The Phoenician Caper
Methos grimaced at himself in the
mirror and pulled the bow tie free for the third time. No matter what
he did the bloody thing wouldn't sit straight. He went at it for time
number four, dredging up stores of patience he hadn't needed to use in
quite some time. He could think of about a dozen things he'd rather be
doing on a Saturday night. Things that didn't involve the sartorial
torture of putting on a tuxedo and tying a thrice-damned bow tie.
Things Methos would rather be
doing instead of putting on a tux:
There was a message there somewhere,
but Methos ignored it and went on listing. Lists were good for the
soul, he'd read somewhere. Maybe it was the internet. And if it was on
the internet then it had to be true, right? And speaking of the
2. Preparing to get laid
3. Watching porn
4. Watching porn and getting laid
5. Making home-made porn while
6. Watching home-made porn and then
Buying sex toys on the internet.
There, that was an even dozen without
even breaking a sweat, or indeed shifting theme. Of course the tie was
no closer to being tied, but the mental imagery had improved his mood
just a tad.
And he really did need to get laid;
that much was fucking obvious, pun definitely intended. But unless
there was a more interesting class of socialite at this bloody charity
auction then there had been at the last eight 'events' MacLeod had
inveigled him into attending, then he was shit outta luck tonight.
And speaking of the Highlander....
Presence scraped over his nerves and Methos gave in to the ridiculous
urge to look in its direction. As if he could tell friend from foe by
focusing stupidly on the door.
Instead, he called, also stupidly,
"Friend or foe?"
"Is there a third choice?" came the
voice from the hall.
Methos went over and opened up.
Duncan swept into the room in a cloud
of Obsession for Men and meticulous grooming. He gave Methos the
once-over, eyes lingering at his throat. "Hello to you too. You're not
Methos rolled his eyes. "Astounding.
Nothing gets by you, does it?"
"Can't beat four hundred years of
experience," Duncan answered with only a touch of irony. "Having
trouble with the tie?"
Methos snatched the strip of black
silk up from the dresser and looped around the back of his neck,
turning towards the mirror again as he re-buttoned his shirt collar.
"Did you know that the man who invented bowties was hung?"
"Is that so?" Behind him, reflected
in the bright glass, the corner of Duncan's mouth twitched. "But was he
Watching himself, Methos saw the
smirk he was trying to hide from Duncan. "I hadn't realized it was
possible to be four hundred going on twelve," he sniped. The reprove
didn't sound too convincing, even to him.
He met Duncan's eyes in the mirror
and fumbled the bow again. An accident, naturally.
Duncan stepped up behind him with a
long-suffering tsk. "Here," he took the ends of the tie out of Methos'
hands and stepped in closer, reaching around him, "let me."
So Methos let him. Not exactly a
hardship, not with MacLeod's hard, tuxedo-clad body pressed up behind
him and his warm breath tickling at Methos' neck. Rather delicious,
actually. Methos stood very still and watched MacLeod's hands on him.
Then the tie was tied, MacLeod's arms
were no longer around him and he was properly attired in black tie for
what was, after all, a black tie event. Methos wet his lips and caught
Duncan's eye. "Shall we?"
Duncan's eyes flicked to Methos'
mouth, just for a second, then he nodded and bowed and gestured Methos
out the door ahead of him.
Same as it ever was.
What passed for glitterati in
Seacouver was out in full force tonight, Methos realized as he watched
the crowd over the lip of a crystal champagne flute. A sea of black
tuxedos spread out before him, splashed with the colors of the women's
evening gowns. Parrots and penguins, all a-squawk, he thought, pretty,
but hardly enthralling.
Well, except for one.
Methos snagged another glass of
champagne from a passing waiter. Taking a sip, he pushed away from the
bar he'd been propping up and headed over to where MacLeod was
currently holding court on the far side of the room, exercising his
considerable charm on three art dealers, two wealthy widows and a
gynecologist who'd shown an unacceptable level of interest in the way
MacLeod's tux jacket draped over his bum.
Methos smiled blandly and with utter
insincerity at Dr Sleazy and the rest of the group while sliding
himself into the space that instantly opened up at MacLeod's side.
There were introductions and small talk and the sort of trivialities
that made Methos wish for narcolepsy so he had an excuse for falling
asleep on his feet.
And then the Master of Ceremonies was
up on stage, calling the crowd to attention by clinking ridiculously
with a spoon on a champagne flute. MacLeod turned to Methos and smiled,
that gloriously genuine smile that did nothing for Methos' mood.
Really. By some strange mutual consent they both moved together to
stand at the back of the room rather than sitting. Probably a good
thing too. At least that way they could escape without being noticed.
"Is it really as bad as all that?"
Mac whispered into his ear as they watched the rest of the crowd take
their seats. "You look like you'd rather be shoveling out the Augean
Methos narrowed his eyes at him.
"Me?" he answered acidly. "Not at all. You know me; I live to schmooze.
Love it," he added with entirely feigned relish. "Besides, y'know, the
Augean stables weren't all that bad."
"I know...I know...been there, done
that, shoveled the shit, " MacLeod said, rolling his eyes.
"What can I say," Methos breathed,
close by Mac's ear. "Herakles was a shocking exaggerator. Looked good
in a toga, though. Great legs."
