Highlander snippet
10 January 2004 20:57![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mandragoraSo, one of my resolutions for 2004 is to get back to writing. In that spirit, here's the beginning of a long HL story that I started in...2002. Ouch! I don't know when it'll be finished but hopefully some day I'll be able to write 'Fin', or 'Finis', or 'The End'. Not wanting to start a flame waror anything. *g*
Paris. 20 April 1997
He walked unsteadily away from Byron's headless corpse. The dead poet turned rock star's quickening roiled uneasily within him, Byron's frenetic energy unsettling as it rattled from side to side like an importunate child, loud and demanding. That was what Byron had been, a greedy child filled with a monstrous hunger that could never be assuaged.
He shuddered.
Climbing into his Citroen he made swiftly for Le Blues Bar, located in the Latin Quarter of Paris. Joe would be waiting for him there--and Methos.
Methos, who had begged him to spare Byron, urging him to think of the poetry, the music. Methos, who had been Byron's lover. Methos, who had been many things. Scholar, Watcher, friend, saviour...betrayer, rapist, murderer...Death. But never lover. Not to him.
He parked the car near the bar. As he walked down the stairs into the bar he could hear the sound of a guitar picking out a mournful solo. Inside the bar was dimly lit, giant shadows swooped along the walls and pooled in the corners of the room. The bar was all but deserted, save for Joe who sat with his guitar in his lap to one side of the bar and Methos, who was sitting alone at a table nursing a glass of whisky, his winter-pale skin contrasting with the dark grey of his sweater. There was a brief silence as he entered, but a moment later and the guitar sounded again.
Methos' face was empty, save for a vast weariness. Silently, Duncan took off his coat and threw it down on a chair at the table. He went to the bar to collect a glass. As he did so Methos spoke, "Matter and antimatter. Byron knew that too."
Duncan sat down in a chair next to the couch where Methos reclined and poured himself a glass of whisky.
"His life had become one long tragedy," Methos said, his words counter-pointed by the plaintive wail of the guitar.
"We all know how those end." Duncan sat back and took a sip of the drink, quivering a little at the burn of the liquor down his throat. Methos said nothing, merely stared down at his whisky glass then shifted a little in his seat.
Inside Duncan's head the poet's voice echoed as the guitar played on. 'My task is done, my song has ceased, my theme has died into an echo. It is fit.'
Fit maybe, but Duncan could have wished it otherwise. Methos was right, he had disliked Byron from the first moment he saw him; he wasn't sure why.
Had he been looking for an excuse to kill him? He rolled the thought carefully around in his mind. No, Mike's death hadn't been an excuse, he would have tried to stop any Immortal who had acted as immoderately as Byron did, luring mortals to their doom, chasing the bright ephemerality of modern fame. He had killed even Immortals who had been friends for similar transgressions, for toying with mortals, killing them. Gabriel Piton and Tommy Sullivan to name but two. But it certainly hadn't hurt that Byron's very presence had been an irritant, a burr under the skin and he wasn't sorry that the presence had been removed.
What he was sorry for was the loss of the music and the poetry.
They sat for a long while, drinking whisky and listening to Joe masterfully playing the blues, the melody hanging, sobbing, in the air. Neither man spoke. Duncan watched Methos' hands, fascinated by the motions of his long, graceful fingers as they turned the glass around, over and over.
At last, the guitar ceased and Joe pushed himself to his feet. He walked to the table and put down some keys. "I'm done. Will one of you lock up? Put the keys in the usual place."
"Yeah, sure." Duncan spoke for what seemed like the first time in days. He was surprised at the sound of his own voice, hoarse in his ears. Methos said nothing, staring still at his whisky glass.
"G'night guys."
At that, Methos looked up. "See you, Joe."
Joe raised a hand in salute but did not turn around. A few moments later and he was gone.
Duncan moved in his seat uneasily. "Methos..." The older man turned a little, looking at Duncan for the first time since he had walked into the bar. Methos' face was expressionless, impossible to read. "He really didn't care, you know. Byron. Whether he lived or died."
Something flickered in Methos' eyes, then faded. "Yes. I'd got that impression," he said.
"I--" Methos raised an eyebrow in inquiry when Duncan did not continue. "I'm sorry that I couldn't do as you asked." There, he'd said it.
Methos looked down at the whisky glass again, fingers toying with the rim. "Are you?" The voice was ostensibly neutral but layered with disbelief.
