"MacLeod," Methos murmured, "that feels very nice." The Highlander continued to nuzzle his neck while simultaneously caressing Methos' taut flesh through the front of his blue jeans.
They stood on the barge in the dim light streaming through the portholes. Drop cloths still covered the furniture. Their footprints, outlines in the dust, lay as pathways to where they now stood. The dust they had raised floated like diamonds in the sunlight around them.
Methos sighed and leaned into the soft seduction. Quiet moments of tender passion like these made all the risks a relationship like this entailed seem insignificant.
MacLeod edged them toward the couch without letting up with his handiwork. Without warning, he lashed out with his leg, catching Methos behind the ankles and knocking the older man's feet out from under him. They both tumbled down onto the couch in a heap.
"Hey," Methos protested as they landed, the edges of the drop cloth billowing outward and a dust cloud blooming around them.
Duncan ignored him, picking up where he left off before the tumble. Methos sighed as he stretched out below the larger man. He watched the play of the sunlight in the room, across the floor, where it striped across Mac's shoulder, where it made his hair glow just the slightest bit. Methos held out a hand, watching the dust swirl around and between his fingers before it settled.
Duncan sneezed.
"Serves you right," he murmured, but without malice. Reaching out, he took MacLeod's face in his hands and pulled it to his own until Duncan's nose was resting against his. And he remained like that, looking into the brown eyes. Duncan looked back. Methos felt his own breath quietly whispering in and out of his body. Strangely, he felt he was letting more out every time than he brought in, but he didn't mind. Neither man moved.
Finally, Methos spoke: "Kiss me," he commanded.
And Duncan did.
The warm summer night had driven them out onto the deck of the barge. MacLeod lay on his back looking up at the stars. Methos lay perpendicular to the Scotsman, his head resting on his lovers stomach as he watched moths swarming around the single lantern MacLeod had left burning.
"I remember once--a place..." Methos' words were hesitant as if he were pulling the memory from a great distance. Duncan remained silent, knowing it was best to let Methos find his words in his own time. "I heard a story there about...they used to say that the moths came at night to enchant men. If you weren't careful they could steal your soul away or trick you into giving away what you held most dear." He paused for a moment, tracing a light caress across MacLeod's chest in the darkness. "I remember one warm night...the moths swarming around the fire...an old woman telling me this story. I don't remember the name of the village or where it was or what language we spoke. Just that one moment out of time. So much of my memory is like that." Methos sighed and turned back to the stars.
"In Scotland it was the Sidhe we told stories of." MacLeod paused, turning to look at Methos. "Are you sure you are not one of the Daoine Sidhe sent to steal my soul?" Duncan smiled. "Sometimes I think you look the part," Duncan continued. "Especially in the moonlight like this."
Methos snorted but said nothing.
"When I was in Japan, I used to hear the stories about the wiliness of foxes...kitsune..." Duncan continued. "I met one woman on the road to Toyama who claimed to be possessed by a fox. She ranted non-stop all the way to the next check point."
"Probably genuinely believed it," Methos said. "When I was in Japan--oh, 1870s-I had a friend who wrote about fox stories from a western psycho-analytical approach--such as it was in the 1870s. Sakatani wanted to rid the country of such superstitious beliefs, to modernize, westernize. But, you know, he also worried that in their hurry to adopt Western ways, his compatriots were taking the superstition with the science. Trading one set of fox tales for another. A wise man, Sakatani Shiroshi."
"Bummei Kaika within reason," MacLeod commented.
"Exactly," Methos agreed. "Too bad Sakatani was not politic enough to give it up when that fad passed," he sighed.
Both men fell silent again, letting the night pass gently around them. Mac had almost thought Methos might have fallen asleep, until the man sighed deeply and murmured, "A lot of my memory is like that, too. Trading one fox for another."
The next morning, Methos watched Duncan move about the barge. It reminded Methos why he hated moving. Duncan hadn't even been gone long, and settling back in was still way too much work for Methos' taste. And MacLeod willingly did this at least twice a year! He had been distracting the Highlander; the work would have been done long before now otherwise, he suspected. He smiled fondly. He liked spending time with the man. It made him happy in a simple, fundamental way that he might have mocked in another time. Well, he had certainly taken himself by surprise on this one, and he didn't even seem to mind.
In some ways, loving the man was so easy that he wondered why it had not happened sooner.
MacLeod moved his rook forward, but the man opposite him did not seem to notice. After a moment, Mac raised his head to look at the other man.
Duncan took in the far away look that once again graced his friend's features. Somehow Duncan knew it was not merely being lost in the past that brought the expression to the older man's face.
