Upstairs, Downstairs (slash, DM/M)

[amand_r]

Disclaimer: MacLeod, Methos and whoever else are the property of
Rysher/Davis/Panzer. This is slash, featuring a M/M relationship, though it's
more comedy and a little lighthearted crap than anything angsty or allegorical.
But it is slash. If you don't like that kind of thing, please don't read this.
Save both you and me the pain.

This is my first time. It's also a first time for the boys too (Convenient,
no?). Please be merciful.

Thanks to my evil k'betas, M. Tabor, who says sex is the easiest part and lets
me disagree with her, and jam-wired, the Slash Goddess, who beta-ed this and
said 'keep everything but the sex. Do that over, 'cause it sucks'.



Upstairs, Downstairs:
--a little stairstepping.

by Amand-r

----------------------------


MIRANDA: O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! Obrave new world
that has such people in't!"

PROSPERO: 'Tis new to thee.

:::Shakespeare, 'The Tempest' V, I, 182-4


PRESENT, IN THE DOJO:

I am worried. I will always worry, I suppose. When the plaster is falling
from the ceiling in little flakes, how bad of a sign is that?

//Stop baby, what’s that sound, everybody look what’s going down...//

Adam is playing rock and roll again. It doesn’t matter that I am downstairs,
where I fled an hour ago when the world’s oldest Immortal scurried into the loft
with three packages and proceeded to unwrap them in a show of delight that
excited even me.

Of course, that had ended with the dropping of the wrapping paper.

THREE HOURS AGO:

“And here, yes, the best of the BeeGees!” Methos’s eyes lit up with amusement,
and I blanched. Hell, I choked on my coffee.

“BeeGees?” I stuttered. Methos was smooth and purring.

“Oh course. And here, a bottle Boone's Strawberry Hill…” I choked again.
Funny thing that gag reflex. I never know when he’s joking. He would have
bought those things and shown them to me, just for a thrill. That means the
last one is for real. I hope.

“Ta daaaah!” Methos sang, and waved the video cassette tape in front of my
face.

“And that would be…?” I asked cautiously. It better be something good, like
Braveheart, or Hamlet. The Branaugh version, not the Gibson. Methos grinned
that smirk, and I knew I’d be fleeing to the dojo for a portion of this
afternoon, and probably the evening as well.

“Oklahoma!” I dropped the coffee cup. Coffee spilled all over my pants, my
shoes, and the carpet. I even snorted what little I had out my nose. Methos
laughed, bent over, and I wondered for a split second if it really was Oklahoma.
I sneaked a peek at the cassette case as I was coughing and sniffing coffee to
the back of my throat.

Oh lord, it *was* Oklahoma.

UPSTAIRS IN THE LOFT:

MacLeod is too easily deceived. It probably hasn’t even permeated his skull
that for the past hour the music hasn’t been the Bee Gees. Hell, if he had
looked into the CD case he would have noticed the Creedence Clearwater Revival
band CD inside., And they sound nothing like the BeeGees. Ooooooo, I hate the
BeeGees.

And the bottle? Oh, it’s best to check colors and safety caps. Then he would
know that I covered the bottle in pink cellophane and refilled it with vodka.
Yah…

The movie. That really is Oklahoma. That was an accident. Whoops.

So now I have about the rest of the evening to think things through, and if I
keep the music loud enough, maybe for the rest of eternity. Because you know,
it’s not like we’re gonna die soon. But hell, he’s gonna want food, and clean
underwear, so I suppose I should stop dancing around, making plaster fall on his
head as he sulks in the office downstairs, and do some actual thinking.

Pack or unpack. Make dinner or not. Throw out Duncan's haggis or leave it in
the fridge. Write my name in all his books, or just swill beer and watch
"Surrey with the Fringe On Top" devoid of sound, blaring yet another Motown
Oldie.

Who says work can’t be fun?

SIX DAYS AGO:

I pictured Duncan’s birthday as a time when he might be in a good mood, so I
would drop in for a few nights, have some (free) beer, some (free) hot water,
some (free) lo mein. Oh yeah. What greeted me was Duncan the great warrior,
stretched out on the bed, and passed out cold, despite my presence thundering in
his head. It has to thunder and all that. Principle.

