The Marrying Kind


"I want to get married," Methos said over a beer with Duncan at Le Blues. Apropos of nothing, on an otherwise completely ordinary Saturday night.

Duncan set his beer down on the table and blinked at him, swallowing carefully. "What?" Methos didn't look like he was joking, but with Methos it was often hard to tell. Around them the crowd swelled and surged; Le Blues experiencing an unexpected upturn in business of late. Maybe the noise was making him hear Methos wrong.

"Married. You know, finding someone to live with, share a life with, argue over the newspaper, that sort of thing."

"I know what marriage is – I just don't know what brought this on."

Methos sighed and shrugged and sucked down the last of his beer. "It's time."

"Any candidates?" Methos was a strange, strange man, Duncan decided.

"I'll keep you posted," he said.

Duncan was still trying to come to grips with Methos' ass-backwards way of doing things that he almost missed the gorgeous creature sashaying past their table. Methos didn't though. Duncan didn't even rate so much as a goodbye before Methos launched himself into the Saturday night crush and headed after her. He found himself alone at the table, staring at the space where Methos had been, off-balance and vaguely disconcerted.

And so it began.

***

It had been an accident, Duncan would have sworn to it before his mother and a panel of judges. He hadn't meant to do it; he'd planned on being Methos' supportive friend – even looked forward to helping make him happy. He liked his friends to be happy, after all. But right now, Methos was distinctly Not Happy. Really really Not Happy.

Methos was in fact madder than a wet hen.

And that was an unfortunate mental image for that very moment, because the thought of Methos with wet, ruffled feathers and a pointy beak made the corners of Duncan's mouth twitch. Which of course Methos noticed.

"What are you smirking about, MacLeod?" Methos hissed, leaning across the table at him. "You think this is funny?"

Duncan made his mouth behave. This was serious after all. "Of course not. It's not like I meant for it to happen."

Methos snorted. "No.… You just happen to wander in here when I'm here with Celine – on our first date, no less – and then you—then you..." Methos trailed off into a tirade of venomous and incomprehensible spluttering.

"You asked me to join you," Duncan reminded him mildly when Methos paused to draw breath.

"I was being polite!" Methos yelled waving his hands around in a way that made Duncan glad he wasn't sitting any closer. "You weren't supposed to take me up on it!"

"And how was I supposed to know that? You really should come with subtitles, Methos. For a lot of people, 'Why don't you join us, Mac?' means exactly that."

The look that earned him made him thankful Methos had too much self-preservation to pull a blade in the middle of Joe's. Because no matter how Methos was dressed (and right now he was looking particularly fine in a silky-looking long-sleeved shirt and dress pants), Duncan was sure he had a variety of deadly weapons secreted about his person. The look was quite deadly enough. Duncan eased back in his chair.

He did feel bad about ruining Methos' evening. It wasn't like he usually dated a lot as far as Duncan could see and the woman was more than averagely good-looking. Beautiful, in fact.  But…

"Look, Methos," Duncan began, all the teasing gone from his voice, "I am sorry for what happened. But she wasn't the one for you, not if she was flirting with me five minutes after we met." Actually it had been more like one minute and the flirting had consisted chiefly of the lovely Celine following him to the men's room and offering to hold it for him.

Methos cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

Duncan felt the oddest compulsion to reach across the table and take Methos' hand to comfort him. He managed to quash the impulse. Instead, he folded his arms and rested them on the table, leaning forward and meeting Methos' eyes evenly. "There are—"

Methos cut him off. "If you say 'plenty more fish in the sea' I shall be forced to fillet you, MacLeod."

That was exactly what Duncan had been about to say. He changed it to, "A lot of beautiful women in Paris," and sent Methos a look of his own.

Methos sprawled deeper into his chair. Sulking. "Maybe for you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Duncan answered before he could think. "You're a…a very good-looking man." And that came out a lot lamer than he intended it to, mostly because a bunch of other descriptions flew into his head at the same time. Mostly things that would have sounded very different from how they were intended.

Because Methos wanted to get married, and Duncan wanted to be a supportive friend. Which meant not distracting Methos by flirting with him. No matter how much he'd have liked to.

***

A week went by and Duncan didn't hear from Methos at all. But that was okay, they weren't joined at the hip and Methos was a big boy fully capable of looking after himself. Duncan was busy with one thing and another, so he hardly noticed the passing of the days until he found himself with a few hours spare on Saturday afternoon and wandered over to Le Blues for a drink.

Joe was rehearsing with the band up on stage when he arrived and aside from a nod in a two measure rest he didn't pay much attention as Duncan appropriated a bar stool and ordered a drink from the new bartender. She was small and English, wearing a tight white t-shirt emblazoned with the phrase, "Buy $exual." Interesting. Duncan thought the girl was pretty cute in the kind of offbeat kind of way that might come with piercings and tattoos in unexpected places. He wondered if Methos had asked her out yet. He wondered how the search for wife number sixty-nine was going.

He wondered when Methos' personal life had become so important to him and where his own had gone.

Immortal presence shivered down his spine and he slanted a look towards the door, hoping it was friend and not foe. Methos' rangy frame filled the doorway, not answering his question at all. But Duncan waved him over anyway and smiled at him when he sat down. Methos appeared to have recovered from last weekend's fit of pique and was back to his usual self. He smiled and nodded a greeting, waiting until Methos had ordered his beer before he said anything.

"How's it going?" he asked when Methos was safely immersed in his beer.

"The spouse search, or in general?"

"Both. Either," Duncan replied as if it didn't matter either way. Which of course it didn't.

"Why? Planning on stealing another potential?" Methos asked with no small amount of conversationally toned venom.

"I didn't steal her," Duncan reminded him. Talk about revisionist history.

"You didn't help either, sitting there being all...." Methos waved in his general direction.

"You have to admit, Methos, she was a very...uh...friendly girl."

Methos turned a long, slow look on him. "Maybe I like them 'friendly', MacLeod."

Duncan caught the new barmaid grinning at them, but Methos had his eyes fixed on another female form entirely.

Here we go again…

***

No matter what Methos said, the next one wasn't like Celine at all. In fact Susan was…nice. She reminded him of Alexa in an odd kind of way. Not physically, but there was something in her all the same. Sweet, but with backbone in spades. Duncan liked her. There was very little possibility that she was going to proposition him outside the men's room.

But while Methos was dating her, Duncan couldn't see all that much evidence that he really wanted her.

Which was odd, but then it was not exactly a revelation that Methos was an odd guy. So, maybe this was just another facet to Methos' ever-changing personality. Maybe sex wasn't all that important to him.

However unlikely that seemed.

Or maybe it was just what it looked like: Methos going through the motions for reasons of his own. Weird, whichever way you looked at it.

Methos might as well have been having dinner with a maiden aunt for all the sexual tension Duncan could see as he watched them from across the bar. Susan was chattering brightly and Methos was feigning enthrallment. Duncan wondered how it was she couldn't see it herself. She hadn't struck him as particularly obtuse. In fact, up to now he'd thought she was pretty smart.

Anyone who really knew him could see that Methos was bored witless. Bored, but battling on gamely nonetheless. From where he was sitting at the bar, Duncan could see Methos' eyes glazing over in that telltale way he recognized all too well.

Duncan felt his staring become conspicuous and turned away, but not before Methos flicked a glance at him and the glazed look gave way to that odd way of smiling that Methos had sometimes - just a twitch of his eyes really – hardly involving his mouth at all. But Duncan felt he knew most of Methos' looks by now. This was 'I know you' look.

