Seasons 3

by Westwind

May 2003

Fall 2060 ~ Separation

October 4, 2060

the air feels liquid

warm then full of heat then cold

fall is slipping in

This time I stormed out of the house, not Duncan. I'm convinced that he does not know what he is doing. The fact that I left won't help at all, but I had to have some space. In the nearly fifty years that we had wandered in the wilderness, so many things had happened. Some were benign, but others were fragmented and bitter. Being away from Duncan for a couple of weeks let me see him more clearly. Just listening to him talk convinced me that his memory was faulty, and Immortals don't forget *anything* unless it involves a very great trauma.

The disintegration started first on the train trip to Dallas and accelerated through the first months here. To anyone else, Duncan had all the appearances of normality. He dressed appropriately, kept himself clean and neat, kept up the place where he lived, took good care of Maggie, taught adolescents without much thought, but the heart was missing, and it very nearly broke mine.

I realized that Duncan was hunting soon after we got settled. I tried to talk to him about the risks of discovery, and the very real risk of dying. But he didn't seem to remember any of the incidents. He became very angry with me and called me a liar. I gradually withdrew--began to live in the back of the shop, stopped eating every meal with him. I didn't leave, but I had to put some distance between us. Did I mention that I hate to fight? Swords make me very nervous.

I waited some time for Duncan to get better. It's been six months and he's still hunting. God knows that I can't fault him for killing; he still has thousands to go to equal my total. And he's still young--and so beautiful. It just tears at my heart.

I ate dinner with Duncan last night, then we made love. It was then that I decided to steal him away. We'll go west to the coast. It's time he had a home and friends. That, I'm sure, is part of the problem. Duncan does better with a routine, with sameness. I saw the changes in him while we stayed in Shady Grove. He loved the years there.

He looked so good last night. He had on those new Texas jeans and a western shirt. I had to clamp down on myself to keep from just jumping him. Duncan had enough fixed to feed ten people. I could barely eat it though; I would have done anything to keep him at home. No hunting! So I took him to bed and let him fuck my brains out. Though I don't really know what that means. My brains are in the other end, I hope. This could go on for years, so I'm going to kidnap him.

This expedition will require careful preparation. The cats--I think the only thing that's kept Duncan sane is Magnolia and Lily. He dotes on them and they're completely devoted to him. So the second thing I need to worry about is keeping them safe. What is the first thing? Why, it's Duncan.

October 19, 2060

warm as a crackling

fire, cold as a witch's tit,

fall comes to Dallas

The shop is a lot primitive and a lot more drafty than our house, but moving here got me a some privacy. I have a wood stove that I use to cook on and to keep me warm, and warmth is important to me and to Lily. The vigilante association provides electricity for just a few hours a day (The SEDPA, they have initials already; I just wish they had fewer thugs.). They're dependable though; they're the same hours every day. So it's kerosene lanterns at night.

I can't get enough sleep. I miss Duncan; I miss the comfort that he provides by just being there. Maybe that has something to do with--it's beginning to worry me a little.

Lily amped as Methos knocked on the door; she could smell the catnip, but she couldn't find it. Duncan let them in. Now Lily was amping to get down. "Brought her to you." Methos looked too small for his clothes; Duncan looked worried.

"Wait Methos. Eat supper with me. Please."

"I want to."

"We won't keep you if you have to go. But I'd like to share a meal with you." Duncan looked hopeful. "It's only a stew, and I made some fresh bread--whole wheat with lots of butter." His face was lit with joy and worry at the same time. "And I've got some beer." Duncan was babbling.

Caught between conflicting desires, Methos was standing in front of the door of the little house. "OK." And came all the way into the room. He let Lily down to go and bedevil Maggie, until they fell into an orgy of licking. Duncan still lived in the house they rebuilt together; Methos had moved to his workshop about two miles away.

Duncan caught his hand and led him to the couch. "Sit down, and I'll get your beer." Coming back, he had beer and a plate of hot buttered bread. He sat down beside Methos. "Eat this while it's hot; there's plenty more."

Taking just a bit of the crust, Methos nibbled on it. "I'm not very hungry." But he drank his beer down.

"Let's go in the kitchen. You can keep me company while I eat. And there's more beer." They got up, and Duncan picked up the plate of bread and his bottle of beer, then ushered Methos into the kitchen. "Sit here while I fix something for Maggie and Lily." He fixed a bowl of stew by cutting up the meat then mashing the vegetables and adding gravy. Maggie adored this; she was hissing and growling at her sister, who paid her no attention. In fact, while Maggie was spitting, Lily got extra licks of gravy.

"Lily may not be the brightest cat, but she does know what's important." Methos was laughing at his opportunistic cat. "She's beautiful, isn't she? So beautiful."

Duncan served two bowls and put the rest of the bread on the table; and he brought two more bottles of beer plus a saucer full of whole dill pickles. The meal was remarkably quiet; the cats had settled down to clean themselves up, and the men found that they had nothing to say. Methos kept stealing looks at Duncan all in brown with his hair down his back. He sighed.

"Sometimes you look eighteen." He had made the dinner last as long as he could, but finally he had to admit defeat. Turning sideways in his chair, his head was cocked to one side as he considered Methos looking like he was wearing someone else's clothes, and maybe he was.

"Oh surely not." His ears were turning pink.

"Just eighteen, with your hair long like that. Other times you look as old as you are."

"What would a five thousand year old man look like? Bones, if that-- except for Immortality." Methos knew that Duncan had always been curious about his beginnings. "What are you thinking?"

"Tonight you look eighteen. Awkward. Hands and feet too big, and your ears stick out." Duncan was smiling a little.

"They always stick out. And I figure I was supposed to be bigger, but starvation stunted my growth." Time for a little misdirection.

