From the Sky to the Stars

The musty green smell of the river filled Methos' nose as he floated, gazing up at the clear sky. Strange to feel the fingers of the water holding up his body with almost no effort from him. Maybe it was magic. Perhaps that was why the river was forbidden. He wasn't supposed to be here, he knew that. He couldn't even tell Demos and Lan where he was going when he sneaked away from the village this morning. It felt strange to do anything without his best friend and his brother. They would never understand.

But for this he would have dared much. To move in the water, in it and through it, and let it take your weight and move you where it would; that was a pleasure beyond words. Soft and cool and strangely freeing. But the elders forbade such things. He could be whipped for it or worse, he knew that, and his heart thudded a little quicker at the thought.

There was not even a word for what he was doing, immersing himself in the water in this way. But it was sweet beyond the need of a word. The cool water was silky against his skin and though the river was muddy -- so much so that he could not see his feet beneath the water -- it felt oddly cleansing. Was his skin really so pale? He ducked his head down beneath the surface again, too-thin arms and legs kicking strongly until he breached the surface, shaking the water from his tangled hair and pushing it out of his face.

He wondered a little how it was that he could move like this in the water, how he knew what to do to keep the water from dragging him down into its dull, green depths and taking him to the other world. Maybe it was part of what made him different, he thought as he dived like a waterfowl and bobbed straight back up. He had always known that he was not Lan's blood brother, not born from their mother's belly. But most of the time, he didn't think about it. Lan was his brother, Mother and Father his parents, the only ones he'd ever known. But he was different all the same. And maybe this water-thing was part of it...maybe not. Methos kicked his feet a little, making the water birds downstream fuss and flap. He let the thoughts flow around his head, not striving for answers, just musing. Then he relaxed back into the river's gentle grasp and just floated.

Ahh...life was good. The gods surely would not have forbidden this.

***

He was floating...his arms and legs were loose and boneless, moving with the ebb and flow of the water that held him. Was he still dreaming? Had that been a dream or a memory? It was all blurring too much to define right now. Still in the water though. Definitely. Methos drew in a shuddering breath. Seawater?

Something soft was brushing across his hand, softer than silk...seaweed? No... But his head was so thick and slow, Methos couldn't make it cooperate, couldn't force his limbs into obedience. The water was warm and moving hurt. Pain bloomed through his body as Methos tried to lift his head to see where in the hell he was. Even opening his eyes was too much, so he left them closed. His head was still attached, that much was clear, so the rest would just have to wait. Unconsciousness claimed him once more.

Pain dragged him back to the world as the gentle floating sensation was replaced by a cold, rough hardness at his back. Someone was pulling him along, someone strong, he realized vaguely, feeling the arms around his chest tighten. But this was good too, there was an easy familiarity to those arms and he let himself sink into their embrace with a soft sigh. He was laid down again and the pain that shot through his head forced a whimper from his throat.

"Methos..." came a voice, gentle and concerned. "Methos, can you hear me?" A hand stroked his face tentatively and he turned into it, frowning with the sharp ache that followed. There was nothing else for it; he was going to have to open his eyes. Damn...

"Hey, Mac," he answered weakly. "Where...?" He couldn't manage any more and the fact was starting to worry him. Whatever had happened had really knocked him for a loop. Duncan too, if the way he looked was any clue. His long hair hung down in ropey strands and water sluiced from his skin, leaving tracks through the thick mat of hair on his chest. Under his tan, Duncan's face was pale and his teeth worried at his bottom lip. His hand hovered over Methos' face as if touching him while awake was different than when he was asleep. Which he'd clearly been doing, Methos realized, if he hadn't dreamt the whole thing.

Which was entirely possible, he realized with a start. The throbbing in his head was beginning to abate but his memory remained stubbornly fogged. However they had come to be here -- wherever here was -- he had no memory at all of it. Methos managed to smile up at Duncan's worried face; pleased when the younger man returned it with a grateful smile of his own. Warmth unfurled in Methos' gut as Duncan's hand descended at last and rested against his forehead.

"Feeling better?" he asked in a low honey and whiskey tone as his thumb stroked Methos brow. "You had me worried for a while there, that was quite a hit you took."

"What the hell happened, Mac?" Methos rasped through a throat that felt like he'd been drinking liquid sand.

Duncan frowned. "Don't you remember? The plane went down. I'm sorry, I just couldn't get it down safely after the engine died. The controls froze..." He trailed off with a haunted look towards the ocean, before quickly turning back to look at Methos lying on the sand. "You took a pretty hard knock to the head when we went down, it's no wonder you can't remember it."

Methos shook his head and immediately wished that he hadn't. Damn, that hurt. "Where are we?" he asked, whispering in deference to the pain.

Duncan's eyes slid away and he pulled his hand back from Methos' face. "I don't know...not exactly anyway. I don't even know if the distress beacon is working or if the Mayday was picked up. I'm sorry, Methos...this is all my fault."

Duncan's stricken look cut deep and Methos sat up before he thought about how much it would hurt. Being vertical was a whole new adventure in pain and he hissed sharply, reaching out and grabbing Duncan's arm, squeezing hard. Damn...what the hell had happened to his head? It felt like someone had pried it open with a dull spoon. He wanted to speak, to tell Duncan that it would be all right, that he wasn't to blame, but the pain turned into nausea and Methos had to turn away from him, his guts heaving acid bile onto the sand. He sank onto his back, panting for breath, waiting for the accursed world to stop spinning.

"Methos!" Duncan cried out, clearly distressed. "Just lie still." He grasped Methos' shoulders firmly, his thumbs circling over the barely covered skin below.

"MacLeod, what the hell happened to me?" Methos groaned.

Duncan swallowed, his larynx bobbing in his bronzed throat as he began. "There was a piece of the Cessna's windscreen in your head after the crash...it was jammed in there pretty good, I pulled it out when I found you in the water, but it was a long time healing. It took a while to get us both here, though...we were pretty far out."

There was a good question, where was here? "Is this the island that we flew over? Just before the plane went down?" The thought of how close he had come to truly dying was pushed away for another time -- a time when he could feel something other than sick panic. He had almost died, and there wasn't a single trick in his arsenal that could have prevented it. The thought was terrifying, and suddenly all he needed was touch, the reassurance of human contact.

Duncan nodded and pulled his hands away from Methos' shoulders as if he'd just remembered that they were there. "Sorry."

Methos caught one of Duncan's hands in his before it could be snatched out of reach, folding his fingers over the back of Duncan's wrist. "Don't be. It's okay."