Inexplicably warmed, Duncan went back to his drink. Not long after, he felt Methos pass by him and leave the bar. He held Susan's hand as they walked, and Duncan watched them disappear out the door into the cool Paris evening. Duncan stayed where he was.

Half an hour, a set from the band, and another scotch later, Methos was back. It was so unexpected that Duncan had his hand on the hilt of his sword the second he felt the strong thrum of presence. But it was Methos, sans girlfriend, welcome and unexpected in equal parts.

"Thought you were on a date," Duncan said as Methos sat down beside him at the bar.

"It's over," Methos sighed, waving at Joe for a beer.

"The date?"

Another sigh, deeper this time. "The whole thing."

Probably for the best, Duncan thought to himself. To Methos, he merely raised an eyebrow encouragingly, waiting for the rest of the story.

"Probably for the best," Methos said, startling him.

"She seemed like a nice woman," Duncan offered with a growing sense of his own inadequacy when it came to offering romantic advice to 5000 year old men.

"She was nice," Methos replied after a swallow of beer. "Very nice. Pretty too. And a good person. It was just..."

"Missing something?"

"Yeah."

"It's not something you can force. Either that...desire is there or it isn't. You know that."

Sigh number three, more weary than before. "I know that."

***

Methos didn't have to chase number three down; she came to him. One minute Duncan was sharing a rare quiet drink with him, the next Methos was being waylaid on his way back from the men's room by the new barmaid. Just when he was about to suggest they take the bottle of Laphroig back to the barge and continue the conversation there, too, damn it.

Duncan leaned an elbow on the bar and watched, vaguely dissatisfied at having their nice, quiet evening together disturbed. Methos slouched one shoulder against the nearest wall, bringing himself down closer to the height of the really-quite-short young woman. From where he was sitting, Duncan couldn't see Methos' face, but he could see the woman's.

She was grinning, a wide, cheeky grin brimming with arch self-confidence, as she chatted brightly up at Methos. Today's t-shirt had the word 'Dissolute' stretched across her generous breasts. Duncan didn't think anyone would be sueing her for false advertising any time soon. Methos didn't seem to mind. Duncan heard him laugh out loud.

She played with one of the many piercings in her right ear as she talked on. Whatever she was saying had obviously caught Methos' interest, because he sure wasn't making any effort to escape the conversation. Duncan was practically at the foot-tapping stage by the time Methos made it back to him.

"Interesting detour?"

"Very."

Methos seemed disinclined to offer more, so Duncan prodded a little harder. "Pretty girl."

"Indeed."

"I don't think I caught her name."

"Emily."

"Nice name."

"Yes."

"Where's she from?"

"Hampshire."

"Pretty place. Haven't been there for about fifty years."

"Mmm..."

Duncan could feel his blood pressure rising. "Did she ask you out?" he asked finally, fearing a life trapped in an endless round of questions and one word answers.

"Uh-huh," Methos answered with a smug grin.

Duncan leant forward and, gently, beat his head against the bar. Methos could drive the sanest man completely around the bend.

***

Emily wasn't at all the sort of woman Duncan had ever thought of as 'Methos' type', but then he was beginning to think Methos was type-free. Because, despite his personal predictions to the contrary, Methos and Emily seemed to be having a hell of a good time together.

So good that Duncan hardly ever saw him. Which bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He'd got used to having Methos around; he was damned good company, even at his most infuriating. There was an ease between them now, like they'd finally worn off all the sharp edges they once had; well, the sharpest ones anyway. Friction and spark, with a little less chance of thermo-nuclear conflagration. It was good and he was enjoying it. At least, he had been.

Still…there was no certainty that this one was going to last any longer than any of her predecessors.

On that happy note, he pushed away from his table and strolled over to the bar where Joe was deep in conversation with a statuesque blonde. A little brassy for his taste, but nicely put together all the same.

"Hey, Joe."

"Mac!" Joe's smile was wide and genuine. "Like you to meet a friend of mine. Delilah, meet Duncan MacLeod. Delilah's visiting from back home."

Duncan shook her outstretched hand and almost winced at the strength of her grip. "Nice to meet you."

"Delilah…" Joe growled, "play nice."

Delilah winked at him and released his hand. "Joe knows me too well." The smile she gave left no doubt as to just how well she and Joe knew each other. Good for him, Duncan thought as he rubbed his crushed knuckles. It was about time he found someone.

Duncan hooked a hip onto a bar stool and looked over the bar at Joe. "Seen Adam around lately?"

"Not for a while, but Emily's--" there was a crash of glassware and some reasonably inventive swearing from somewhere out the back-- "here."

Apparently.

"Something wrong?" Duncan asked even though it was obvous.

"I think Methos broke up with her."

The flush of pleasure Duncan felt was nothing more than the joy of being proved right. Of course. Maybe tinged a little with the thought of having Methos to himself again, too. "What happened?"

"I dunno, man, but I'm gonna be adding the cost of those glasses onto his bar tab."

***

Duncan thought his chances of seeing Methos at the bar anytime soon were pretty poor, so he went looking for him. He scored a hit at the bookstore, after striking out at Methos' apartment and the university.

Methos was on his knees and elbow-deep in unpacking boxes of musty secondhand books when Duncan found him at the back of the store. He must have caught him by surprise because Methos jumped to his feet and knocked a precarious stack of books, making it cascade to the floor in his panicked lunge for his sword.

"Jesus Christ, MacLeod!" he yelled as he tripped over the books and crashed, flailing, to the floor.

Duncan stifled a laugh and stepped over the books to reach him. He extended a hand and Methos closed his around it, levering himself up from the floor. Methos didn't let him go when he was upright and Duncan found himself strangely disinclined to do so either.

For a long moment he stood there, Methos' hard, warm hand in his, breathing deep and watching the oddest array of emotions flit across Methos' face. A sharp little frisson of something hit him square in the gut.

"Mac?" Methos said, his voice painfully careful. "Plan on giving that back anytime soon?"

Duncan dropped Methos' hand and stepped back so quickly he stood on one of the scattered books. It slid on the hardwood floor and the next thing he knew he was flat on his back and staring up dazedly at a sniggering Methos.

Who wasn't offering to help him up, he noticed. Not that he needed it, of course. Duncan rolled to his feet and glared at Methos. "You didn't have to enjoy that quite so much," he said as he dusted off his ass.

One eyebrow lifted. "Didn't I?" His mouth twitched at one corner. "Oh."

"I came to see how you are," Duncan said. "Joe told me you broke up with Emily." It sounded lame now that he said out loud.

"Does Dear Abby know she has competition?" Methos sniped, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets.

Duncan chuckled despite himself. "It just happened to come up."

"Oh yes?" Methos looked down his nose at him. "In relation to what?"

"In relation to the property damage being inflicted on the bar by a woman whose heart was recently broken."

Methos snorted. "I'm sure he has insurance."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate your sympathy."

"If you've got insurance you don't need sympathy."

"Read that in a fortune cookie, did you?"

"Analects XII, one of Confucius' lesser known sayings."

"I stand corrected." Duncan smiled. The familiar banter set the world back on its proper axis. "You finishing up here soon?"

Methos bent and scooped a handful of books back into a box. "Finished now." He straightened and sent Duncan a crooked smile. "Anything in mind?"