That he hadn't sensed me took *me* off guard.

Poor Mac awoke to me throwing a plastic bucket of water at his chest. He
yelped, and rose, a roaring bear, then proceeded to splice my already
questionable family lineage with every Pictish animal known to have a sex drive.

I waited till he was still growling, then leaned against the counter and
replied. "Good morning starshine."

Mac, unused to me passing up a chance to degrade him, stopped. When I didn't
immediately follow with a further scathing remark, his jaw dropped as he
stripped himself of his drenched clothing.

"What's wrong with this picture?" he asked me finally.

"I was wondering the same thing," I volleyed, gesturing to the bed, him, his
clothes. His face was blank. Ah, the mirthless and dense Highlander, how had
he survived?

I pulled my sword off the counter and laid it on his shoulder. It seemed to
dawn on him then. "Tag, you're it," I whispered. He blushed, like I'd caught
him naked. "Well?" I asked, shaking my head.

"I dunno," he mumbled. He lowered his head. If he had scuffed the ground with
his foot I would have broken down. I was already stifling sick shaking giggles.
This wasn't funny. It really wasn't.
"I'm just so used to your presence, you know? The *feel* of you," he said
slowly, and looked to me for understanding. I understood, but that was moot.

Ever since Bordeaux this was a common thing, this recognition of Duncan and vice
versa. I didn't want to dwell on it. Unfortunately, Duncan was the kind who
liked to kick the decomposing donkey. Hell, he would dig up a donkey and kick
the skull around if he thought he'd get something out of it. Even if he didn't.
He'd still do it.

Duncan gave me that 'I didn't steal the cookies/horse/car' look and finally
shrugged, turning a little, trying to knock my sword off his shoulder. "I just
didn't bother, I guess, because I knew it was you," he offered feebly.

I tsked, and slid the blade so that it slicked his neck. I am trying not to
laugh, but it's not funny. It's sick. I make my eyes hard. "Don't. Bad
habit."

Mac's eyes matched mine now. Their brown depths slid into feral understanding,
and he nodded.

*There*. I snatched that moment and held it in a little file I have in my head,
labeled 'Duncan'. It was one of many looks, moments of the Highlander's
expression that I try to remember, so that I can patch up the picture in my
head. I will remember him, so that when he is gone, I shall not scramble for
images of him and wonder if they had ever been real or imagined.

Who ever said the Highlander would die?

Oh, never mind that.

"So," I said idly, pulling the sword away and letting it clatter on the counter.
"I thought you might buy me dinner."

Mac scoffed. "Riii-iight. It’s your turn to pay."

I smiled and pulled up the brown paper bag I'd brought with me. Too
predictable. "In that case, I came prepared. Beer and Chef Boyardee
Raviolio's."

Duncan's mouth twitched in the corner. "I'll pay."

"Thought so," I sang as he threw the sopping wet sweatshirt at me, hitting my
face, and headed to the shower. I smelled the sweatshirt. Musk and salt.

Thank god he hadn't opened the bag. It held my extra sneakers. Like I would
ever touch Chef Boyardee.

PRESENT, DOWNSTAIRS IN THE DOJO:

It isn't the BeeGees. That much I have surmised. This is The Rolling Stones,
'Angie'. I am not a total idiot.

The plaster isn't falling anymore, and I know the television is on, because I
can hear the pitched whine of a high frequency. I don't know how I know, I just
do. Like I have rising suspicions that Methos wasn't drinking Boones, and if I
had checked the brown paper bag last week, it wouldn't have contained canned
ravioli.

So what does he want? Why is he here? And why am I sitting downstairs in my
office reading at the stiff backed desk chair instead of on my comfy couch?
Damn him.

//I'll just get up, and go...//

Lay on the floor of the dojo, because whatever Methos wanted the loft for, I
don't want to see it. He's probably shanghaiing the haggis I have hidden in the
back of the fridge. I wonder if he's found the fruitcake yet. Maybe he'll eat
that. I sure as hell don't want it.