And there it was again -- that delicate frisson of sensation that rippled through him as Duncan's eyes met his. It made Methos wish for things he knew he shouldn't; made him want and crave and desire. It made him wonder why Duncan wasn't pulling away.

***

All Duncan could do was stare stupidly into Methos' face as the older man caught his hand and held it. It felt right -- indisputably right -- for Methos to be touching him. Duncan had once thought he'd be afraid, should it come to this, but now, with only Methos and himself and the vast nothingness of the unknown before them, it only made him crave more. But right now they were stranded in the middle of nowhere and a string of imperatives shrieked at the back of his mind.

The hand that held his wrist was ice-cold, he realized with a guilty start. Methos was freezing, despite the warmth of the midday sun slanting upon them; the head injury plus their hours of immersion must have hit Methos a lot harder than he'd first thought.

"C'mon, old man," Duncan muttered as he struggled to his feet, "we have to get dry. You're freezing."

Methos still wasn't fully back to himself, Duncan saw, as the hazel eyes narrowed and squinted at him, clearly trying to focus. Whatever damage Methos had sustained clearly hadn't finished healing. They needed shelter, a fire and something to eat in that order. The shelter part wasn't going to be too difficult -- there was a tumble of rocks at one end of the beach that formed a natural windbreak and suntrap. The rest might be rather more of a challenge. Although getting Methos there in his present condition might be a bit harder. Ah, well, they could only try.

"Do you think you can stand? Shall I carry you?" Duncan asked, ignoring the sharp look he received for even suggesting such a thing and managing not to grin.

***

Methos didn't mean to groan as he struggled to his feet with Duncan's arm firmly around him, and it really wasn't in the game plan for his knees to buckle like a schoolgirl with the vapors when he tried to take a step. But he did groan and he almost fell and Duncan looked at him as if to repeat the offer, Shall I carry you? Methos replied with a look that attempted to say, Try it and die. He caught the small smile that Duncan couldn't hide as the younger man tugged him more closely to his side, so close in fact that Methos could feel every bump of bone and muscle in the solid body pressed against his own.

They struggled to the rocks and Duncan eased him gently down onto them. Methos sank down gratefully, settling his back against the slope of a large boulder. Duncan sat beside him, pulling Methos against the warmth of his body. He had nothing left in him to fight it, so Methos relaxed and gave in to the sensation of being sheltered and cared for. Big capable hands stroked his face as his eyes drifted shut. Fingertips traced his cheekbones and the edge of his jaw, melting his resistance in their wake.

Warmth radiated from the rocks, penetrating his skin, slowly banishing the shivering cold. He turned to Duncan, shifting a little closer to the large, almost-bare body. Methos' last thought as he went to sleep was of how easy this was, how unexpectedly simple, to lie in Duncan's arms and just let it be. Such a dangerous thing...

***

Duncan knew the moment the man in his arms let go and fell asleep at last. Real sleep -- not the deathlike unconsciousness that had held him captive a short while ago. And it was so tempting to take advantage of it, to learn the curves and hollows of his fine, strong body while the sarcastic tongue was silent. But he couldn't breach the fragile trust between them, not now, so he made do with learning every detail of the older man's form with his eyes.

He already knew that Methos was beautiful, but he had never been more so than now, lying in his arms. Strength, grace, resilience, and unmistakable masculinity blended to make Methos uniquely compelling. Too compelling not to touch.

A fine smattering of sand lay just above Methos' silky black brows and Duncan reached out a finger to smooth it away. The skin beneath his finger was warm and soft, startlingly addictive. Because it couldn't matter, Duncan dared another stroke of his finger to the sleeping man's forehead. Hard to imagine that only a short while ago this had been the site of one of the ugliest wounds Duncan had ever seen.

He'd been so terrified when he'd found Methos floating dead in the sea, the piece of Plexiglas jammed into his head. Duncan had been grateful that the seawater he had swallowed had cleared out his stomach, because he'd have vomited again if there had been anything left. Eight inches lower and Methos could have lost his head. Eight inches lower and Duncan could have lost the most important person in his life.

He wasn't sure when Methos had become so vital to him and right now, the only thing that Duncan was sure of was that it didn't matter. An inexplicable lightness, a bounding sense of joy completely unsupported by their current circumstances, filled him, infused his whole body with happiness. Now when he looked into the future that he saw for himself the old man was always there, standing beside him. Always. Just side by side. Just equals. Nothing more -- nothing less. It was what he'd wanted his whole life, and now it was within his reach.

Literally.

So he reached out...and with the tips of his fingers traced the bones of Methos' face, traced the fine lines, the shadowed hollows and the sweet curves. If you looked you could see many things in a face like this, Duncan thought. The child he had been so very long ago was there still in the sweep of thick, curling eyelashes and the shape of his small mouth, tender and vulnerable. The gawky adolescent was there in those wonderful ears and the high bridge of his beautiful nose. And the man he'd been at the time of his death was there too; all mixed in with the man he still was until it was impossible to tell one from the other.

He was there in the faint creases beside eyes and mouth; the lines that turned to deep valleys with that rare broad smile that Duncan loved so. He was there in the strong curve of a jaw all blue-stubbled and stubborn. And he was especially there in that neck. Duncan swallowed hard as he stroked gently over that pale, muscled column.

Christ, that throat... For months after Kristin was just a memory, Duncan was still beating off to visions of Methos kneeling at his feet with Duncan's sword pressed lightly to that glorious neck, Methos' mouth open, red and inviting. Even now, years later, the memory still had the power to arouse him. Duncan shifted uncomfortably, his pants over-tight suddenly. He didn't want to do anything to wake Methos and he could not bear to break the trust Methos was showing in letting him watch over him like this so he willed the erection away -- not without difficulty.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry and sore -- raw from the seawater he had purged from it earlier. Fresh water was what they needed now, more than anything. Duncan could feel his tongue swelling from thirst and Methos, too, would be parched when he awoke. Carefully, Duncan untangled his arms from around Methos' body and arranged the sleeping man comfortably. Duncan stood and looked around him properly for the first time since he had crawled up the beach.

God, it was beautiful here. Jewel colors as far as he could see; aquamarine ocean, sapphire sky, emerald forest and a beach the exact shade of a champagne diamond. They couldn't have found a more beautiful place to be alone if they had tried. It was perfect.

The pale, golden beach stretched out in front of him, a wide strip of sugar-fine sand almost a mile long. At the far end a rocky headland rose, high and dark, skirted by the white splash of surf as it broke against the cliffs. Waves splashed over the long ridge of a reef in the shallow water, barely hinting at the danger below the glassy blue-green. Duncan dragged his gaze away from the vast empty sea and climbed carefully down over the rocks to head towards the forest.