Duncan found he had many things in mind, only one of which he was willing to share. "Drink?"

"As long as it's not at Joe's, sure."

"Yeah, you might want to avoid Joe's for a while."

Methos winced and started for the door. "How bad is it?"

Duncan followed him out of the store. "Pretty bad." He waited while Methos locked up, shrugging deeper into his coat against the wind that was whipping off the Seine. "You still haven't told me what happened."

"Maybe after that drink."

Duncan knew better than to believe Methos' maybes. But he went along with it anyway.

Methos pocketed the keys and they set off down the street, Methos tucking himself into his usual spot behind the windbreak of Duncan's left shoulder. And that was familiar, and good, too.

***

They found a dim, smoky little place not far from the bookshop. Duncan didn't think he'd been there before, but Methos seemed to know it well. Not well enough to drag himself to the bar to get the drinks (Duncan was stuck wth that one) but well enough to find them a table at the back with an excellent view of the bar and the front door where they could both sit with their backs to the wall.

The music was a little harder-edged than he usually liked, but the volume was bearable and he could still hear Methos' voice when they began to talk.

"So," Duncan began, "what happened?"

Methos took a long swallow of his drink. "With?"

Duncan breathed deep, once in and out. "Emily."

"Why do you care?" Methos was watching him over the lip of his glass, Duncan noticed.

"Because you're my friend, Methos," Duncan told him, swiveling in his chair to face him and abandoning any pretence of watching the rest of the room. "I care about you. Surely you know that by now?"

Methos sent him a smile that looked entirely without guards or guile. It made up for a lot, Duncan realized, when Methos smiled at him like that.

"Philosophical differences, MacLeod," he said out of the blue.

Duncan shook his head to clear the conversational whiplash. "What?"

"Emily and I. Philosophical differences."

The last thing he'd imagined them doing was discussing philosophy and he said so.

It was Methos' turn to roll his eyes. "Not like that. Just...different ways of looking at the world."

There was more to the story, Duncan would have put money on it. He raised an eyebrow and waited.

Methos drank.

Duncan waited some more.

Finally, Methos sighed theatrically and set his glass down on the table. "I'm not good at sharing, all right?" He looked over at the bar.

Okay, now he was really confused. "Sharing?"

"As in a non-monogamous relationship. Christ, MacLeod, must you know every sordid detail?" Methos shot a quick look at him, but then he was back to gazing at the bar. "Look, I've done the group thing, the polygamy thing, the commune thing -- every bloody thing -- and it turns out I like monogamy, okay?" he spat as if Duncan had disagreed with him.

Which he hadn't. Wouldn't, in fact. Not that he got a chance to say so though, because Methos was still talking. Ranting. In full spate, so to speak. Complete with flailing hands.

"...I've been there, tried that and decided it wasn't for me, okay? I like them one at a time, happily and boringly singular. Okay?"

"Okay," Duncan said while he could. "Me too."

"Oh." Methos colored faintly as he looked into his empty glass. "Want another one?"

For a second, Duncan thought he was offering something entirely different. The odd thing was, his answer would have been the same.

"Yes."

Methos fled to the bar and Duncan was left sitting, contemplating what the hell he was supposed to do now.

He watched Methos dithering over which brand of beer he wanted, fighting off the panic that was threatening to overtake him. He breathed deeply, telling himself just because he wanted this, didn't mean that Methos felt the same way. And really, it would be safer if he didn't.

Safer for both of them. But dull, deadly dull. And he was getting tired of dull, the past year had been full of it and he could feel himself yearning for something sharp and real and yeah, even terrifyingly new. To connect with the world again.

But it all would be moot if Methos didn't feel the same way.

The man in question turned away from the bar and headed back towards him, drinks in hand. He had to shoulder past the two guys slow dancing at the edge of the dancefloor to get to their table, but he made it without spilling a drop that Duncan could see.

Hang on, he thought, back up a minute. Two guys slow dancing? Duncan looked around him, properly this time. Aside from a couple of lesbians necking in one dark corner, the clientele was entirely and distinctly male. Yes, it was true; Methos had brought him to a gay bar and it had taken him half an hour to notice. This thing with Methos, whatever it was, was really starting to mess with his head.

He was sure the surprise was still written all over his face when Methos set the drinks on the table and sat down.

"Mac?" Methos said warily as he slid the beer across to him. "Everything okay?"

"Come here often?" he asked, feeling his face start to heat.

"Every now and then." Methos smiled, but it had a definite sardonic edge to it. "Like it?"

Great, now Methos was laughing at him. Probably thought he was being provincial.

"Good music, nice ambience," Duncan replied easily. He took a sip of his drink. "Decent beer on tap."

"So you don't mind that it's a little more...queer than your usual haunts?" Definitely baiting him now.

Duncan grinned at him. Widely. With teeth. "Not at all. In fact I was wondering when you were going to ask me to dance."

That got him. Methos flushed and took a long pull of his beer. "I've never liked this song," he said with the ghost of a scowl crossing his face.

"I'm sure they do requests," Duncan told him, not bothering to hide the pleasure that one-upping Methos gave him. "Why don't I go see?"

Methos blinked at him, disbelief clear. "Why don't you just go do that."

Duncan swallowed the rest of his beer and set the glass back down on the table. "Sure." He stood up and made himself not tug nervously at his pants. "Any preferences?"

Methos narrowed his eyes. "I'm sure you've got something in mind."

Duncan did, but he wasn't letting Methos in on the fact. Not yet anyway.

The DJ was remarkably accommodating (though that may have had something to do with the wad of francs Duncan pressed into his sweaty palm) and as the current song finished, the song he'd requested came on, just as he arrived back at their table.

He held out his hand as the strains of 'Stand by Your Man' filled the air. "May I have this dance?"

Methos gaped at him, wide-eyed, once or twice, then he threw his head back and laughed out loud. But in the end, he put his hand in Duncan's and let himself be led out onto the dancefloor, still chuckling.

The merriment in his eyes made Duncan laugh too as he turned Methos to face him. His eyes were bright and color flushed across his cheekbones. The whatever-it-was in his gut slid a lot lower. He settled his hands at Methos' waist, carefully. Duncan's laughter faded out slowly as Methos mirrored the move.

They swayed, chests just brushing. It wasn't the kind of song you could really dance to, not the way he was used to dancing, but he could get used to the feel of Methos' rough cheek, the hardness of his chest, against his own as they moved in place to the music. He smiled to himself.

Methos leaned back a little, just enough so that they were looking into each other's eyes. And then it wasn't a joke anymore -- if it ever had been. Methos' eyes were wide and dark and Duncan couldn't have looked away even if he'd wanted to. Then Methos' mouth flickered and he closed his eyes over the look, pressing himself closer into Duncan's arms.

Nice. This was really, Jesus, beyond nice. He stroked his fingers down the long, hard muscles either side of Methos' spine. He wanted this, he realized, wanted Methos in his arms somewhere far less public, wanted to touch him and talk to him and work out what this strange new thing was between them. But they stayed where they were, dancing in heated silence, touching in the almost-darkness until the song finished.

Methos stepped back first. His eyes were wide and his color high. "It's late," he blurted.

Duncan looked at his watch, then at Methos. It was only 9:15.

"I have to go," Methos added quickly, clearly flustered. "See you later, Mac."

And with that, Methos fled, leaving Duncan bewildered, bothered and bewitched in the middle of an empty dance floor.

