The Phoenician Caper


Methos grimaced at himself in the mirror and pulled the bow tie free for the third time. No matter what he did the bloody thing wouldn't sit straight. He went at it for time number four, dredging up stores of patience he hadn't needed to use in quite some time. He could think of about a dozen things he'd rather be doing on a Saturday night. Things that didn't involve the sartorial torture of putting on a tuxedo and tying a thrice-damned bow tie.

Things Methos would rather be doing instead of putting on a tux:



There was a message there somewhere, but Methos ignored it and went on listing. Lists were good for the soul, he'd read somewhere. Maybe it was the internet. And if it was on the internet then it had to be true, right? And speaking of the internet....



There, that was an even dozen without even breaking a sweat, or indeed shifting theme. Of course the tie was no closer to being tied, but the mental imagery had improved his mood just a tad.

And he really did need to get laid; that much was fucking obvious, pun definitely intended. But unless there was a more interesting class of socialite at this bloody charity auction then there had been at the last eight 'events' MacLeod had inveigled him into attending, then he was shit outta luck tonight.

And speaking of the Highlander.... Presence scraped over his nerves and Methos gave in to the ridiculous urge to look in its direction. As if he could tell friend from foe by focusing stupidly on the door.

Instead, he called, also stupidly, "Friend or foe?"

"Is there a third choice?" came the voice from the hall.

Methos went over and opened up. "Smartarse."

Duncan swept into the room in a cloud of Obsession for Men and meticulous grooming. He gave Methos the once-over, eyes lingering at his throat. "Hello to you too. You're not ready."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Astounding. Nothing gets by you, does it?"

"Can't beat four hundred years of experience," Duncan answered with only a touch of irony. "Having trouble with the tie?"

Methos snatched the strip of black silk up from the dresser and looped around the back of his neck, turning towards the mirror again as he re-buttoned his shirt collar. "Did you know that the man who invented bowties was hung?"

"Is that so?" Behind him, reflected in the bright glass, the corner of Duncan's mouth twitched. "But was he well-hung?"

Watching himself, Methos saw the smirk he was trying to hide from Duncan. "I hadn't realized it was possible to be four hundred going on twelve," he sniped. The reprove didn't sound too convincing, even to him.

He met Duncan's eyes in the mirror and fumbled the bow again. An accident, naturally.

Duncan stepped up behind him with a long-suffering tsk. "Here," he took the ends of the tie out of Methos' hands and stepped in closer, reaching around him, "let me."

So Methos let him. Not exactly a hardship, not with MacLeod's hard, tuxedo-clad body pressed up behind him and his warm breath tickling at Methos' neck. Rather delicious, actually. Methos stood very still and watched MacLeod's hands on him.

Then the tie was tied, MacLeod's arms were no longer around him and he was properly attired in black tie for what was, after all, a black tie event. Methos wet his lips and caught Duncan's eye. "Shall we?"

Duncan's eyes flicked to Methos' mouth, just for a second, then he nodded and bowed and gestured Methos out the door ahead of him.

Same as it ever was.

***

Chapter One

What passed for glitterati in Seacouver was out in full force tonight, Methos realized as he watched the crowd over the lip of a crystal champagne flute. A sea of black tuxedos spread out before him, splashed with the colors of the women's evening gowns. Parrots and penguins, all a-squawk, he thought, pretty, but hardly enthralling.

Well, except for one.

Methos snagged another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Taking a sip, he pushed away from the bar he'd been propping up and headed over to where MacLeod was currently holding court on the far side of the room, exercising his considerable charm on three art dealers, two wealthy widows and a gynecologist who'd shown an unacceptable level of interest in the way MacLeod's tux jacket draped over his bum.

Methos smiled blandly and with utter insincerity at Dr Sleazy and the rest of the group while sliding himself into the space that instantly opened up at MacLeod's side. There were introductions and small talk and the sort of trivialities that made Methos wish for narcolepsy so he had an excuse for falling asleep on his feet.

And then the Master of Ceremonies was up on stage, calling the crowd to attention by clinking ridiculously with a spoon on a champagne flute. MacLeod turned to Methos and smiled, that gloriously genuine smile that did nothing for Methos' mood. Really. By some strange mutual consent they both moved together to stand at the back of the room rather than sitting. Probably a good thing too. At least that way they could escape without being noticed.

"Is it really as bad as all that?" Mac whispered into his ear as they watched the rest of the crowd take their seats. "You look like you'd rather be shoveling out the Augean stables."

Methos narrowed his eyes at him. "Me?" he answered acidly. "Not at all. You know me; I live to schmooze. Love it," he added with entirely feigned relish. "Besides, y'know, the Augean stables weren't all that bad."

"I know...I know...been there, done that, shoveled the shit, " MacLeod said, rolling his eyes.

"What can I say," Methos breathed, close by Mac's ear. "Herakles was a shocking exaggerator. Looked good in a toga, though. Great legs."

On the stage, the MC was looking rather pointedly in their direction. MacLeod elbowed Methos in the ribs and shushed him. Methos shushed and entertained himself with watching Mac's mouth twitch as he tried to stifle his laughter.