On the stage, the MC was looking
rather pointedly in their direction. MacLeod elbowed Methos in the ribs
and shushed him. Methos shushed and entertained himself with watching
Mac's mouth twitch as he tried to stifle his laughter.
And he wasn't the only one watching.
Across the room, Mac's gynaecological groupie had his eyes firmly and
narrowly fixed on the pair of them.
"Somebody's got a cru-ush," Methos
told him in a singsong whisper, possibly not as quietly as Mac might
"The man can't help having good
taste," Duncan said smugly.
"Has he asked for you phone number
yet?" Methos asked, utterly unable to stop.
MacLeod nudged him with his shoulder.
"If he does, I'll be sure to give him yours."
"You do that. He's pretty cute."
There was a definite evil twinkle in
Mac's eyes as he slanted a look at Methos. "Should I be jealous?"
Methos gave him a long, slow look up
and down. And up again. "Definitely."
Mac raised an eyebrow at him, then
turned his attention to the auction in progress. "Be quiet now. There's
a piece coming up I'm interested in."
"Funny," Methos said under his
breath. "That's just what your gynecologist was saying."
Laughter snorted out of MacLeod's
nose and almost doubled him over. In his hurry to cover it he
accidentally bid on a hideous nineteenth century chamber pot. Something
that came scarily close to a giggle escaped Methos' mouth. MacLeod
stood on his foot.
"Ow!" And that came out much louder
than he'd expected.
It also scored him a bid on the
aforementioned hideous chamber pot.
Duncan giggled. The MC frowned.
"He's going to have the bouncer throw
you out, you know," Methos said primly while he wriggled his crushed
"It's a Children's Hospital
fundraiser. They don't have
a bouncer," MacLeod told him, laughter still in his voice.
"When they start letting barbarians
like you in the place, it's time they did," Methos hissed, nodding and
smiling politely at the auctioneer. He'd won the damned chamber pot.
Which solved the problem of what to
get MacLeod for his birthday. It really was hideous. Entirely fitting.
He had his mouth open to say
something along those lines when he looked at the stage and saw what
the auctioneer was holding. All the laughter was instantly gone and he
was very still, as tense as if he'd just sensed another Immortal.
Except that there wasn't one.
Just the auctioneer holding a small,
round, bronze artifact.
It couldn't be.... And yet it was.
"The next item, ladies and gentlemen,
is an Assyrian amulet, circa 865 BCE, discovered by the donor on a
recent dig outside of Beirut. If you turn your programs to page eight,
you'll see some photographs of the detail both back and front. Even
slightly damaged as it is, this is a particularly unusual and exciting
piece and we're extremely fortunate...."
Blah, blah, blah. Methos had stopped
listening. They had it all completely ass-backwards as usual, but it
didn't matter. He could tell that Duncan was looking at him and
wondering what the hell was going on, but there wasn't time to explain;
the bids were starting.
Anticipation itched beneath Methos'
skin as he waited for the right moment to start. Habit made him
reluctant to show his interest too soon, even for something he wanted
this badly. He listened as the bids climbed, far more slowly than he'd
And when it seemed like the bids were
leveling out, Methos finally spoke up, topping the current bid by an
amount modest enough not to be memorable. Sweat was dripping down the
small of his back. Across the room, someone else bid against him.
Methos bid right back. And again and
again. Everyone was staring, but there was nothing he could do about
that. The price was climbing past the point of ridiculousness,
considering the intrinsic value of the piece, but there was no way he
was giving up now. He had no idea what the other bidder's motivation
was, but it didn't matter, he didn't stand a chance.
A murmur rolled around the crowd as
Methos sent the bidding into six figures. Every eye in the place was on
him and his opponent. Who was thankfully silent. Hope flickered. Just a
tiny bit. A flicker-ette, if you liked.
The silence stretched, became almost
And then, without warning, because
that was how these things always happened, the doors to the room
crashed open and three men with automatic weapons burst into the room.
God damn fucking son-of-a-bitch.
Screams rippled across the crowd as
the two of the armed men ran into the room, leaving the other at the
door. Standard Big Ugly Guns, standard chest thumping threats and
"Hands in the air! Now!" Etc, etc.
He'd have to give them points for
disguises though. The two up the front were wearing George Bush and
Dick Cheney Halloween masks and the guy that stayed at the back to
guard the door was wearing one that looked like Spiderman. Despite
himself, Methos was amused.
George Bush was still talking as he
dropped valuables into a bag, starting with his bloody amulet, thank you very
much, but Methos wasn't listening to any of it. What he was doing was
edging towards Spiderman at the door, whose attention was all on the
other two, who were busy relieving the crowd of their valuables. If he
could get to Spiderman and get his weapon away, then there was still a
chance he could get his hands on the amulet. Maybe even without paying
for it, which was always nice.
Methos was almost all the way to the
door when a hand clamped around his wrist and stopped him in his
tracks. Heart thumping in his chest, he turned to look. He needn't have
bothered; he knew it had to be MacLeod.
And it was.
Methos snatched his wrist away and
glared at him, tilting his head at Spiderman, in case MacLeod had
failed to notice what he was up to. Mac's eyes flicked over at George
Bush and Dick Cheney, who still hadn't noticed them, then over at the
door. He nodded, once, and released Methos' arm. Typical MacLeod. There
was no way he was going to let Methos have all the fun.