***

Two days later and Duncan was still confused. Perhaps perplexed was closer to the truth. Truthfully, his head was spinning too fast for him to nail down what he was feeling. Whatever the hell it was, he didn't know which end was up. He'd spent the entire night watching Methos chasing a man. A reasonably handsome, interesting-looking man, but a man nonetheless. A man who wasn't him.

That was disappointing. And confusing. Trying to understand the signals coming off Methos was like reading semaphore from a one-armed drunken sailor.

It was almost closing time before Duncan found a chance to corral Methos. The guy Methos had been flirting with all night was in the men's room and Methos was leaning on the bar looking very smug, even for him. Duncan slid out of his chair and went over to him.

"All right," Duncan began, planting himself squarely in front of Methos. "Give. What are you playing at now?"

Methos frowned and glanced over at the men's room door. "What?"

Duncan thought it was reasonably obvious. "The guy?"

Methos' lips curved up. "Andre."

"Andre," Duncan repeated flatly. Methos was really annoying when he was being deliberately obtuse, he decided, not for the first time.

"I've never been married to a man before," Methos went on. He looked away and smiled to himself. "Well, not legally anyway. Thought it might be fun for a change." Methos lifted his chin and slanted a look at him. "They're doing it in the Netherlands now. Not far to go."

"He's very...." Duncan ran out of words.

Methos grinned, narrow-eyed and catlike. "Isn't he?" He leaned in close. "Hung like a horse, too."

Duncan really hadn't needed to know that.

"And here he comes." Methos melted against the bar as if his spine was made of hot wax.

Duncan didn't want to look. He really didn't. But he did anyway. Yeah, that was him, all right. All six foot four of him, with a lot of bare black skin gleaming from under a sleeveless black leather vest. And because Duncan was only human after all, he dropped his eyes to below the guy's waist, and by the looks of the bulge in his tight jeans Methos' boast was probably true. Duncan hated him on sight.

Methos' new friend stopped in front of them, wrapping one of his long dreadlocks around the mass of his hair to make a ponytail. The pose made his biceps bulge. Had to be implants. And the hair was probably a weave. Duncan still found himself wanting to stand up and flex. Like an idiot.

"Ready to go, Adam?" the guy rumbled in a rich bass voice, which had to be faked. He probably sounded like Peewee Herman when he was at home.

Methos appeared not to notice – or maybe he didn't care. "Sure," he purred. He unfolded himself from the bar and swayed towards his date.

Duncan looked determinedly towards the band. But he could still hear Methos saying in a hot, sly voice, "My place, definitely."

Methos wafted past in cloud of testosterone and lust, and Duncan almost bit through his tongue with the effort of resisting saying something.

Though he had no idea what.

***

Duncan didn't see Methos again for two weeks. When he did finally show up at Joe's, he was pale and hollow-eyed, wincing a little as he sprawled over a barstool. The boyfriend was nowhere in sight.

"You look like hell, my friend," Joe told him as he handed over a beer without waiting to be asked.

"So nice of you to notice." Methos' smile could have been nastier. Maybe.
 
"Joe's right," Duncan put in, ignoring the look. "Where've you been?"

Methos stretched with a sinuous roll of his neck and shoulders. The smile slid from sarcastic to seductive. "Busy," he murmured, stroking the sweaty sides of the beer glass.

"Looks like it." Joe went back to wiping down the bar, doing a bad job of hiding his amusement.

"So it's serious with you and what'shisname, then?" Duncan asked, finding the labels on the top-shelf booze suddenly fascinating.

"Nope."

Duncan's double-take nearly gave him whiplash.

Methos grinned at him, smug and utterly infuriating. Duncan clutched his scotch glass harder. Methos just raised his glass to his lips and drank.

Duncan took a deep breath, in and out. He found himself doing that a lot when Methos was around. He waited. Methos drank. Joe chuckled under his breath from the other end of the bar.

Duncan rolled his eyes. He did that a lot when Methos was around too. "So the marriage-quest is off then?"

"Nope."

Another eye-roll, somewhat louder sniggering from Joe.

"Then what've the last two weeks been about?" Duncan regretted the words the moment he said them.

It was Methos' turn to roll his eyes. "Well, you see, MacLeod, when a man and a man find each other really attractive—"

Duncan thwapped him up the back of his head. Daft bastard. As if he didn't know about that.

"So it was just about the sex?"

"Nope."

"Methos!"

Methos slipped off the stool and leaned in close enough to whisper in Duncan's ear, "It was about a lot of really hot sex."

The whisper sent a tingle of heat running down his spine. But that was purely a physiological reaction to the gust of hot breath in his ear. Absolutely nothing else. Nothing like searing lust. Nothing like seeing images of himself in Andre's place.

What a fool he was.

And to prove it, he made himself swivel in his seat and look Methos in the eye. "So why are you here, if you've got all that waiting at home for you?" he asked, though he did need to clear his throat first.

Methos avoided his eyes, turning towards the bar and leaning his elbows on it. "Man cannot live by bread alone," he muttered.

That made him feel so much better. "Trouble in paradise?" He could feel his equilibrium returning. "Finding Mr. Wonderful a bit...lacking?"

Methos shot him a look full of daggers.

Duncan grinned. "Personal hygiene?"

Methos rolled his eyes and drank the last of his beer.

"More philosophical differences?"

Methos' soft snort somehow contrived to sound utterly exasperated.

"Conversation?"

Someone else might have missed the sudden stillness that meant he'd scored a hit. Not Duncan.

"Still...you can't have everything," he said, rubbing it in with something close to unholy joy. "He was very good-looking." He managed to make it sound like a character flaw while simultaneously relegating poor unfortunate Andre to the past tense. "After all...what are the chances of finding someone you like, who you can talk to, who's attractive, intelligent and passionate all at the same time?"

Methos looked at him wide-eyed for a long, long moment, and blinked as if something had startled him, opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again. Then he was up and gone before Duncan could say another word.

All in all, he thought, that had gone rather well. Duncan turned back to the bar and bought himself another drink. Methos would forget about this marriage nonsense soon enough, and then he would be where he belonged: in Duncan's arms and in his bed.

***

Duncan didn't see him for almost another two weeks after that night. He had no idea what Methos was up to and neither, apparently, had Joe. Methos had done one of his famous disappearing acts. Duncan tried not to dwell on it, but he missed the old bugger anyway. He'd got in under his skin somehow, like one of those Brazilian parasites that crept into your ass while you were sitting on the beach. Irritating and virtually impossible to get rid of.

And yet, still under your skin.

And then he was back, large as life and twice as annoying, sprawled all over a bar stool and half the bar, watching the band rehearse through the bottom of a beer glass. No explanations (at least none Duncan believed) and no apologies. Just Methos. Back. Being himself.

Duncan wasn't planning on telling him how pleased that made him.

"Find any likely candidates on your travels?" Duncan said as he sat down beside Methos at the bar.

"Travels?" Methos said, blinking at him.

"Wherever you've been for the last two weeks."

"Oh. Haven't been anywhere." Methos waved at Joe for another drink.

"We hadn't seen you around. I thought you must have been away."

"Nope."

Duncan cut to the chase. "You aren't going to tell me anything, are you?"

Methos grinned at him, entirely too smug for his own good. "Nope."

Duncan suppressed the urge to smack him.