And he wasn't the only one watching. Across the room, Mac's gynaecological groupie had his eyes firmly and narrowly fixed on the pair of them.

"Somebody's got a cru-ush," Methos told him in a singsong whisper, possibly not as quietly as Mac might have wished.

"The man can't help having good taste," Duncan said smugly.

"Has he asked for you phone number yet?" Methos asked, utterly unable to stop.

MacLeod nudged him with his shoulder. "If he does, I'll be sure to give him yours."

"You do that. He's pretty cute."

There was a definite evil twinkle in Mac's eyes as he slanted a look at Methos. "Should I be jealous?"

Methos gave him a long, slow look up and down. And up again. "Definitely."

Mac raised an eyebrow at him, then turned his attention to the auction in progress. "Be quiet now. There's a piece coming up I'm interested in."

"Funny," Methos said under his breath. "That's just what your gynecologist was saying."

Laughter snorted out of MacLeod's nose and almost doubled him over. In his hurry to cover it he accidentally bid on a hideous nineteenth century chamber pot. Something that came scarily close to a giggle escaped Methos' mouth. MacLeod stood on his foot.

"Ow!" And that came out much louder than he'd expected.

It also scored him a bid on the aforementioned hideous chamber pot.

Duncan giggled. The MC frowned.

"He's going to have the bouncer throw you out, you know," Methos said primly while he wriggled his crushed toes.

"It's a Children's Hospital fundraiser. They don't have a bouncer," MacLeod told him, laughter still in his voice.

"When they start letting barbarians like you in the place, it's time they did," Methos hissed, nodding and smiling politely at the auctioneer. He'd won the damned chamber pot.

Which solved the problem of what to get MacLeod for his birthday. It really was hideous. Entirely fitting.

He had his mouth open to say something along those lines when he looked at the stage and saw what the auctioneer was holding. All the laughter was instantly gone and he was very still, as tense as if he'd just sensed another Immortal. Except that there wasn't one.

Just the auctioneer holding a small, round, bronze artifact.

It couldn't be.... And yet it was. Bloody hell.

"The next item, ladies and gentlemen, is an Assyrian amulet, circa 865 BCE, discovered by the donor on a recent dig outside of Beirut. If you turn your programs to page eight, you'll see some photographs of the detail both back and front. Even slightly damaged as it is, this is a particularly unusual and exciting piece and we're extremely fortunate...."

Blah, blah, blah. Methos had stopped listening. They had it all completely ass-backwards as usual, but it didn't matter. He could tell that Duncan was looking at him and wondering what the hell was going on, but there wasn't time to explain; the bids were starting.

Anticipation itched beneath Methos' skin as he waited for the right moment to start. Habit made him reluctant to show his interest too soon, even for something he wanted this badly. He listened as the bids climbed, far more slowly than he'd expected.

And when it seemed like the bids were leveling out, Methos finally spoke up, topping the current bid by an amount modest enough not to be memorable. Sweat was dripping down the small of his back. Across the room, someone else bid against him.

Methos bid right back. And again and again. Everyone was staring, but there was nothing he could do about that. The price was climbing past the point of ridiculousness, considering the intrinsic value of the piece, but there was no way he was giving up now. He had no idea what the other bidder's motivation was, but it didn't matter, he didn't stand a chance.

A murmur rolled around the crowd as Methos sent the bidding into six figures. Every eye in the place was on him and his opponent. Who was thankfully silent. Hope flickered. Just a tiny bit. A flicker-ette, if you liked.

The silence stretched, became almost unbearable.

And then, without warning, because that was how these things always happened, the doors to the room crashed open and three men with automatic weapons burst into the room.

***

Chapter Two

God damn fucking son-of-a-bitch.

Screams rippled across the crowd as the two of the armed men ran into the room, leaving the other at the door. Standard Big Ugly Guns, standard chest thumping threats and bellowing.

"Hands in the air! Now!" Etc, etc.

He'd have to give them points for disguises though. The two up the front were wearing George Bush and Dick Cheney Halloween masks and the guy that stayed at the back to guard the door was wearing one that looked like Spiderman. Despite himself, Methos was amused.

George Bush was still talking as he dropped valuables into a bag, starting with his bloody amulet, thank you very much, but Methos wasn't listening to any of it. What he was doing was edging towards Spiderman at the door, whose attention was all on the other two, who were busy relieving the crowd of their valuables. If he could get to Spiderman and get his weapon away, then there was still a chance he could get his hands on the amulet. Maybe even without paying for it, which was always nice.

Methos was almost all the way to the door when a hand clamped around his wrist and stopped him in his tracks. Heart thumping in his chest, he turned to look. He needn't have bothered; he knew it had to be MacLeod.

And it was.

Methos snatched his wrist away and glared at him, tilting his head at Spiderman, in case MacLeod had failed to notice what he was up to. Mac's eyes flicked over at George Bush and Dick Cheney, who still hadn't noticed them, then over at the door. He nodded, once, and released Methos' arm. Typical MacLeod. There was no way he was going to let Methos have all the fun.