But that was all right, Methos
figured that very shortly there was going to be more than enough fun to
Slipping slowly around the back of
the crowd, Methos edged a little closer to Spiderman with Duncan hot on
his heels. Adrenaline pulsed through his body. It didn't matter that
he'd done this kind of crazy shit any number of times; the reaction was
always the same. A little fear, a little arousal, a lot of just plain
tension. He breathed deep, in and out, and waited for his moment.
And had to freeze as George Bush (who
looked like maybe he was in charge of the heist, though it was hard to
tell) looked right at him. Methos froze and felt Duncan go still beside
him. Methos went into insta-Pierson mode and hoped like hell George
There was a second or so when he
thought he might have got away with it, then George shook his head,
raised the muzzle of his gun and pointed it right at them, clicking off
the safety. "You two! Away from the door!"
Fuck you too, George. Methos sighed
and complied. It wasn't like he had a lot of choice in the matter.
George looked like he might be serious, though again it was hard to
tell with that stupid expression permanently imprinted in the latex. He
raised his hands and stepped away from Spiderman. Beside him, Mac did
the same, grumbling under his breath, no doubt calling down vengeance
and hellfire on George and Dick's collective asses.
George and Dick went back to fleecing
the crowd. Methos went back to working out how he was going to get out
of this with the amulet in his hot little hands.
It was still possible; after all they
still had to leave through the door, and that would be their vulnerable
moment. Methos relaxed himself deliberately and settled down to wait
Meanwhile, Dick Cheney was giving a
beautiful young woman just in front of them a hard time, prodding her
with the muzzle of his gun while she shook and cried and tried to get
her jewelry off for him. Not nice, but as long as she cooperated, she'd
live to tell the tale.
In the distance, sirens began to
wail, becoming louder by the second. Spiderman and Dick Cheney looked
at George Bush. For a moment there was the sort of tense silence that
seemed to freeze the whole room. This was where it usually went bad, in
And it did.
"Time to get outta here!" George
yelled, thrusting a string of pearls into the duffle bag.
The sirens grew louder.
"And bring her along," he said to
Dick. "We're gonna need some insurance."
The woman shrieked and struggled, and
George backhanded her. Beside Methos, MacLeod tensed, but didn't move.
The woman's struggles stopped, and the only sound she made was a soft
sobbing as she was dragged out the door. Another heartbeat and all four
-- bandits and hostage -- were out the door and headed down the
passageway to outside.
The moment their backs were turned,
MacLeod, being MacLeod, was after them. And Methos, being an idiot,
went after him.
MacLeod went in at a run, flying into
Dick's back and reaching around to pull the rifle up towards the
ceiling and shove Dick into the wall. He let go of the woman and she
stumbled and hit the ground. Methos leapt over her as he went to cover
Mac was well on his way to waling the
tripe out of Dick Cheney, when George Bush put the gun to the back of
Mac's neck and flicked off the safety.
His finger was on the trigger when
Methos took him out with a flying tackle. Somewhere, close by, a gun
went off. There were screams and the shattering of glass and Methos
pulled the knife out of his ankle holster and stuck George Bush right
in the arse. It was the nearest piece of him, after all.
George squealed (much like a stuck
pig, really) and tried to throw Methos off his back. They wrestled and
Methos got one hand to the rifle, hauling it away from George. But
George wasn't letting it go without a struggle and they rolled over and
over, eventually crashing into a wall. Methos was vaguely aware of a
fight going on nearby -- Mac of course -- and hoped he was doing better
than Methos was.
Not that he was doing all that badly,
really. He got in a cracking punch to George's latex-covered chin that
snapped his head back and sent aftershocks all the way up Methos' arm.
But George just shook it off and countered with a knee to Methos'
Pain and nausea ripped through him.
And, to make matters worse (like they needed to be) someone, and Methos
strongly suspected it was Spiderman, chose that moment to shoot him in
It was a pretty crap day when dying
was the best option you had, but there it was. With a despairing groan,
Methos gave up and died.
Methos knew where he was before he
even opened his eyes. And he was none too happy about it. He'd have
known that smell anywhere. The chemical reek of plastic, overlaid with
the stench of antiseptics and death. No matter what you did, you
couldn't disguise that smell.
He was in the morgue. In the fridge.
The only consolation was that judging
by the familiar Immortal presence buzzing somewhere close by MacLeod
was here too. Which was good because it meant Methos wasn't the only
one who'd ended up dead on a slab. He really hoped Mac had been shot
too, preferably somewhere really painful, hopefully several times. And
if he hadn't been, Methos would be happy to arrange it for him. More
than happy, actually, more like ecstatic.
It didn't sound like anyone else was
around, so he pushed the plastic sheeting off and sat up. His back
still ached a little where he'd been shot. He rubbed it as he swung his
legs over the side of the trolley where he'd been lying. Great, just
fabulous, a perfectly good tux utterly ruined. There was a hole bigger
than his fist in the middle of the back of his jacket. MacLeod really
owed him for this one. Being friends with the man was hell on clothing.
On the adjacent trolley, MacLeod
kicked off the covering and immediately rolled off into a defensive
stance, relaxing when his eyes found Methos. He should have known
better. Methos glared at him, ruthlessly suppressing his chattering
"Well, this is another fine mess
you've gotten us into, MacLeod. We've had our arses kicked by George
Bush, Dick Cheney and Spiderman, been shot, killed and carted away to
freeze our arses off in the bloody morgue. What do you do for an
encore? Pull monkeys out of your arse?"