"Seein' anyone new, Methos?" Joe asked as he pulled the beer. He made as if to pass the beer across the bar, but he hung onto the glass until Methos answered.

It never did to underestimate Joe Dawson.

"Not currently." Methos scowled and snatched the beer.

"Ever think you might do better if you were meeting them somewhere else?" Duncan said. "You're never going to meet Miss Right--"

Methos cut him off with a pointed look.

"Or Mr. Right -- in a bar." There was a cough from across the bar. "No offence, Joe."

"Hey, buddy, none taken. I could do without Mr. Romance here driving off customers. You see any of his exes around here these days?"

Methos shot Joe a narrow-eyed glare. "I'm sure the place will survive little old me," he said acidly.

"Not if you keep dating at this rate. You keep it up and you'll have fucked every person in Paris between 18 and 45 by the end of the decade. That's a hell of a lot of business to drive away."

"But a noble endeavor nonetheless." Methos sounded typically unrepentant.

"Sure," Duncan put in, "if you're trying to piss off a whole city."

"Been there, done that, brought down the temple."

The eye roll was irresistible. "Blah, blah, blah...."

Methos drew himself up from his sprawl and into his full height, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes. "I don't need to stay here and be abused like this."

Joe laughed. "No, you can go anywhere and get abused. Of course, the story I hear is you like it that way."

Duncan roared with laughter and Methos flipped them both off with a generally inclusive obscene gesture, spun on his heel and stalked out of the bar. Still laughing, Duncan watched him go, waiting until he was out the door before asking Joe for the full story.

He got the edited highlights instead, which were more than enough to have him chuckling as he left the bar and walked out into the night. Immortal presence hit him the moment he stepped out onto the street.

He had his hand on his katana before he realized it was Methos. Waiting for him, lounging against the SUV's hood as if he hadn't just flounced off in high dudgeon five minutes earlier. Amusement and pleasure bubbled out of Duncan's throat in a low chuckle.

Methos' eyes narrowed with casual menace. "Are you laughing at me?"

Duncan's mouth twitched. "Maybe."

"What goes around comes around, MacLeod. Some of us would do well to remember that," Methos said, straightening out of his vertical sprawl.

Duncan took a step closer. "Do you need a ride somewhere?"

"Why?"

"Because you're out here waiting at my car."

"Who says I was waiting for you?"

"Well, you could be waiting for Godot, but I don't think so."

"Well done. Literary and something approaching humor."
 
Maybe it was the vodka shots he'd been doing with Joe, maybe it was the memory of those heated minutes on the dance floor, maybe it was the moonlight slanting across the hard, high planes of Methos' face, or maybe it was just time, but whatever it was, something made him step in that final bit closer.

And kiss him.

He started out slow, curving his hand around the nape of Methos' neck, sinking his fingers through cool, soft hair onto warm, soft skin. Methos made a surprised sound. So his lips were already open when Duncan's settled over them. Firm lips, with a tiny rough patch right in the center of the top one. He licked at it, over it and into Methos' mouth.

And then with a growl that Duncan tasted on his tongue, Methos was kissing him back. Kissing him back with his big hands sliding into Duncan's hair. Kissing him back with a quick, quiet hunger that made him ache, made him forget they were standing in the street -- everything except the heat burning a path from balls to gut.

Another step forward had Methos pressed up against the truck and, God, that was so much better. He slid one leg between Methos' thighs and his hands around Methos' waist and kissed him harder. A sandpaper chin grazed his cheek. And Methos seemed disinclined to release his grip on Duncan's hair, tangling his fingers into it with a kind of desperation that made him wonder where Methos thought he would go.

He had nowhere else to be. Unless it was somewhere they could get naked and horizontal. The thought of naked made him groan and he left Methos' mouth just to let it out. Irresistible temptation to bite at the strong line of his jaw, making Methos lift it higher. Insanity, he thought as he slipped his hands from Methos' waist up his chest, up his neck where he used his thumbs to tilt Methos' head back and expose his beautiful throat.

Duncan bent his head to it, biting and sucking. Christ, he tasted good. Methos shuddered in his arms and Duncan bit him harder. Methos' hips thrust against his leg.

"Ahhh..." Methos breathed, writhing like he had in each and every one of Duncan's long-denied late-night fantasies. "Ohh...." His hands tightened in Duncan's hair. "Joe!"

Okay, that hadn't been in any of his fantasies. What the...?

Joe? Methos was pushing him away, Duncan realized, about the same time he heard an embarrassed throat-clearing noise from behind him. Dear god. Duncan spun to face it. Joe. Duncan tugged the waist of his pants up, then ran a nervous hand over his hair.

"You two jokers know this is a bad idea, right?" Joe asked, not smiling at all.

The 'no' from Duncan and the 'yes' from Methos came at exactly the same time. Duncan forgot all about Joe and turned to face Methos.

"What do you mean, 'yes'?"

"What d'you mean, what do I mean?" Methos jammed his hands in his coat pockets and leaned back against the car. "You know what I mean."

The forced casualness wasn't fooling Duncan. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't know what you mean. That's why I was asking." Duncan could barely spit the words out; his teeth were gritted so tightly.

"No, you're asking because you want me to declare myself. You're fishing."

"I am not fishing," Duncan shot back.

Joe cleared his throat again, a sort of attention-seeking ahem that made Duncan remember that he was still there. But he had far more annoying and pressing business standing right in front of him.

"And I could ask you the same thing, Mac," Methos said, ignoring Joe entirely. "Why do you think this isn't a bad idea?"

"Now who's fishing?"

"That wasn't fishing, that was quid pro quo." Methos straightened and took a step towards him. "Now answer the question."

Duncan squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "You first."

"No. You."

"Age before beauty."

"Cheap, MacLeod. Very cheap."

"Err...guys," came Joe's voice from somewhere behind him, "I'm gonna take off. Delilah's waiting. Don't call me when you get arrested for indecent behavior -- I'm gonna be...busy."

Duncan thought of answering him, but he made the mistake of looking into Methos' eyes and whatever he was going to say fled his mind. Methos was looking at him like he was lunch. Duncan sent it right back at him. He stepped in closer until he could feel the heat of Methos' body radiating into his own. But he wasn't making any move to touch him just yet.

He waited until he could feel the ripple of tension run through Methos' body. Then he leant in closer, as if to kiss him. Methos tilted his head in expectation, but Duncan slid on by, stopping with his mouth close to Methos' ear. Breathing out slowly, he traced the pale curves with the tip of his tongue. Methos went absolutely still.

Duncan sucked the small lobe into his mouth, nibbled at it, soothed it with his tongue. He felt Methos' breath quicken. Bending a fraction more gave him access to the side of Methos' lovely and very much under-explored throat again. He kissed and bit a trail under the curve of Methos' jaw and back again.

Methos made a small, desperate noise.

"Still think this is a bad idea?" Duncan whispered into his ear.

"Think?" Methos leant up against him, resting his hands on Duncan's waist and his head on his shoulder. His body was hot, tense, needy. "Not sure I remember how."

"Will you hold it against me if I take advantage of that?" His voice sounded rough to him, but really he couldn't think of that as a bad thing.

"Only if you don't stop talking and take me home right now," Methos said.

Duncan reached past him and unlocked the passenger side door. Methos climbed in without a word. A day indeed for small miracles.

