Work Text:
Suspension of Disbelief
by Jennie
Krycek glared at Methos. "I don't believe you," he stated flatly.
A shrug. "Believe me or not ... It's not like I can show you a film or anything."
"Methos," Krycek sat forward, emphasizing his point, "you *hate* to fly. That's a well-established fact. No fucking way you're gonna convince me you were a test pilot on supersonic spy planes."
Methos shrugged, unconcerned. "I've done many things over the years ... more than you'll ever know. I *was* a test pilot for the military and I *did* fly the SR-71 Blackbird."
Krycek's eyes narrowed. Dammit, Methos was always leading him down the garden path with completely unbelievable stories of his exploits. "What altitude and speed did you achieve?" He asked, hoping to catch the ancient one out with details.
"Well," Methos reclined back on his sofa, languidly holding a half-full beer in one hand, "the Blackbird could reach a sustained speed of mach 3.2 ... popular opinion was that it had an altitude ceiling of 85,000 feet, but I climbed to 100,000 once."
Krycek groaned his defeat and sat back in his chair. Lifting his glass, he took a healthy swallow of vodka and swallowed with a smile. Irritating though Methos could be at times, he always kept a bottle of Krycek's favorite vodka in the freezer. Small things like that kept Krycek coming back for more. The drink ... more often than not a great conversation and/or argument ... and the sex ... Well, Methos could and did make Krycek howl like a hyena, begging for release, writhing with pleasure. Every time. Krycek simply could not get enough of the man.
His eyes darkened at the thought and he rose to his feet. "Didn't you say you had a brand new bed to break in?" He asked smiling down at the ancient immortal.
"Hmm, yes, I did." Methos flowed up off of the couch and led the way to the bedroom. He turned on the lights and pointed at the bed in question. "Well, what do you think?"
"Nice." Krycek started to move toward Methos, intending to catch a kiss.
"*Nice*?" Methos voice was outraged. "That's all you can say ... nice?" He backed out of the mortal's reaching arm. "I waited over eight months for the damned thing. Ordered it special. It's made of Tasmanian Sassafras - the blackheart variety. Cost a fucking fortune. And all you can say is *nice*?"
"Methos, the bed is gorgeous ... a work of fucking art, okay." Krycek moved in again, managing to get his arm around the immortal's waist. Leaning forward, he started nibbling at Methos neck ... that always worked.
"Mmmm," Methos let his head drop back, allowing Krycek easier access to his sensitive neck. "'m glad you like it."
"I love it. it's the most beautiful bed I've ever seen." He sucked on an earlobe. "Now, let's fuck."
Methos grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."
end