Why do I seem to picture Methos as the human garbage disposal? *chuckle* I
have no idea; that was Richie.

Yow, ouch.

He's been here a week. Christmas is in five days. I bought him a sweater. I
know he'll hate it. Serves him right.

Methos sings in the shower. I don't know why this surprises me. Living with a
five-thousand-year-old Immortal shatters a lot of illusions.

Like apparently he has yet to master the concept of making a bed, or the fine
art of folding clothes. I will not even think about what happens when he washes
the dishes.

"Mac," Methos had whined defensively yesterday. "Back then you had the clothes
on your back, and that was it." I had just nodded and tossed his unfolded
underwear at him on the couch.

Why did I think he would forego underwear? No, not Methos. The man has light
cotton boxers. With little pink hearts.

*Chuckle, snort*

THREE DAYS AGO:

"They say indifference is the pathway to pain," Mac remarked over dinner one
night a few days ago after I voiced my great disinterest in the war in
Yugoslavia or some other such place. His eyes were fraught with mystery, and
for one split second, I entertained the thought of grabbing that hair and
pulling, exposing the throat to a pulsing jugular, and pressing my ear to the
throb of his veins.

//Too close, too close –you cannot press this man--//

"No," I told him lightly, as if we were bantering over music or television. I
passed him the collard greens. "It's not. Grad school is the pathway to pain.
Indifference is cheaper and has better props."

Mac considered this for a moment. His eyes went light with something merry, and
he smiled. Then he laughed, and all was well.

//You cannot press this man,// I thought to myself. //Too close.//

************

DOWNSTAIRS, IN THE DOJO

Methos thinks I am a moron. I am starting to get a little pissed. What the
hell am I doing down here? He could be up there, rifling through all my books,
writing his name in them, going through my underwear drawer—good lord, finding
the leopard prints that Amanda likes me to wear—

I start to get up, and I can feel the redness in my face. Oh, no, what *is* he
doing up there? I raise the gate of the lift, and get in. I press the fourth
floor, and hope to God Methos is simply sitting on the couch, watching
television and listening to music, preferably with a book in his hand, and a
beer in the other. Because the alternative is frightening.

Methos playing with my stuff.

Methos rummaging through my nightside drawer.

Methos dressed in Highland garb, doing the Macarena to a slaughtered version of
Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive'.

I slam my head against the side of the lift. Now that disco hit will be in my
head for decades.

Methos...naked in my bed.

//Woah Nellie! I don't think so.// I think. But then again, it's not as if I
haven't thought about that before. Living with a man who wants your body tends
to make the brain devise all kinds of things.

Methos wants me. That is so painfully obvious I could make it corporeal. And
so worthless I couldn't exchange it for air.

Richie's quickening snickers in my skull. //So, you finally admit that the
five-thousand-year-old is hot for your tail.// I try to push it away, but, like
when he was alive, Rich is persistent and attentive to detail. //Oh come on.
Don’t tell me that you haven't entertained the idea or pressing that face to
your chest. You want to taste him, just once, then you can die a happy
heterosexual.//

I stop the lift on the third floor, and consider this. Okay, it's true. I am a
sexual creature, and while females are my preferred choice
of...eheeehehhhhhhh...I can see the attraction between two men. Hell, Immortals
don't have kids, so according to the Catholic Church we shouldn't even be
*having* sex at all.

//You're not Catholic!// Richie squeaks as I saunter around the showers and
examine the scum build-up on the walls with disdain.

So very very true.

THAT MORNING, IN THE LOFT:

Methos woke to me snapping him in the head with a wet dishrag. His eyes flew
open when I snapped the checkered cloth again, hitting him in the bum, even
through the blanket and his sleeping clothes. Then he sat up, and screamed.

Five minutes later, when I had succeeded in hiding his sword and all other sharp
cutlery, including the fish knives, Methos was ensconced at the kitchen counter,
hunched over a cup of coffee.

"That was unnecessary," he muttered. "I don't suppose there was a logic to your
actions this morning?" I watched him stare at me, and realized he had put on
his Professor Pierson, Ph.D. face.

