling into territory way too intense to approach tonight. "So tell me, Mac, am I still a legend back home?" Methos asked to lighten the atmosphere. Duncan grinned. "Aye, that ye are. Amanda, Richie, and I are the only ones who know that Adam Pierson is really Methos. I never even told Connor. In fact, about a hundred years after you disappeared for parts unknown, I saw to it that a report of Adam Pierson's demise made it into Watcher Headquarters. As far as anyone in the Game is concerned, you were taken out by a pack of headhunters, and I later took the head of the one who killed you." "Protecting me again, eh Mac? Playing the avenging angel?" Methos asked gently. Duncan had the grace to flush slightly. "No, not exactly. Just... returning the favor you did me during that whole O'Rourke mess." "That was never a favor, Duncan. You're my friend, the only Immortal besides Darius that I could actually and unreservedly call my friend. I don't let my friends die, not if I can help it. Not ever." Methos' hazel eyes flashed with his vehemence. He immediately cursed his indiscretion. He gave away too much. Duncan sat silently and stared at Methos for a moment. The old man's eyes were suspiciously bright. The Scot rose to his feet, circled the table, and hauled Methos up into a rough embrace. "I canna tell ye how honored I am by that, Methos," Duncan's voice rumbled softly in the older man's ear. Methos could do little else but hold on tight as an entirely unaccustomed wave of emotion swept over him. He was mortified to discover that he was shaking with the intensity of it. Duncan held the older man tightly, held him steady when he felt Methos' sleek, wiry body start trembling. The Highlander took a shaky breath, feeling none too steady himself, and wondering how the older man managed to evoke such a strong response in him. He held Methos close, unwilling - unable - to let him go. "Duncan...gods, what the hell is...do you feel it?" Methos rasped hoarsely. "Aye," Duncan's voice was husky. The brawny Scot's arms tightened even further, and Methos was sure he heard his ribs creak. "Mac," he gasped, "Air! I don't fancy death by asphyxiation much, thanks." Something that sounded like a breathless chuckle erupted from Duncan's lips. "Sorry, Methos. I just...I feel very much like I'm not supposed to let go of you." Duncan snorted softly. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. "You must think I've lost my mind." He started to loosen his grip against the compulsion to hold the old man close. "No, don't!" Methos' voice was desperate. "Don't let go," he blurted before he could stop the words. Duncan gratefully wrapped the other man in his arms again. "Not on your life," he assured the other Immortal. After another moment, he pulled his head back and searched Methos' brilliant eyes. He found desperation, affection, confusion, and faint embarrassment. Methos was sure he was drowning. Drowning in great, deep pools of soft chocolate brown. Such beautiful eyes...! The older man read so much from those expressive eyes - affection returned a hundred-fold, a hint of confusion, wonderment, dawning joy. He scarcely noticed that Duncan was leaning closer as though driven by an irresistible compulsion. Didn't register at all that those full lips parted slightly. Methos was conscious of nothing but the Highlander's eyes until they fluttered closed. He didn't even have time to wonder why before Duncan's lips brushed against his mouth, and the world dropped out from under him. Oh! Oh, so soft, so sweet! Surely nothing in the world was as perfect as Duncan MacLeod's kiss. Of their own volition, Methos' bones liquefied, and he melted into the Highlander with a quiet sigh. Duncan's head was spinning. He had no explanation for his behavior, for the sudden irresistible need to kiss his friend, but neither could he deny it. He felt hunger rising from deep within his soul, and he moaned softly as he deepened the kiss. The last coherent thought in his head was that Methos was just as enthusiastic a participant as himself, and that should've surprised him. But it didn't, and then such trivial concerns as rational thought evaporated into a haze of desire. Devoured. Methos was being devoured by his friend, and he couldn't care less. He was ridiculously, supremely content to give and give and give of himself so long as Duncan would take and give in return. Finally, the need for oxygen reasserted itself, and the two men broke apart, gasping. Methos sagged against the Highlander's chest, his legs turned to rubber with the realization that the one thing he wanted for a thousand years might finally, impossibly, be his. Duncan stroked the long, leanly muscled back while Methos recovered his equilibrium. "Wow," the older man breathed. Duncan chuckled. "Why the hell didn't we think of that before?" he asked with a wry grin that the other man couldn't see. "If I'd known that kissing you would be that good..." Duncan trailed off as Methos finally lifted his head and flushed endearingly. "Now that you mention it," he mumbled. Duncan caught his chin and stared incredulously into Methos' eyes. "You mean you did think of this before? Why didn't you say something?" he demanded. Methos snorted, his dry sense of humor returning. "Really, Mac, do you honestly think that I would say something like that to Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, poster boy for rampant heterosexuality?" His eyes turned serious. "I valued your friendship to highly to risk losing it," he said quietly. Mac gravely nodded his acknowledgment of the other man's admission. Then he grinned. "Well, a thousand years ago, you'd have been right. About the 'rampant heterosexuality,' I mean." "And I'm not right now?" "Strictly speaking, no. I've never done anything really serious, though. Explored the options, I guess you could say, but never any real relationships. Never really wanted one, until now." "Until now?" Methos berated himself for sounding so breathless. "I don't know