Straight and Low

Duncan honestly thought -- whenever he had thought about it, which wasn't all that much, just a small obsession two or three times an hour for the last eight years when he hadn't anything more life-threatening to do -- that once he'd made the first move on Methos it would be all plain sailing from there.

The old bastard was clearly waiting for him to do it. He couldn't have made himself more available over the years without hanging a sign around his neck. Staking claim to his couches time after time with his legs spread and his neck bared and that 'come and get me' dare glinting in his eyes. Sidling inside his personal space at every opportunity. Sprawling across his bed, for crying out loud. Could the man have been any more obvious?

But Methos avoided starting anything, so Duncan always figured it'd be up to him. And that was fine. He'd choose a time and a place when he was completely ready for Methos and everything that came with him. Okay, so it had taken him eight years and that was slightly pathetic, but now that he'd decided to go for it, he'd expected it to be pretty much plain sailing. Well, as plain sailing as he could manage with a viper-tongued five thousand year old man in his bed.

Boy, was he wrong.

Hugely wrong, stunningly, startlingly wrong. Wrong on the scale of that Prince Albert he'd let Amanda talk him into. Wrong on the scale of wearing platform shoes to a sword fight. Wrong like that codpiece that shrank in the rain and almost crippled him. Just plain wrong in so many ways.

Duncan hated being wrong.

***

Part one: The first move is the hardest. Yeah, right.

"Come for dinner tomorrow night?" Duncan asked, as off-hand as he could manage with his heart thudding like a kettledrum in his chest.

Methos glanced up from the chessboard. "Sure." He paused with his fingertips just touching his queen. "What's the occasion?"

The queen was entirely the wrong piece for Methos to be playing at that point, so it had to be a sign, right? Comforted, Duncan smiled, filing it away with his long list of other Signs That Mean Methos Wants Me, and said, "Pierre at the fishmongers says he can get me some sea anemones. Thought I'd try that recipe you gave me." It was all good; voice just casual enough, right amount of eye contact -- not so much as to give the game away, not so little as to brush him off.

"Mmm... Haven't had those in a long time." And Methos lifted the queen and placed it down on the board. "Check and mate." He grinned up at Duncan with such smugness that if Duncan had wanted him any less, he'd have been tempted to take a sword to him.

As it was, he simply ignored his ignominious defeat and concentrated on the word 'mate', letting his imagination run wild. He'd feed him dinner, flirt a little more openly than usual, ply him with some of the finest wines in his cellar and let nature take its course. Methos would be eager, and skilled beyond his wildest dreams. And he was capable of some fairly wild dreams. He'd take that long, hot, body into his arms and into his bed and wipe that smugness away with his mouth and hands and cock. Over and over and over again.

It was a good plan.

***

It was a bloody atrocious plan.

What had he been thinking? Methos' sea anemone recipe called for a variety of bizarre ingredients that he'd never even read about, let alone seen. Vaguely unpronounceable things. And was that passum, or possum? Good grief. Liquamen? He didn't want to know. This was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he planned. Fuck it. He'd go with something simple. Soup was simple; soup he could do. A thick seafood soup with sea anemones. Delicately flavored, sensually textured, as smooth and creamy as Methos' skin. Oh yes...That was a much better idea.

But he had to stop thinking about Methos' skin or he'd never get it done on time.

And for a while it seemed like it was a better idea; the soup was coming together nicely, simmering away in the big pot on the stove, smelling damned good even if he said so himself. Bread was warming in the oven and a bottle of really exquisite Semillon Blanc was chilling next to the salad in the fridge. A simple meal, not too overdone, not too heavy.

Methos arrived, not on time, but not as late as he sometimes showed up. Everything was ready, looking quite beautiful. Sparkling crystal, snowy white linen -- the works. Duncan was shaved, showered and fragrant, dressed a little better than he did for their usual dinners, but not well enough to be intimidating. A fresh tube of lube was in the drawer by the bed. God was in the details, after all.

And Methos... Duncan was sure he knew something was up. He looked wonderful, skinning his coat off at the door to reveal a fitted black t-shirt and tailored trousers that hugged his shapely ass to perfection.

"You're looking good tonight," Duncan said as he handed Methos a glass of wine.