But that was all right, Methos figured that very shortly there was going to be more than enough fun to go around.

Slipping slowly around the back of the crowd, Methos edged a little closer to Spiderman with Duncan hot on his heels. Adrenaline pulsed through his body. It didn't matter that he'd done this kind of crazy shit any number of times; the reaction was always the same. A little fear, a little arousal, a lot of just plain tension. He breathed deep, in and out, and waited for his moment.

And had to freeze as George Bush (who looked like maybe he was in charge of the heist, though it was hard to tell) looked right at him. Methos froze and felt Duncan go still beside him. Methos went into insta-Pierson mode and hoped like hell George bought it.

There was a second or so when he thought he might have got away with it, then George shook his head, raised the muzzle of his gun and pointed it right at them, clicking off the safety. "You two! Away from the door!"

Fuck you too, George. Methos sighed and complied. It wasn't like he had a lot of choice in the matter. George looked like he might be serious, though again it was hard to tell with that stupid expression permanently imprinted in the latex. He raised his hands and stepped away from Spiderman. Beside him, Mac did the same, grumbling under his breath, no doubt calling down vengeance and hellfire on George and Dick's collective asses.

George and Dick went back to fleecing the crowd. Methos went back to working out how he was going to get out of this with the amulet in his hot little hands.

It was still possible; after all they still had to leave through the door, and that would be their vulnerable moment. Methos relaxed himself deliberately and settled down to wait for it.

Meanwhile, Dick Cheney was giving a beautiful young woman just in front of them a hard time, prodding her with the muzzle of his gun while she shook and cried and tried to get her jewelry off for him. Not nice, but as long as she cooperated, she'd live to tell the tale.

In the distance, sirens began to wail, becoming louder by the second. Spiderman and Dick Cheney looked at George Bush. For a moment there was the sort of tense silence that seemed to freeze the whole room. This was where it usually went bad, in Methos' experience.

And it did.

"Time to get outta here!" George yelled, thrusting a string of pearls into the duffle bag.

The sirens grew louder.

"And bring her along," he said to Dick. "We're gonna need some insurance."

The woman shrieked and struggled, and George backhanded her. Beside Methos, MacLeod tensed, but didn't move. The woman's struggles stopped, and the only sound she made was a soft sobbing as she was dragged out the door. Another heartbeat and all four -- bandits and hostage -- were out the door and headed down the passageway to outside.

The moment their backs were turned, MacLeod, being MacLeod, was after them. And Methos, being an idiot, went after him.

MacLeod went in at a run, flying into Dick's back and reaching around to pull the rifle up towards the ceiling and shove Dick into the wall. He let go of the woman and she stumbled and hit the ground. Methos leapt over her as he went to cover MacLeod's back.

Mac was well on his way to waling the tripe out of Dick Cheney, when George Bush put the gun to the back of Mac's neck and flicked off the safety.

His finger was on the trigger when Methos took him out with a flying tackle. Somewhere, close by, a gun went off. There were screams and the shattering of glass and Methos pulled the knife out of his ankle holster and stuck George Bush right in the arse. It was the nearest piece of him, after all.

George squealed (much like a stuck pig, really) and tried to throw Methos off his back. They wrestled and Methos got one hand to the rifle, hauling it away from George. But George wasn't letting it go without a struggle and they rolled over and over, eventually crashing into a wall. Methos was vaguely aware of a fight going on nearby -- Mac of course -- and hoped he was doing better than Methos was.

Not that he was doing all that badly, really. He got in a cracking punch to George's latex-covered chin that snapped his head back and sent aftershocks all the way up Methos' arm. But George just shook it off and countered with a knee to Methos' groin.

Pain and nausea ripped through him. And, to make matters worse (like they needed to be) someone, and Methos strongly suspected it was Spiderman, chose that moment to shoot him in the back.

It was a pretty crap day when dying was the best option you had, but there it was. With a despairing groan, Methos gave up and died.

***

Chapter Three

Methos knew where he was before he even opened his eyes. And he was none too happy about it. He'd have known that smell anywhere. The chemical reek of plastic, overlaid with the stench of antiseptics and death. No matter what you did, you couldn't disguise that smell.

He was in the morgue. In the fridge.

Bugger.

The only consolation was that judging by the familiar Immortal presence buzzing somewhere close by MacLeod was here too. Which was good because it meant Methos wasn't the only one who'd ended up dead on a slab. He really hoped Mac had been shot too, preferably somewhere really painful, hopefully several times. And if he hadn't been, Methos would be happy to arrange it for him. More than happy, actually, more like ecstatic.

It didn't sound like anyone else was around, so he pushed the plastic sheeting off and sat up. His back still ached a little where he'd been shot. He rubbed it as he swung his legs over the side of the trolley where he'd been lying. Great, just fabulous, a perfectly good tux utterly ruined. There was a hole bigger than his fist in the middle of the back of his jacket. MacLeod really owed him for this one. Being friends with the man was hell on clothing.