that I want to dive headfirst into anything, but...Dammit, Methos, that kiss!" he said explosively. "I'd be a damn fool if I said I didn't want to do some serious exploring of options with you." Methos grinned. "I'm with you 100% on that one, Mac. Come on," he said, tugging affectionately at a handful of silky black hair, "I'll give you that haircut if you're still interested." "You bet. Thanks." Duncan grinned lopsidedly at Methos and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. Methos opened a wooden box and pulled out a phaser. He twiddled with the settings for a moment, then glanced up at the other man. "You'd better stand back up, Mac. I'll never reach the ends with you all the way down there." Duncan stood obediently. "How much do you want taken off?" Duncan considered that for a moment. "You'd better take it up to my shoulders. It'll be easier to take care of that way." Methos knew the other man wouldn't see the regretful smile that touched his face. "You realize it's sacrilegious to cut off all this gorgeous hair, don't you?" he teased Duncan threw a surprised glance over his shoulder. "Like it, do you?" Methos carded his hands through the long, long, soft waves. "I've waited a thousand years to do this, you know. Run my hands through your hair, I mean." MacLeod swallowed hard. "Jesus, Methos," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. A deep chuckle warmed the air behind him. "Sorry, Mac. Didn't mean to catch you off guard, there. But you must know that you've got a bloody amazing head of hair!" Strong, slender hands massaged his scalp and sifted through black curls. Duncan made a decision. "Tell you what, Methos. I'll leave it up to your discretion. I'm way overdue for a haircut, and I definitely need to take some of it off, but I'll leave it to you to decide how long it'll be when you're done." "Fair enough. I told you that you could trust me; I wasn't kidding." Methos frowned at the long dark hair, considering. Right about...there. Slightly below the shoulders - just a bit longer than when he'd first met MacLeod. It would take off about eight inches of hair. "Hold still, Mac. I wouldn't want to take your head by accident," he deadpanned. "Not bloody likely," Duncan growled. Methos chuckled and activated his phaser at low power. He aimed it at Duncan's hair and carefully cut a straight line across the dark fall. Long, curly locks tumbled to the ground and the faintly acrid scent of overheated hair filled the air briefly. Methos took a hairbrush and stroked through Duncan's hair, looking for any uneven strands. He nodded, satisfied. "Never seen a phaser used for that," Duncan commented. "Faster than clippers," Methos answered. "Looks good, Mac. Short enough for you?" Duncan pulled a handful of hair over his shoulder and examined it critically. "Terrific. Just enough off to make it manageable again. Thanks, Methos." "No problem. If you don't mind, I'm going to put the clippings outside for the birds. They'll be living in the lap of luxury with this to line their nests." The wry grin was back in force. "Sure. I haven't got a use for it, after all." "Thanks. Be right back." Methos gathered up the discarded black curls into a generous handful and strode outside. Once out of the Highlander's sight, he separated out a thin lock. He scattered the balance at the edge of the wood, and feeling more than a little foolish, he wove the purloined lock into a thin braid, tied of both ends, and coiled it into his pocket. Back inside, Duncan tied off a topknot to keep his newly shortened hair out of his face and started tending to the dinner dishes. He whistled tunelessly as he worked, then abruptly grinned wryly to himself. He felt so bloody domestic, but surprisingly enough, that didn't bother him a bit. This...thing...with Methos, whatever it might eventually become, felt incredibly, remarkably right. He turned when he heard the older man come in. "Dishes are done, old man." "Oh, thanks, Mac." He glanced out the window, noting that it was full dark already. "We'd better turn in. I told Chulla, the tailor, that I'd have you in his shop first thing so he could take some measurements and get started on some clothes for you." Duncan yawned. "Sounds good. I've had a full day anyway. I could use the sleep, honestly." An awkward silence fell. At length, Methos took a deep breath and broke it. "Duncan," he said and paused. "I don't know where this thing with us is going, but I feel a pretty strong compulsion to be close to you right now." He almost collapsed with relief when Duncan nodded, agreeing. "We don't have to do anything, but I want you to know you're always welcome in my home and in my bed, even if only to sleep." "Thank you, Methos," Duncan said quietly. "I think I'll take you up on that offer." "Just to sleep?" "For now. Whatever this is between us, I don't want to ruin it by rushing it." Methos smiled. "Good. Me neither." He extended a hand to the Highlander. "Shall we?" Grinning, Duncan took his hand and followed him into his bedroom. Methos stripped blithely down to his underwear and hopped into bed, obviously expecting Duncan to follow. Feeling somewhat silly as he struggled out of his new clothes, Duncan did. Methos flopped over and draped himself over his new bedmate in a half-conscious drowse. "Mmm, won't be cold tonight," he slurred. "Finally. Always cold." Yawn. "Bloody blast furnace, you are." Methos wriggled a bit more, snuggling in for the duration. Duncan chuckled. Methos was obviously a sneak cuddler, asleep or not. "Aye," he murmured, brogue grown thick again. "Sleep warm tonight, my friend. I'll hold ye and watch your dreams." "Such a nice boy," Methos mumbled. Duncan suppressed a laugh. Methos was even more fun sleepy than he was intoxicated. "Go to sleep, old man," he said affectionately. "Mm-hmmm." And with a sigh, Methos did. Feeling warm all over, Duncan followed. Neither man stirred until dawn came, and their packmates started wondering where they were. ...tbc... |