"Where do you go?" Duncan asked, quietly, breaking into his friend's contemplation.
"Go?" Methos said, startled. "I don't go anywhere. I'm just...remembering...right now."
"What do you mean?" Duncan asked gently.
Methos just shook his head absentmindedly.
"Please tell me," Duncan said seriously, think of the intensely personal sharing Methos had done with him on the deck above nights earlier.
Methos turned to look MacLeod in the eye, his expression became serious and then thoughtful as he tried to put his impressions in to words. "It's just when things seem too good...I mean the best moments...I feel like I should memorize them so I can have them later. It's good to have things like that...later."
Once again, Duncan was touched that Methos confided in him. Yet the hint of old pain and present fatalism pulled at him.
MacLeod stretched and sat up in bed, long after Methos had fallen asleep. Maybe it was the summer warmth, or the nap he had accidentally taken after some afternoon playfulness, but sleep eluded him. He watched the moonlight play over Methos' features.
MacLeod had come to realize that five-thousand years was too much to understand from any perspective other than of one who had lived it. In that spirit, he had stopped trying to understand that time as a whole. This was difficult for him: Normally he and the incommensurable only had a passing acquaintance. He had, after all, been shaped in an age of reason, and he carried that ultimate faith in reason with him still.
But Methos contained too many paradoxes to be reconciled in the realm of reason. Methos was paradox from start to finish; he climaxed in paradox. It was not a realm MacLeod normally dabbled in. Yet, he had never been able to call a five thousand year old man his best friend before, either.
There was something incredibly fragile about him, Duncan decided. Almost preciously so. Time had surely taken a toll on the immortal and it showed when one looked closely enough. But somehow the results of those effects were so human. Yet another contradiction in the old man.
Methos retrieved two coffee mugs from the cupboard and set them down on the counter.
"We should go out tonight," MacLeod stated from the bed.
Methos smiled to himself. They had been spending most of their time at the barge-in bed and out. An estate sale, a trip to the market, and regular lunches at a near-by cafe had been the extent of their contact with the outside world.
"That sounds nice," he said pouring the coffee.
"How about dinner at Channing's?"
The restaurant that MacLeod named was a very nice one. Methos would have preferred a burger, good beer, some live music, and MacLeod's company at any number of more casual establishments, but he was aware that an expensive dinner out with a new lover would very much appeal to MacLeod and was happy to oblige. Besides, right now MacLeod's company was the most important part of the equation he had just considered. Next time it would just have to be his choice.
"I can get a table. They know me there," MacLeod offered.
"I'll have to stop by my place to get something nice to wear," Methos commented, realizing that he had not even been by his flat since he had returned to Paris. He'd literally been living out of his luggage on the barge.
"I think," MacLeod chuckled, "that you should go just the way you are."
Methos turned in a small circle, a coffee mug in either hand, as he headed back to the bed, showing off the boxers he was wearing.
"Somehow I don't think they'll appreciate it as much as you would."
"Maybe not," MacLeod agreed. "Come here."
When they were finally really ready to start their day, it was considerably later. MacLeod was just hanging up the phone when Methos came out of the shower.
"We've got a table for seven," he told the other man.
"Good," Methos replied, pulling on his jeans. "That'll give me plenty of time to get ready."
MacLeod wouldn't rub it in, but he knew Methos had not been back to his apartment in the preceding week. He watched his friend finish dressing and then pull on a pair of shoes. Methos straightened and then walked over to where MacLeod stood before heading for the door. He leaned forward until his lips were just brushing MacLeod's. Mac found his lips twitching into a smile beneath the other man's light touch. He parted his lips for his a questing tongue and allowed himself to be kissed thoroughly.
"Later," Methos said by way of farewell when he finally did depart.
MacLeod was inclined to agree.
Duncan was running a little late when he arrived at the restaurant.
"Ah, Monsieur MacLeod, so nice to see you again," the maitre de smiled.
"Hello, Leon. I was meeting a friend for dinner. Has he arrived yet?" MacLeod inquired. He could not feel Methos' presence, but the restaurant had a large patio out the back.
The maitre de looked sympathetic. "I believe he was here and then gone again."
MacLeod arranged his features in an expression that made it clear that he was waiting for further explanation.
"A tall, slender gentleman with dark hair and a..." The maitre-de stopped as he realized he was about to pass the bounds of politesse, but the hand he was gesturing with ended suspiciously near his nose before he cut himself off.
MacLeod nodded, "That would be him."
"Yes, he left a few minutes ago with another man who came here looking for you earlier, Mr. MacLeod."
"Thanks, Leon," MacLeod murmured even as he was turning for the door.