A wrinkle of confusion creased Methos' brow. "Thanks." He sniffed the air. "That doesn't smell like my sea anemone recipe." He wandered into the galley and lifted the saucepan lid, peering into the pot. "Couldn't manage the liquamen, huh?"

"Something like that. You'll have to show me how it's done, sometime." Duncan was right behind him, practically breathing down his neck. He smelled great.

Methos slipped away and turned to lean back against the bench. "Maybe I will. Sometime."

Duncan stirred the pot once more. "Ready to get started?" he asked, enough innuendo in his tone to sink a flotilla of barges.

Methos shrugged. "Sure."

Methos sipped his wine and Duncan watched him from the corner of his eye while he ladled soup into bowls.

"Hungry?" Duncan asked, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

Methos tossed back the last of his wine. "Starving."

Duncan had to look away before the ravenous look on Methos' face undid him completely. He bent and retrieved the bread from the oven, wondering if Methos was watching. Wondering if he was enjoying the view. It was good thing Methos didn't know how pathetic he was; otherwise he'd never get laid. He had an image to preserve after all.

He was thinking about that; thinking about fucking Methos' mouth, or his ass, blowing him where he stood, or something equally pornographic and satisfying rather than thinking about what he was doing.

He should have been thinking about what he was doing.

Distantly, he realized that something was burning. Then, somewhat less distantly, he realized it was him.

"Shit!" He almost dropped the tray of bread. The dishtowel he'd been using as a potholder had caught on the burner and was well alight by the time he snapped out of fantasy-land. He managed to get the bread onto the bench in one piece but the towel was still flaming away merrily.

Methos plucked the towel out of his hand and dumped it in the sink, turning the water on to dowse it. "Steady on there, hot stuff," Methos said with a smirk, dusting some burning embers from Duncan's sleeve.

Duncan looked up from his smoldering shirt cuff and checked his Methos Subtext Meter. That one was right up there. Practically a come-on. Suddenly, his ruined shirt was of no importance at all and the evening's agenda was right back on track after the tiny detour.

"I'll just go and take this off," Duncan told him, with a sultry up and down flick of his eyes.

He'd rarely been so glad of the barge's open design than he was at that moment. He strolled up to his wardrobe beside the bed and unbuttoned his shirt, checking over his shoulder to see if Methos was watching. The contrary bugger wasn't. He'd snagged one of the incendiary dinner rolls and was nibbling on that instead.

That wouldn't do. "I've got some movies we can watch later if you like," Duncan called as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders. Now Methos was looking. And if Duncan wasn't mistaken, that was a flash of pointed pink tongue he'd seen wetting Methos' lips. Oh yeah. That was much better. He turned around to face him. "I got that new one with that guy from that Gladiator movie you thought was so funny." Duncan hadn't exactly seen the humor in that one, but then he hadn't been there.

He found a plum-colored silk shirt he hadn't worn in a while and pulled it on. He considered not buttoning it, but that perhaps would have been a fraction too obvious. He settled for just doing up a few in the middle. Methos smiled appreciatively as he walked back down to the galley, so he thought he'd probably made the right decision.

"Looking forward to it," Methos said as he came near. The Subtext Meter pinged again.

He managed to get the dinner on the table without further mayhem or wardrobe despoilage, but it was a near thing with Methos standing close to him, six foot of utter temptation in head to toe black. Duncan breathed him in as he moved past. Dear god. His cock throbbed in his pants, making him wince as he sat down.

"Are you all right, Mac?" Methos asked, pouring some more wine for them both. "You seem a little...distracted."

Duncan unleashed his best smile, reassuring, not too predatory. "I'm fine." He lifted his wine glass. "Bon appetit."

The soup was good. And judging by the crotch-rattling little noises Methos was making as he ate it, he thought so too. All Duncan could think of was having Methos make those same sounds around his cock. Bloody hell. Why had he waited so long for this?

"This really is very good," Methos said, pausing to break open a roll. "The Romans thought sea anemone was an aphrodisiac, you know."

Duncan blinked, green lights flashing happily in his mind. "I think I read that somewhere."

"Of course the Romans thought any number of ridiculous things were aphrodisiacs so you can't really take their word for it."

"So...," Duncan began over the top of his wine glass, "they don't have that effect on you?"

The corner of Methos' mouth twitched. "No more so than candlelight and a bottle of decent wine."