"Yes. I--" Duncan stopped and took a deep breath, not certain why he should feel such a need to explain himself to Methos of all people. Methos, who never explained anything, even when cornered giving only evasions or else hurling words calculated to hurt with vindictive glee. "I won't pretend that I'm sorry he's dead. But I am sorry for the loss of the music."
Methos shrugged. "Well, that makes it all right then." The voice should have been sarcastic, said in Methos' usual acerbic tones but it wasn't. Instead there was only weariness. He turned the glass round and round.
Duncan bit his lip. "Methos..." He laid his hand over Methos' own long-fingered one stopping the ceaseless motion of the whisky glass. Jesu! Duncan nearly gasped aloud at the desire that flashed through him at the contact, the impulse to gather Methos into his arms and kiss him--deeply passionate, sweetly wet kisses-flashing through him.
Damn it! That wasn't him. It wasn't. It was merely the residue of Byron's memories. At that his fingers tightened uncontrollably around those clasped in his. There was a wordless sound of protest. "Sorry." Duncan hastily let go of Methos' hand.
Methos looked at him, scrunching his face with familiar irritation. "What are you doing, Highlander? Seeking absolution?"
"No!" The protest was immediate. Then, before he could think to stop it, "Not from--"
"Me," Methos finished for him. There were shadows in the hollows under his high cheekbones and under the long ovals of his eyes. "Predictable, MacLeod."
"Wouldn't want to disappoint you." The retort rose up without thought. For a second it felt almost like old times. Before he had found out what Methos had been. What he'd done.
"Oh, you never do that." The expected note of mockery was missing; the voice was dispassionate. "You are what you are. The Highland champion. I just wonder what you'll do when you finally make a mistake."
"I've made plenty of those," Duncan said soberly.
"Have you?"
"You know I have. You've read my Chronicle." He shook his head. "When I was younger..." He half smiled in reminiscent amusement. "I could be such an idiot. And I was so naïve. The young grow up so much quicker now. Richie isn't anywhere near as stupid as I was--but don't tell him I said that," he finished hastily.
The ghost of a smile crossed Methos' face. Then he sobered. "So, is that what I am?"
Duncan frowned.
"A mistake," Methos elucidated.
Duncan looked down at his hands. He said nothing.
"I see. Well, that's clear enough." Methos was moving quickly now, rising from the table, reaching for his coat.
For the second time that evening Duncan reached out a hand. This time he grasped Methos' arm, feeling whipcord muscle through the sleeve of his sweater. "Don't go."
Methos stilled, looking pointedly down at his captured arm.
"Please," Duncan finished. He tugged at Methos, pulling him back onto the leather couch mainly by dint of force. For a moment, Methos resisted, then folded his long form down with a sigh. "You're...I don't know what you are," Duncan said, meeting eyes that at that moment were dark pools of woodland green shot through with flecks of amber.
Extraordinary eyes really. He'd seen them crinkled with amusement as Methos baited him with a sarcastic comment, shooting fire as Methos spat words calculated to wound at him, glistening with tears contemplating Alexa's grave and as deep, fathomless pools while Methos imparted some cryptic comment. At present they were expressionless, flat, reflecting back his own face to him. "But I do know that without you I'd probably still be rampaging around the world, leaving a trail of havoc in my wake. Or dead. And I thank you for that."
Those eyes closed for a second, then opened again. "Feeling sentimental, MacLeod?"
He shrugged. "A little maybe."
Methos said nothing in response and silence fell, a quiet that Duncan was reluctant to break, wary of saying the wrong thing. But he could only sip at the whisky for so long. Still he delayed, reaching for the bottle and filling both his glass and that of Methos. He swirled the liquid around in the glass absently, watching the amber fluid spark in the dim light then glanced over at Methos who sat, head bent, one long arm flung casually along the couch back, legs sprawled in classic disarray. At the sight Duncan's heart skipped a beat. He breathed deep.
He was reacting like this only because of the quickening.
And yet...although his ambivalence to Methos' presence hadn't magically disappeared, he had to admit that some part of him was happy to see the Methos again, after an absence of several months. Since Bordeaux.
When they had parted in the graveyard of the Elysium church, he had been glad to see Methos go. The slender thread of the joined quickening still stretched between them, something alien to him and unwanted. He had thought that with time it would diminish but it had not done so. It was still there, an inexorable shining strand.