Palm trees lined the beach above the edge of the soft dry sand. Duncan slipped between the silver-gray trunks as he made his way into the coolness of the rainforest. Heavy, fecund life buzzed and throbbed all around him. Bunches of heavy fruit hung from beneath their waving fronds, but he was unwilling just yet to take a chance on them being edible. Soft, mulch leaf-litter crunched under his bare feet as he pushed through the dense undergrowth and he could hear the skitterings of small animals as they darted away from his path.

There had to be water around here somewhere. Even if it was only a spring, there could not be this explosion of life without it. It was just a question of tracking it down. Duncan climbed up onto the side of a giant deadfall, craning his neck to look around. There, where the forest fell away down the slope of a hill, that seemed the most likely place to look.

He jumped down from the tree and made his way further into the forest, moving quicker now that he had a direction. He hissed in pain as the long thorns of a heavy vine caught at his arm when he brushed it away. He ignored the brief tingle of Immortal healing as it sparked over his skin and forged on down the hill. Yes. He could smell it now, feel it on his skin, there was water nearby.

He knew it was there and yet he didn't find it until he was up to his ankle in it. He stopped and lifted his foot from the cool stream, smiling at himself faintly. The stream was well camouflaged, hidden by the spreading branches of wide-leaved bushes as they stretched out from each side to meet in the middle.

Duncan sank to his knees and scooped up a handful of water, drinking deeply. It was clear but stained like weak tea from the millennia of fallen leaves that had sunk into its depths. Over and over again, he brought handfuls of the icy liquid to his lips, drinking until his gut ached. It was wonderful, but finding it only solved half his problem. He still needed to find away to bring some back for Methos.

He straightened and looked around, searching for inspiration. There had to be something he could use for a container. Broad leaves were looked at and discarded, bark too fragile and unreliable. At last his gaze fell on a broken branch, thick and about a foot long, lying at the base of a tall tree. He picked it up and looked at it more closely. Insects had hollowed the innards and although the open end was ragged and splintered the other was whole, forming a kind of tube that looked as if it should hold water, if only long enough to get back to the beach and his friend.

It was with a sense of immense relief that Duncan stepped out of the forest and back onto the beach with the brimming makeshift container held steadily in his hands. He'd lost some of the water in the careful trek back from the creek, but enough remained to give Methos some relief from his thirst. As his feet sank into the warm, soft sand Duncan felt the first brush of the older man's presence feathering at the base of his skull. It quickened his heart and his steps as he made his way back to Methos.

"Methos," Duncan said quietly as he stepped back onto their rocky shelter. "Methos, wake up. I have water for you."

Hazel eyes flickered blearily and fixed at last on Duncan's face. "Wonderful," he croaked, past thirst-swollen lips. "Bloody wonderful."

Duncan knelt beside him and held the water to his lips, tilting it slightly. Methos drank deeply, draining the last of the liquid with an audible gulp. He couldn't have looked more pleased if he'd been given an ice-cold beer, Duncan thought, as he lifted the branch away and settled down next to him again. The pleased look soon faded, exhaustion taking its place, as Methos nestled back into Duncan's shoulder and fell asleep. Which was slightly unexpected, but nice all the same. Duncan wrapped his arms loosely around the other man's slender body and made himself comfortable.

And as the rays of the afternoon sun soaked through his skin and into his bones, Duncan grew tired. The rocks beneath them radiated heat too, and it was like being gently baked in a very slow oven. His eyelids were heavy, even his head felt as if it weighed too much. But it was wonderful to be warm at long last. He yawned and gathered Methos more closely to his chest, resting his cheek on the salt-crisped spikes of hair. Then Duncan closed his eyes and slept, dreaming of bread and Grimm's fairytales.

***

Methos never lingered between sleep and wakefulness -- he was one, then the other very quickly. It was a useful trait and one that he had actively cultivated over the years. So when he found himself apparently fully awake and wrapped in Duncan MacLeod he actually wondered at his sanity. It was the only logical conclusion after all. Duncan's arms were crossed over Methos' chest, his head heavy on top of Methos' own and their legs were tangled in a Gordian knot Methos was loath to untangle, though he knew he should. It was heavenly and therefore not to be trusted.

Despite all the longing looks and yearning almost-touches, Methos had never believed in this. Never truly believed that Duncan could set aside all the disappointment and distrust between them and want to take their relationship in a different direction. He'd come on this trip to prove that once and for all.

Still, it was one thing to sleep wrapped in each other's arms, quite another to declare a desire face to face, awake and oriented. Then warm velvet skin slipped over his own as Duncan shifted, nestling closer, and Methos decided that this time, he could live with being wrong.

"Hello," a warmly accented voice purred close by, a low, intimate sound that had no business slithering in his ear. "Feeling better yet?"

Methos couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. He wriggled and turned to face Duncan, still wrapped (trapped?) in his arms and making no effort to be free. "Quite well, thank you," he answered with a small, sly curl of his mouth. "What's going on here, Mac?" At last, Methos moved his eyes from the spot where they'd been fixed, somewhere to the right of Duncan's ear, and looked into his eyes instead. "You aren't generally given to playing games."

The younger man met his gaze evenly, the corners of his eyes crinkling just the slightest bit. "No, I'm not," he answered soberly.

"Not what?" Methos asked without heat.

"Playing games."

Infuriating man. "Then what is it?"

"What?"

"This!" Methos waved a hand at the non-existent space between them.

"I'm holding you," Duncan agreed easily.

"Ye-es," Methos replied in two syllables. "But why?"

"Because you needed holding?" Now Duncan really was playing with him, Methos could see it in the slight lift of a heavy brow.

"I see...and you came to this conclusion exactly how?" Duncan had made no move to loosen the hold he had on Methos and he had to wonder at this slightly, somewhere in the back of his mind.

"You were sick and cold. And you didn't precisely fight me off, you know."

"Still not explaining how you came to be plastered all over me like a cheap suit," Methos growled.

"Is that really what you want to know?" That silken purr was back and coupled with the heat in the eyes that had his trapped, Methos was in serious trouble.

What the hell? "No. I want to know what you think you're doing looking at me like I'm the last pint of water at the oasis," he snapped, smacking the backs of his fingers against Duncan's chest lightly.

"You mean, like I want you?" Duncan asked with far more innocence than Methos was sure he was entitled.

"Mm-mmm..." Methos agreed with a certain impatience infusing the rumbled consonant.

"But I do want you, Methos. I thought you knew that."