It was not difficult to surmise what had happened, MacLeod thought as he scanned the streets for likely locales to take a fight. It was a nicer area, not really sporting too many dimly lit areas or convenient abandoned buildings.
A car alarm went off nearby, followed by the sound of breaking glass. MacLeod took off at a run, following the sound around a corner. The familiar sound of swords brought him around a building and into a narrowly, dimly-lit side street. He was met by the sight of Methos fighting another man he recognized. A man who had challenged him nearly eighty years before as a new immortal--Bryant Kenning. A man he had let walk away then. Now, he would have given anything to take that decision back.
Methos showed signs of being a very competent swordsman when he actually let Duncan see through the facades to his true skill level. He was certainly holding his own now against Kenning who had grown into an excellent swordsman. The fight seemed to balance more on skill and speed than strength. Things Methos had in abundance, MacLeod told himself and wished he could tell his rapidly beating heart.
Both men were already bleeding from semi-serious wounds. The sight of his friend's blood sickened MacLeod. The mistake, when it came, should not have been too serious, but Methos put too much weight on an injured thigh and stumbled. Kenning's blade slid with gruesome ease into Methos' abdomen, protruding a full foot from his back. Methos let out a growl of pain and frustration as he doubled over on his opponents blade.
MacLeod felt panic rising for Methos appeared to be in no position to continue fighting. Then, suddenly, before Kenning could withdraw his blade, Methos' hand whipped out catching his opponents hand and cross-guard in a steely grip. Then, savagely, he pulled himself up on the other man's blade until he was mere inches from his startled opponent. Ignoring the pain by force of will, Methos brought his blade up and in in a brutal one-handed stroke that was all savage strength and no finesse, harkening back, MacLeod supposed, to a day so long ago that a blade would not hold a keen edge.
Kenning's head fell to the ground.
Methos took the quickening with his enemy's sword still hilt deep in his body, crying out with the pain of it.
When the storm abated, MacLeod ran to where Methos knelt on the pavement. As he eased the blade out, his friend's eyes flickered up to meet his.
"Sorry about dinner," he said with a faint smile before he died.
Duncan got Methos safely back to the barge. The old man was grumbling under his breath about ruined clothing, bloody stupid young Immortals, and over-protective Scotsmen as he cleaned himself up. MacLeod watched the old man stretch and then slip under the covers with a tired sigh.
Duncan was just feeling glad the old man was alive. MacLeod was well aware that his friends would face challenges as a matter of course, but still he worried. He worried for Richie and Amanda, for Methos, for friends absent. In his world, things usually ended alright as they had tonight, but then there were times, like with Fitzcairn. MacLeod needed the reassurance if his lover's presence.
Duncan stripped and slid into the bed, wrapping his arms around the slim figure, pulling him to him. Running a hand down the strong chest, he captured the man's mouth with his own, teasing at the other's cock. He was more than surprised when he felt him pull away.
"Not now MacLeod. I'm just tired."
The sudden rigidity in his body and the weariness in his voice warned MacLeod off. So he just settled Methos against his chest and let him sleep, a warm weight twinning his heart beat.
Duncan held Methos loosely in his arms late into the night, unable to sleep himself. He only stared at the ceiling lost deep in his thoughts.
Methos arrived back at the barge from his liquor run, still annoyed that he had had to go alone. Further annoyed that MacLeod was still on his 'business phone call.' MacLeod had actually shushed him and shooed him away when he had inquired about the call.
Methos was putting away the beer and couple of other groceries--loudly--when Mac hung up the phone. Methos turned around to find MacLeod staring thoughtfully into the distance.
"Something wrong, MacLeod?" Methos asked, but he didn't let too much of his earlier irritation leak into his voice. Something was clearly bothering MacLeod.
"Just an old friend's run into some trouble..."
"There's a surprise," Methos smirked.
MacLeod shook his head, pretending annoyance, but Methos could see the edge of a smile leaking through.
"Oh, did I say that out loud?" he wondered in an innocent voice, teasing the Scot.
"Yes. I think you did," MacLeod said, still trying to sound annoyed.
"Well? What is it this time?" His exasperation was at least half teasing.
"Oh, a friend of mine in Tunisia--Benny Lemark--is selling some artwork in his collection next week. He has received death threats over his choice of buyers. Apparently, some nationalistic extremist group objects to his sale of the work out of the country. I want to go down there and look after things just until the sale goes through day after tomorrow."
"So you are going to rush off to protect the innocent from the forces of evil, is that it?" Methos paused and when MacLeod didn't say anything, he sighed and said: "Well, let me know when we are leaving, I'll get packed."