It was a miracle. Suddenly, I was seven years old again.

"Uh, well—"

"Because if you really feel the need to molest a grown man-–a grown man who has
years of experience with implements of torture, mind you—with a wet towel like
you were in some sort of NFL locker room after the World Series, then—"

"The SuperBowl," I corrected him, feebly, and he glared. "The World Series is
baseball."

Methos paused for a long moment. I could *hear* the whole building 'settling'.
He nodded and bent his long neck down to hover over his coffee, the steam
pouring off the top making him look like some sort of mystical soothsayer.

So, I tried to explain. "You were there, and I was doing the dishes, and you
were asleep, and it was just this idea, and the moment, and I know it was dumb,
but everyone has those moments where something strikes them as amusing, and—"

Methos raised his eyebrows, and I stopped. Then he snorted. "Haiku moment," he
muttered, and went back to his coffee.

"Haiku moment?" I asked, pouring myself a mug of coffee, leaning against the
other counter. I didn't want to be within arms' reach just yet.

"Yeah," Methos straightened, as if the subject matter itself had not only
eliminated his sleepiness, but his irritation as well. Who knows, maybe it had.
"See, haiku is designed to capture one split second in time, you know? That
moment where you say, 'aha'. It's a breeze, or a raindrop in motion, or the
curl of steam from the coffee cup."

"Haiku about coffee," I asked, snorting. "Next you'll be telling me there's
mysticism in the ordinary experience."

Methos smiled, standing and picking up his mug. He shuffled into the living
area and snatched his blankets up. I watched him toss them on my bed. He
pivoted, and made for the bathroom, mug still in hand, yawning. Before the
bathroom door closed, Methos saluted me with his coffee, and muttered,

"Caffeine and thick steam
Keep me from killing Duncan;
How's that for 'aha'?"

Then he laughed, and shut the door; I heard the click of the lock being thrown.

UPSTAIRS, IN THE LOFT:

The lift activates, and stops. Mac is in the showers. What the hell is he
doing there?

I entertain the thought of checking on him, but dismiss it. I am lying on the
couch, eyeing his nightstand. I bet Amanda puts all kinds of things in there.
I wonder if she makes him wear special underwear...leopard print. Maybe a
thong. Yeah...

TWO DAYS AGO:

"So then the monk says—Mac are you listening to me?" I put my hands on my hips,
and stared at him intently. Mac and I had just spent the last three hours
embroiled in a chess game that put the defeat at Waterloo to shame.

Mac glanced up from the dojo accounts on the computer screen and mumbled.
"Yeah, that was great. Heeeheeeh..."

He drifted off and furrowed his brow.

"You are aware that a: I did not get to the punchline, b: it is your birthday in
three days, and I have no idea what to get you, and c: those are last year's
accounts?"

Mac didn't even remark. I tried another approach. "And there's a sale on bras
at Nordstrom's, and I want to dress Joe up in fishnets and take him to the Rocky
Horror Picture Show."

No response.

I heaved a big sigh. "I'll be upstairs, planning the assassination of Vanilla
Ice. Holler if you need anything, like oh say, a miracle ear, or a miracle
fuck..."

I headed out the door.

"Methos?" Mac called, and I froze, then turned.

"Yeah?" I tried to sound casual. I stood there for a second, uncomprehending.
Had he just heard everything I said? Did I really offer him a miracle fuck? Oh
shit, did he hear that too?

Mac grinned. "Make sure you get his whole head in front of the shotgun."

PRESENT, ON THE THIRD FLOOR:

Methos has turned off the music. The lift has been activated and it's going up.
Well, that'd be him. Is he coming down here?

The lift stops as it reaches the loft, then descends. Methos's frame is visible
in the lift as it goes down. No, he is going to the dojo, because he passes me
by, but he doesn't have his coat. Where the hell is he going?

I shove off the bench and wait for the lift. It returns empty. Should I go
down? This is a stupid little game I'm playing.

I go up. To check on the haggis, and the fruitcake, and the night stand.