But even with the shared tie he had successfully avoided thinking much about Methos in the following months. Even with his propensity for dwelling in the past--for a second he could hear Amanda's voice saying tartly in his ears, "Brooding, it's called brooding, Duncan,"--he had for once decided to spare himself the pain. Methos was dead to him and that was the end of it.
Or it had been until he had seen Methos standing in the Luxembourg Gardens a few weeks ago.
Even in his revulsion at what Methos had been--what he had done--deep within some part of him had rejoiced to see Methos. He had missed him, had not realised how much he had missed him until he saw him there, contrary and sarcastic as ever. He had told Methos then that if he took Keane's head, he, Duncan, would take his. What would he have done if Methos had called his bluff? He didn't know. What he did know was that he was unable to subdue, even now, the yearning for things to be between them to be as they had been, knowing that was impossible. A part of him would perhaps always wish it so--a child crying for the moon.
Grow up, MacLeod, he told himself with disgust.
Maybe Methos and he could start again, build a friendship on less shaky foundations. Now that he knew the truth, what Methos was, what he had been. And yet, significant though his time with the Horsemen had been it was still only a part of Methos' life, leaving the vast majority stretching back behind him, swathed in mystery. He wanted to know more, always had.
Byron's uneasy quickening whispered to him, showing him Methos as teacher, as companion in their revels. As lover. Except that Byron had never known whom 'Doc' really was. Methos had freely shared his body with Byron but never entrusted him with his name. Whereas he, Duncan, had known that right from the start. Methos could have left Paris before he ever met him, or pretended to be some other Immortal, but he hadn't...
Oh.
He would think about that later.
By his side Methos shifted and stirred. Duncan looked at him; at the way the light glinted off the high cheekbones and shadowed the long planes of his cheeks, highlighting the pale skin. The soft, soft skin. His breath caught.
Breathe, breathe.
His skin prickled, nerves shuddered along his arms as his hands twitched. Jesus. He had to get out of here. Now. He rose hastily to his feet, reaching for his coat.
Methos looked up. "Going somewhere?"
"It's late," Duncan answered, wincing at the curt sound of his own voice. "I--I mean, it's been a long day. That is--" Fuck. Could he be any clumsier? He waited for Methos to riposte, something along the lines of, 'Nothing like indulging your penchant for stating the obvious, MacLeod,' or 'Nice try, but tact was never your strong suit, Mac.'
But to his relief Methos merely said, "So it is," rising smoothly to his feet and shrugging into his long coat.
"So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Here at Joe's?"
Methos shrugged. "Suppose so."
Duncan hesitated then with a feeling that, in the end, this was inevitable held out the olive branch. "Methos... "
A look of enquiry.
"I know it's not usually your sort of thing, but Roberto Alagna is singing Don Carlos at the Opera Bastille next month. I wondered if you'd like to go."
Colour bloomed high on Methos' face. For an instant he looked very young. "Er, yeah. Sure." Then, rallying, "You know, MacLeod, just because I don't *only* listen to opera doesn't mean that I'm incapable of appreciating a great artist when I hear one." Duncan couldn't suppress a smile. He'd missed this. "Did I ever tell you that I saw Callas singing Lucia de Lammamor at the La Scala back in the fifties? Made a special trip to Milan too, which was very inconvenient seeing that I was living in Hong Kong at the time."
"Must've been a terrible sacrifice for you," Duncan said dryly as he followed Methos towards the stairs.
Methos looked back at him. "You've obviously forgotten what air travel was like in the fifties, those un-pressurised cabins and--" His voice cut off abruptly as he tripped over an out-flung chair leg. Moving swiftly Duncan grabbed hold of him, pulling Methos' body against his to steady him. Methos was muttering, "Thanks," but his voice faltered and died as he looked at Duncan. His face changed, sobered as the moment stretched, caught fast, both men standing motionless staring at the other. Duncan's fragile control snapped.
He pulled Methos ruthlessly against him and kissed him--hard. There was a heady moment of triumph at Methos' response, as his lips parted helplessly against Duncan's, surrendering to the demanding onslaught. The taste of him was indescribable, fine, well-aged wine and whisky, uniquely Methos. And the feel of him in Duncan's arms was addictive, the lithe form strong against his. His fingers brushed against the nape of Methos' neck, the cropped hair incredibly soft to the touch, then his hand moved to the warm smooth skin of Methos' neck. At that, Methos moaned and shuddered against him.