Amusement flickered around MacLeod's
blue lips. "Sounds pretty funny when you put it like that."
"Funny?" Methos snarled. "It'd be a
hell of a lot funnier if you were the only one who got shot."
Duncan sighed and looked towards the
door. "We need to get out of here."
"Really?" Methos sniped as he slid
from the trolley to the floor. "I would never have thought of that. I
thought we'd just stay here forever, waiting for our friendly local
forensic pathologist to come along and autopsy us. That's always good
for a laugh, isn't it? In fact--"
Duncan cut him off mid-rant. "Methos?"
"What?" Methos spat.
"Shut up and let's get out of here.
You can lacerate me later."
Methos was at his side in a second.
Duncan gave him a long, slow look,
slanted down one cheekbone. "Later."
"Well, in that case," Methos said
happily, "let's get out of here."
"Good thought," Duncan said, heading
for the door.
Methos looked down and saw exactly
where Mac had been wounded, and what it had done to his pants, and let
him have the last word. It was a small price to pay.
They made it out of the morgue easily
enough, after all, the security was generally designed to keep people
out and in the normal course of things it was fairly unlikely anyone
would need to be kept in. Once in the hospital corridor, they attracted
one or two vaguely curious (and slightly lustful) glances. Which was
unsurprising, considering the state of MacLeod's pants.
Methos had given them the occasional
vaguely lustful glance himself. Purely in the cause of aesthetic
appreciation, of course.
And because he was appreciating
MacLeod's arse in that purely aesthetic fashion, he failed to notice
the two cops heading down the corridor towards them until it was much
too late. MacLeod, however, spotted them just in time to smoothly pull
open the nearest door and drag Methos through it.
Before Methos could say a word in
protest, or otherwise, he banged straight into MacLeod's back. There
was nowhere else to go, after all, because MacLeod had dragged them
into a broom closet.
The door settled shut behind them,
leaving them standing, pressed chest to back in the smelly darkness.
"Remind me to put you in charge of
hideouts all the time from now on," Methos said in a soft, low voice.
Maybe Methos' breath was brushing the
back of Duncan's neck when he spoke, because something made him shiver,
just a little. Methos felt it in every place their bodies were touching.
"It worked, didn't it?" Duncan said
in the same tone. "Did you really want to take the chance that they
might start wondering about us?"
"Not particularly." Methos grinned to
himself in the darkness. "By the way, did you know you have a rather
large hole in your pants?" He laid a hand on the bare skin of Duncan's
right arse cheek where it peeked out from his ruined trousers.
"I do now." Duncan reached behind him
and wrapped his fingers around Methos' wrist, waiting a little longer
than was strictly proper to pull his hand away. "Thanks for telling me.
You're a true friend."
If they'd been in a cartoon, they'd
have been standing in a reeking puddle of sarcasm. Or possibly UST. The
air was thick with hearty helpings of both.
Duncan managed to turn himself around
so that he faced Methos, brushing against him more times than seemed
truly necessary or proper. Methos managed to endure it with nothing
more than a put-upon sigh. They stood there for a while, face to face
in the darkness. An unsurprising tingle ran down Methos' cock. Perhaps
this hadn't been such a poor choice of hideout, after all, he thought.
There were certainly worse places to be than trapped in a broom closet
with Duncan MacLeod.
8. Using said sex toys to give
himself rather a lot of quality orgasms
9. Leaving said sex toys soaking in
the sink for Joe to find on his next visit.
10. Enjoying the look on Joe's face
immediately following item 9.
11. Telling Joe the giant vibrating
butt plug belonged to MacLeod.
12. Helping him illustrate said butt
plug for MacLeod's chronicle.
A through E:
Methos shuddered and dragged himself
back to the present.
And while he had been away, communing
with the pixies and constructing yet another mental list, it seemed
Duncan had not moved at all. Methos could feel Duncan's eyes on him and
opened his own to meet them.
Duncan had that look on him, a look
Methos had seen before, more than once directed at him, a heavy-lidded
look that meant either he was trying not to fart or….
"You're not going to try anything
stupid, are you?" Methos said, nowhere near as lightly as he'd meant
to. And he really wasn't tilting his head to match the angle of
"Stupid?" Duncan answered, swaying a
little closer. "I don't think so."
Methos recovered himself just in
time. Though for what he wasn't sure. "We going to get out of this
closet anytime soon?" he asked, backing up against the door.
Duncan reached past him to the door
handle. "Oh, yeah. Now good for you?"
Now was very good indeed.
Methos slid out the door and headed
down the corridor with Duncan close behind him, so close in fact that
before they'd gone more than halfway, Duncan stood on the heel of his
"Damn it, MacLeod!" Methos hissed,
turning to glare at him while simultaneously hopping on one foot to fix
his downtrodden shoe.
It was the hopping on one foot that
proved his undoing, Methos decided later. If he'd had both feet in
their proper operational position, he would never have slammed into
that nurse and therefore would never have ended up in a tangled heap on
the floor with her -- with MacLeod standing over them, amusement poorly
concealed on his face while he reached down to help the nurse stand up.
