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"I want to drive, MacLeod."
"And I want to keep my car a while longer, Methos."
"Oh, come on. It wasn't my fault that woman smashed the fender of the truck."
"Methos! You cut off a pregnant woman to get a parking place at the mall!"
"Hey, she hit me. And the police even gave her a ticket." He sounded just a bit too gleeful.
The Highlander glared at him as he hefted the straining basket into the back seat. What in the world had Methos packed for this picnic?
"Besides, I didn't know she was pregnant." The old immortal glanced over at his lover. "Come on, give me the keys. I know where we're going and you don't, anyway." He licked his top lip. Barely showing the tip of his tongue. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."
The Scot groaned "All right, but you'd better..."
"I will."
"...be carefull."
"Always."
"And make sure there's enough gas to get us there. And home again." MacLeod felt around in his pockets. Yes, he had his phone. Then he decided to check it. Smiling, he pulled out his sunglasses and put them on.
"Good to go, Methos."
"Excellent."
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They headed out of Seacouver traveling north. Methos driving almost sedately. They listened to the university's alternative station for as long as MacLeod could stand it, then to a compromise station. Jazz.
"Armstrong. Did you know Armstrong?"
"Which one?"
"Which...?"
"Well, there's Edwin, Henry, Jeannette, Louis. Neil, Rolf..."
"Rolf?"
"He was a pinup artist. One of the first. I think I have one of his pieces." Methos shrugged. "Somewhere." He spared a glance at MacLeod. "So, who do you want to know about?"
"Louis Armstrong. Did you know him?"
"Off and on. Saw him for the first time back in, oh, 1919. Playing on one of the Mississippi steamboats. I was on my honeymoon."
"Oh."
Methos let the silence hang between the two of them for a few minutes. "I told you I had 68 wives."
"Yes. Yes you did. I guess I just..."
"It's okay, MacLeod." The old immortal began to slow the car. "First stop coming up. The new crop of apples are in. I want to get some. I'm in the mood for home made apple butter."
"And I suppose you're going to take over the loft to make it?"
"No. I promised Joe he could help me. We'll be at his place." He grinned smugly at his lover.
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They were well out into the countryside. Wide tracts of farmland interspersed with forest. Methos had long ago left the carefully maintained highways for the rural byways.
"I thought you said you knew where you were going?"
"Have faith, MacLeod. If I can find a holy spring after a millennium..." He slowed the car even more and turned off into a shallow-rutted lane. He stopped the car and looked around.
"This is it. Almost there, MacLeod."
"There? And where is 'there.'" He looked around curiously as the car rolled onward. To the left were overgrown fields. To the right was a mixed forest of deciduous and coniferous trees. After a little while the lane bent and headed straight into the trees. "Methos?"
The old man sighed. Glanced over at his lover. "If you must know, MacLeod, we're going to a lake. There, happy now? It was supposed to be a surprise."
"Shit!" Brakes squealed sharply.
"What?" MacLeod threw his hands against the dashboard to steady himself.
Methos had stopped the car mere inches from the bole of a great tree. It had fallen completely across the lane. There wouldn't be any going forward. Except on foot. And turning around was going to be a bitch.
"Damn, damn, damn."
Now the Highlander felt bad. Methos had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to set this whole thing up.
"Is it very much farther to the lake?"
Methos nodded morosely. "Yes. It is."
MacLeod got out of the car. "Well, we can still have our picnic." He went and opened Methos' door, and urged him out. Grabbed the keys and went to open the trunk.
"Look, lets spread the blanket. Then get out that basket. You must have enough food in there..." He saw the look on his lover's face. "There is food in there, isn't there?"
"Not exactly... No."
Pushing the towel off the basket the Scot looked inside. Beer, beer, beer, wine, beer... "God, Methos, didn't you think about food?" He turned to find himself nose to nose with his lover.
