Disclaimer: I don't own Methos, nice as it would be. 

<fortuita@hotmail.com> for feedback 

Etranger, Danseur 
By Fortuita James 

Methos paced, a strange tension creeping through him. 
His bones felt disconnected and his muscles were 
taut for action. He could not still himself.
  He looked at the clock. Early enough.
  He threw off his sweater and reached for something 
form fitting. Black. Switched light boots for 
deadlier ones. He hesitated over his long coat, could 
not leave his sword behind. Pulled a flaring leather 
one instead, swinging down around his legs.
  And Methos swung out the door, destination unknown.
  It was the bouncer that drew him in. There was an 
air about the man. A glitter of something different. 
Dark. It fit Methos' mood. That was the kind of man he 
could fight or fuck, or both. Someone into whom he 
could drain his body.
  Methos moved past him. 
  There were college boys. Bruisers. Bored cynics. No 
one quite caught his eye, until...there. On the dance 
floor.
  Sinuous, flexible. Dark, dark eyes and satin ebony 
skin. Hair; black curls to his shoulders, a swaying 
mass. He had the dazed look of the dedicated dancer. 
Wholly inside himself.
  Loose white shirt, open, and...hmm, Methos' eyes 
narrowed, leather pants. Suddenly, fighting became a 
whole lot less attractive.
  He threaded through the mass of bodies, coming flush 
up against the dancer. He was still in a trance. Methos 
pulled the hair from one side of his face, and leaning 
in, whispered, "Bonsoir."
  There was a momentary break of rhythm. The man turned 
his head, swept his eyes over Methos' face.
  "Etranger." It was a sigh of acknowledgment, before 
he turned back to his dance, Methos attached. Their hips 
swayed in sync, and Methos fluttered his hand down onto 
a fine leather-encased hip.
  One of his jeans-clad thighs slipped between the other 
man's. They rocked lower to the ground, Methos guiding 
their motion with flexing fingers.
  They shifted together, seduced by the heavy bass. It 
pounded through them, defining their dance.
  Methos leaned back in to the other man's hair.
  "Mon danseur. Vous etes pret?"
  He suddenly turned, settling into Methos' arms, dark 
eyes serious. They fixed on him, measuring, as the two 
continued dancing face to face.
  "Oui." It was a breath. Less.
  "Partons."
  "Oui." Stronger. "Allons. Mais...etranger? Baisez-moi. 
Et m'appellez Vincent."
  A kiss. Light as touch. And, "Vincent? Venez."
  Methos knew he had taken the lead. It was not what he 
wanted, what he needed. He needed a release of control. 
Trust, even if it was only an illusion.
  Outside, away from the threat of crowd, he rolled his 
shoulders, leaned in close once more.
  "Methos." Received a questioning look.
  "C'est moi. Vincent, est-ce qu'on peut aller chez toi?"
  His lithe and lovely dancer took on an edge. The razor 
he'd seen in the bouncer. He shivered. All this, and 
more.
  He became the follower, was led away.
  Not far, the apartment. It occurred to Methos that his 
dancer might be a club regular. He might actually go 
there to dance. Methos felt a strange thrill. It was 
almost, but not quite, like possession.
  He drew off his coat, so its weight could not be felt, 
stripped from him. But was surprised when the rest was, 
in short order. Vincent was a delight.
  Nude, conscious, but well trained, he stood and waited. 
Vincent's loose shirt followed his boots to the floor. 
Clad only in those delightful leather trousers, he pulled 
Methos to him.
  The immortal shone pale, lovely, against his warm brown 
skin. The contrast was admired, as was the skin itself, 
fine-stretched. Methos abandoned passivity, let his cool 
fingers make forays down the dancer's undiscovered spine.
  Methos was guided to a bed, laid out. Felt a moment's 
hilarity at the pseudo-death. Choked on it. Too perverse.
  Vincent drugged his body with caresses, teased and 
aroused. Surveyed his prize awaiting ravishment. Prepared 
the man, stretched him. Sheathed himself. Sat back. 
Waiting. 
  Fired hazel eyes flashed to his, demanded. But he waited.
  "Vincent? Baisez-moi." Vincent had said it before, and 
with his repetition Methos made their changed positions 
clear. And the way he spoke. Impersonal, 'baisez' took on 
carnality, need, anticipation. And Vincent fucked him. 
Moved inside him, turned him out. And loosed himself 
inside, even as he was drained. Felt his mind fall through 
the body beneath him.
  After minutes, hours of replete silence, Methos stirred. 
He whispered an inaudible "Merci," as he felt the call of 
sleep.
  He gathered clothes, carefully redonned his coat, heavy 
as it was with his existence.
  He turned a last time, felt inky orbs take him in. 
  "Reviendrez," he heard. Automatically wanted to deny its 
demand, but couldn't. "Quelque jour, Methos," was added. 
That he could accept. 
  Acknowledged it. Departed. 

FIN