"I'm sorry," MacLeod said, amusement
sliding effortlessly into charm. "My friend isn't usually so clumsy.
Are you all right?"
Methos, left to scramble to his feet
without a glance from his alleged 'friend', glared at him, but glaring
was less than fun and effective if the glare-ee was unaware of the
glare-er. Which MacLeod definitely was.
"I'm fine. That musta been some
big-ass party, boys," the nurse said in a broad southern accent while
she straightened her pale blue scrubs and ran her fingers through her
short blonde hair.
"Sorry?" Methos said, blinking at
She flicked a look at their torn
clothing and general dishevelment. Methos had the uncomfortable
sensation of being blatantly checked out.
"Oh, yes," MacLeod said with a
slightly sheepish smile. "It did get a little out of hand. Bachelor
"Who's getting' hitched?"
"Uhh…we are," Methos announced,
grabbing Duncan by the arm and tugging him into motion. "And if we
don't get moving, we'll be late."
The nurse gave a low, ripe chuckle.
"Hell, it's not like they can start without you."
"Still…" Duncan began, backing away
and taking Methos with him. "We have to…."
Perversity made Methos stop in his
tracks. "Da-ahling," he cooed. "Don't be so rude. First you knock the
poor woman over, then you want to rush off in the middle of a
conversation." He was going to pay for 'da-ahling' later, but it'd be
worth it. The look on Mac's face was utterly priceless.
To his credit though, Mac was quick
to recover. He reached out and took one of the woman's hands in his
own, shaking it. "I'm sorry, but we really have to go." He turned back
to Methos and looked him in the face, evil intent lurking in limpid
brown eyes. "Honeybuns, we need to leave now." He batted his eyelashes
in a disgustingly saccharine fashion. "Please?"
"Well, all right then. I guess we
really should." Methos simpered, ignoring 'honeybuns' for the moment.
MacLeod would get his later. And how. He slid his arm around MacLeod's
waist and clamped his hand over the hole in MacLeod's trousers. It was
possible he squeezed a little harder than simple affection would
Gratifyingly, Mac's eyes bugged a
little. He almost covered it, but there wasn't a lot that MacLeod did
that Methos didn't notice.
They managed some more than averagely
uncomfortable goodbyes, eased by the nurse rushing off to answer her
pager. Methos could have sworn she was giggling as she went. They made
for the nearest exit, fortunately not far away. He dropped his hand
from Mac's arse like it was a hot potato. Though, to be truthful, while
it was one hot backside, potato-like it was not. More peach-like
really. Firm and just ever so slightly fuzzy.
Nice, though. Definitely nice.
They were outside the hospital in
some kind of loading dock when MacLeod interrupted his metaphorical
reverie. "Darling?" he growled.
"Yes, honeybuns?" Methos growled right
back, stopping to round on him. "What was that all about? Do I look
like a 'honeybuns' to you?"
Something twitched at the corner of
MacLeod's mouth and he tilted his head as if to check out the
aforementioned buns. "Well…now you mention it…." There was a definite
eyebrow waggle there, too.
Methos narrowed his eyes. "I may be
slightly shredded, MacLeod, but I'm still armed."
Duncan's eyebrows drew down
thunderously. "We're going to get out of here and you're going to
explain to me what the hell is going on."
"Going on?" Methos repeated, blinking
at him. "Why the hell do I have to explain anything? None of this is my
"Why do you want that amulet so
It was the last thing Methos expected
him to say, but he utterly refused to let Mac see even a trace of
surprise on his face. "Who said I did?"
Mac rolled his eyes. "You did,
bidding that insane amount of money for it."
"I'm filthy rich," he replied with a
shrug. "Rich people have whims." Methos turned away and strolled away.
He didn't actually have any idea where he was going, but that was a
secondary consideration at the moment.
He was not in the least bit surprised
that Mac followed him; the man didn't know the meaning of giving up.
Methos got about three steps before Mac was in front of him with that
implacable look on his face, blocking his path with his hands on his
"You can't go home," Mac announced in
that way of his.
Methos folded his arms and raised one
eyebrow. He considered, briefly, the option of asking for a show of
hands to indicate who was the boss of him, but decided against it.
"Neither of us can go home," Mac went
on, taking Methos' arm and tugging him out of the path of an incoming
delivery truck. "That was a pretty public death."
Methos allowed it, but twitched his
arm free all the same. "I have been dead before, MacLeod. I do know the drill," he spat in a
harsh whisper. "I know you have trouble remembering this, but I did
manage to survive five thousand years before you wandered into my life
and turned it upside down. Do try to keep up."
"Then what was all that with the
nurse back there? You couldn't have called more attention to us if
you'd put our names on a bloody marquee. She's gonna remember us."
Methos' mouth twitched into a wry
smile. "You mean she'll remember meeting a handsome gay couple a little
worse for wear after their bachelor party. Nothing to do with the
proto-metrosexual Adam Pierson or the world-renowned ladies' man,
Duncan MacLeod, both now sadly deceased."
MacLeod looked skeptical.
MacLeod snorted. "We'll see."
"Cynicism's such an unattractive
trait in the young," Methos observed.
MacLeod ignored that. "You're still
going to tell me about that amulet," he said mildly.
"Maybe." Methos shrugged and walked
away. "But not here."