"But that was just...you didn't actually...you don't really...." It had to be the head injury, there wasn't any other reason why he was suddenly struck with a speech disorder.

"Methos? Can I interrupt?" Duncan interrupted.

Methos shut up gratefully, closing his eyes for a crucial second. It must have been crucial, because he missed Duncan dispensing with the last few inches between them and settling his mouth over Methos' own. Oh my. And because it felt as if something had been settled between them, even though logically he knew that it hadn't, Methos opened to the kiss, making soft encouraging sounds in the back of his throat.

Duncan pulled back a little, looking into his eyes wonderingly. "If I kiss you again, will you promise to make that same noise?" he begged roughly.

"If you promise to kiss me like that again, I can practically guarantee it," Methos whispered, pushing Duncan onto his back and sealing their mouths back together.

If it wasn't the same sound then it was one very like it. Methos gave up caring what he sounded like by the time Duncan's tongue pressed into his mouth, flickering and teasing. He threw himself into the kiss, loving Duncan with every caress of tongue and lip, every whispery, sucking glide and every deep, searching plunge. And feeling loved in return...

A chill wind blew in off the sea and Methos shivered despite the expanse of warm flesh beneath him. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and squinted at the sky; the sun was low and red, almost ready to sink into the horizon. "Mac," he rasped, pushing away to sit up, "we're going to have to find somewhere better to sleep. This isn't going to be very pleasant once the tide comes all the way in." He shivered again as the wind picked up.

Duncan sat up, looking around them assessingly. "It's a bit late to be building a shelter today. What if we have a look around down that way?" he suggested, pointing to the rocky headland at the other end of the beach, it was possible that it might conceal a cave, and levering himself to his feet. Methos drank him in as he stood there above him, tall and well made, rumpled and sand-crusted, and utterly delicious. Then Duncan turned and reached down, offering a hand to help him up. Methos took his hand, met his eyes and stood. And when they were face to face, Duncan didn't release his hand at all, didn't even offer to, merely held his hand and his gaze for a long moment while the sunset painted them gold. "I was scared," Duncan said at last in a quiet, low voice. "Before." He reached up with his free hand and lightly caressed Methos' forehead.

Methos knew which 'before'. "So was I," he answered. "It was a little closer than I like my close shaves." No sarcasm there, not even a trace of snideness. Absent and unmissed.

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Me, too." And somewhere in the banal conversation, a great number of things that weren't said were said quite clearly. Methos felt something he hadn't known was tight ease inside his chest as he stood holding Duncan's hand in the light of the dying day, watching emotions play across his face like shadows.

"We should," Duncan rasped at long last, "go find somewhere to spend the night."

***

Find somewhere to spend the night. He'd said it easily enough, feeling as if he should have perhaps felt differently -- shyer, more embarrassed, maybe. But they'd crossed a line sometime ago and the rules had changed. Duncan looked over at Methos as they walked down the beach and a small shiver rippled through him. Sometime soon it was going to happen, he would take Methos into his arms and perhaps into his body and nothing would ever be the same ever again. The thought was decidedly enticing.

So, purely because he wanted to, and he could, and because Methos looked so damn fine in the blue-tinted twilight, Duncan pounced on him, grabbing him from behind and wrapping his arms around him in a massive bear-hug.

"MacLeod?!" Methos' shout was part shock, part outrage and all feigned; Duncan could feel it in the infinitesimal melting of the slender body against his own. "What the hell?"

Duncan nestled his mouth against Methos' ear. "You're very beautiful, you know," he whispered in a tone somewhere between carnal and conversational.

"Now you're being silly," Methos scoffed, twisting to free himself. "Are you sure you didn't get hit in the head?" he asked, planting himself squarely in Duncan's path.

Duncan grinned. "Beautiful. Even when you're pissy."

Methos regarded him carefully; Duncan could see it in the telltale narrowing of his eyes as they searched his face in the fading light. Methos cocked his eyebrow quizzically, then turned and sauntered off down the beach, throwing over his shoulder, "I do hope you remember how to rub two sticks together, MacLeod."

Duncan shook his head to try to keep up with the sharp detour the conversation had taken. For a moment an image so startlingly erotic leapt into his mind and he was quite unable to answer. Then his brain began to function on a more practical level.  Ahh, yes. Fire. Methos was reminding him of the absence thereof, which apparently had become his responsibility, he wasn't sure when. And any matches they might have had were undoubtedly soaked and useless by now. Duncan sighed; making a fire without matches was a lot harder than it sounded. Maybe he'd get lucky and stub his toe on a flint.

***

"Not much of a boy scout, after all, are we, MacLeod?" Methos teased from his position of comfort, sitting with his back against the smooth trunk of a palm tree. He watched Duncan struggle with the flint he stumbled across in a fit of good fortune, Methos' dagger from the harness on his back and a handful of dry leaves with only the fingernail moon to light him. He had plenty of sparks but so far they had failed to catch.

Duncan stopped what he was doing for a moment and Methos could see the muscle in the younger man's jaw working as he struggled to control his temper. "If you think it's as easy as all that," Duncan shot back, his accent thickening, "you can get your ass over here and do it yourself."

"Yes, well, let's just leave my arse out of it for now, shall we?" Methos returned easily, unmoved by the ire. "Are you sure you remember how to do it?"

"Yes, I'm sure that I remember how to do it!" Duncan snapped, striking the knife and flint together even harder. A spark leapt onto the tiny pile of dry grass and leaves and began to smolder minutely. "Shit! It worked."

Methos leapt up to help him shelter the tiny spark from the light ocean breeze, cupping his hands around the leaf pile, while Duncan coaxed the spark into a flame. Methos couldn't remember the last time that making a fire had been so satisfying. He picked up a small twig from the pile they had gathered and poked it in beneath the flame, looking up to find Duncan's eyes on his.

"Is this the part where someone says something painful about sparks flying between us?" Duncan asked with a surprisingly wry smile.

"I was going to go with 'you light my fire, Highlander,' actually." The kindling was smoking and small orange flames danced in the depths of the pile. Methos concentrated on feeding the twigs into it, but he couldn't help the grin lurking around the corners of his mouth.

"Do I?"

Duncan's tone was so tentative that Methos looked up quickly, searching the other man's face for meaning. The open yearning he found there nearly brought him undone. He reached out, clasping a hand around Duncan's wrist as he moved to place another stick on the fire. "No... You're ugly, cold and graceless and I haven't been dreaming about having you since the day we met," Methos told him in tones of great sincerity, seeing the sarcasm register on Duncan's face.