Duncan glanced down at the table, where the wine was sweating and the candles were dripping creamy white streaks over their holders. And smiled that killer smile that had stood him in such fine stead in four hundred years of fucking his way across four continents. He may have raised an eyebrow, but he was too busy staring into Methos' eyes to pay much attention to subtlety.

Then Methos cleared his throat and reached for the wine and the moment was gone. Damn it. There was only a dribble left in the bottle and Methos held the empty up with an expectant look. Duncan took the hint and the bottle and went into the galley for another.

"What's your pleasure?" he asked, surprising himself with how husky his voice had gone.

Methos came over and peered over his shoulder at the rack. "The Chateau Y'Quem?"

"Good choice." Duncan lifted it out and turned around. Methos was still there, not even arms' length away and utterly delectable. He set the bottle on the bench and reached out, his heart drumming out of control, to touch his forefinger to the side of Methos' face.

Methos looked a little puzzled, but he didn't move away. More importantly, he didn't pull a blade. "Do I have something on my face?" he asked, lifting his hand to Duncan's.

"No," Duncan answered softly with the ghost of a smile. "I just wanted to touch you." And he leaned in, spreading his fingers to tilt Methos' face to exactly the right angle, and kissed him.

And dear God, Methos tasted wonderful. Wine and spices and something that had to be just him. Duncan stroked his tongue along the seam of Methos' lips, easing it inside, finding Methos' tongue and tangling with it. Methos' lips sealed around his, kissing him back hungrily. For a long, long moment it was perfect, easily the best kiss he'd had in a couple of hundred years and certainly the best first kiss ever. Methos' hand crept up his chest.

And pushed him away. Hard.

***

Part two: When is a Methos not a Methos? When he's Adam Pierson, of course.

What the fuck? "Methos?" Duncan blurted when he could speak.

Methos slipped away and retreated to the far side of the room. "I can't do this, MacLeod."

Okay, the old guy was jittery. He could deal with that. It had probably been a long time for him. "It's okay... I won't do anything you're not ready for."

Laughter snorted out of Methos' nose. "You just did."

Now he was really confused. "Then that must have been someone else kissing me back a minute ago. Funny, it looked just like you."

"I didn't--I can't... Damn it, MacLeod. You have the worst timing ever."

Confusion was turning into utter perplexity. "Methos, you're going to have to explain. I have no idea what you're babbling about."

Methos was pacing back and forth, obviously having some sort of serious dilemma. Duncan went to him and grabbed hold of both his hands, arousal all but burnt away by concern.

"Methos, whatever it is, we can work it out. I can help you."

Methos laughed bleakly and pulled his hands free. Then he dropped the bomb:

"Adam Pierson is straight."

Duncan burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. It was so utterly, completely ludicrous. Methos wasn't terribly amused, judging by the dark look on his face, but Duncan couldn't stop. It was possibly the silliest thing he'd heard all year. Eventually, though, he managed to get himself under control enough to wipe his eyes and stifle the laughter.

"I'm sorry," he said as the chuckles died away. "Hell, Methos, if you didn't want me you could have just said. You didn't need to make up something as ridiculous as that."

"It's true!" Methos protested. "Adam Pierson is as straight as they come. A Kinsey zero. No guys, not now, not ever. Just women."

It was weird hearing Methos talk about his alter ego as if he was a real person instead of just a cover story. Duncan frowned, trying to catch up with the latest strangeness from his very strange friend. "But you..." He waved a hand vaguely. "Methos, you aren't seriously telling me you've never had sex with a man."

Methos rolled his eyes. "I'm not talking about Methos. I'm talking about Adam. Adam Pierson, mild-mannered ex-Watcher, is your basic hetero."

Duncan noticed Methos had never mentioned not being attracted to him. This was clearly a Good Sign. "As it happens," Duncan told him, advancing slowly, "I'm not interested in sleeping with Adam, sweet as he is. Methos on the other hand..." He trailed off as he came closer to his quarry, backing Methos up against the bulkhead.

"Oh no, you don't," Methos countered, side-stepping neatly. "I've got a good few years left in dear Adam, not to mention a doctorate in the offing. Ask me again in ten years when I'm someone else. I'll make sure the next one's queer."