"They didn't feed you?" Duncan had always suspected that Methos had had a difficult time.

"Sometimes. Usually I ate what I could find." The hazel eyes had an edge of calculation in them.

"You do remember."

"Most of it."

"And it was horrible."

"Now it seems horrible, then it was all I knew." He sat back in his chair and turned the beer bottle up and drank until it was gone.

"I didn't mean to push."

"Let's go in the living room. I have something for the cats. And bring more beer, unless you have something stronger?"

Methos picked up Maggie and Lily and marched out with them, leaving Duncan to get the beer and corn liquor and bring it to the couch. Methos had cats on either side of him, when he reached into his pocket and brought out two kerchiefs--one blue one and the other red--tied in knots around the catnip. He threw the kerchiefs down on the floor, then looked at the cats expectantly. Maggie jumped down first and circled the little colored mice; Lily watched her for awhile, then jumped down directly on the red mouse and began to savage it.

Duncan came out of the kitchen to sit down on the couch. Methos toed off his shoes, and slumped down onto the couch. "I know you had to live by yourself for a while." It all came bubbling up; Duncan had to say it no matter how much Methos might balk. "You don't look like your getting enough sleep. Are you warm enough? It's starting to get chilly at night. And I know you aren't eating enough!"

"I've been taking care of myself for five thousand years." He knew that Duncan cared, but the defensive tone was automatic.

"Yes I know you have. But I worry about you." Duncan was apologetic yet defiant. He moved closer and slid his hand in Methos's. "Also, I love you."


He laughed and pulled Methos over for a kiss. He moved his head back just a little. "I've missed you!" And gave him a one handed hug and then plunged ahead. "I don't know what you're thinking."

"Do you ever?" It should have sounded snarky, but it just sounded tired.

"Not very often, no." Duncan's heart turned over.

"You know sitting up against you like this makes me think of sex. That's what I'm thinking of now--slow, gentle, cuddly sex."

"I can do that."

"I thought you probably could."

Duncan looked at his love, stretched out, languorous, and beautiful. "You still look eighteen."

"But I'm not." Methos smirked.

"I want to see how far down your blush goes." Duncan had Methos's sweater nearly off without unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

"Don't strangle me, at least not yet." Duncan chuckled and sat back to enjoy the private show. Methos unbuttoned his shirt, then he began to slowly pull the sleeves off, well aware of his rapt audience. The shirt slithered down his back and off to slide down to the floor. He turned away, then looked backed at Duncan with downcast eyes. Before Duncan could react, he went into the bedroom. Duncan followed stepping over the shirt.

Methos had pulled his sweater half way over his head when Duncan came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Methos's waist, snuggled his cock in the crack of his ass, and began to move.

"Mmpf." And slowly Methos began to lean forward to gain more contact both for Duncan and for himself. Duncan's hands moved to hold the slim hips as he thrust hard. He came all over Methos's jeans. "Eewh. I asked for cuddly, not fast." He complained, stepping out of his jeans gingerly and discarding them. He still had the sweater on, now rumpled up around the bottom.

"I couldn't have done cuddly without some preliminary relief." He raised his eyebrows, and a smile lit his brown eyes, full of mischief and lust.

"All right! I hope it was good for you, but I got very little out of it." He put his chin up which left his wholly edible neck exposed. Duncan kissed it then ducked away.

Duncan hurriedly stripped, and walked to the bed, and pulled down the quilts. "Leave the sweater on; I want to play with you."

With a deep sigh, Methos came to the bed to let Duncan reach for his sweater and lay his hands against his stomach. Duncan looked very seriously at his lovely, barely-aroused cock. "Do you want to do this? We can just go to bed; I like to wake up with you beside me."

"It has been awhile."

"Two weeks."

"Maybe I've forgotten how."

"Never! Not after five thousand years of practice."

"Let's just forget the five thousand years and concentrate on the eighteen."

Duncan smiled then scooted back on the bed until he was against the headboard. "Come here. I know you're a little shy so let's just cuddle and talk. We can even kiss a little. I remember when I was eighteen--"

"MacLeod." But Methos scooted over to join Duncan against the headboard and leaned against his shoulder. "Tell me a story."

"Are you sure you're not eight? You're not going to suck your thumb, are you?" Methos snuggled down and took Duncan's hand. "Once upon a time." Duncan began.

"That's a good start." Methos matched his long elegant hand to Duncan's square one, palm to palm and fingers to fingers.

Duncan's arm tightened. "In a land far, far away, in a time long, long ago, a prince lived a princely life doing princely things."

"Oh, it's about you!"

"No, it's not." He snorted then kissed the top of Methos's head. "Now be quiet."

"I'm not very good at that."


So as the tale of Prince Duncan unfolded, embellished and spangled by the velvet voice and warming embrace, Methos drifted in comfort. He tried to snuggle closer; his attention began to wander and become unfocused. Gradually he slept.

Methos woke up just as his sword slid through Silas's neck. He sat up and put his arms around his knees and put his head down. Poor Silas, he never should have left Ukraine. His mind skittered away from any thought of Kronos. There was nothing pitiable about Kronos--well almost nothing. He hadn't changed when the world around him had. Then he was crying salty, bitter tears, shaking the bed with the need to be quiet. "Shh, shh. Cry if you need to, but I'll be here to hold you.

Duncan put his arm around Methos, and his head against Methos's head, and began to gently rock them both. But he didn't know who Methos was crying for. And Duncan couldn't guarantee that he would be there; no one of them could. He didn't know what Silas meant to him, always gentle and kind to him, unlike Caspian's mindless violence or Kronos's unpredictably. And Methos had killed him.

Like so many bitter things in Methos life, the need to mourn for Silas had just been pushed aside; it was always better to push it aside until later. It was when later became sooner that the trouble started.



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