When I yank the lift gate up, my first glance of the loft reveals that Methos
has made himself at home. I check the Boones first. Vodka. Then the CD
player: Creedence Clearwater. Too cute, Methos. The television is still on,
and the volume is on low:

Many a light lad may kiss and fly,
A kiss gone by is by gone
Never have I asked an August sky
"Where has last July gone?"

I turn it off. I like opera, but this too much. I switch the CD in the player
to a nice little bit of Mascagni, and lay down on the couch.

I should drink the vodka. I should be contemplating the weight of the
centuries, seeing as how my birthday, as Methos told me a while ago, is very
soon. Instead, I am pondering Methos, and Nordstrom's, and some silly idea
about Joe in fishnets. Where the hell did that come from? Oh, that time Methos
thought I wasn't listening.

The trick in pissing off Methos is that you have to ignore him. Or at least
pretend to do so. Then he says stuff he normally wouldn't, and you can really
be amused.

"Miracle fuck," I mutter. "Right."

I close my eyes, and sleep.

DOWNSTAIRS IN THE DOJO:

Mac was a crumpled ball on the bench of the shower room. He left his history
text on the floor of the dojo, and I pick it up. He has been scribbling little
notes in the margin. Have I ever noticed his penmanship before? He has the
writing of an accountant. It is neat and precise. But his notes are mysteries.
Here, next to a little paragraph on Roman aqueducts, he has written "tomatoes".
Whatever these little notes mean to him, I will never be able to fathom. Now, I
want to go back upstairs and open the rest of his books and find out what else
he's written. Maybe in the fifth book of the Iliad he's written 'fiberglass' or
'masturbation'. That would be funny.

Will he even notice that I came down here for no reason?

UPSTAIRS:

//I should go downstairs.//

DOWNSTAIRS:

//I should go upstairs.//

UPSTAIRS, IN THE LOFT:

I suppose Methos is smug in the fact that he thinks I'll fall into bed with him,
despite my female track record. I wonder how many men he's converted, or at
least, swayed onto an alternate path...no, that's not fair. Methos is just,
old. Methos is very...different.

"Miracle fuck, my ass," I mutter, and then realizing just how that accurate that
is, I laugh hysterically. I fall off the couch.

DOWNSTAIRS:

Mac must have done something, because even through the divider that is the third
floor, the plaster shakes itself loose for a second, as if there was a loud
thump.

//Maybe he dropped that monster of a haggis on the floor,// I think to myself.
//That'd be about right.//

I decide that it is a good enough excuse to venture onto the same floor as him.
On the way up in the lift, I practice my concerned face. Then I practice my
nonchalant face. It is easy, I just slouch and think about opera. Booooring.

UPSTAIRS:

The thump must have been loud. I am still on the floor, and I have decided to
stay there. I unscrew the cap on the "Boones" and take a swill. Ah,
Stolichnaya. Good taste, Methos has. I discover Methos's brown paper bag has
been shoved under the sofa table. I open it in a moment of curiosity.
Sneakers. So much for Ravioli and Beer.

The lift gate comes rolling up, and I hear the soft tread. I sense him, a
little. It is a gentle press of that Presence; no wonder I didn't sense him
when he first arrived. My Quickening reaches out to him, accepting it as almost
part of it's own. That is odd. Does it feel the same to him?

Has it always been so?

Methos curves down over the sofa, sliding onto it from the back, and resting his
feet on the arm. I shove the feet off onto the floor.

"Off the furniture. I refuse to let you ruin my couch."

"Good one," he mutters. "A panther couldn't ruin this couch. It's too
durable."

To demonstrate this he scratches the arm with his fingernails. He grins when I
cringe. "See? Durable furniture."

"Built to last," I answer under my breath. "I see you tossed the haggis," I
tell him.

He smiles again, but it is a wry thing. "I left you the fruitcake," warbles.
"You'd be better off eating a can of Crisco."

I nod. There is another second of silence, in which I am very aware that he is
stretched out on the couch, one hand thrown over his eyes, laying prone there.
His face is so close to mine, all I have to do is reach over and touch it.

I give him the full once over, realizing as I do so that he is a man, and that
what I intend to do with this little physical survey might be less than keeping
with my heterosexual traditions.