This one was pretty damn queer if you asked him. And..."Ten years?" Anything could happen in ten years. He wasn't waiting ten years. He was cranky about waiting ten minutes. Methos was edging towards the door, but Duncan was onto him. "This is all some elaborate plot to drive me insane, isn't it?" he said as he went after him. "You flirt with me until you're all I can think about and then you pull this stunt. What'd I ever do to you?"

Methos stopped in his tracks and blinked at him. "I'm all you can think about?"

"Yeah," Duncan said sincerely, wrapping his hands around Methos' upper arms to keep him from escaping. "When I'm not fighting for my life, or asleep." He rubbed his thumbs over bare, warm skin. "Come on, Methos...give Adam the night off..." He tried the killer smile again. "You know you want to."

Methos swayed towards him and tilted his head. Oh yeah. Duncan pulled him closer until their mouths were almost touching.

"Mac, no," Methos breathed, stiffening in his arms.

"You're serious about this." Duncan was still finding it incredible, but apparently Methos really was.

Methos nodded, looking distinctly unhappy about the fact. Perversely, that made him feel a lot better. Not as great as he'd feel with Methos writhing and sweating beneath him, but for non-naked, non-contact amusement, it would do for now. This was a long way from over.

Methos slipped his arms free and stepped back. "I should go."

"You don't have to."

Methos looked him up and down. "Yes, I really do."

"Okay..." Duncan smiled, trying not to look too wolfish as Methos backed up towards the door. "I'll see you later." Boy, would he.

Methos made for the door, grabbing his coat on the way. Duncan couldn't resist one last jab.

"Oh, and Methos...?"

Methos paused and the sardonic eyebrow lift that Duncan was so fond of was back.

"The straight-guy act needs a little work."

He could have sworn Methos stuck out his tongue at him as he fled.

***

Part three: The things we do for love -- or at least a really hot fuck.

It was probably a bad thing that Duncan was considering killing Adam.

Certainly it was a low-down, dirty, unethical trick to play on a friend. Terrible. Awful. But that didn't stop him from thinking about it. Fantasizing about it. Plotting out the how and when and who. He could do it. It would be easy.

It would be wrong.

Methos would never forgive him. Of course never was a really long time and anything could happen. He might possibly forgive him long enough for Duncan to distract him with some spine-melting sex. Duncan smiled. Oh yeah....

Of course Methos might kill him two or three times first and that would be a pain in the ass (not to mention painful) but it was a small price to pay. It wasn't like Methos would take his head for it. Would he?

Probably not. But with Methos one could never be one hundred percent sure about anything. Duncan went back to thinking about it. There had to be a way of doing it so everybody would be happy. Unfortunately, nothing was coming to mind at that moment, so Duncan ordered another beer.

And another. And another.

Sometime after the eighth or ninth, beer became scotch, and sometime after the fifth or sixth scotch, Methos appeared at his elbow like some apparition out of a Dickens novel. The ghost of orgasms yet to come -- or something.

Methos was grinning, but even through all the booze Duncan could see it was two-edged. "Are we having fun, MacLeod?"

Duncan leaned an elbow on the bar, rested his cheek in his hand and swiveled to look Methos in the eye. "Not as much as we could be."

Methos rolled his eyes. "And here I was thinking that you were too much of a gentleman to mention that."

Duncan considered that carefully. "Nope."

Methos sighed and ordered a double. "Another great myth bites the dust."

Duncan tossed back his shot. "Life's a bitch."

"Careful, Mac, that almost sounded bitter," Methos chided with utter insincerity.

Snarky, hot, bastard. "Blah, blah, blah..." He looked up and nodded to Joe for another shot. It arrived, sliding down from the newly established DMZ at the far end of the bar. Joe had too much sense to come any closer. Duncan grabbed the glass and downed the scotch before adding, "Still Adam?"

Methos smirked and leaned closer, talking almost directly into his ear. "Still horny?"

Duncan grinned, not bothering to disguise the wolf this time. Methos' coat was hanging open, right by Duncan's free hand. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it wasn't. It didn't really matter. Opportunity beckoned. Duncan slid his hand inside the warm cashmere and found the warmer, softer skin of Methos' waist, curving his hand around it.

Methos went very still. Duncan took this as another Sign and slipped a finger inside the waistband of his jeans, stroking the outline of his hipbone. His skin was even better than Duncan had imagined. Fine and smooth and silky. Duncan made himself concentrate on making Methos hot rather than on the purple prose crowding his racing brain. Methos' eyes were wide, not shifting from Duncan's even when he moved his hand from the bar and brought it to cover the hand groping him.