"Look, Methos, I don't want you take this the wrong way, but Mr. Lemark is old fashioned. He wouldn't understand about us." MacLeod was looking at the floor.
"So? Why would he have to know?" Methos asked, eyeing MacLeod with a flutter of unease.
"He just will. I don't want him refusing my help just because of my current lifestyle choice."
Current? "So are you saying you don't want me along?"
"I'm just saying it might be better if you stayed in Paris. It'll only be a couple of days after all."
Methos sighed. A couple of days. MacLeod was right. What reason did Methos have to go along anyway? It was strange how ready he was to jump on a plane after MacLeod. He shook his head.
"Besides, I'm already going to have to be worrying about pretending to be older than I look."
"Alright," Methos said. "Alright, you should go by yourself. Just be careful."
"Thanks for understanding," MacLeod said, visibly relieved. Methos assumed it was because they had managed to avoid confrontation. "I should get packed and see if I can catch the evening flight."
He glanced up, eyeing Methos. "I really am sorry about this." He was doing the puppy-dog thing with his eyes. "I'll miss you, you know," he said. Methos gave in to the Highlander's charms.
"Then I better make sure I give you something to remember me by, then haven't I?" Methos teased with a twinkle in his eye as he wrapped his arms around the Highlander's neck.
The see-off at the airport had been discreet, both men having said their good-byes earlier.
"Let me know if you need any help," Methos had offered.
That MacLeod had taken the offer so offhandedly rankled Methos. Didn't the Highlander know he rarely made such offers?
"I'll let you know what happens," MacLeod had said.
He had almost said, 'gee, thanks,' but stopped that bit of sarcasm. He wondered if it was his own contrary nature making the good-bye more difficult than it needed to be. And then MacLeod had been gone.
Methos was unable to help the feeling of vague misgiving as the plane took off. Unable to place a finger on its source however, he let it go.
He was on his way back to the barge from the airport before he realized what he was doing. He deliberately corrected his course and headed for his apartment. Once there, he found himself making excuses to go back to the barge. He had left this or that there. The refrigerator there was stocked. Hell, it was even cleaner. What harm would it do? MacLeod wouldn't mind. He wouldn't even have to know if Methos wanted to conceal the display of neediness from the Scotsman. Strangely, he found he didn't feel the need to conceal anything.
Methos waited a considerable amount of time before he let his concern get the better of him (seven whole days, no less). Then he did some discreet checking. The hotel MacLeod had stayed at? No, the gentleman had checked out several days before. The rental car company? No, Mr. MacLeod had returned his car early, nearly a week ago. The air line? No, monsieur had canceled his flight. And yet Methos had heard no word from MacLeod. His concern only grew as the morning wore on. He knew he would feel the fool later if MacLeod found out he had gone to Joe and everything was alright, but still.... He dialed the number in the States.
"Joe Dawson," the voice sounded gravely over the phone lines.
"Joe. Hi, it's...Adam." Couldn't be too careful. "Listen, I'm sorry about the hour..."
"Hey, no problem man, I was still up going over some papers. Another half an hour, and I might have minded." The sound of some very deliberate shuffling of papers followed. "Hmmm. What do we have here? I seem to have one exceedingly large unpaid bar tab here in the name of one Adam Pierson. Know anything about it?"
"Well, er, you know, I wouldn't want to jeopardize my cover by transferring so large a sum at once. Who knows how much the Watchers might still be keeping track of."
"Uh huh. So...was there something I could help you with?"
"Well, yes actually, there is," Methos said somewhat sheepishly. It was usually more MacLeod's style to go to the Watcher for information. Methos preferred to get his intel himself. Besides, MacLeod had not wanted to tell Joe about their relationship yet.
"Yes?" Joe prompted.
"Oh, I was supposed to meet MacLeod here at his barge yesterday," Methos began. "He said he'd be back from some sort of trip by then. But he's not here. I just wanted to make sure something hadn't happened to him."
Methos heard Dawson's chuckle filter across the line. "Checking upon him are you? The next time you try to pull that callous, cold-hearted bullshit on me, I'll remind you of this."
"Thanks, Joe," Methos replied with a hint of annoyance. "That's just what I'll need. I take it he's alright."
"Fine, fine. I have a Watcher trainee doing my job while I'm tied down here in the States. As of this afternoon he was enjoying the Italian countryside."
Methos was silent for a moment. What the hell? What was MacLeod doing in Italy? Why hadn't he called, at least let Methos know what he was doing? Methos didn't like the sinking feeling he was suddenly experiencing. Something was very wrong here. He forgot entirely to answer Joe.