"Mac," Methos whispers, then pulls the hand away from his face so that I can see
his eyes. He turns his head, and for a minute I see someone I don't know. "I
think it may be time for me to pack up and head out," he says softly.

I am hurt. Oh yeah, it would be nice to have him pick up his clothes, and maybe
leave my ethnic food alone. Perhaps he would change the toilet paper roll when
it's empty, or wash his cereal bowl after he's done instead of letting it
congeal and crust over in the sink. But then again, what would I bitch about?

"Oh," I say, realizing I sound like Methos has just told me he killed my puppy.

Methos sighs, a huge catastrophic thing that if it were a bellows, would have
collapsed his entire chest. He throws his arm back over his eyes, and I watch
that mouth open and close. He is talking, but I can't even hear that; all I see
is his mouth, and I think about why he is here.

I think about five thousand years of sexuality bundled up into this piece of man
in front of me. I think that maybe there are times when we are nothing more
than animals. We are nothing more than children playing dress up in the attic.

"—you haven't heard a word I said, have you?" Methos says, lifting his arm and
turning to stare at me. It is the action that breaks my reverie, and I start.

"Yeah," I mutter, trying to cover myself. I cannot tell him that I am starting
to discover that we are beings that ascend the physical trappings. I cannot
tell him that I was pondering the nature of all things sexual. I cannot tell
him that I would give up haggis for centuries if he would stay. I cannot tell
him these things because he is Methos. He already knows.

"Don't lie to me, asshole," he says brusquely. He smiles and flops his arm down
by his side, buffing his nails on his jeans. "You never listen to me. I could
have just imparted the secret of life, the universe and everything, and you
would never have known, because you have just figured out that you are attracted
to me, despite that I am in the wrong body type."

"No!" I say before I can stop myself.

Methos is unfazed. He snorts and examines the nails on his right hand. "Maybe
it's just a phase," he says offhandedly. Then his eyes center on me. "Like
teething."

Time stops, pretty much because I don't have a snappy comeback for that. Maybe
this is just a phase. Maybe I'm trying to show affection for Methos because I
don't know how else to demonstrate how I feel for him. Maybe I just don't want
him to go. Maybe this would turn into one big mercy fuck.

//But mercy for who?// my Richie voice drawls, purring and stretching in my
head. Rich is pleased with this turn of events, only God knows why.

And then the unexpected thing happens.

Aha.

Methos rolls off the couch onto me, cradling my head with his hands. We lunge
for each other as if pushed from behind on both sides. I lean back on the
floor, my spine curving a little to raise my head so that I can meet his face
with mine.

'Aha' stretches into a long drawn out moment. It is time for a sonnet or a
blazon to Methos's face, if I could manage words. If I could manage words at
this moment, they might just be a grunt that resembles the words 'kiss me'.

Instead of that final confirmation, the one that would be signaled with the
scorch of his mouth on mine, Methos buries his face in my neck, just smelling,
rubbing his jaw into my throat. His body plasters itself onto mine as if he
could melt right through me. He makes little mewling noises, some ancient cat
purr, rusty and primitive. He is so warm; even his hands are searing heat on my
scalp.

The Richie voice laughs in my head. //Go you,// he says.

I chuckle, and Methos seems to become more weighted. He is a heavy thing draped
across me, a blanket of warmth and desire. I want to wrap myself in it
suddenly, and curl up inside that glow.

I cannot roll over and force him under me because there is no room between the
table and the sofa. I must be content to stretch myself out so that his long
frame may better sink into mine, his erection branding my flesh through layers
of denim and wool. I must be satisfied with Methos's fingers in my hair, his
elbows on either side of my head, his hair bristling along my jaw.

He's not going to kiss me. Methos is too involved in some animalistic form of
communication that I cannot understand. He is growling into my chest, his
breath coming in hot pulses, marking me.

Is he afraid?

I decide to end this little display of touching and marking. I grab his hair
with both hands and yank. Methos complies with the command, raising up enough
to move upwards, a surging tide slamming onto the bank, and delve so deep into
my partially open mouth that I instinctively let go of him. My hands fall to
the floor, seeking purchase in the thickness of the carpet.