He kissed the long neck. Methos groaned low in the back of his throat. Duncan grasped slender hips and pulled them against his, feeling the other man's arousal--hard, hot flesh--even through the hampering layers of clothes. He shivered at the touch.
God! He wanted this, had wanted it for years, had never dared to admit to himself just how much he wanted it.
He bent to Methos' lips once more, taking his mouth greedily, savouring the silken heat. Methos was moving against him, his writhings only serving to increase Duncan's hunger. It thrummed through him. But even as he clasped Methos closer yet he dimly realised that Methos was struggling against him, trying to free himself, to push him away.
His hands opened and Methos was free, slipping to one side, to stand staring at him with huge, great-pupilled eyes. Methos' chest was heaving. "Really MacLeod." A familiar note of mockery was in the breathless voice but there was a betraying flush hectic on his high cheekbones. "I would be flattered, if I didn't know that this is just the result of Byron's quickening."
"It's not!"
It was, Duncan realised to his own amazement, the truth.
Methos lifted an insouciant eyebrow. "No?" He looked almost imperturbable, save for the glitter in his hazel eyes. As he spoke he wrapped his coat around himself, hugging it close to his body and crossing his arms. But it was too late--Duncan had already felt the betraying evidence of Methos' arousal.
"No, I--"
Methos cocked his head to one side expectantly.
Duncan took a deep breath. "It's-- I want you."
"Well, yes. That's rather obvious. But you know--as do I--that this is a result of the quickening, rather than my irresistible charm."
Duncan shook his head stubbornly. "That's not it."
"Of course it is. Or else..." Methos' eyes narrowed. "It's Byron, isn't it?"
Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but Methos was continuing, spitting words at him like poisoned darts. "You've realised that Byron and I were lovers--although really, you'd have to be pretty thick not to have noticed--and have decided to emulate him. Honestly, Highlander, I know you didn't like him, but *this* is ridiculous."
Duncan's mouth dropped open in amazement. "What! Do you really think I'm *that* petty."
"Not...usually," Methos replied. There was an unpleasant note of mockery in his voice. "But jealously makes fools of all of us, MacLeod."
"Jealous? Of Byron?"
"Well, aren't you? You disliked him from the moment you saw him so decided he had to die. Then you attempted to obliterate him from my memory or something, by stooping so low as to make a pass at me."
"What?"
"Look, a minute ago, you were saying you wanted me. I don't know what virus has crawled into your brain but as in all the time we've known each other you've never shown the slightest hint of attraction towards me--or any man I might add--what else am I supposed to think?" Methos voice was derisive, indicating clearly his impatience with Duncan's slow Highland wits.
However Duncan was, for once, wholly amused. Unable to prevent himself, he laughed. "Is that what you really think? That I'm not attracted to men?"
The look of uncertainty on Methos' face brought back memories of when Duncan had still thought that Methos was mostly Adam. However, Methos' voice was level, betraying nothing. "There's nothing in your Chronicle."
"There isn't?" Duncan was genuinely interested.
"No!" Methos said irritably. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How many male lovers have you had anyway?"
"What? You want a list?"
"So, I was right. There aren't any."
Duncan shook his head. "Wrong."
"A few adolescent fumblings in the dark don't count you know, MacLeod."
"That's not what I was talking about."
"You mean, you really have..."
"Of course." Duncan laughed. "I'm over four hundred years old. It would've been more surprising if I *hadn't* slept with a few men in all that time, don't you think?"
"I suppose so," Methos muttered, "but there were all those women..."
Duncan shrugged. "So what. I like sex, that's no secret. I'll admit there've been more women than men, but, trust me, there've been men along the way as well."
Methos was staring at him, his bewilderment plain.
"You know," Duncan said, "it's good. That the Watchers have been so blind. At least they don't know *everything* about me." He grinned at Methos, but the moment of vulnerability had passed.
"Fine!" Methos snapped. "So you like men. But not me. This is all Byron's influence."
"And I've told you that it's not. Or are you calling me a liar"?
Methos' lips twitched. "No. That's my role."
Duncan winced. "Do you have to--" he burst out, but Methos was already holding open his hands in wordless apology.