On the adjacent trolley, MacLeod kicked off the covering and immediately rolled off into a defensive stance, relaxing when his eyes found Methos. He should have known better. Methos glared at him, ruthlessly suppressing his chattering teeth.

"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into, MacLeod. We've had our arses kicked by George Bush, Dick Cheney and Spiderman, been shot, killed and carted away to freeze our arses off in the bloody morgue. What do you do for an encore? Pull monkeys out of your arse?"

Amusement flickered around MacLeod's blue lips. "Sounds pretty funny when you put it like that."

"Funny?" Methos snarled. "It'd be a hell of a lot funnier if you were the only one who got shot."

Duncan sighed and looked towards the door. "We need to get out of here."

"Really?" Methos sniped as he slid from the trolley to the floor. "I would never have thought of that. I thought we'd just stay here forever, waiting for our friendly local forensic pathologist to come along and autopsy us. That's always good for a laugh, isn't it? In fact--"

Duncan cut him off mid-rant. "Methos?"

"What?" Methos spat.

"Shut up and let's get out of here. You can lacerate me later."

Methos was at his side in a second. "Promise?"

Duncan gave him a long, slow look, slanted down one cheekbone. "Later."

"Well, in that case," Methos said happily, "let's get out of here."

"Good thought," Duncan said, heading for the door.

Methos looked down and saw exactly where Mac had been wounded, and what it had done to his pants, and let him have the last word. It was a small price to pay.

They made it out of the morgue easily enough, after all, the security was generally designed to keep people out and in the normal course of things it was fairly unlikely anyone would need to be kept in. Once in the hospital corridor, they attracted one or two vaguely curious (and slightly lustful) glances. Which was unsurprising, considering the state of MacLeod's pants.

Methos had given them the occasional vaguely lustful glance himself. Purely in the cause of aesthetic appreciation, of course.

And because he was appreciating MacLeod's arse in that purely aesthetic fashion, he failed to notice the two cops heading down the corridor towards them until it was much too late. MacLeod, however, spotted them just in time to smoothly pull open the nearest door and drag Methos through it.

Before Methos could say a word in protest, or otherwise, he banged straight into MacLeod's back. There was nowhere else to go, after all, because MacLeod had dragged them into a broom closet.

The door settled shut behind them, leaving them standing, pressed chest to back in the smelly darkness.

"Remind me to put you in charge of hideouts all the time from now on," Methos said in a soft, low voice.

Maybe Methos' breath was brushing the back of Duncan's neck when he spoke, because something made him shiver, just a little. Methos felt it in every place their bodies were touching.

"It worked, didn't it?" Duncan said in the same tone. "Did you really want to take the chance that they might start wondering about us?"

"Not particularly." Methos grinned to himself in the darkness. "By the way, did you know you have a rather large hole in your pants?" He laid a hand on the bare skin of Duncan's right arse cheek where it peeked out from his ruined trousers.

"I do now." Duncan reached behind him and wrapped his fingers around Methos' wrist, waiting a little longer than was strictly proper to pull his hand away. "Thanks for telling me. You're a true friend."

If they'd been in a cartoon, they'd have been standing in a reeking puddle of sarcasm. Or possibly UST. The air was thick with hearty helpings of both.

Duncan managed to turn himself around so that he faced Methos, brushing against him more times than seemed truly necessary or proper. Methos managed to endure it with nothing more than a put-upon sigh. They stood there for a while, face to face in the darkness. An unsurprising tingle ran down Methos' cock. Perhaps this hadn't been such a poor choice of hideout, after all, he thought. There were certainly worse places to be than trapped in a broom closet with Duncan MacLeod.



Methos shuddered and dragged himself back to the present.

And while he had been away, communing with the pixies and constructing yet another mental list, it seemed Duncan had not moved at all. Methos could feel Duncan's eyes on him and opened his own to meet them.

Duncan had that look on him, a look Methos had seen before, more than once directed at him, a heavy-lidded look that meant either he was trying not to fart or….

"You're not going to try anything stupid, are you?" Methos said, nowhere near as lightly as he'd meant to. And he really wasn't tilting his head to match the angle of Duncan's.

"Stupid?" Duncan answered, swaying a little closer. "I don't think so."

Methos recovered himself just in time. Though for what he wasn't sure. "We going to get out of this closet anytime soon?" he asked, backing up against the door.

Duncan reached past him to the door handle. "Oh, yeah. Now good for you?"

Now was very good indeed.

***

Chapter Four

Methos slid out the door and headed down the corridor with Duncan close behind him, so close in fact that before they'd gone more than halfway, Duncan stood on the heel of his shoe.

"Damn it, MacLeod!" Methos hissed, turning to glare at him while simultaneously hopping on one foot to fix his downtrodden shoe.

It was the hopping on one foot that proved his undoing, Methos decided later. If he'd had both feet in their proper operational position, he would never have slammed into that nurse and therefore would never have ended up in a tangled heap on the floor with her -- with MacLeod standing over them, amusement poorly concealed on his face while he reached down to help the nurse stand up.