I am being seduced by a man.

************

Mac's making noises deep in his throat; I am sure that he doesn't even know that
the high keening sound welling between us is him and not me.

It was a split second decision, this movement that slammed me into him, and he
has not disappointed me yet. I gave him a good thirty seconds to push me away.
I buried my face into that neck, smelling him. Because if he were to spook, if
he were to balk or shy away from this, I'd be on the next plane for Katmandu.

But Mac hasn't done anything but shudder and moan. I can feel his cock harden
as I press into him. Mac and I battle fiercely for dominance even when we
aren't dancing around the concept of sex and fucking, which is what this will
be, I know.

Deep down, I know.

I can taste the vodka on Mac's lips, even before I slip my tongue into his mouth
with a force that surprises me. If we were somewhere else, other then stuck
between the couch and the table I would have already been transferred to the
underside.

Mac is pulsing upwards into me, we are an estuary of warring tides and currents.
There is going to be a tidal pool soon. So I raise my head and stare into those
eyes, almost too stymied to even see straight.

"You know that this has been on my mind all day," Mac manages after several
seconds of swallowing. I manage to curb my crawling need to bite the protruding
clavicle arching out of the neck of his sweater and nod. He is too serious
about this.

"Mac, I—" I begin. I am about to launch into a tale of amorous nothings, just
to get him to shut up. If he thinks too hard about this, he'll never let me get
my hands on his cock. If he thinks too long, I may end up sleeping in a Motel
Six. If he thinks too hard, I may end up getting flowers and candy.

I wouldn't mind the candy.

Duncan's mouth parts a little, and I dart for it. I can distract him for a
second, all it will take is a second and he will roll us both straight up to
unsteadily stand, and I will be able to drop to my knees to strip the Highlander
down like it's Christmas five days early.

Mac isn't that stupid. Instead, he shifts ever so slightly, and I feel his cock
so hard against my own. He and I both shiver.

Then his eyes meet mine, and he smiles. I think I might have even become
heavier, for all the muscle control I just lost on that one.

"Aha," he whispers. "Aha."

It is a moment I think I might file right in front, in that mental 'Duncan
MacLeod' file in my head. It is his face, that 'aha' of realization, where I
understand that for once, this is not about just sex, or love, or even the fact
that I haven't gotten him a birthday present. It is not about the Quickening in
Bordeaux, or Duncan's sudden urge to keep me around. It is not even about the
fact that Duncan is experimenting with the same sex here.

It is this moment, where we don't know where anything is going. We don't know
if there will ever be anything more, and it doesn't matter. Really it doesn't.

"The band, or the haiku?" I ask, starting to relent on the sex. The moment is
almost enough. The heady delight of knowing that somewhere in that lummoxed
head, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod has had an 'aha' moment that contains
my mouth branding his.

Mac laughs, that rich, full, and lusty thing that I desperately wish I could
hear more often, and does the expected.

He pushes me away, trying to sit up. I let him.

"Well, that was, interesting," I mutter, and kick the leg of the table lightly
as Mac stands. He turns away for a second. I take the time to
remember to inhale *and* exhale, not just one of the two.

I watch his face when he turns. This is it. This is the kick off. //'Methos,
I don't know what just happened, but I think we should talk about it.' No
thanks, Mac.//

My eye catches something under the rungs of the table, and I poke at it with my
foot. It is the bag with my sneakers. And it is open. I glance up at Mac. He
opened it. He knows.

He knows that I never intended on doing anything. He knows now that I came here
for no good reason. There are no evil Immortals, and there are no youngsters to
be concerned over. It is all down to him and me.

I raise my chin a little, a bit defiant. If Mac is going to slam me, then I'll
take it. He'll rail against me for manipulating him. I made him go downstairs,
I made him come upstairs, I made him go in circles. Blah blah blah.

I look at that face, deep eyes, whorls of leashed passion, darker for all the
sex sluicing through his veins right now. His breath is coming a little ragged,
and his soft woolen pants are tight.