"Of course I did, you bloody Highland imbecile." A long, sharp finger jabbed the Scot in the solar plexus. "I said it was supposed to be a surprise. The surprise was a catered lunch by said lake. I had them use the main road. There's no way we can make it. I told them if we weren't there," he glanced at his watch, "in 10 minutes, they could pack it in and go home. Even if we called it'd still take way too long."
The old immortal's face fell as he turned away. He hadn't meant to make such an outburst.
MacLeod grabbed for his shoulder, but his hand was shrugged off.
"Methos."
"What!?"
MacLeod stepped in front of the old man. "There's always apples..."
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He reclined on the MacLeod tartan blanket. Methos took a perverse pleasure in lolling on a gift to his lover from Rachel MacLeod.
"'Beer, Mac?" He sat up, got another brew, then bundled his duster for a pillow. Picked up the Highlander's discarded sunglasses and put them on. Perfect. Now he could nap.
"Mmm? Nope." MacLeod was content. He'd forgotten the fresh bread, oranges and preserves Methos had bought along with the apples. Now the Scot was using his katana to cut an apple into slices. Then dipping the slices into his wine before eating them. He looked up and stared at the clouds, blue sky, and dappled sunlight overhead. He stretched out a leg toward Methos and knocked over the empty wine bottle.
What could be better? Fresh air, fresh food, a good wine (out of a plastic cup?) and Methos.
Mmm. Methos. He looked over at his lover. His partner. His significant other.
His mate. His--spouse. Now, there was a good, old-fashioned word. Then again,
he liked the term consort too.
The Highlander studied the other man. Then he laid aside the katana and pushed it and the Ivanhoe out of the way.
He crawled over to Methos. Slowly.
Methos shivered with anticipation. He knew very well that MacLeod would never be able to be so close and not touch. Hell, he'd looked over a dozen times on the drive to see his lover with a half hard-on.
He closed his eyes behind the shades as he felt the Scot move closer. Then the sunglasses were pulled off and carelessly tossed aside. He heard a whisper.
"I want to see your eyes."
Methos obliged, then drew in an anticipatory breath.
A sharp pain to his ribs made him jump. "Son of a..."
"Stop that, old man. I want you conscious when...
"Fuck you, Mac."
"That's right."
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There was the sound of snapping and rasping as jeans were unfastened. Denim
rustled as it was discarded. A sigh of relief at blessed freedom. But only for a moment.
"No."
"What?"
"Wool blanket. Scratchy."
"Ah."
Then, fumbling and laughter. Thump of discarded shoes. Um. Shoe. "Where?"
"Later."
MacLeod grunted as Methos heaved him onto the seat. Proving that the old man really is
stronger than he looks.
Methos grinned at the lovely new sounds. Of naked back and ass on butter-soft leather. The click of the glove box opening. Click of the cap on the lube.
"Hurry."
"I can't. Fucking boots."
"Me-thossss...?"
"Duncan, start without me...I'll catch up..."
They both laughed breathlessly. Then Methos watched spellbound as his lover began to pleasure himself, and to prepare himself for their bonding. The beautiful body was braced and exposed. Fingers disappearing and reappearing. Disappearing and reappearing. Disappearing and...
Finally Methos managed to get his jeans as far as his ankles. Enough. It was enough. He grabbed MacLeod's still-socked foot to steady himself. But the man pulled his leg back at the touch and Methos fell... Onto, into the body of his lover and...
Duncan shouted and moaned, arched against him. Methos was afraid MacLeod would knock himself out if he kept hitting his head like that.
He pulled the responsive body closer until Duncan was practically in his lap.
And Methos was rammed in so far and tight. They were one body. Together they strained for release. Bucking and writhing against each other. They were both coming.
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"Duncan?"
"Hmmmm." The reply was more of a chest rumble than anything verbal.
"Is everything..."
"I'll live.
"Good." Methos kissed his lover again, and started to get up. "Shh," he said when MacLeod protested.
"I found your shoe."
Originally posted a long, long time 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.