"I see. And, of course, I never dream about you, never wake up so hard I could burst just thinking about having you, because I find you so vastly unattractive," Duncan murmured, desire shivering through the answer.

"Unattractive, huh?" Methos asked softly, his thumb stroking a circle on Duncan's skin.

"Vastly so," Duncan agreed. "Ugly and graceless, eh?" he asked in a whisper as soft as a caress.

"Oh yes, and don't forget cold." Methos found Duncan's eyes on him, almost drowning in the desire there.

"Oh yes, mustn't forget that. Cold, too." A hand that wasn't cold at all snaked out and curved around the back of Methos' neck, cupping it gently.

"So, of course, I don't want you more than my next breath," Methos managed to rasp past the sudden thickness in his throat.

Duncan was apparently calling his bluff, because he leaned across the space between them, fastened his mouth to Methos' and stole his next breathe entirely away. His next several breaths, as a matter of fact. A beautiful kiss, ripe with dreams and promises, and over far too quickly. "I want you, Methos."

"Oh yes." Methos heard the desperation in his voice and couldn't bring himself to care.

Duncan held his gaze, flames reflecting in the darkness. "And you?"

"My whole life." The words were out before he could stop them -- a truth he hadn't known was there until it hung in the air between them.

"You feel that too? Since the moment we met I've felt that we were headed towards something more. Something fated. Like time doesn't matter anymore, as if we're moving outside of it. Moving from the dark to the light." Duncan shook his head and smiled at Methos as if to apologize for his flight of fancy.

Methos returned the smile, released Duncan's arm and sought to lighten the mood once more. "Well if we don't get this fire lit and keep it lit, we're going to be stumbling around this island in the dark." It was dark, really dark, Methos realized, glancing about.

The short, tropical twilight was gone and night had fallen, the moon was out but it really was only a sliver, and not up to lighting much. But it was still very warm, especially here, where the forest met the beach and the trees surrounding the clearing where they sat diffused the breezes. The plan had originally been to light a couple of branches to use as torches while they searched for more substantial shelter.

"We needn't stumble about anywhere, really, you know," Duncan said, gazing into the growing fire. "We could just camp here tonight. We both need to rest." He poked another piece of wood under the blaze; making sparks fly into the air. "We'll need to go looking for food in the morning."

"I guess here's as good as anywhere," Methos answered, looking about the small clearing with its sandy ground and dense vegetation all around. "It doesn't look like it'll rain, so we should be okay. Not comfortable, but okay." And he was tired beyond words, dying was a bitch of a thing.

And so they built up the fire with the wood they had gathered and when it was burning steadily, infusing their small haven with heat and light, they settled themselves with their backs resting against the side of a huge fallen log. Methos wasn't even surprised to find a large, square hand folding around his own. It felt right. He leaned closer to Duncan's shoulder, smiling to himself when he felt Duncan leaning back.

"Methos?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"You already did that. Twice."

"You're counting." In tones of pleased amusement. "And actually, it was three. Can I kiss you again, anyway?" Before Methos could answer hand came up and tilted his jaw until his face was angled to meet Duncan's perfectly. Full lips covered his firmly, tasted briefly and then withdrew a little. "Yes?" Duncan breathed.

As if he could refuse Duncan anything -- ever. Methos answered by closing the distance between them, fastening hungrily on Duncan's mouth, seeking out his tongue and teasing it, tangling it with his own. And Duncan met him equally. Met his passion and desperation. Answered his desire with his own until the kiss became an end in itself. Not a prelude, not a precursor to anything, but an exploration -- a communication -- on a level that was inexplicably intimate. Need for need. Methos let himself get lost in it, disregarding time and expectation, and the moment was infinitely sweet.

Gradually the tenor of the kiss changed, became languid and lazy, a slower savoring of taste and texture that was no less compelling. Pleasure flooded his body, heavy and hot. Methos blinked a little dazedly as Duncan's mouth lifted from his.

"So, we're really going to do this?" Duncan asked, his voice rough and breathy.

"So it would seem," Methos answered, tracing a finger down one side of Duncan's face. "But not now," he continued, gathering Duncan into his arms so that the Scot's side was pressed against his own. "We have time, let's not rush this. Right now we're both exhausted."

"I know," Duncan whispered, one hand stroking carefully over Methos' chest. "And it will be worth waiting for."

Oh yes.

***

"Your hair is wet, Methos," his mother said quietly.

The denial was on his lips before he could think, until he saw the lack of anger in her face. He sat down beside her on the ground, picking up another scraper and automatically joining her in working the deerskin stretched out before them. "Yes."

"You know it's forbidden to enter the river." She kept her voice low, as if there was someone around to hear them. Methos looked about; there were only a few toddling babes, wandering around and playing in the dust outside a nearby hut.

"I know." This was important and he wished his voice didn't sound so childish and reedy.

"Then, why? It is very dangerous."

Methos paused in his rhythmic movements, wiping the yellow fat from his scraper onto the dish his mother had been using for the purpose. "I cannot explain it. I know the danger, but it draws me, calls to me even though I know it could kill me." His heart thudded in his bony chest to say such things aloud. "It is so beautiful," he added, as if that explained it all. "Not just the way it looks, but the way it feels, the way it makes me feel."

His mother sighed quietly. "Methos, you are the child of my heart, if not my body. I have always known your path would not be ours, ever since we found you. But while you live with us your ways must be our ways. I would not lose you over a fancy."

"But I will always live with you here. Where else would I go? This is my place." Even as he said it, Methos knew the truth. He knew that someday he would leave this place, the only home he had ever known, and go off in search of the answers to all the questions that teemed in his mind and made his father growl with impatience.

"I do not know, Methos," his mother replied, reaching out to tuck astray lock of Methos' hair behind one ear. He leaned his face into her hand quickly, the familiar dry hardness more comforting, somehow, than any amount of words. "But a seer told me once that your path would be long and I see nothing in you that tells me that she was wrong. You are very special."

Methos shook his head, dropping his eyes to focus on the deerskin again, carefully working at removing every trace of the pale fat, using both hands to pull the tool across the skin. "No. I am pale and strange and too thin. I will never be a great hunter like Father." It was true. He could kill the animal just as easily -- track well, too -- and his snares caught just as many animals as the other boys' did. But there were always so many questions that he wanted answered -- how and why the animals lived and what made them different. What made a bear have one stomach and a deer four? How did the inside of a nose tell one scent from another? And so while he lingered over the kill, trying to answer these questions for himself, the others were always far ahead of him, moving on with the hunt. He was left behind, but he could not seem to care overmuch. It just seemed such a waste not to learn from the killing.