Duncan took a deep breath. "Look, I'll admit that I haven't said anything before now--" No need to admit that that was because he hadn't realised before now. "--but this isn't just because of the quickening." Knowing it to be one of his strengths, he fixed Methos with a look of absolute sincerity. "I want you," he said again, huskily. "I do."
Methos blinked. "Oh." To Duncan's delight, he flushed.
"You mean you never noticed?" Okay, so he hadn't noticed either, but what the hell. This was too good to miss.
Temper flared, a sure sign that Methos was feeling threatened. "When was I supposed to have noticed? When you were telling me that we're through? Or accusing me of going with the winner? Or telling me that if I took Keane's head, you'd take mine? Or--"
"Methos! I was thinking more of the times we... flirted together."
Methos shifted uneasily. "Flirted? When?"
"You know. Painting Anne's house, in the barge over the de Valicourts..."
"That was because you were trying to get me to do something for you."
Duncan bit his lip to prevent a smile. "Is that all it was? Really?"
"I--" Methos stopped and shook his head. He turned away for an instant, then swung back to face Duncan, his face composed. "Look, MacLeod, as you said, it's late. I'm going home. I suggest you do the same."
"Methos..."
"*No*, Mac. Trust me, you do *not* want to do this. You'll thank me in the morning."
"You--"
"*No*! For once, just leave it."
With that, he was gone, moving swiftly up the steps and through the curtain. A second later and his disembodied head poked back, but before Duncan had time for more than the briefest surge of hope, he was tossing Joe's keys to Duncan, saying, "Lock up, will you?" Duncan felt his presence fading away until only the merest thread, constant since Bordeaux, was left.
Duncan sank down shakily into the nearest chair, resting his head in his hands. Shit, shit, *shit*!
He stayed like that for a long moment, unmoving, but eventually took a deep breath and climbed to his feet, pulling his coat around him protectively. He would think about it later. With a shake of his head, he pulled back his shoulders and walked steadily out of the bar into the night.
Paris. 20 April 1997
He walked unsteadily away from Byron's headless corpse. The dead poet turned rock star's quickening roiled uneasily within him, Byron's frenetic energy unsettling as it rattled from side to side like an importunate child, loud and demanding. That was what Byron had been, a greedy child filled with a monstrous hunger that could never be assuaged.
He shuddered.
Climbing into his Citroen he made swiftly for Le Blues Bar, located in the Latin Quarter of Paris. Joe would be waiting for him there--and Methos.
Methos, who had begged him to spare Byron, urging him to think of the poetry, the music. Methos, who had been Byron's lover. Methos, who had been many things. Scholar, Watcher, friend, saviour...betrayer, rapist, murderer...Death. But never lover. Not to him.
He parked the car near the bar. As he walked down the stairs into the bar he could hear the sound of a guitar picking out a mournful solo. Inside the bar was dimly lit, giant shadows swooped along the walls and pooled in the corners of the room. The bar was all but deserted, save for Joe who sat with his guitar in his lap to one side of the bar and Methos, who was sitting alone at a table nursing a glass of whisky, his winter-pale skin contrasting with the dark grey of his sweater. There was a brief silence as he entered, but a moment later and the guitar sounded again.
Methos' face was empty, save for a vast weariness. Silently, Duncan took off his coat and threw it down on a chair at the table. He went to the bar to collect a glass. As he did so Methos spoke, "Matter and antimatter. Byron knew that too."
Duncan sat down in a chair next to the couch where Methos reclined and poured himself a glass of whisky.
"His life had become one long tragedy," Methos said, his words counter-pointed by the plaintive wail of the guitar.
"We all know how those end." Duncan sat back and took a sip of the drink, quivering a little at the burn of the liquor down his throat. Methos said nothing, merely stared down at his whisky glass then shifted a little in his seat.
Inside Duncan's head the poet's voice echoed as the guitar played on. 'My task is done, my song has ceased, my theme has died into an echo. It is fit.'
Fit maybe, but Duncan could have wished it otherwise. Methos was right, he had disliked Byron from the first moment he saw him; he wasn't sure why.
Had he been looking for an excuse to kill him? He rolled the thought carefully around in his mind. No, Mike's death hadn't been an excuse, he would have tried to stop any Immortal who had acted as immoderately as Byron did, luring mortals to their doom, chasing the bright ephemerality of modern fame. He had killed even Immortals who had been friends for similar transgressions, for toying with mortals, killing them. Gabriel Piton and Tommy Sullivan to name but two. But it certainly hadn't hurt that Byron's very presence had been an irritant, a burr under the skin and he wasn't sorry that the presence had been removed.