"Proto-metrosexual?" Mac scoffed as
they walked up to the back door of Joe's bar.
"I call them like I see them,
MacLeod," Methos said in his most innocent of tones. "Been there, done
that, painted my nails long
before you did."
"What is this, a
more-metrosexual-than-thou contest?" Duncan sniped as he knocked on the
door. "And I've never painted my nails."
"See? You're not even in the race…."
The door swung open. "Hey, Joe."
"Get in here, you two!" Joe growled.
He let them in, muttering all the while about idiot Immortals and dead
guys showing up at his door at 7am on a Sunday and what the hell was he
supposed to tell HQ about this one.
Methos let him rave on. After
twenty-five years watching MacLeod, he was probably entitled. And while
Joe ranted, Methos amused himself with picking up Mac's hand and
examining his nails.
"You could pull it off, you know.
You've got the hands for it."
Joe looked over at Mac's indignant
face and stopped mid-rant. "Something you want to tell me, Mac?" he
said, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline.
Mac snatched his hand back and
Methos just smiled blithely in Joe's
direction. "He's just upset because he's a failure as a metrosexual."
"Ignore him, Joe. He was dead for too
long and it's damaged his brain."
"Really, MacLeod…insults after all
we've been to each other…."
"Can you be serious for five minutes?"
Methos smirked and sneaked another
look at Mac's arse. "It seems unlikely at this point."
"Will you stop checking out my ass?"
Mac hissed in a tone of utter exasperation.
"That also seems unlikely at this
MacLeod threw his hands in the air
with a groan and stormed off into Joe's office.
Joe shook his head at Methos and
followed Mac. Methos snickered and followed Joe.
"This one I gotta hear," Joe said as
he settled himself behind his desk.
Methos didn't fail to notice the
amusement lurking in various corners of Joe's face. Nor the incredibly
self-conscious way Mac tucked his arse into a chair against the wall.
He did, however, manage not to chuckle at all of the above. He really
deserved a medal for that.
But since one wasn't in the offing,
he'd have to settle for watching MacLeod squirm some more.
Joe waited with an expectant look on
Mac looked at Methos.
Methos looked at Mac.
"You two might have forever," Joe
said, "but I sure as hell don't." He made an impatient gesture. "Give
Methos sighed his favorite put-upon
sigh and gave. The highlights at least. He left out a few things.
Unimportant things. Things Joe didn't need to know.
There were several of those.
A. The steamer trunk he'd
hidden in to get the hell out of France before the revolution.
B. The Augean stables. Really.
C. The head of a two hundred man ship
in the throes of a dysentery epidemic.
D. Bedlam, that time his wife had him
committed. It was possible he'd deserved that one, but it still sucked
rather a lot.
E. The cave he'd had the misfortune
to follow Caspian into, seconds before a landslide turned it from cave
to hole in the ground. Possibly that should have been Exhibit A.
Joe didn't need to know:
And after giving Joe the carefully
edited blow-by-blow, (though perhaps that was a poor choice of phrase
considering the state of his pants) there was the matter of the quid
"Did the robbery make the news?"
Methos asked, somewhat redundantly, he was sure.
"You could say that." Joe opened up
his laptop and after a minute and one or two minor curses, he clicked a
couple of times, then turned the computer around so they could see the
Methos skimmed over the news article,
complete with camera-phone pictures of his and MacLeod's dead bodies
and blah…blah…eyewitness accounts of the robbery and their blah…blah
'bravery' in attempting to stop the thieves and save the girl. Blah
blah blah. Ad nauseum.
"The police rescued the girl," Mac
"Yeah, good that," Methos replied
absently since he'd had already finished reading the article and was
busily poking the image of Mac's pixelated arse with the mouse cursor.
"So what now?" Joe asked, batting
Methos' hand away from the keyboard.
Methos, already deep in plans for
'what now', looked at Mac.
"We need to get out of here," they
Joe rolled his eyes. "Well…no shit,
"Somewhere low-tech would get my
vote," Methos said, stretching out in his chair and crossing his
ankles. "I know a little village in Peru. No electricity, no cellphone
reception. Practically stone-age," he said with a satisfied smile.
Duncan leant one elbow on the desk
and turned to face him. "You'd last five minutes. You hate roughing
it," he said with entirely too much fond amusement for Methos' comfort.
"I'm very flexible," Methos answered
in the same tone, apparently unable to stop himself from tilting his
head to match the angle of Mac's.
"I'm sure you are."
"Because you know me so well."
MacLeod's eyes flicked along the
length of Methos' sprawl. "I could know you better."
Heat radiated out from Methos' balls
to the rest of his body, making him want to curl over it and hide how
stupidly easily that voice could get to him.
Instead, he met MacLeod's eyes
evenly. Because occasionally there were some challenges that were worth
sticking around for.
And, also, because he was five
thousand brands of idiot, and it was pretty difficult to run away from
"Pass me the phone, Joe?" Methos said
without dropping his gaze.
Joe shoved it across the desk. "What,
you lose yours?"
"Dead men make no calls, Joe." He
picked up the phone and punched in a number.
"You should write a book of those,"
Joe grumbled. "Confucius had nothing on you."
"Taught him everything he knew,"
Methos said while the phone rang.
Finally someone answered on the other
end of his call and he ended the call without saying a word.