And practically dislocated Duncan's finger when he bent it back viciously. Duncan yelped in a mortifying falsetto.

"I think you lost something, MacLeod," Methos whispered, tossing his hand back at him. "I found it somewhere it didn't belong at all."

Duncan massaged his hand and glared back.

"You should keep an eye on all your appendages," Methos told him with a purely Adam smile. "No telling what might happen to them if they wander into the wrong places."

Duncan stood up from the bar stool and looked down on him. "I'll keep that in mind, Adam." And he turned on his heel and walked away.

He was only vaguely aware of bar patrons scuttling out of his way as he strode out of the bar. There was only one thing on his mind.

This was war.

All bets were off.

Adam Pierson was a dead man.

***

Sanding was cathartic -- probably not as good as knocking down walls, but he had few enough of those as it was, so sanding it was. He just kept ripping off the surfaces and plotting the downfall of one Adam Pierson. Back and forth, back and forth, plot and counter-plot.

Poisoning the pain in the ass had merit, Duncan decided as he worked on the barge's hull. Just what he deserved after that stunt at the bar. He was still ticked about that. What game was Methos playing this time? Whatever it was, poisoning was probably too good for him.

Shooting him would have a certain poetic justice. He was still a little pissed about that shot in the back all those years ago. He'd always felt Methos had enjoyed it just a bit too much. Perhaps he could shoot him. Nah...shooting was definitely too good for him.

Maybe he could find a garbage truck to run him over.... A full one.

Whatever it was it would need to be public -- very very public. Le Blues Bar was the perfect place. Joe would be less than happy about it, but Duncan would make it up to him somehow. And surely Joe had known Methos long enough to understand the irresistible urge to kill him. Maybe he'd even help.

And of course, then Methos would need to leave Paris for a while. And Duncan would have to go with him. But he could deal with that; there were plenty of places they could live. He'd been here long enough and it was time to move on anyway. Hong Kong might be nice -- he hadn't been there in a while. But he was getting way ahead of himself.

He had an alter ego to kill first.

***

Part four: Blue balls. Nobody's friend.

Methos really was an utter bastard. Duncan wondered distantly why this should be such a surprise to him after all these years, but perhaps it took an incident like the previous day's to make him really appreciate the full extent of Methos' bastardry. But he was up to speed now. And how. Fortunately for the both of them, Duncan could be just as much of a bastard.

And he was a bastard who'd spent the past few nights remembering the touch of Methos' skin, the taste of his mouth, the quick, skilled heat of his tongue. That made him a horny bastard with blue balls. It was not a good combination.

He was sitting in his usual spot in Le Blues, innocently plotting the demise of the object of his affections, not bothering anyone, (except Joe with his semi-regular requests for scotch) when Methos wandered in. And he was not alone.

Very obviously not alone.

And Duncan (who was deeply in lust but not blind) couldn't fail to notice that the person -- the woman, of course -- Methos was busy being not-alone with was gorgeous. A Vivien Leigh in designer jeans. Dark-haired and fair-skinned, groomed to perfection while remaining entirely touchable in the way that only French women seemed able to manage. And Methos was touching -- boy, was he touching.

It all had to be for his benefit, Duncan figured, watching them with a jaundiced eye. Methos didn't seem the type for public displays of affection. Yet there he was, standing behind her at the bar, arms wrapped around her, nibbling on her neck while she laughed throatily and leaned back into him. Revolting.

Duncan's cock hardened in his pants. He would have ordered another drink, only Joe was being sucked into the disgusting display at the other end of the bar and wouldn't have noticed Duncan if he was on fire. He grunted and reached over the bar, helping himself to a bottle of his usual. Though he doubted there was enough alcohol in the whole bar to help him deal with this. He poured himself a double anyway.

All he could do was watch and imagine himself in the woman's place. Although he hoped he wouldn't be laughing quite so vapidly. He would, however, be leaning back into Methos, grinding his ass over the thick ridge in his groin, slipping his hand back and down Methos' thigh, tilting his head to one side so Methos could bite his neck. Guiding his hand to cover his own hard cock, turning in his arms to smile darkly and whisper something filthy into his ear, something that would make Methos' breath quicken, make him grab his car keys off the bar and tug Duncan out the door.

