100

It's a long time to be married, or whatever it is they are. One hundred years, give or take hours, minutes, seconds. A long time, even in a long life. A long time to get used to shoes on the table (Methos left superstition behind with goat-herding) and coffee-maker ineptness (Duncan gets the hang of one model just in time for obsolescence) and all the other killing offences that make marriage worthwhile.

One hundred birthdays, one hundred anniversaries, one hundred New Years Eves. Maybe a million eye-rolls, sighs, well-aimed dishes.

Thirty-six thousand five hundred nights that never get old.

***

100.1

"Happy New Year," Duncan whispers, though the year is hours old before Methos lets him speak. He hasn't missed it; his breath was given in a good cause. Now parts of him are warm, wet, sore, sticky and ecstatic in turn. It's all good. Especially the ecstatic part.

"Happy Anniversary," Methos purrs against his back. His hand is warm where it covers Duncan's hip, magicking it into a hotspot.

Duncan can't help arching his back, just a little. It never gets old; the feel of Methos' hands on his body. Familiarity breeding intimacy not contempt, not boredom but mastery.

***

100.2

Not one-fiftieth of his lifetime and yet...everything. Overwhelming. Brilliant sunshine and darkest midnight. One hundred years. Pain, pleasure, pain in pleasure, pleasure in pain. Constancy, that one infidelity - though he let them both live in a moment of generosity - or was it idiocy?

Possibly not idiocy, he thinks, with a warm satin body pressed up against him, sweaty, spent and sweet. Possibly insanity and still, a comforting madness. Happiness that looked like lunacy. Felt like intimacy. Dugs its claws in like permanency. And yet, still....

"Happy New Year," Duncan whispers, threading Methos' fingers through his own.

Certainly.

***

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