"I'm sorry," MacLeod said, amusement sliding effortlessly into charm. "My friend isn't usually so clumsy. Are you all right?"

Methos, left to scramble to his feet without a glance from his alleged 'friend', glared at him, but glaring was less than fun and effective if the glare-ee was unaware of the glare-er. Which MacLeod definitely was.

"I'm fine. That musta been some big-ass party, boys," the nurse said in a broad southern accent while she straightened her pale blue scrubs and ran her fingers through her short blonde hair.

"Sorry?" Methos said, blinking at her.

She flicked a look at their torn clothing and general dishevelment. Methos had the uncomfortable sensation of being blatantly checked out.

"Oh, yes," MacLeod said with a slightly sheepish smile. "It did get a little out of hand. Bachelor party…."

"Who's getting' hitched?"

"Uhh…we are," Methos announced, grabbing Duncan by the arm and tugging him into motion. "And if we don't get moving, we'll be late."

The nurse gave a low, ripe chuckle. "Hell, it's not like they can start without you."

"Still…" Duncan began, backing away and taking Methos with him. "We have to…."

Perversity made Methos stop in his tracks. "Da-ahling," he cooed. "Don't be so rude. First you knock the poor woman over, then you want to rush off in the middle of a conversation." He was going to pay for 'da-ahling' later, but it'd be worth it. The look on Mac's face was utterly priceless.

To his credit though, Mac was quick to recover. He reached out and took one of the woman's hands in his own, shaking it. "I'm sorry, but we really have to go." He turned back to Methos and looked him in the face, evil intent lurking in limpid brown eyes. "Honeybuns, we need to leave now." He batted his eyelashes in a disgustingly saccharine fashion. "Please?"

"Well, all right then. I guess we really should." Methos simpered, ignoring 'honeybuns' for the moment. MacLeod would get his later. And how. He slid his arm around MacLeod's waist and clamped his hand over the hole in MacLeod's trousers. It was possible he squeezed a little harder than simple affection would normally dictate.

Gratifyingly, Mac's eyes bugged a little. He almost covered it, but there wasn't a lot that MacLeod did that Methos didn't notice.

They managed some more than averagely uncomfortable goodbyes, eased by the nurse rushing off to answer her pager. Methos could have sworn she was giggling as she went. They made for the nearest exit, fortunately not far away. He dropped his hand from Mac's arse like it was a hot potato. Though, to be truthful, while it was one hot backside, potato-like it was not. More peach-like really. Firm and just ever so slightly fuzzy.

Nice, though. Definitely nice.

They were outside the hospital in some kind of loading dock when MacLeod interrupted his metaphorical reverie. "Darling?" he growled.

"Yes, honeybuns?" Methos growled right back, stopping to round on him. "What was that all about? Do I look like a 'honeybuns' to you?"

Something twitched at the corner of MacLeod's mouth and he tilted his head as if to check out the aforementioned buns. "Well…now you mention it…." There was a definite eyebrow waggle there, too.

Methos narrowed his eyes. "I may be slightly shredded, MacLeod, but I'm still armed."

Duncan's eyebrows drew down thunderously. "We're going to get out of here and you're going to explain to me what the hell is going on."

"Going on?" Methos repeated, blinking at him. "Why the hell do I have to explain anything? None of this is my fault."

"Why do you want that amulet so badly?"

It was the last thing Methos expected him to say, but he utterly refused to let Mac see even a trace of surprise on his face. "Who said I did?"

Mac rolled his eyes. "You did, bidding that insane amount of money for it."

"I'm filthy rich," he replied with a shrug. "Rich people have whims." Methos turned away and strolled away. He didn't actually have any idea where he was going, but that was a secondary consideration at the moment.

He was not in the least bit surprised that Mac followed him; the man didn't know the meaning of giving up. Methos got about three steps before Mac was in front of him with that implacable look on his face, blocking his path with his hands on his hips.

"You can't go home," Mac announced in that way of his.

Methos folded his arms and raised one eyebrow. He considered, briefly, the option of asking for a show of hands to indicate who was the boss of him, but decided against it.

"Neither of us can go home," Mac went on, taking Methos' arm and tugging him out of the path of an incoming delivery truck. "That was a pretty public death."

Methos allowed it, but twitched his arm free all the same. "I have been dead before, MacLeod. I do know the drill," he spat in a harsh whisper. "I know you have trouble remembering this, but I did manage to survive five thousand years before you wandered into my life and turned it upside down. Do try to keep up."

"Then what was all that with the nurse back there? You couldn't have called more attention to us if you'd put our names on a bloody marquee. She's gonna remember us."

Methos' mouth twitched into a wry smile. "You mean she'll remember meeting a handsome gay couple a little worse for wear after their bachelor party. Nothing to do with the proto-metrosexual Adam Pierson or the world-renowned ladies' man, Duncan MacLeod, both now sadly deceased."

MacLeod looked skeptical.

"Trust me."

MacLeod snorted. "We'll see."