And maybe they'd make it home before Duncan fucked him raw, maybe they wouldn't. Either way was good.

And it would be good. Damned good. If Duncan could ever cure Methos of this ridiculous obsession with being straight-as-a-die Adam Pierson, that was. Well, there was no time like the present.

Duncan checked his look in the mirrors behind the bar, not actually surprised by the pure evil in his smile, and rose from the barstool, ready to do battle. Oh yes, this was going to be very very good.

He shouldered his way through the light crowd lining the bar and made a space for himself right next to them. Methos slanted a knowing, superior look at him from behind his date's back. Duncan didn't bother smiling back.

Showtime.

"Oh my god!" Duncan cried, camping it up as much as he could. "Adam? Adam Pierson? I thought it was you!"

Methos and his date turned to look at him. He thought Methos' hand twitched a little towards his sword. Duncan ignored it.

"I thought you'd left Paris for good," Duncan went on, reaching out to lay his hand on Methos'. "Wasn't that what you said when you left?" His voice was thick with wounded desperation. "You said you couldn't see me any more because you were going to Tibet on that research expedition?"

Methos' eyes bugged and his face went a color that couldn't have been healthy. He snatched his hand back and laughed without a shred of amusement. "I'm sorry, Marina, I don't think you've met my friend Duncan MacLeod, well-known madman and wannabe comedian. Marina de Vere, Duncan MacLeod. He was just leaving." Venom dripped from every syllable.

Duncan let his face fall, making his eyes wide and tragic. "Adam? What are you talking about?"

The woman twisted out of Methos' arms. "What is all this about, Adam?"

"He's joking!" Methos told her, glaring daggers at Duncan. "Tell her this is all a joke, MacLeod." It wasn't a request.

Duncan's lower lip trembled. God, he was good. "Were you joking when you told me you loved me? Or is that just a line to get me into your bed?" He was vaguely aware of Joe retreating to the opposite end of the bar, his shoulders shaking silently. Smart man.

"You didn't tell me you were bisexual," Marina said evenly. It was all Duncan could do not to laugh. This was going so well.

"I'm not!" Methos blurted.

"So you're gay." Said with a very Parisian matter-of-fact-ness.

"No!" Methos was shouting now and people were starting to turn and stare.

"But you slept with this poor man."

Duncan blinked at her pathetically, remorseless with the taste of victory.

Methos narrowed his eyes at Duncan, lowering his voice as he hissed, "I'd sooner sleep with a rancid goat."

"Adam! That's a terrible thing to say about someone who loves you so." She picked up her handbag from the top of the bar. "I think I should go. You boys have a lot to talk about." Tossing her head, she brushed off the hand Methos placed on her arm.

"Marina, wait, please," Methos implored, his voice completely at odds with the death in his eyes when he shot a look at Duncan.

"No, Adam. I'm leaving. You should stay and work things out with your friend."

"He's not my friend," Methos growled.

"Goodbye, Adam," Marina said calmly. "Don't call me." She sashayed out of the bar with her head high.

Duncan had to give her points for class. He also had to get out of Le Blues without losing his head.

That might prove to be something of a challenge.

***

Part Five: Return of the Adam -- The Pierson Strikes Back.

Duncan watched Methos watching the beautiful woman walking out of the bar. There was still a chance he could get out of here with his head still on his shoulders, but it was getting smaller all the time. He'd never run from a fight in four hundred years, but right now it was looking like the smart option.

On the other hand, faint heart never won fair.... Duncan never got to finish the truism (which was, perhaps, not terribly true after all, there being very little either fair or maidenly about Methos), because Methos was turning around to face him and suddenly all his survival instincts were on high alert.

They pinged even louder when Methos smiled. A quick, nasty smile that said no good could come of this. And it didn't.

The attack came out of nowhere, stunning in its obvious simplicity.

"You gave my sister herpes, you bastard!" Methos shouted, loud enough to be heard in Beijing.

Duncan, stunned into gap-jawed silence, heard a couple of people behind him muttering French translations for the benefit of their friends. Great. Fucking perfect.

Then two unexpected and yet reasonably predictable things happened:

At the top of his voice, Methos yelled (in French this time for the edification of the majority of the clientele), "I hope your tiny, diseased prick falls off!"