"Right, then," Methos said brightly.
"I'll be off."
MacLeod was on his feet in a second.
"Oh no you don’t. You're not just getting me killed and then buggering
off. You still haven't told me what's going on."
Methos rose from the chair and swiped
a coat from the stand by the door. "Really? How remiss of me." He
shrugged the coat on. "Call me later, I'll tell you all about it."
He had his hand on the doorknob, not
really expecting to get as far as that when an iron-hard hand gripped
his shoulder. He had his mouth open to protest, but before he could say
a word, he was spun and shoved so hard against the wall that he could
have sworn he could see little yellow birds fluttering around his head.
"I. Don't. Think. So," Mac growled.
Various parts of Methos did a little
dance. Possibly a lap dance, but one could never be sure about these
"God damn it, you two!" came Joe's voice
at parade-ground volume from the other side of the room. "If you were a
couple of dogs I'd throw a bucket of water over you. Cut it the hell
out, right now."
The grip on his borrowed coat didn't
ease a bit. "It's fine, Joe," MacLeod said. "Methos and I just need a
few minutes alone to talk over a few things. Why don't you go have a
"It's a little early, even for me,"
Joe snapped. "Seeing as it's the fucking crack of fucking dawn."
"Joe…." MacLeod's voice had that
implacable tone to it that Methos was really starting to find pretty
hot. No, no, no. Pretty annoying. Not hot. Not at all. Yeah.
He was in deep deep shit. Chin high
"Just give us a minute or two, Joe,"
Methos said, despite the warning signs flashing in his head "It's
fine." He lifted his chin and looked Duncan in the eyes. "Let the man
out the door, Mac."
It took a moment or three of mental
pissing match, but eventually MacLeod set him free and stepped back,
reaching past him to open the door for Joe.
Joe looked pretty damned doubtful,
but he walked out the door anyway, giving Methos one last look over his
shoulder as he went. Methos gave him a look in return that he hoped was
somewhere in the vicinity of reassuring.
And then the door was closed and it
was just them, alone in the office. At last. Right, then, time to get a
few things straight. Well, sorted out anyway.
He launched himself at MacLeod,
wrapping his fists in the ruins of his jacket and shoving him back hard
into the nearest wall. He hit with a satisfying thump and a really
silly look of shock on his face.
"Now who's seeing tweetie-birds,
arsehole?" Methos growled.
Duncan blinked at him and made as if
to say something, shut his mouth as if thinking better of it. Then he
did it again. And again. His eyes crinkled and he bit his lip as if
suppressing a laugh.
"Are you laughing at me?" Methos
"Maybe. A little." The corner of
Duncan's mouth twitched up. "Yes."
Methos narrowed his eyes at him and
contemplated his knife. MacLeod really was an appallingly attractive
pain in the arse. Maybe he could stab him later. He watched as Duncan
glanced down in the direction of his mouth and then up slowly to his
eyes. Methos licked his lips. Duncan's eyes were black and heavy-lidded
and sparkled with amusement.
Parts of Methos that he'd been
carefully ignoring pushed themselves to the forefront of his attention
-- and his pants. He forgot about the knife. Distraction might be much
more fun. And Duncan was clearly in a distractible frame of mind.
And clearly Methos could justify
pretty much anything at this point if it was going to get him what he
Methos leaned in closer and inhaled
deeply. "You shouldn't look at me like that when I've got you pinned to
the wall," he growled into Duncan's ear.
"When should I look at you like this
then?" Duncan lifted one hand to the side of Methos' face, stroking his
thumb along one cheekbone. His other hand moved slowly down Methos'
back, stopping just above his ass.
Completely of their own volition,
Methos' hips twitched forward. "Jesus,
Mac. Probably never."
Duncan slid his hand down to cover
Methos' left butt cheek and pull him closer. He could feel how hard
Duncan was. "You're going to tell me this is a bad idea again," Duncan
"Absolutely. If you had an ounce of
sense you'd know it." The words were right; the tone a little less so.
Where had all his breath gone, anyway?
"You know what I think? I think
you're trying really hard to stay mad at me." He paused, bending a
little and just breathing along the side of Methos' neck. "Because if
you stop being mad at me, you might start feeling…other things," he
said with his lips brushing Methos' skin.
Methos shivered. "I don't get mad,
MacLeod. I get even," he whispered.
"Uh-huh." Duncan licked his lips.
"Worked out yet how you're going to get even for this?"
Methos shuddered and wrapped his
hands around Duncan's hips. "When you least expect it."
Christ, he was so hard, and bloody
MacLeod, curse him and all his ancestors, felt so bloody good against
him. His lizard brain was clearly itching to take over the show, so
Methos gave up and let it. For the moment anyway.
He rocked against Duncan's hip again
and again and felt Duncan push back at him. Their mouths were inches
apart and Duncan's was red and wet and…a very bad idea. Distraction was
all very well, but a man had to know his limits and keep some sense of
what was a good idea and what was just a bad, potentially idiotic idea.
But, on the other hand, this was far from the worst idea he'd ever had.
There had to be dozens of things that were a worse idea than leaning in
those last few inches and losing himself in that soft, gorgeous mouth.
Hundreds, millions, billions of worse things. A universe of worse
things. But if he started listing those things, he'd never get around
to the kissing part, and that really would be un-- well, that would be
Oh, fuck it.