"Cynicism's such an unattractive trait in the young," Methos observed.

MacLeod ignored that. "You're still going to tell me about that amulet," he said mildly.

"Maybe." Methos shrugged and walked away. "But not here."

"Joe's?"

"Joe's."

***

Chapter Five

"Proto-metrosexual?" Mac scoffed as they walked up to the back door of Joe's bar.

"I call them like I see them, MacLeod," Methos said in his most innocent of tones. "Been there, done that, painted my nails long before you did."

"What is this, a more-metrosexual-than-thou contest?" Duncan sniped as he knocked on the door. "And I've never painted my nails."

"See? You're not even in the race…." The door swung open. "Hey, Joe."

"Get in here, you two!" Joe growled. He let them in, muttering all the while about idiot Immortals and dead guys showing up at his door at 7am on a Sunday and what the hell was he supposed to tell HQ about this one.

Methos let him rave on. After twenty-five years watching MacLeod, he was probably entitled. And while Joe ranted, Methos amused himself with picking up Mac's hand and examining his nails.

"You could pull it off, you know. You've got the hands for it."

Joe looked over at Mac's indignant face and stopped mid-rant. "Something you want to tell me, Mac?" he said, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline.

Mac snatched his hand back and glowered.

Methos just smiled blithely in Joe's direction. "He's just upset because he's a failure as a metrosexual."

"Ignore him, Joe. He was dead for too long and it's damaged his brain."

"Really, MacLeod…insults after all we've been to each other…."

"Can you be serious for five minutes?"

Methos smirked and sneaked another look at Mac's arse. "It seems unlikely at this point."

"Will you stop checking out my ass?" Mac hissed in a tone of utter exasperation.

"That also seems unlikely at this point."

MacLeod threw his hands in the air with a groan and stormed off into Joe's office.

Joe shook his head at Methos and followed Mac. Methos snickered and followed Joe.

"This one I gotta hear," Joe said as he settled himself behind his desk.

Methos didn't fail to notice the amusement lurking in various corners of Joe's face. Nor the incredibly self-conscious way Mac tucked his arse into a chair against the wall. He did, however, manage not to chuckle at all of the above. He really deserved a medal for that.

But since one wasn't in the offing, he'd have to settle for watching MacLeod squirm some more.

Joe waited with an expectant look on his face.

Mac looked at Methos.

Methos looked at Mac.

"You two might have forever," Joe said, "but I sure as hell don't." He made an impatient gesture. "Give already."

Methos sighed his favorite put-upon sigh and gave. The highlights at least. He left out a few things. Unimportant things. Things Joe didn't need to know.

There were several of those.



And after giving Joe the carefully edited blow-by-blow, (though perhaps that was a poor choice of phrase considering the state of his pants) there was the matter of the quid pro quo.

"Did the robbery make the news?" Methos asked, somewhat redundantly, he was sure.

"You could say that." Joe opened up his laptop and after a minute and one or two minor curses, he clicked a couple of times, then turned the computer around so they could see the screen.

Methos skimmed over the news article, complete with camera-phone pictures of his and MacLeod's dead bodies and blah…blah…eyewitness accounts of the robbery and their blah…blah 'bravery' in attempting to stop the thieves and save the girl. Blah blah blah. Ad nauseum.

"The police rescued the girl," Mac said.

"Yeah, good that," Methos replied absently since he'd had already finished reading the article and was busily poking the image of Mac's pixelated arse with the mouse cursor.

"So what now?" Joe asked, batting Methos' hand away from the keyboard.

Methos, already deep in plans for 'what now', looked at Mac.

"We need to get out of here," they said together.

Joe rolled his eyes. "Well…no shit, Sherlocks."

"Somewhere low-tech would get my vote," Methos said, stretching out in his chair and crossing his ankles. "I know a little village in Peru. No electricity, no cellphone reception. Practically stone-age," he said with a satisfied smile.

Duncan leant one elbow on the desk and turned to face him. "You'd last five minutes. You hate roughing it," he said with entirely too much fond amusement for Methos' comfort.

"I'm very flexible," Methos answered in the same tone, apparently unable to stop himself from tilting his head to match the angle of Mac's.

"I'm sure you are."

"Because you know me so well."

MacLeod's eyes flicked along the length of Methos' sprawl. "I could know you better."

Heat radiated out from Methos' balls to the rest of his body, making him want to curl over it and hide how stupidly easily that voice could get to him.

Instead, he met MacLeod's eyes evenly. Because occasionally there were some challenges that were worth sticking around for.

And, also, because he was five thousand brands of idiot, and it was pretty difficult to run away from that.

"Pass me the phone, Joe?" Methos said without dropping his gaze.

Joe shoved it across the desk. "What, you lose yours?"

"Dead men make no calls, Joe." He picked up the phone and punched in a number.

"You should write a book of those," Joe grumbled. "Confucius had nothing on you."

"Taught him everything he knew," Methos said while the phone rang.

Finally someone answered on the other end of his call and he ended the call without saying a word.

"Right, then," Methos said brightly. "I'll be off."