And a large, creamy, cold cocktail landed on Duncan's head.

***

"That was quite a show you put on last night, buddy," Joe said as he put Duncan's drink in front of him.

"Thanks," Duncan said absently. Yeah, he was drinking more than usual and spending a lot of time at the scene of the crime--err...the bar, but that was just another thing he could blame on Methos. The bastard. It wasn't like he could spend all his time at home alternately jerking off and plotting. Sometimes he needed to get out and drink and plot. Otherwise he'd run out of tissues.

"Take you long to get the cocksucking cowboy out of your hair?" Joe was having entirely too much fun with this, Duncan decided.

He glared at him. "No." Actually he'd had to shampoo three times before he'd got all the butterscotch smell out. But he wasn't telling Joe that.

"Cos, you know, it's damned hard to get the smell of a cocksucker out of anything usually. The girls are always complaining about it." Joe's grin was sly and knowing.

"All right," Duncan said, slamming his drink down and looking Joe in the eye. "How much do you know?"

The grin widened. Joe was clearly loving this. "I know you're in a mess of trouble, MacLeod." He laughed, shaking his head. "Adam's got you by the short hairs, hasn't he?"

Duncan felt his mouth twist. "The bastard." Duncan had sent him flowers this morning. With a note of apology. Some of it was even sincere. Okay, Methos was a bastard, but he was his bastard and Duncan wanted to keep him that way. If only Adam wasn't in the way....

But he wouldn't be for much longer. And then Methos would be in Duncan's bed where he belonged.

Because eventually Methos would forgive him for last night's and any future stunts -- though it might take him a little while, a lot of groveling, and possibly sizable applications of hard currency -- and then he could take that long, hot, infuriating body to his bed and screw him senseless. Now there was a thought to keep him warm in the meantime....

And Joe was still talking, Duncan noticed in the midst of his recurring Methos-fantasy. Duncan shook his head. "Sorry, Joe? What did you say?"

"I said: if you two jokers want to keep drinking in my place, you'd better start acting your ages." He might even have been serious, but Duncan could see the amusement lurking around his eyes.

"Sure, Joe. Sorry," Duncan said, trying to mean it. He looked around. Lunchtime drinkers were starting to filter in and he recognized a few faces from the night before. And they looked like they recognized him. There was muttering and pointing. The occasional giggle. It was time to go.

He tossed a bunch of notes on the bar to pay his tab and stood up. "Don't worry, Joe," he said as he shrugged into his coat. "It won't be for much longer."

Oddly, Joe didn't seem overly reassured by this. Duncan shrugged; he clearly lacked Immortal perspective.

***

Bearding the lion in his den had seemed such a good idea at the time. A simple confrontation to sort this idiocy out at last. Simple, straightforward. Honest. And okay, he was less than confident that anything to do with Methos could be described as any of the above, but damn it, short of killing the man or going quietly insane, he was running out of options.

But now that he was standing in front of Methos' front door, feeling his presence screeching in his head like faulty brakes and wondering what the hell he was going to say when and if Methos actually opened the door, he was less than certain that this was anything approaching a good idea.

He had his best smile all prepared, but it fled in the split-second between Methos flinging open the door and the sword point reaching his throat. He swallowed and tried to resurrect it.

"Hello, Methos."

"Hello, Methos?" Methos hissed incredulously while the sword point dug a little deeper. "You fuck over my date -- try to fuck over my entire life -- my carefully constructed life, thank you very much -- and all you can say is 'hello, Methos'?" The sword was whisked away. "Get inside."

Duncan did as he was told, slightly surprised not to be dead already. The door slammed shut behind him. Methos' sword seemed very large all of a sudden and Duncan made himself look elsewhere. Oh good, his gift had arrived. It was sitting, large and resplendent on the kitchen table. Most of it anyway. A single blood-red petal lying on the table gave a hint to its fate. His long-stemmed roses were now just long stemmed...stems. Someone (and there were no prizes for guessing whom) had lopped off every single flower head.

Which was probably a Sign. And not a good one. Suddenly, his neck itched. But it didn't stop him trying on the smile again and saying, "I see you got my roses." He could still salvage this.

No, he couldn't. Cold steel plunged through his chest, the death he'd been expecting flooding over him in a hot, panicked rush.

He died to the sound of Methos snickering.

***

Methos was still snickering when