What he was sorry for was the loss of the music and the poetry.
They sat for a long while, drinking whisky and listening to Joe masterfully playing the blues, the melody hanging, sobbing, in the air. Neither man spoke. Duncan watched Methos' hands, fascinated by the motions of his long, graceful fingers as they turned the glass around, over and over.
At last, the guitar ceased and Joe pushed himself to his feet. He walked to the table and put down some keys. "I'm done. Will one of you lock up? Put the keys in the usual place."
"Yeah, sure." Duncan spoke for what seemed like the first time in days. He was surprised at the sound of his own voice, hoarse in his ears. Methos said nothing, staring still at his whisky glass.
"G'night guys."
At that, Methos looked up. "See you, Joe."
Joe raised a hand in salute but did not turn around. A few moments later and he was gone.
Duncan moved in his seat uneasily. "Methos..." The older man turned a little, looking at Duncan for the first time since he had walked into the bar. Methos' face was expressionless, impossible to read. "He really didn't care, you know. Byron. Whether he lived or died."
Something flickered in Methos' eyes, then faded. "Yes. I'd got that impression," he said.
"I--" Methos raised an eyebrow in inquiry when Duncan did not continue. "I'm sorry that I couldn't do as you asked." There, he'd said it.
Methos looked down at the whisky glass again, fingers toying with the rim. "Are you?" The voice was ostensibly neutral but layered with disbelief.
"Yes. I--" Duncan stopped and took a deep breath, not certain why he should feel such a need to explain himself to Methos of all people. Methos, who never explained anything, even when cornered giving only evasions or else hurling words calculated to hurt with vindictive glee. "I won't pretend that I'm sorry he's dead. But I am sorry for the loss of the music."
Methos shrugged. "Well, that makes it all right then." The voice should have been sarcastic, said in Methos' usual acerbic tones but it wasn't. Instead there was only weariness. He turned the glass round and round.
Duncan bit his lip. "Methos..." He laid his hand over Methos' own long-fingered one stopping the ceaseless motion of the whisky glass. Jesu! Duncan nearly gasped aloud at the desire that flashed through him at the contact, the impulse to gather Methos into his arms and kiss him--deeply passionate, sweetly wet kisses-flashing through him.
Damn it! That wasn't him. It wasn't. It was merely the residue of Byron's memories. At that his fingers tightened uncontrollably around those clasped in his. There was a wordless sound of protest. "Sorry." Duncan hastily let go of Methos' hand.
Methos looked at him, scrunching his face with familiar irritation. "What are you doing, Highlander? Seeking absolution?"
"No!" The protest was immediate. Then, before he could think to stop it, "Not from--"
"Me," Methos finished for him. There were shadows in the hollows under his high cheekbones and under the long ovals of his eyes. "Predictable, MacLeod."
"Wouldn't want to disappoint you." The retort rose up without thought. For a second it felt almost like old times. Before he had found out what Methos had been. What he'd done.
"Oh, you never do that." The expected note of mockery was missing; the voice was dispassionate. "You are what you are. The Highland champion. I just wonder what you'll do when you finally make a mistake."
"I've made plenty of those," Duncan said soberly.
"Have you?"
"You know I have. You've read my Chronicle." He shook his head. "When I was younger..." He half smiled in reminiscent amusement. "I could be such an idiot. And I was so naïve. The young grow up so much quicker now. Richie isn't anywhere near as stupid as I was--but don't tell him I said that," he finished hastily.
The ghost of a smile crossed Methos' face. Then he sobered. "So, is that what I am?"
Duncan frowned.
"A mistake," Methos elucidated.
Duncan looked down at his hands. He said nothing.
"I see. Well, that's clear enough." Methos was moving quickly now, rising from the table, reaching for his coat.
For the second time that evening Duncan reached out a hand. This time he grasped Methos' arm, feeling whipcord muscle through the sleeve of his sweater. "Don't go."
Methos stilled, looking pointedly down at his captured arm.
"Please," Duncan finished. He tugged at Methos, pulling him back onto the leather couch mainly by dint of force. For a moment, Methos resisted, then folded his long form down with a sigh. "You're...I don't know what you are," Duncan said, meeting eyes that at that moment were dark pools of woodland green shot through with flecks of amber.