Duncan breathed in Methos as he climbed in behind the wheel and closed the door. Warm, musky, aroused. God. It took him three tries to get the key in the ignition. He only hoped that wasn't prophetic. Finally he got the damned thing started and out on the road.

And then Methos said, "So tell me why--?"

Duncan cut him off before he could finish. "Not one word." It seemed Methos had remembered how to think. Pity.

"But--"

"No."

"I just--"

"Not. Now."

"But, Mac--"

Duncan groaned and banged his head on the steering wheel. Then he had to brake hard to avoid running up the backside of a silver Porsche that chose that very moment to pull out in front of him, but he managed it.

Methos shut up.

They made it to the quay in front of the barge without Methos saying another word. But Duncan could feel it coming, so he did the sensible thing and kissed him again.

No subtlety this time, just red-hot lust. With one hand behind Methos' neck and the other on his thigh, Duncan dragged him close and covered his mouth with his own. Methos yielded, sweetly, but his tongue was in Duncan's mouth in a heartbeat.  

And then Methos was all over him. Kissing him back with a ferocity he could have only guessed at, devouring him with his hot mouth and fast, busy hands. It was cramped in the front seat and bloody awkward, but there was no way in hell he was letting Methos go for a second.

Methos somehow shifted onto his knees, shrugging off his coat and crouching sideways, still kissing like he'd never stop. Then suddenly he did, wriggling through the gap between the seats and tumbling into the back seat with a low chuckle.

Methos, grinning, crooked a finger, come hither, but Duncan hardly needed the invitation; he was already struggling into the back seat after him, leaving his coat behind him. A tiny part of his mind couldn't quite believe they were going to fuck in his truck when there was a wide, comfortable bed just a few meters away, but the biggest part of him (or perhaps it just felt like it) knew that moments like this had to be grabbed with both hands. Carpe diem and all that.

Even so, he was too slow for Methos, who grabbed a handful of Duncan's shirt front and hauled him the rest of the way into the back. And on top of him, crashing together with kisses like drowning.

Methos was far too long to fit entirely lengthwise, but he wrapped himself around Duncan, his legs wound around Duncan's hips. Which suited him fine, he found. Especially with Methos moaning and rubbing himself up against him, telling him in hot, quiet whispers how good he felt, how much better he would feel, if he would just get a little more naked. Duncan couldn't disagree.

He worked one hand down between them and unzipped his own pants. "Tell me what you want," he whispered against Methos' ear.

Methos grabbed his face with his big hands either side of Duncan's face and looked him square in the eyes. "I want you to fuck me," he whispered back.

Duncan leaned in and licked Methos' mouth open, kissing him quick and hard. "Yes." He tipped Methos' head back and bit his neck, the way he had before. "Yes."

He felt a shiver run the length of Methos' body. A gasp blew warm against his face when he slid his hand up Methos' flat belly, pushing his shirt up out of the way and then shifting himself down. Methos' nipples were small and hard and the noise he made when Duncan bit them was worth every second of the back seat awkwardness.

Methos' hands tore at Duncan's shirt, dragging it over his head and tossing it away. Half a second later and Duncan had Methos' pants undone and was hauling them down his hips. The pants ended up somewhere behind the back seat. He sat back and watched Methos spread his legs wide, draping one over the back and bracing the other against the back of the driver's seat. Incredible.

Breath caught in Duncan's throat. "Jesus, Methos you're--"

Methos reached for him, dragging him down into more spine-melting kisses. Beautiful. "Don't talk," he breathed against Duncan's lips. His hand curled around Duncan's cock and rubbed it against his hole. "Just fuck me."

Duncan pushed in, letting Methos guide the way. He felt Methos opening for him, the taut stretch of muscles giving way to his cock, the smooth, tight flesh surrounding him. Methos was breathing fast; little hitching breaths that made his toes curl to hear them. He watched Methos' face closely as he inched inside him, watching for the slightest sign of pain, but all he could see was dark heat and lust.

And then he was inside, barely able to hold himself back from taking Methos hard, thrusting as slowly as he could manage. Methos' hips were rising to meet him, while his hands slid restlessly up and down Duncan's back. He made an impatient noise and slid his hands to Duncan's ass.

"Come on, Duncan," Methos urged roughly. "Immortal, remember?" His fingers curled into Duncan's buttocks. "Harder."

It was more than he could resist. Duncan sat back on his knees, scooped Methos' ass up in both hands, and took him hard. Methos made a sound like he was dying and braced his hands against the door. Duncan held on tight and fucked him long and hard and fast.

And suddenly his orgasm was right there; a desperate imperative that had him by the balls. He managed to hold off until Methos was coming beneath him, crying out, bucking and arching and going taut as a drawn bow. Methos might not have wanted to hear it, but, damn, he was beautiful.

Then Duncan let go, coming for what felt like a week, fireworks behind his eyes and babbling nonsense he was sure he'd live to regret but couldn't right now, not while he was burying himself deeper than ever in Methos' body.

And then it was over, leaving him drained and gasping and still a little disbelieving that it all hadn't been some sort of incredible wish-fulfillment dream. But the sting of Methos' nails in his skin as he pulled out was real enough, just like the feel of Methos' chest when Duncan laid his head on it and arranged himself in some sort of comfort along the seat.

In the sweaty, come-stinky after-silence, he stroked the taut ridges of Methos' belly with his fingertips, wondering how soon they could get on board the barge and make love again. Love? Well, yeah, he thought. Probably he'd been in love with him for years; he was just too busy being annoyed, baffled and bemused by him to notice. He thought it over for a while...yeah, that was it.

He smiled, first to himself and then, lifting his head, at Methos. Methos was smiling too, sleepy and lazy and damned sexy. If he hadn't already been in love with him, that look would have sealed it for sure.

Duncan shifted up so he could kiss him again, not starting anything -- yet -- just appreciating the moment. Methos kissed him back: mouth, eyelids and forehead, and guided him down to lay his head on his shoulder

He couldn't let this go without telling Methos how he felt, not now. With one fingertip, Duncan traced a meandering trail through the hairs in the center of Methos' chest. "I--" he began.

"I--" Methos said at the same time.

Duncan lifted his head and smiled at him, not bothering to hide anything. "You first."

"I have to go," Methos said. His eyes skittered away.

Duncan didn't miss it. Suddenly the whole thing felt foolish and juvenile. Probably it was. "Sure." He sat up and looked for his shirt; it was on the floor. "I'll drive you."

"Thanks. I've got an early meeting. Lots of preparation to do, you know how it is. Not that this wasn't...very nice -- it was and we really should do it again sometime -- I just...have to go."

Every babbled word out of Methos' mouth only made him feel worse. What a fool he was. Methos wanted to get married, and Methos didn't marry Immortals. How could he have forgotten that? He concentrated on buttoning his shirt so Methos couldn't see his eyes.

"Methos," Duncan said, retrieving his pants from where they hung on the radio knob. "You should have said something if you didn't want this."

"I didn't say that."

He took a deep breath. "Yes, you did. You said it was a bad idea."

"That was before."

Duncan sighed.

"What? Am I not allowed to change my mind?"

"I think you already have," Duncan said. "And I'd better take you home." This was a long way from over, but for tonight he was retreating from the battle. Given time enough (and he had that) he was sure he could distract Methos from his ridiculous marriage obsession and get him to settle for an extended period of unwedded bliss. With him.
 