I take in the short clipped hair, a bit curling at the ends, and the way that it
blends *just so* with the deeply golden skin. I wonder who blessed him with
that complexion, because it is not a Highland trait.

I look at the hidden muscles under the clothing, I memorize the hands, strong
and rough and callused, and I file it all away, because Duncan MacLeod of the
Clan MacLeod is about to toss my sorry Heinz 57 arse out the door.

Mac eyes the bag and smiles. The he extends a hand to me.

Well, this is unexpected. I eye the hand quivering in front of my face, leery,
afraid to touch it. What if he is doing this just to hurt me?

No, this is Duncan you're thinking of. So, I take the hand. Mac has to shift a
little to leverage me up, and I slam into him a bit on ascent. He crooks one
finger, placing it under my chin, and pushing up, until I can meet his eyes.

When Mac does speak, his lips are a whisper on the side of my face. He is that
close. I am immobile, afraid to even reach up, lest he shove me backwards.
//You cannot press this man,// I tell myself.

A warm wind breaks on the surface of my cheek. It is Mac's voice.

"then tumbling over
my love's wild and thumping heart
drags me to passion"

//Oh.// I stare at Mac. "Oh," I voice out loud. "It really is okay," I mutter
dumbly.

And it is, as Mac assures me, when he winds those fingers into mine, wiring my
senses with a mind-numbing kiss that jolts me, and I lose balance.

What happened? I am being seduced by Duncan MacLeod.

****************

I am seducing a man. Methos's breath is quick and ragged, despite that I am
letting him breathe. I am the seducer. I am the one.

But does it even matter? That I got him off the floor, that is true, but he put
me there in the first place, otherwise we would have never sailed to this new
shore.

Methos's face is luminous as I inch him towards the bed. His eyes gleam from
the inside, and he favors me with the flash of white-white teeth, when I turn
off the light, letting the full moon rage through the window. His jaw glistens
in the burst of bright pearl sky.

I capture that second there, right before he lets me peel the ratty T-shirt from
him. I take in that angle, just so, and memorize it. I have started to keep
these little pictures of Methos in the back of my head, just in case he ever
goes away. It is like a little filing cabinet. I will be able to remember him,
should I ever need or want to.

I want just one more look before I fall backwards onto the bed. I run my hands
through that short-cropped hair, and pull back his head to see his throat,
smelling, tasting with the very tip of my tongue. He smells of vodka and fruit.
Maybe a little bit of leather from the sofa. A lot of fabric softener.

I take that in. Methos is a molten statue in my arms, his hands curling around
my waist to press on my back. I let him lean into me, and I smell that neck
again, moaning as if I'm in pain.

It is more than memory. It is more than lust. It is even more than love, or
faithfulness, or even that driving Quickening that tells me when he's near. It
is Methos himself, that tall gangly creature who tosses my haggis, and blasts
Aretha Franklin.

It is Methos here in my arms, with his 'Oklahoma!' and his ascerbic wit. What
can I say, but that I love him? What can I do but show it? And why should I
try to put that into words? It is a thing to be *known*, not catalogued. It is
something so permanent but fleeting. It is crazy and grounded in everything
sane.

"Oh," Methos says when I murmur that I love him in his ear. His eyes are
dilated in the moonlight; I can see them as I pull back. He smiles, boyish
delight, and pushes me back to thud softly on the bed. Then he crawls on top of
me, and I like the sensation of his feverish skin. "Aha."


*****

FINIS

Comments

[vihm.livejournal.com]

This was really moving, and you have described that Aha! moment so perfectly :) It was fun seeing Methos playing Duncan like a maestro and Duncan catching him in the act. Funny but a bit sad, if you think about that eternal thirst for closeness and all those losses. Makes you want to seize the day too.

[amand-r.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your splendid comments. I'm glad you liked it!

[faith2005.livejournal.com]

It was really fun reading this story. Thank you very much.

[amand-r.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Man, this story was from, like 1999. I feel old.

[faith2005.livejournal.com]

Anyway its still good after all this time. And I am always looking forward stumble over stories like this.