"We have many hunters. But how many do we have who make us think, and ask such clever questions?" She began to clean the grease from her scraper, speaking to him, but no longer looking into his eyes. "Would you eat only white-root every day and no other food? Would that keep you strong and well? Or would you eat many different things, according to the need and the season?"

Methos knew what she meant. "We are all important, although we are not the same."

"Yes. But this does not answer why you cannot stay away from the river, my son."

"It is more than a fancy. I know it is dangerous and I know its beauty could mean my death, but I cannot stay away. I am sorry."

His mother looked up, large dark eyes regarding him solemnly, understanding in their depths.

Her eyes were the last thing he remembered as he woke in Duncan's arms. Was that really his mother? A sharp, sweet longing darted through his chest as remembered the dream. What was it in this place that was making him dream these things? He doubted that they were truly memories -- they had to have been lost in the vastness of the time that had passed. Yet they felt like memories. There was a truth in the way he felt when he thought of them. He would never really know and he had to leave it at that.

Methos shifted closer to Duncan's warmth and went back to sleep.

***

Duncan woke with the dawn, vibrantly aware of how perfect the unusual sensation of waking all tangled up with Methos felt. The irrepressible sense of joy that had filled him the previous day on the beach rose up again. Despite their circumstances, despite the difficulties he knew faced them, he could not find within himself a trace of anything other than happiness. He hugged Methos to him a little tighter, murmuring, "Good morning," into his ear.

Green-gold eyes opened and looked into his, the pupils very large. "Perhaps," Methos answered, with a catlike grin curling his lips.

Duncan leaned in and kissed the grin into a smile. "Come on, I'm starving. We'd better see what passes for food on this drop in the ocean." He rose easily and tugged Methos up with him, stealing another kiss as the other man found his feet. Duncan released him only reluctantly; were it not for his body reminding him that it had other needs, he could have dragged Methos back down onto the sand without another thought.

As they walked back down towards the waterline, Duncan wondered what the hell they'd been waiting for all these years. The morning sun hit his back as he walked out of the forest shadows, banishing the last traces of morning cool and he was struck again how very beautiful it all was here. Perhaps this was what they had been waiting for all this time, a time and place out of time, a place where they could be themselves, by themselves. A sanctuary from the Game, from the Gathering, from the past coming up to blight the present.

Duncan smiled to himself. He knew now why they had waited. Because now was perfect.

***

Methos heaved the last load of salvage up to the campsite and sat down gratefully. A surprising amount of wreckage and cargo from their plane had washed up during the night and they had spent the morning dragging it up the beach to the clearing where they'd made camp. He picked up a dented canteen and drank deeply, thankful that Duncan had been able to find fresh water not too far off. For the moment, Methos was alone. Duncan had gone scouting for fresh food, and Methos had been left to finish up the salvage.

He looked out to where a larger version of last night's fire burned brightly on the beach, smoke rising in a column to the sky, a hopeful signal to any would-be rescuers. They'd filed a flight plan, of course, when they had left Vanuatu and Duncan had sent a Mayday as they went down. But with the instrument failure and the remoteness of the area, there was no way of knowing if the searchers, if there were any at all, were looking in the right place for them.

No, it was best to proceed as if they were here for the duration. If they were rescued, well and good. If they were not -- well Methos could think of worse things than being stuck on a tropical island with Duncan MacLeod for an indefinite period. Speaking of MacLeod... He'd been gone quite a while now, maybe it might be best to go and look for the boy scout -- just to make sure he was okay. Methos pushed himself up off the ground and headed in the direction that Duncan had taken.

The rainforest brushed coolly over his skin, a damp, silken heaviness that made breathing strange and thick as he penetrated further into it. Massive trees, green with age and unbowed by it, towered above him, the canopy almost solid above. He quickly found the winding streambed by scent and sound and followed it, wading through the sea of waist high ferns, figuring that Duncan would not be far away from it in his search for food. As he walked a far-off rushing murmur grew louder. It sounded like... Yes it was -- a waterfall.

The familiar presence fingered over him and Methos looked around to see where it was coming from. He stopped and almost laughed at himself when he realized he had a wide grin plastered all over his face. This was idiocy, he knew it only too well, and couldn't bring himself to care. He could be a fool -- for this.

Duncan was standing, naked and unselfconscious, under the thin silver trickle of the small waterfall. He grinned brilliantly in Methos' direction and called out, "Methos! Look what I found!" He spread his arms wide as the water cascaded down his back and he spun in a slow circle beneath it. Methos could see the rapt enjoyment on Duncan's face as he luxuriated in the spray. "Come on in! It's wonderful!"

Methos couldn't get his clothes off fast enough, and not just for the chance of being naked with Duncan, as tempting as that was. The combination of salt and sand in his pants had gone beyond a joke hours ago and he was sure that parts of him would never be the same. He stepped into the water, sighing and closing his eyes as the cool freshness washed over his feet and legs. It was only a tiny stream, a few feet deep, and the waterfall, barely more than a spout pouring out from the rock face where the stream tumbled over the cliff, but it was close enough to be heaven for now. Especially when he looked at whom he was sharing it with.

Duncan looked up at him as Methos entered the water and the look in his eyes almost stopped Methos cold. Love and desire and utter, utter trust were there in those dark eyes and even if Duncan hadn't been beautiful beyond words it would have been more than enough. But Duncan was beautiful, all smooth, bronzed curves and hollows in perfect proportion. Heartbreaking. Breathtaking. Methos stepped up closer.

It was time.

Intimate this, face to face daylight coming together of opportunity and need. No dark to hide in, no way to disguise the desire in his eyes or the hungry parting of his lips. He took Duncan into his arms and felt strong arms envelope him in return. Methos lifted his eyes to find that Duncan's were on his, wide and bright and unafraid. Then, finally, they kissed.

Methos knew that they had kissed before, held one another before, but the feeling of newness would not leave him. Such an unfamiliar feeling, to feel something new, when so little truly was. It was new and intense and, for a second, incredibly frightening. The tender carnality of that kiss was nearly his undoing.

A hungry moan escaped Duncan's throat as they pressed closer together, his hands moving boldly to cover Methos' ass. Methos let the caress tilt his hips until their hard cocks brushed against each other, slippery with the water that flowed down over them. "I want you so much," Duncan gasped, his hands tangling in Methos' hair, his kisses turning wild, almost feral.

Methos' reply was a rumbled growl that somehow managed to sound like the agreement it was, as he bent his head to bite and lick at Duncan's throat. He tasted like everything Methos learned never to covet and every touch of his mouth to Duncan's skin drew mumbled words of appreciation that vibrated over his tongue. "Tell me what you want," Methos whispered, nibbling his way up to one velvet earlobe.