***

After a long day of pacing back and forth, plotting one line of attack then another, Duncan rejoined the battle at 8pm the following night. He arrived on Methos' doorstep with his heart in his mouth and a bottle of excellent scotch in his hand. He knew Methos was home; he could feel the buzz. He knew it was Methos because his cock twitched in his pants. He rapped three times on the doorknocker.

Methos looked a little flustered when he finally opened the door but he covered it well. "Funny," he said with a raised eyebrow, "I don't recall calling Dial-a-Scout."

Duncan sent him a wolfish grin and stepped inside, elbowing the door closed. Methos took a step back and let him. "No boyscouts here today. I'm just taking you up on your offer."

Methos blinked at him and took another step back. "Offer?"

Duncan closed the distance in one stride. "To do it again sometime."

"Oh." He watched Methos visibly pulling himself together, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes. "Didn't get enough last night?"

He ignored the Methos equivalent of a porcupine fluffing its spikes and wrapped his hand around Methos' nape. "No," Duncan whispered when their mouths were inches apart. "I didn't." He kissed him once, lingering and slow. "And neither did you." More kisses, deeper, wetter, hotter. Heat flooded through him, centering in his groin. He felt Methos go pliant against him, kissing him back with considerable enthusiasm.

"Can we make love in a bed this time?" Duncan murmured while Methos was sucking at his throat.

Methos let him go and backed off, looking at his watch. "I can't. I'm late. I have to go."

Duncan set the scotch bottle down on a nearby table and took hold of Methos with both hands. "Another date?" he asked softly against Methos' ear, punctuating the question with a long, slow lick.

Methos shuddered. "Actually, yes."

"Cancel it." Duncan slid his hand down Methos' back to his ass and pressed their hard cocks against each other. "You're going to be busy." He walked him back against the nearest wall and trapped him there with a slow, rolling thrust of his hips. "Very busy."

Methos made a sound like surrender and slid both hands into Duncan's hair and kissed him until he was breathless.

"I love you, you know," Duncan told him when Methos finally let him up for air.

"Don't get carried away by your hormones," Methos breathed as he pushed Duncan's coat from his shoulders.

Duncan straightened and looked Methos square in the eyes. "I'm not." He brushed Methos' cheek with back of his fingers. "I love you, Methos."

Methos went rigid and shoved him away. "I'm sorry," he muttered, snatching Duncan's coat from the floor and thrusting it at him. "This was a mistake." He propelled Duncan towards the door. "I have to go -- you have to go."

And then Duncan was outside in the hallway with his coat in an untidy heap in his arms and his head still spinning. What the hell was the matter with Methos?

Whatever it was, he was going to find out tonight. There was no way in hell he was going anywhere except back inside Methos' apartment. He draped his coat over his arm and pounded on the door with his fist. He'd pounded ten times before there was a reaction from the other side of the door.

"I'm not opening it," Methos called. "Go home, Mac. You'll thank me in the morning."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Mac..." Methos sighed.

"Just let me in so we can talk."

"I don't think so."

Duncan banged on the door a few more times. If nothing else, Methos needed to open up if he wanted to come after him with a sword.

"I'm phoning the police now."

Duncan stopped knocking. "No, you're not." He wouldn't. Duncan hoped. Though there were several precedents....

"Okay, I'm not, but my neighbors probably are, with the racket you're making."

He had a point. Duncan took a step back from the door and aimed his shoulder at it. If Methos wouldn't open the door, Duncan would open it for him. There was more than one way to skin an Immortal after all. He ran two steps and threw his weight against the door.

And bounced off, landing in a heap next to the opposite wall

"Christ, Methos," he shouted when the little birds had stopped circling his head, "what the hell did you do to your door?"

"Steel reinforcement, triple locking: basic home security. You should try it some time." Methos sounded excessively pleased with himself.

"I think I have a concussion," Duncan told him in a bid for the sympathy vote.

"Did it knock any sense into you?"

"No. I still love you, you bastard." He was becoming less and less pleased about that particular fact with every passing minute.

The door opened and Methos looked down on him. "I wish you'd stop saying that."

Duncan stood a little unsteadily. "Why? It's true."

Methos held the door open. "You'd better come in," he grumbled. "But you're not going to like it."

Since his head was clearing nicely, Duncan could send him a wicked grin as he passed by. "Don't be so sure about that."

"Oh, I'm sure."

There was something in Methos' tone that boded no good. "What's going on, Methos?" he asked as the door closed behind him.

"Fancy a drink?" Methos picked up the bottle of scotch Duncan had brought and twisted the top off.

Eye roll one hundred and infinity. "Yes, all right I'll have a drink," Duncan growled. "And then you're going to tell me what crawled up your ass and died."

"I've always appreciated manners in a man," Methos sniped as he poured two brimming glasses and handed one to Duncan.

Duncan took his to the sofa and sat down, watching Methos pace back and forth, taking occasional gulps of his drink. Whatever was going on his labyrinthine brain had to be a doozey. He sipped his scotch in silence and waited.

"This would have been much easier if you'd just gone away when you were asked," Methos snapped.

"Maybe for you."

"It wasn't supposed to work out this way," Methos said, almost to himself.

"Methos, will you stop pacing and muttering and just sit down and tell me what's wrong?"

Methos stopped and looked at him. "I'm married."

"No, seriously."

Methos drained his glass. "Seriously."

"To who?"

"Whom."

Duncan tightened his grip on his glass -- and his temper. "Whom did you marry?"

"Andre."

Duncan sighed. "You did not."

"Yes, I did."

"Where's the ring?"

"Don't believe in them."

"Where's the marriage certificate?"

"Andre has it."

"And Andre is...where?"

"At his--our--place. In M-M-Montparnasse."

Duncan finished his scotch in a single gulp and put the glass on the coffee table. He stood and went over to Methos, catching his hands in his own. "I don't believe you," he said quietly.

Methos' eyes were wide and alarmed. "Why not?"

"Because you slept with me last night--"

Methos butted in. "I don't remember any sleeping."

Duncan ignored that. "And you like your lovers one at a time. You told me yourself."

Methos held his gaze gamely. "I lied."

"I don't think so." Duncan stroked his thumbs over the backs of Methos' hands. "You wanna try again -- the truth this time?"

"Okay," Methos sighed. "We're not married yet. But he's asked me and I said yes. I'm meeting him tonight to go to Amsterdam."

Duncan looked around the room. "You must be traveling light. I don't see any luggage."

Methos squinted at him and snatched his hands back. "It's in the bedroom."

"Can I see?"

"My bedroom?" Methos snorted. "I think that would be an extraordinarily bad idea."

"Just the luggage, for a start."

"MacLeod, it might have escaped your notice but I don't actually have to show you anything. Now, if you don't mind, I'm in a hurry."

"Places to go, people to do?" Duncan sniped.

Methos folded his arms across his chest and glared. "Something like that."

"I don't think so."

Methos glared some more and Duncan watched the thoughts running through his mind. He was thinking about going for his sword. Couldn't have that.

Duncan took a step closer and said, much more quietly, "Why him, Methos?" Why not me?

"Because he asked me," Methos answered in the same tone.

"How old is he?" Duncan asked.

"Why?"

"So I'll know how long I'll have to wait for you." Duncan reached out and stroked a finger down the side of Methos' face. "I would wait for you." If that didn't shake something loose there was really no hope.

Duncan caught a flash of yearning in Methos' eyes before it was hidden away.  "You really do have to go, Mac," Methos said.