Methos reached up and slid his
fingers into Duncan's hair, pressing him back hard against the wall. He
never did work out exactly who kissed whom at that moment, but as in
many things, it turned out that who started it was the least important
element of the whole equation.
have fucking mercy. How in hell could he have thought that
going without this was a good idea? Duncan's mouth tasted even better
than he remembered. And felt…. Dear god. Methos kissed him voraciously
while low, appreciative noises came from the back of his throat. Not
whimpering, not yet, more like moaning with an option to whimper at
some later point.
Duncan's hands were on Methos' hips,
holding him close while he rubbed up against him. Lust burnt a mad path
from balls to brain. Fuck, it would be so easy. There was almost
nothing between them, almost nothing to stop them from fucking right
here in Joe's office. With Joe waiting right outside.
Methos swallowed hard, wrenching
control from the evil clutches of his lizard brain and wrenching his
mouth away from the temptation. "What are we really doing here,
MacLeod?" he asked, for wont of anything more intelligent to say.
Looking up from heavy-lidded eyes,
Duncan smiled and said, somewhat predictably, "If you don't know that
by now, you've been doing something wrong for five thousand years."
Methos narrowed his eyes. How could
he even be thinking of fucking someone who spouted such dreadful
clichés? "You--" he began.
Duncan, being Duncan, clearly needed
to distract him from that thought, because before Methos could finish
his sentence, Duncan had one of Methos' hands in his own and was
drawing Methos' fingers into his mouth and sucking at them, slowly.
With tongue. His eyes never left Methos'.
"We--" Methos began.
"We said we weren't going to do this
again," Duncan finished helpfully, even though that hadn't been what
Methos was going to say at all. He slipped Methos' fingers from between
his lips and punctuated the words with a kiss to Methos' fingertips.
Duncan didn't, Methos noticed, feel strongly enough about the
aforementioned resolution to actually remove his hand from Methos'
arse. Or let go of Methos' hand.
Lips grazed the side of Methos' jaw;
need surged up through him and made him thrust harder against Duncan's
"Damn it, Methos," Duncan breathed
against Methos' ear, while he thrust back. "It was you that didn't want
to do this in the first place. What game are you playing now?"
"No game," Methos whispered hoarsely.
He licked his lips and looked up through his eyelashes. "Everyone has
bad ideas now and then."
"And which would this be?" Duncan
growled in that tone that made Methos ache in his pants. "A bad idea
now? Or a bad idea then?"
"Yes?" Methos said, because his brain
was currently offline and all he was getting was an incomprehensible
404 - File Not Found on the rest of his vocabulary.
In a heartbeat, Methos found himself
slammed back against the wall, Duncan's big, rough hands gripping his
head. "You drive me mad, you know that, don't you?"
"I don't think I can claim all the
credit for that."
Duncan growled again and bit Methos
on the neck. "Don't be so modest."
Methos pressed his cock up against
the hollow of Duncan's hip and set up a rhythm. "Do that again."
"This?" Duncan bit him some more,
then threw in some sucking and licking.
Methos dropped his head back and
bared as much of his throat as he could. "Yes."
The biting was good. More than good,
especially if he could inveigle a bit more. Duncan certainly seemed eager enough to inflict
pain on him. Methos wavered. Maybe they could risk this…just for a
little while. Maybe it would all be okay. Then Duncan was working a
hand down between them and covering Methos' cock and aching balls in a
broad, deft hand and suddenly he was so fucking close.
"Don't think I haven't noticed we're
not talking about what the hell you're up to, Methos," Duncan rumbled
against Methos' lips. "You've got a hell of a distraction technique."
Methos thrust into Duncan's hand.
"Maybe I was just overcome by your manly…umm…manliness. Christ, that's
good, don't stop."
going to talk about this."
"Not now we're not. Think Joe would
mind if you fucked me on his desk?" Methos melted against the wall and
pulled Duncan closer.
Duncan shuddered and bit Methos' ear.
"You know full well he'd kill both of us."
"Not permanently." Methos licked
Duncan's neck. "It'd be worth it."
And then because Methos' personal god
of ironic catastrophe was never idle for long, it was at that moment
that Immortal presence shivered over them.
There was a mad scrambling and
detangling of limbs and clothes and a grabbing for weapons that weren't
there. Duncan tripped over Methos' foot and slammed an elbow into the
wall, sending a shower of plaster dust cascading down to the floor.
Methos pulled his knife from his boot while his heart hammered in his
chest and the sound of raised voices out in the bar filtered through
the door. Without a word they each took a position either side of the
door. He looked at Duncan and nodded. Whoever it was out there was
going to get a hell of a surprise.
Methos sighed to himself as he felt
the Immortal come closer.
Yeah, sure everything would be all
right. And he completely hadn't
let his hormones take over his brain back there somewhere. He and
Duncan could indeed have everything they wanted and there would be
roses and moonlight and he would discover that there was indeed a
glittering prize for the world's greatest idiot, which of course he
would win hands down. Because he was indeed, The World's Greatest Idiot.
And then the door flew open.
i. Exactly what the artifact was
ii. Why Methos needed to find it
iii. Everything that didn't happen in
the broom closet
iv. Why the thought of everything
that didn't happen in the broom closet gave him a hard-on that wouldn't
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