MacLeod was on his feet in a second. "Oh no you don’t. You're not just getting me killed and then buggering off. You still haven't told me what's going on."

Methos rose from the chair and swiped a coat from the stand by the door. "Really? How remiss of me." He shrugged the coat on. "Call me later, I'll tell you all about it."

He had his hand on the doorknob, not really expecting to get as far as that when an iron-hard hand gripped his shoulder. He had his mouth open to protest, but before he could say a word, he was spun and shoved so hard against the wall that he could have sworn he could see little yellow birds fluttering around his head.

"I. Don't. Think. So," Mac growled.

Various parts of Methos did a little dance. Possibly a lap dance, but one could never be sure about these things.

"God damn it, you two!" came Joe's voice at parade-ground volume from the other side of the room. "If you were a couple of dogs I'd throw a bucket of water over you. Cut it the hell out, right now."

The grip on his borrowed coat didn't ease a bit. "It's fine, Joe," MacLeod said. "Methos and I just need a few minutes alone to talk over a few things. Why don't you go have a drink."

"It's a little early, even for me," Joe snapped. "Seeing as it's the fucking crack of fucking dawn."

"Joe…." MacLeod's voice had that implacable tone to it that Methos was really starting to find pretty hot. No, no, no. Pretty annoying. Not hot. Not at all. Yeah.

He was in deep deep shit. Chin high and rising.

"Just give us a minute or two, Joe," Methos said, despite the warning signs flashing in his head "It's fine." He lifted his chin and looked Duncan in the eyes. "Let the man out the door, Mac."

It took a moment or three of mental pissing match, but eventually MacLeod set him free and stepped back, reaching past him to open the door for Joe.

Joe looked pretty damned doubtful, but he walked out the door anyway, giving Methos one last look over his shoulder as he went. Methos gave him a look in return that he hoped was somewhere in the vicinity of reassuring.

And then the door was closed and it was just them, alone in the office. At last. Right, then, time to get a few things straight. Well, sorted out anyway.

He launched himself at MacLeod, wrapping his fists in the ruins of his jacket and shoving him back hard into the nearest wall. He hit with a satisfying thump and a really silly look of shock on his face.

"Now who's seeing tweetie-birds, arsehole?" Methos growled.

***

Chapter Six

Duncan blinked at him and made as if to say something, shut his mouth as if thinking better of it. Then he did it again. And again. His eyes crinkled and he bit his lip as if suppressing a laugh.

"Are you laughing at me?" Methos snarled.

"Maybe. A little." The corner of Duncan's mouth twitched up. "Yes."

Methos narrowed his eyes at him and contemplated his knife. MacLeod really was an appallingly attractive pain in the arse. Maybe he could stab him later. He watched as Duncan glanced down in the direction of his mouth and then up slowly to his eyes. Methos licked his lips. Duncan's eyes were black and heavy-lidded and sparkled with amusement.

Parts of Methos that he'd been carefully ignoring pushed themselves to the forefront of his attention -- and his pants. He forgot about the knife. Distraction might be much more fun. And Duncan was clearly in a distractible frame of mind.

And clearly Methos could justify pretty much anything at this point if it was going to get him what he wanted.

Methos leaned in closer and inhaled deeply. "You shouldn't look at me like that when I've got you pinned to the wall," he growled into Duncan's ear.

"When should I look at you like this then?" Duncan lifted one hand to the side of Methos' face, stroking his thumb along one cheekbone. His other hand moved slowly down Methos' back, stopping just above his ass.

Completely of their own volition, Methos' hips twitched forward. "Jesus, Mac. Probably never."

Duncan slid his hand down to cover Methos' left butt cheek and pull him closer. He could feel how hard Duncan was. "You're going to tell me this is a bad idea again," Duncan said.

"Absolutely. If you had an ounce of sense you'd know it." The words were right; the tone a little less so. Where had all his breath gone, anyway?

"You know what I think? I think you're trying really hard to stay mad at me." He paused, bending a little and just breathing along the side of Methos' neck. "Because if you stop being mad at me, you might start feeling…other things," he said with his lips brushing Methos' skin.

Methos shivered. "I don't get mad, MacLeod. I get even," he whispered.

"Uh-huh." Duncan licked his lips. "Worked out yet how you're going to get even for this?"

Methos shuddered and wrapped his hands around Duncan's hips. "When you least expect it."

Christ, he was so hard, and bloody MacLeod, curse him and all his ancestors, felt so bloody good against him. His lizard brain was clearly itching to take over the show, so Methos gave up and let it. For the moment anyway.

He rocked against Duncan's hip again and again and felt Duncan push back at him. Their mouths were inches apart and Duncan's was red and wet and…a very bad idea. Distraction was all very well, but a man had to know his limits and keep some sense of what was a good idea and what was just a bad, potentially idiotic idea. But, on the other hand, this was far from the worst idea he'd ever had. There had to be dozens of things that were a worse idea than leaning in those last few inches and losing himself in that soft, gorgeous mouth. Hundreds, millions, billions of worse things. A universe of worse things. But if he started listing those things, he'd never get around to the kissing part, and that really would be un-- well, that would be a shame.