"Everything. All of you," Duncan's words trailed off as Methos sucked the earlobe in between his teeth and bit softly. "Hurry." His body writhed urgently against Methos, restless and desperate.

"Hush," Methos soothed, stroking over Duncan's face and tilting his head to take his mouth again. "We have as long as we want," he added between soft, sipping kisses. "As long as we need. Tell me," he repeated, "exactly what you want."

Methos looked deep into the amber-brown eyes opposite his, as he waited for Duncan to answer. He watched the conflicting emotions wash in and out of Duncan's face. And waited.

At last, Duncan's eyes held his and regarded him with that same flaying honesty, that same openness that terrified and attracted him all at once. Loving Duncan was always going to be like walking on a knife-edge, Methos had no illusions about that. But to actually teeter on the edge was quite another thing entirely. One slip and the fall would cut him in two. So he held tight and waited -- very still and quiet.

"I want you -- you -- Methos. All of you, your eyes on my body, your mouth on mine, your teeth in my skin, tongue, hands, ass, cock, your mind, your...heart. I want everything you have to give me and everything you have hidden, every part of you against every part of me." Duncan stopped and raised his hand to rest at the side of Methos' face, his thumb stroking along one cheekbone. "Make love with me, Methos."

Dear god.

***

Duncan's heart slammed against the walls of his chest as he looked into Methos' darkened eyes, watching waiting for a response to his outpouring. It was true -- all of it -- but still the fear was there that it would be too much for Methos to give. Methos had stayed very still, his eyes wide, the pupils almost banishing the color altogether.

"You don't want much, do you, Highlander?" Methos asked finally, a slight tremor in his voice to match the one in the hands that were skimming lightly over Duncan's body.

"Only everything," Duncan answered, his voice low and rough even to his own ears. "Is it too much?"

The hammering in his chest grew louder as he watched Methos go very still, his eyes closing slowly. It was too much -- he had pushed Methos too far -- asked for more than Methos was able to give. Duncan's mouth was open to take it back, to reassure him that he would take whatever Methos wanted to share, but then Methos' eyes were open and fixed upon his and the words dried in Duncan's throat.

"No...it's not too much." Methos' head dipped to one side and he smiled with one corner of his mouth, looking surprisingly young and uncertain. "I can do 'everything', I think." Two long-fingered hands slipped up to cradle Duncan's face, the gesture more intimate somehow than the lengths of their bodies pressed close.

Duncan closed the last of the distance between them, angling his mouth to cover Methos' once more. Methos' body was trembling under Duncan's hands, a fine tremor that spoke less of fear or trepidation, than it did of barely held control. Duncan slid his tongue past Methos' slippery-sharp teeth and into the sweet, warm depths of his mouth.

As they kissed, with a long, complicated tangling of tongues and lips and mingled breath, Methos' hand traveled down between their bodies to close over Duncan's cock.

"Oh, Methos..." Duncan breathed, rocking forward into the touch. Fingers enclosed him, firm and sure, moving rhythmically over his flesh so assuredly it was as if they had done this a hundred times. Except that they hadn't. When Duncan opened his eyes all he could see was Methos and the very factor that stunned him to the core.

It was Methos holding him, touching him with his beautiful hands, loving him with his wicked mouth. Methos, who Duncan had despaired of ever having like this. Methos, the elusive eldest, five thousand years old, and still just a man who trembled when you stroked the small of his back and kissed his neck. The dichotomy of it just made Duncan fall in love with him all over again.

Duncan barely noticed as careful hands turned him and led him to the quiet dark space behind the curtain of the waterfall. The hard, smooth rocks beneath his feet and rushing sound the water made as it dived from the cliff into the pool might not have existed for all the attention hews able to give them.

His thoughts were lost in the sudden, fierce love he felt, filling his whole being until there was no place that was free of it. He vaguely felt the cool, hard rock wall at his back as Methos pressed him up against it, murmuring constant words of desire and appreciation, teasing at his flesh with firm, knowing fingertips and quick, hot lips.

The long, lean line of Methos' body sliding wetly over his own sent sharp arrows of need darting straight to Duncan's groin. The hardness of the older man's cock grinding into his hip as Methos kissed him deeply was an unfamiliar joy and he hummed his pleasure into their kiss. Want throbbed, impatient and urgent, low in Duncan's belly as he held Methos closer.

Methos' hand curled around Duncan's cock once more and the deep moan that the touch dragged from his throat echoed around the tiny space. It was too much; he wasn't going to last and he looked into Methos' eyes, pleading for something...something for which he had no words.

Desire was tearing through his body, searing and annihilating, remaking him all at once. His thighs shook as the last of his control shattered with the confident stroking of Methos' hand on his cock. Duncan thrust helplessly into the grip, unable to stop the headlong rush into this incredible new/old pleasure. His toes curled against the rocks and his hands clutched at Methos' back.

"No, Methos...wait," Duncan groaned as his body grew tight and tense.

"It's okay," Methos whispered, with a long, firm stroke along the length of Duncan's shaft that finished with a sweep of his thumb over the head and a press to the small knot of nerves beneath. "Go with it, let it go."

So he did. The orgasm rippled through Duncan in a shockwave that bowed his spine and shattered his soul. His essence pumped out into Methos' hand, spattering over Methos' cock and streaking his belly. A long, wordless, formless moan passed from one mouth to the other without a clue to its origin. Duncan sagged back against the rocks, all the strength in his body seeming to have flowed out of him with the shuddering orgasm.

But not all the desire.

That, incredibly, was still burning brightly. Duncan shivered when Methos leaned in and covered Duncan's mouth with his, his tongue velvet-rough and scorchingly hot. A soft needy whimper slipped out when Methos fitted his body closely against Duncan's, promising more. Duncan's eyes flicked down with the movement of Methos' hands on his body and the breath stilled in his throat as he watched Methos smooth the creamy fluid over his own cock.

"Is that for...?" Duncan asked, shocked at the low, rasping desire in his own voice.

Methos caught his eyes. "Yes... Is that all right?"

The oddest sensation began in Duncan's toes, a tingling as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff looking down, waiting to jump. Yet out there, in the unknown, was something he wanted more than anything, something new and unique and yes, a little scary, but too enticing to turn away from now. He swallowed hard past the dryness in his throat and met Methos' gaze evenly. "It's more than all right."