Either Duncan was getting better at reading him, or Methos really was lying very poorly. There was something else going on here, and he wasn't leaving until he found out what it was. And if it was what he thought, maybe he wouldn't be leaving at all.

"What about being bored?"

Methos' eyes flew open. "Bored?" he repeated sharply. "Who said I was bored?"

"You did. You and Andre don't have much to talk about, remember?" He was definitely onto something here; he just wasn't sure what it was.

"Oh. That." Methos shrugged. "There are other compensations."

"Like what?"

"Good sex makes up for a lot."

"We had good sex." Duncan grinned and took a step closer. "Didn't we?"

"Maybe." The corners of Methos' mouth flickered.

Another step, forward and to the left this time. "Do you need reminding?" he whispered close to Methos' ear. He didn't miss the faint flushing of Methos' skin.

"I remember just fine."

One more step and Duncan was behind him. "I don't recall you being bored, do you?"

Methos stiffened, but he said nothing.

Oh, he was definitely onto something here. "Is that what this was all about?" he said, circling around again.

"Is that what what was all about?" Methos backed up a couple of steps.

Duncan went with him. "This marriage nonsense. It's all a scam to drive me nuts, isn't it? And now it's backfired on you." It was the only thing that made any sense.

"Whatever you've been drinking, Mac, it's not doing you any good," Methos said, still backing up. He was going to run out of room shortly.

Duncan followed him until Methos had his back to the wall. He watched with relish as Methos realized his predicament. "Come on, Methos.... Tell the truth and shame the devil." He leant in close, breathing on Methos' neck, reminding him in case he'd forgotten how it could be between them. "You know you want to."

"I might have exaggerated my desire for wedlock just a little," Methos whispered, his eyes on a spot somewhere over Duncan's shoulder.

"Why would you do that?" Duncan asked carefully.

Methos shrugged, his eyes still very much elsewhere.

"Methos...." The truth was in there, and he was going to get it one way or another.

"You weren't supposed to fall in love with me!" Methos tried to sidestep away, but Duncan pinned him by his shoulders. "You don't even like me most of the time!"

"Methos." Duncan leant against him, holding him still with the weight of his body. He caught Methos' face in his hands and made him look at him. "I like you." He tilted his head to one side. "I like you a lot -- I always have."

"I can fix that," Methos said, his mouth grim. "It was all a game, MacLeod. I was bored and I thought it would be amusing to see how far I could push you before you pushed back. Just a game."

"And why did you do that?" Duncan asked softly, not letting Methos go.

"I told you, I was bored."

"No." Duncan stroked Methos' cheek with his thumb. "Why me? Why this?"

Methos raised his chin defiantly. "Why do you think?"

"I want to hear it from you," Duncan insisted.

Methos sighed. "I think you're conceited enough."

Duncan slid one hand to the small of Methos' back. "But you're going to tell me anyway."

Methos' eyes met his and held. "Because I watched you offer your head to O'Rourke and thought I was going to lose you without ever knowing what it was like to do this...." Methos leaned in and kissed him until he was achingly hard. "And I'd always wanted to."

"You love me," Duncan said.
    
"Yes." Methos kissed him again. "Are you going to forgive me?"

"Probably. Eventually."

Methos tilted his head like he was going to kiss him one more time. "Probably?"

"If you're good."

Methos grinned, hot and predatory. "Oh, I'll be good. I can guarantee it."

Of that Duncan had no doubts. Methos had started walking him backwards, he noticed with a start, back towards the sofa. It wasn't the bed, but it was a step up from the backseat of his truck, so he went with it.

He felt the sofa behind his legs a heartbeat before Methos tumbled him onto it. Then Methos was kissing him again, hard and open-mouthed. Duncan kissed him back and busied his hands with Methos' clothes. Desire throbbed through him. Methos kissed like it was an art form.

"God, Methos," Duncan gasped as Methos slid down and bit at his chest just below the collarbone.

Methos replied by tearing Duncan's shirt open. Heat spiked through him as Methos licked over his nipples. He wanted to get Methos' pants off, but this was...so fucking good. As if he'd read his mind, Methos kneeled up and undid his jeans, one button at a time, with his eyes fixed on Duncan's.

He wasn't wearing underwear.

Duncan licked his lips as Methos' cock sprang out of his fly. Beautiful. Long and thick and gorgeous.

"Bring that up here," Duncan said.

Methos stood up instead, shimmying the jeans to the floor and stepping out of them while Duncan watched, his impatience growing by the second. Methos had barely straddled his chest before Duncan had hold of his cock and was guiding it between his lips. Methos gasped softly at the first touch and then louder as Duncan took him all the way down.

He loved this part, the hot, musky scent strong in his nose, the hard flesh in his mouth and most of all the tremors he could feel as he settled his hands on the taut curves of Methos' ass. He stroked it as he sucked, teasing at the cleft. Methos moaned out loud and thrust into Duncan's mouth. Oh yes.

He pushed Methos to thrust again, harder and deeper, fucking his mouth wildly. He couldn't breathe, but he was having a hard time caring. Methos was getting close, and he wasn't going to be far behind.

"Duncan!" Methos gasped.

Then Methos was coming, crying out in a low, hoarse voice as he filled Duncan's mouth with his come. Duncan swallowed reflexively, drinking him down, his hands gripped tight to Methos' ass.

He let Methos slip from his mouth while the tremors were still running under his hands. Methos leaned back and traced a fingertip around Duncan's lips, holding up to show him the drop of come he'd just captured. Duncan licked it away. Licked his own palm and wiped it over his cock. Methos whimpered.

Then with his hands cupping Methos' hips, he pressed him back and down, down to where his cock stood up, hard and wanting in his lap. Methos reached back and guided it into himself.

God, the friction would surely kill him, he thought as his cock pushed slowly into the tight heat of Methos' body. Either that or he was just going to spontaneously combust.

Methos let out a long, slow breath when his ass hit Duncan's groin. "Jesus, Duncan..." he gasped, "so good."

Understatement of the year. Duncan lifted him a little and thrust upwards. Methos wailed and his cock filled almost instantly. So, of course Duncan had to do it again.

And again.

He fucked him until he was sweat-soaked and sobbing with the joy of it, until Methos was crying out constantly with every stroke of Duncan's cock inside him, until the tension in his balls couldn't be denied a moment longer. And then he was coming, orgasm roaring out of him as he pulled Methos down one last time, holding him there, curling up into the exquisite release, shooting long and hard into Methos' ass, while Methos came again, splattering his chest.

Quite possibly, the earth moved.

Methos lifted himself off and collapsed along Duncan's side, panting roughly.  "After that, I may have to marry you," he said with a chuckle in his voice.

Duncan pressed a kiss to the top of Methos' head. "What about your rule?"

Methos leaned up on one elbow, looking at him with a crooked grin. "What rule would that be?"

"You don't marry Immortals."

"Since when?"

"That's what you told me. Sixty-eight marriages, no Immortals. You made it sound like it was right up there with When In Doubt Do Nothing."

"Yes, well.... With the right incentive I could be persuaded to revise that rule."

Duncan stroked the length of Methos' back, finishing on the curve of his butt. "And would this constitute the right incentive?"

The corner of Methos' mouth twitched. "It's a good beginning."

"And the rule?"

Methos laughed and kissed him as he whispered, "Oh, Duncan.... Don't you know by now? You make me want to break all the rules. You always have."

The End


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