"Methos?"
"Yeah, listen Joe...do you know what he's up to? I don't want to stick around here if he's going to be while. I've got some stuff of my own that I've got to get to." Lame, Methos, he couldn't help but thinking.
"Well, I wouldn't expect him too soon. He probably forgot all about meeting you," Dawson answered in jovial, almost conspiratorial, tone, complete unaware of the effect his words were have on the other man. "He ran into old friend--"
"Old friend?" Methos interrupted.
"Yeah, old friend. One of the female persuasion." Joe chuckled lightly. "They seemed to be doing a lot of 'catching up', if you know what I mean. I wouldn't expect him too soon."
Methos hardly heard the last, the blood seemed to be pounding in his head so loudly. He felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. No, he felt like someone had driven a two-by-four into his stomach, and then reached down his throat and dragged his guts up just for good measure. But Joe did not need to know this. "Well, then I guess I won't be sticking around here."
"I'll tell him you were there next time I talk to him," Joe offered.
"No, Joe...don't. Just.... If he asks about me, you can tell him you told me why he was going to be late and that I decided not to stick around. But if he doesn't ask...don't tell him anything."
"Okay..."
Methos could tell Joe wanted an explanation. But we don't always get what we want, he thought bitterly.
"Thanks, Joe," he said.
"No problem. Talk to me sometime when its not so late. Tell me what you've been doing."
"Sure, Joe. Sometime. Good night."
"'Night."
He stood holding the phone starring off into space for several moments, then he sank down onto the sofa. MacLeod's sofa. Damn MacLeod anyway, he tried, but that didn't really help any. He ran his hands over his face and up into his hair, letting his forehead rest on his palms.
He was such a fool to have thought that the young Scot could overcome hundreds of years of preferences, at least not for him. That such a man could come to...love...someone as damaged as himself. That's what it came down to, wasn't it? That MacLeod could find what he needed with others whose baggage didn't trail millennia into the darkness. That he was so ashamed of Methos that he couldn't even call to end it properly.
Methos chuckled somewhat bitterly. It was the kind of passive action Methos himself might have taken at some point in time. No confrontation. Just leave him to eventually figure out he was not wanted. No messy scenes. Minimal guilt. Perfect.
Methos hardly moved as the barge grew dark around him. His initial fears at pursuing this with MacLeod had been so painfully realized. His...weakness...at giving into such an ill-advised spate of attachment was earning its just rewards.
He berated himself for a fool. For not learning the lessons of the past. For taking a chance. For opening his heart.
For opening his heart to a man he knew could not return what he felt. He had been so ready to deny what he had known for the mere possibility of something more.
For falling in love with Duncan MacLeod. He scarcely understood how it had happened; he only knew that it must now stop.
Well, at least he understood MacLeod's hurry to leave Seacouver--and his reluctance to tell Joe about them. That early flight had been to make sure they got out of Seacouver before they ran into anyone they knew. What were you thinking, Duncan? Methos wondered. Did you want to 'try it out' for a few weeks? And if you didn't like it, go back to your old life with no one the wiser? Or did you always know you would end it? Was I never meant as anything more than a pleasant diversion, a taste of the forbidden? He cursed himself silently. It was his own fault, he supposed. He had never talked about any greater expectations with MacLeod. It had been so much easier just to let things come as they would. The moments of intensity that had flared between them from time to time had seemed indication enough that they were on a path to something more. Saying how he felt was committing--something that had not usually been tremendously successful in the past. Something that terrified him though he did not like to admit it. Was this payment for that?
He began packing everything that was his. He was careful to return any of Duncan's things that had been moved to places where he remembered them occupying when he had first arrived. Perhaps he was being foolish, but he wanted this to be as clean a break as possible. If he was to start over somewhere else, he felt he had to leave as little evidence of himself -- as little of himself -- in this place as possible. He reset the chess board, left in mid-game. He cleared the refrigerator of whatever food and beer he thought MacLeod would never have bought. He even used a meter stick to fish the bottle caps from behind the fridge.
As he was finishing, he found a book he had given MacLeod. He hesitated. It had been a gift. Nothing of myself, he decided finally, throwing it in his bag.
He tried to concentrate on being thorough instead of thinking about the emptiness he felt inside. That's what you get for getting attached, old man, he thought. He knew his actions were symbolic. That by taking back everything that was his, he was trying to take back those parts of himself he had given to MacLeod. That by resetting MacLeod's life to pre-Methos times, he was trying to cauterize the wound.
The dawn had just ended over an overcast day when Methos walked slowly away from the barge without away from the barge without once looking back.