A ghost of a smile passed across Methos' face before he turned Duncan and arranged him against the cliff wall, murmuring all the while into his ear, his touch alternately light and firm, teasing and reassuring. A cool, strong hand teased down the cleft of Duncan's ass and then, with the assured gentleness that he should have expected but somehow still managed to surprise him, a long finger slid inside him.

"Oh, Methos..." The sigh slipped out and floated away on the ozone-scented breeze.

The finger pressed down, unerringly hitting a spot that sent desire unfurling through his body once more, this time pluming like blood in water until he was saturated in it, slowly, completely. He arched back into the sensation, back into Methos, eager for more. And then there was more, a thicker, fuller feeling that warmed and burned and ignited something inside him until he was nothing but hunger and need. A hand played across his chest, the fingers teasing his nipples in a tingling counterpoint to the sparking heat deep inside.

And it didn't matter that he couldn't see who it was doing these things to him, making him feel so incredibly high and hot and breathless, because it was Methos, could only be Methos, whose touch he would know anywhere. Methos, whose voice was a constant stream of warm breath in his ear, telling him how good it felt to touch him this way, how beautiful he was, how they were created for this, to be together this way. Methos, who loved him, even though the words had yet to pass between them.

Because there was love in every stroke and caress, every sigh and whisper. There was no mistaking it.

Then the thickness that filled him was gone for a second and the sensation that replaced it like nothing ever before -- nothing that he ever experienced. Fuller, hotter, more overwhelming. Undeniably perfect.

And it was Methos' turn to groan as his chest pressed close to Duncan's back and his cheek rested against the nape of his neck. "Duncan..."

Never in four hundred years had the sound of his name on another's lips been so unmistakably erotic. Duncan's breath grew short and ragged and he braced his arms against the rock wall, pressing back into the searing heat that was Methos deep inside him. Hands closed around his hips, angling them so that the first thrust of Methos' cock inside him tugged a roughened groan from Duncan's throat.

Then Methos was moving, a long, slow advance and retreat, a torturous rhythm that held Duncan trapped in its wake, and yet managed to be utterly perfect at the same time. Bright, white-hot flashes of light flickered behind Duncan's closed eyelids as he moved in perfect synchronicity with his lover.

"Methos..." The name was a question, breathed out on a sigh.

"I'm here." Methos' voice was lower, rougher than he could ever remember hearing it, a graveled murmur that wrapped around his cock as unmistakably as his hand had.

"I know... You feel so good..." Words were so terribly inadequate for just how wonderful it was to have Methos fucking him like this, but he let the deep, rumbling satisfaction in his voice paint what words could only sketch. A moist, sharp kiss at the side of his neck was all the answer Duncan received as Methos quickened his pace infinitesimally. "Ahhh...yes."

And the inexorable rocking continued; the luxurious slip of flesh into flesh that was the whole world to him in this endless moment of pure pleasure. It began to crest in him slowly, tension building low in his body, drawing him bowstring-tight. The need for more took over Duncan until he was shaking with it, shuddering through the long muscles of thighs and arms. He pushed back and the quick, carnal gasp of Methos' breath against his neck made him shiver.

Then suddenly they were moving together with a wild, reckless clashing of bodies and need. Sweat dripped down Duncan's chest, belying the coolness of the grotto. His hands clutched convulsively at the unyielding rock. "Methos, now!" Duncan cried out as his balls drew up tight against his body and he could resist no longer.

"Oh fuck, Duncan..." Methos slammed into him one final time and then Duncan was filled with the burning rush of Methos' orgasm.

Duncan bucked against him, a last desperate wail ripped from his mouth, then he was coming, coming, coming. So hard that the world went dark and tilted crazily, so hard that his teeth tore at his lip, so hard that the blood on his tongue was unimportant and all that did matter was that Methos was coming inside him, calling out his name.

At last, Duncan sagged against the wall of the grotto, his chest heaving with the effort of dragging enough air into his spent body. Methos collapsed against him, his arms wrapping around loosely, while his head rested against the back of Duncan's neck. Slowly, but still not slowly enough, Duncan came back to himself.

Too soon, the thick shaft slipped from Duncan's body and he moaned at the loss. He turned to face Methos; pulling him into an embrace and holding him close for a long, sweet moment. Love, impossible and enormous, healing and painful and overwhelmingly perfect, filled him as he stroked his lover's trembling body. The cool, shallow water of the nearby pool beckoned to him and he led Methos to it, their arms still entwined. He couldn't let Methos go, not yet. Probably not ever.

They stepped into the calmer water at the edge of the pool, avoiding the turbulent center where the stream tumbled down, and sat. Duncan hissed between his teeth as the cool water stung his heated flesh, but he sank into it anyway, pulling Methos down to sit in the space between his spread legs. Methos relaxed back into Duncan's arms, his head resting against Duncan's shoulder. They were still and quiet for a long while until finally the desperate thudding of Duncan's heart slowed and he stroked a firm, wet hand over Methos' chest, circling gently.

"That was the most incredible thing," he whispered into Methos' ear trailing off when he realized that he had no words to describe it.

"Mmm..." Methos agreed in a sated rumble, turning his face to kiss Duncan lazily. "Wonderful." He leaned the back of his head against Duncan's arm where it rested on the top of his bent leg.

Methos' eyes drifted shut and Duncan pressed his lips to each one in turn, his hand smoothing the short, dark spikes of hair away from Methos' face. "Beautiful."

"There you go again," Methos smiled, clearly trying for pissy but failing miserably -- the joy in his eyes too great to dampen. He turned back to face the water again, hiding his eyes from Duncan's scrutiny.

Duncan held him tightly and laced their fingers together. "You are beautiful and when you touch me it's like nothing ever in the whole of my life. I don't care if they never find us and even if they do, I'm not letting you go. Not now. You're mine."

"And do I have any say in this?" Methos asked, squeezing Duncan's hand slightly.

"Do you want to?" Duncan asked, feeling the reply already there in the touch of Methos hands on his.

"No," Methos answered quietly. "It's what I want." Methos paused and Duncan could hear the love pushing away the fear in Methos' voice. "You're what I want. Now and for as long as we have."

"Forever, then."

"You always were ambitious, Highlander." Duncan could hear the smile in Methos' voice; hear the wistful tone that longed to believe.

"Only when it's something I really want." Duncan pressed a kiss to the side of Methos' neck and rested his chin on the broad shoulder, leaning their heads together.

"And you're sure this is what you want?"

"You know I am." There was so much more that Duncan wanted to say, but it would keep.

"Then, yes... Yes."

The answer was hardly more than a whisper, a breath of sound that drifted away on the gentle breeze but it was enough to send joy singing through Duncan's heart.

**The End**

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