Work Text:
Dear Diary,
I love Duncan MacLeod. Hm. Let me rephrase that. I adore Duncan MacLeod.
I know, I know. I've said such things before. And I'm sure you're tired of hearing it. But, 'tis true.
And, god above, he loves me.
That's true too.
It's happened.
Finally.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Methos walked along the quay. He'd left Le Blues Bar and Joe early in the evening meaning to go home. Instead he'd ended up at St. Julien's. He did that often enough these days not to be surprised.
Since MacLeod had disappeared. Again.
"Have we lost him, Darius," he asked the solemn silence? "Did O'Rourke push our warrior over the edge?"
Methos sighed and rose, then went to light a candle. Who is it for, old man, he asked himself. The same question Darius had asked him. He still didn't know.
And of course, since he happened to be in the neighborhood, he had to go by and check out the barge. Methos shook his head and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. It was cool. Overcast. Light reflected off the lowering clouds.
Catching the scent of the river, Methos didn't dare look up. Lately, he'd begun to dread coming here. Dreaded the day he would find the barge gone. Summoning up his courage, he raised his eyes.
Lights shone from the Nobile's amids portholes. Methos' heart skipped, and his pace quickened.
"Don't get your hopes up. It's been months. It could be new owners." The old man felt like a fool for mumbling aloud.
"Oh, god." Just the faintest wash of presence touched him.
And then he was there at the gangplank. He made himself stop. Made himself just stop and breathe. All right. He could do this. One step at a time. Each step taking him closer to MacLeod. His Highlander.
Six feet. Four. Two. His booted foot touched the deck. The strong immortal signature thrummed in the back of his head. It felt like it was jarring his teeth. Then the Scot appeared.
"Well. What brings a 5000-year-old man to me?"
"Oh, I dunno." Methos shrugged. He was smiling. No. Grinning like a fool.
"Come on in anyway. It's going to rain."
"Thanks." Methos eased past MacLeod. Went down the stairs into the living area. He looked around. It was different. He glanced toward the raised area that used to hold MacLeod's bed. Now it was set up as an office space. The Scot followed his look.
"I'm doing some consulting." He went in the galley. "Beer?"
Methos nodded. Just like that, huh, Mac? Forgive and forget? Hell, why not. He'd expected the same when he'd reappeared. Hadn't he?
"I missed you..."
"Joe said I missed you..."
Both men smiled.
"I didn't know you were back in town. I wouldn't have left so early."
MacLeod laughed and went to sit on the couch. "Come on, catch me up. What have you been doing these days?"
Methos took the corner of the couch farthest from the Highlander. "Oh, a little of this. And a little of that." Missing you. Change the subject. "Have you met Amy yet?"
The Scot nodded. "By accident. She was at the bar. I don't think she exactly approves."
"No, I don't believe so," Methos agreed. The young Watcher was struggling hard with more than one demon--ooh, bad analogy, Methos. She was the daughter of the Dawson. And she owed her life to an immortal. Methos sighed, and drank some of his beer.
Now, wasn't this an awkward moment? As if they had already run out of things to say. Or, was it more likely they were afraid to say them?
"Joe said you're teaching..."
"Did Joe tell you I'm teaching..."
Methos shook his head. "What is it with us, Mac? All or nothing tonight?" For the second time they seemed to have been thinking the same thing.
"Maybe so, Methos." The Scot smiled. "So, tell me about it."
"It's nothing. An undergrad class. Greek classics."
MacLeod nodded. "You like it?"
"Pays the bills."
"Methos, still living poor Adam Pierson's life?"
The ancient man shrugged. "Well, I do have a pension from the Watchers."
"Oh, great. They must really love that." The Scot looked at Methos. "Do they know you're an immortal?"
"I'm not certain. But I was becoming as notorious an immie-lover as Dawson. I thought I would quit while I was ahead."
"Immie-lover. That would be Joe, and you. Are there more?"
Methos shrugged. "Yes. Remember Rita and Christian? And Ian and Darius to a
degree. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Horton hadn't lured Ian
away that day."
"Methos, if things changed--with the Watcher organization--would you go back?"
"I don't know, Mac. There are some good people, people who were my friends, I wouldn't mind working with again."
"You still feel loyalty to them. After everything."
"Yeah, I do." Just like I feel toward you, Duncan.
The Highlander looked at his friend a long time. "Yeah."
They talked. About Amanda and her Nick. An ex-cop no less. And Claudia. Still defiantly refusing to carry a sword. And Michelle, Ceirdwyn, Alex. Methos snorted. There was a definite pattern here. Wasn't there a female immortal the Scot hadn't slept with? Or mentored?
Methos sprawled even more into the couch. By now there was a nice pile of shredded beer labels on the floor between his feet. He did it unconsciously. Didn't even notice he was doing it.
But the Highlander did. "Methos, you're making a mess there. Pick it up and come help me make some sandwiches."
The old man grinned. "Sure Mac, I'm starving."
"I knew you were gonna say that, Methos." He started unloading his refrigerator. "I stopped at the deli on the way here."
"Hey, you got the good stuff. I'm impressed." Methos was laying out the meets and cheeses as MacLeod handed them to him.
"Yeah, I had a feeling you'd be showing up."
"Did you? Really?" He was touched that the Scot had thought of him.
"I did."
"Oh." Methos took a breath. "Then I'm glad I didn't disappoint." He smiled, and got out the pan to start grilling the bread.
The Scot gently took it from him. "Not this time, Methos."
"Hey, come on Mac. I only burned it once. If you had a toaster like a normal person..."
"Just slice the tomatoes, Methos. Let me handle the rest."
"Sure. If you insist..."
"I do."
"Be my guest."
"I think that's my line, Methos."
"Oh, yeah." The ancient man leaned back on the stool as MacLeod built their sandwiches. He had to admit the Scot had the knack. Butter-grilled rye bread, toasted provolone, warmed slices of ham and Methos' paper-thin sliced tomatoes. A veritable work of art. He grinned when a plated sandwich was pushed his way. Then joined by a beer.
He picked up one of the triangles and bit into a point. He closed his eyes in sensory delight. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. He chewed slowly and swallowed.
"Hm." He opened his eyes only to find the Scot staring at him. "Delicious, Mac. As always." He went to take another bite, and stopped. He looked at the sandwich. Strange. Something.
"Mac, where's the crust," he asked softly.
"What? Crust?" The Highlander shrugged. "I cut it off. Why?"
"Why? Why'd you do that?"
Now the man looked sheepish. "I, ah, noticed you always picked the crust off your sandwiches. And you always tore them apart before you ate them. So..."
"How long, Mac? How long have you been fixing my sandwiches this way?" And I never noticed.
"Since Seacouver, I guess. It's no big deal, Methos."
"But it is, Mac." He looked down at the plate. "Never did like the crust. Never. And I swear before all that's holy, Mac, you are the only person who's ever noticed. Ever went to the trouble..." His voice broke then, and Methos got up off the stool and went into the living area.
A moment later he felt a touch on his shoulder and he turned.
Turned right into the strong arms of Duncan MacLeod. Then MacLeod's hands were on his face and Methos held his breath.
"Methos?"
"Duncan."
"Do you want this? Want me?"
"As long as you'll have me, Highlander."
"Duncan."
"Yes, Duncan." Then Methos watched as Duncan's face drew near and warm lips touched his.
Finally.
End
Originally posted long, long ago.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.