Oh, fuck it.

Methos reached up and slid his fingers into Duncan's hair, pressing him back hard against the wall. He never did work out exactly who kissed whom at that moment, but as in many things, it turned out that who started it was the least important element of the whole equation.

Oh, have fucking mercy. How in hell could he have thought that going without this was a good idea? Duncan's mouth tasted even better than he remembered. And felt…. Dear god. Methos kissed him voraciously while low, appreciative noises came from the back of his throat. Not whimpering, not yet, more like moaning with an option to whimper at some later point.

Duncan's hands were on Methos' hips, holding him close while he rubbed up against him. Lust burnt a mad path from balls to brain. Fuck, it would be so easy. There was almost nothing between them, almost nothing to stop them from fucking right here in Joe's office. With Joe waiting right outside.

Methos swallowed hard, wrenching control from the evil clutches of his lizard brain and wrenching his mouth away from the temptation. "What are we really doing here, MacLeod?" he asked, for wont of anything more intelligent to say.

Looking up from heavy-lidded eyes, Duncan smiled and said, somewhat predictably, "If you don't know that by now, you've been doing something wrong for five thousand years."

Methos narrowed his eyes. How could he even be thinking of fucking someone who spouted such dreadful clichés? "You--" he began.

Duncan, being Duncan, clearly needed to distract him from that thought, because before Methos could finish his sentence, Duncan had one of Methos' hands in his own and was drawing Methos' fingers into his mouth and sucking at them, slowly. With tongue. His eyes never left Methos'.

"We--" Methos began.

"We said we weren't going to do this again," Duncan finished helpfully, even though that hadn't been what Methos was going to say at all. He slipped Methos' fingers from between his lips and punctuated the words with a kiss to Methos' fingertips. Duncan didn't, Methos noticed, feel strongly enough about the aforementioned resolution to actually remove his hand from Methos' arse. Or let go of Methos' hand.
Lips grazed the side of Methos' jaw; need surged up through him and made him thrust harder against Duncan's hip.

"Damn it, Methos," Duncan breathed against Methos' ear, while he thrust back. "It was you that didn't want to do this in the first place. What game are you playing now?"

"No game," Methos whispered hoarsely. He licked his lips and looked up through his eyelashes. "Everyone has bad ideas now and then."

"And which would this be?" Duncan growled in that tone that made Methos ache in his pants. "A bad idea now? Or a bad idea then?"

"Yes?" Methos said, because his brain was currently offline and all he was getting was an incomprehensible 404 - File Not Found on the rest of his vocabulary.

In a heartbeat, Methos found himself slammed back against the wall, Duncan's big, rough hands gripping his head. "You drive me mad, you know that, don't you?"

"I don't think I can claim all the credit for that."

Duncan growled again and bit Methos on the neck. "Don't be so modest."

Methos pressed his cock up against the hollow of Duncan's hip and set up a rhythm. "Do that again."

"This?" Duncan bit him some more, then threw in some sucking and licking.

Methos dropped his head back and bared as much of his throat as he could. "Yes."

The biting was good. More than good, especially if he could inveigle a bit more. Duncan certainly seemed eager enough to inflict pain on him. Methos wavered. Maybe they could risk this…just for a little while. Maybe it would all be okay. Then Duncan was working a hand down between them and covering Methos' cock and aching balls in a broad, deft hand and suddenly he was so fucking close.

"Don't think I haven't noticed we're not talking about what the hell you're up to, Methos," Duncan rumbled against Methos' lips. "You've got a hell of a distraction technique."

Methos thrust into Duncan's hand. "Maybe I was just overcome by your manly…umm…manliness. Christ, that's good, don't stop."

"We are going to talk about this."

"Not now we're not. Think Joe would mind if you fucked me on his desk?" Methos melted against the wall and pulled Duncan closer.

Duncan shuddered and bit Methos' ear. "You know full well he'd kill both of us."

"Not permanently." Methos licked Duncan's neck. "It'd be worth it."

And then because Methos' personal god of ironic catastrophe was never idle for long, it was at that moment that Immortal presence shivered over them.

There was a mad scrambling and detangling of limbs and clothes and a grabbing for weapons that weren't there. Duncan tripped over Methos' foot and slammed an elbow into the wall, sending a shower of plaster dust cascading down to the floor. Methos pulled his knife from his boot while his heart hammered in his chest and the sound of raised voices out in the bar filtered through the door. Without a word they each took a position either side of the door. He looked at Duncan and nodded. Whoever it was out there was going to get a hell of a surprise.

Methos sighed to himself as he felt the Immortal come closer.

Yeah, sure everything would be all right. And he completely hadn't let his hormones take over his brain back there somewhere. He and Duncan could indeed have everything they wanted and there would be roses and moonlight and he would discover that there was indeed a glittering prize for the world's greatest idiot, which of course he would win hands down. Because he was indeed, The World's Greatest Idiot.

And then the door flew open.

tbc....



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