Extraordinary eyes really. He'd seen them crinkled with amusement as Methos baited him with a sarcastic comment, shooting fire as Methos spat words calculated to wound at him, glistening with tears contemplating Alexa's grave and as deep, fathomless pools while Methos imparted some cryptic comment. At present they were expressionless, flat, reflecting back his own face to him. "But I do know that without you I'd probably still be rampaging around the world, leaving a trail of havoc in my wake. Or dead. And I thank you for that."
Those eyes closed for a second, then opened again. "Feeling sentimental, MacLeod?"
He shrugged. "A little maybe."
Methos said nothing in response and silence fell, a quiet that Duncan was reluctant to break, wary of saying the wrong thing. But he could only sip at the whisky for so long. Still he delayed, reaching for the bottle and filling both his glass and that of Methos. He swirled the liquid around in the glass absently, watching the amber fluid spark in the dim light then glanced over at Methos who sat, head bent, one long arm flung casually along the couch back, legs sprawled in classic disarray. At the sight Duncan's heart skipped a beat. He breathed deep.
He was reacting like this only because of the quickening.
And yet...although his ambivalence to Methos' presence hadn't magically disappeared, he had to admit that some part of him was happy to see the Methos again, after an absence of several months. Since Bordeaux.
When they had parted in the graveyard of the Elysium church, he had been glad to see Methos go. The slender thread of the joined quickening still stretched between them, something alien to him and unwanted. He had thought that with time it would diminish but it had not done so. It was still there, an inexorable shining strand.
But even with the shared tie he had successfully avoided thinking much about Methos in the following months. Even with his propensity for dwelling in the past--for a second he could hear Amanda's voice saying tartly in his ears, "Brooding, it's called brooding, Duncan,"--he had for once decided to spare himself the pain. Methos was dead to him and that was the end of it.
Or it had been until he had seen Methos standing in the Luxembourg Gardens a few weeks ago.
Even in his revulsion at what Methos had been--what he had done--deep within some part of him had rejoiced to see Methos. He had missed him, had not realised how much he had missed him until he saw him there, contrary and sarcastic as ever. He had told Methos then that if he took Keane's head, he, Duncan, would take his. What would he have done if Methos had called his bluff? He didn't know. What he did know was that he was unable to subdue, even now, the yearning for things to be between them to be as they had been, knowing that was impossible. A part of him would perhaps always wish it so--a child crying for the moon.
Grow up, MacLeod, he told himself with disgust.
Maybe Methos and he could start again, build a friendship on less shaky foundations. Now that he knew the truth, what Methos was, what he had been. And yet, significant though his time with the Horsemen had been it was still only a part of Methos' life, leaving the vast majority stretching back behind him, swathed in mystery. He wanted to know more, always had.
Byron's uneasy quickening whispered to him, showing him Methos as teacher, as companion in their revels. As lover. Except that Byron had never known whom 'Doc' really was. Methos had freely shared his body with Byron but never entrusted him with his name. Whereas he, Duncan, had known that right from the start. Methos could have left Paris before he ever met him, or pretended to be some other Immortal, but he hadn't...
Oh.
He would think about that later.
By his side Methos shifted and stirred. Duncan looked at him; at the way the light glinted off the high cheekbones and shadowed the long planes of his cheeks, highlighting the pale skin. The soft, soft skin. His breath caught.
Breathe, breathe.
His skin prickled, nerves shuddered along his arms as his hands twitched. Jesus. He had to get out of here. Now. He rose hastily to his feet, reaching for his coat.
Methos looked up. "Going somewhere?"
"It's late," Duncan answered, wincing at the curt sound of his own voice. "I--I mean, it's been a long day. That is--" Fuck. Could he be any clumsier? He waited for Methos to riposte, something along the lines of, 'Nothing like indulging your penchant for stating the obvious, MacLeod,' or 'Nice try, but tact was never your strong suit, Mac.'
But to his relief Methos merely said, "So it is," rising smoothly to his feet and shrugging into his long coat.
"So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Here at Joe's?"
Methos shrugged. "Suppose so."
Duncan hesitated then with a feeling that, in the end, this was inevitable held out the olive branch. "Methos... "
A look of enquiry.
"I know it's not usually your sort of thing, but Roberto Alagna is singing Don Carlos at the Opera Bastille next month. I wondered if you'd like to go."
Colour bloomed high on Methos' face. For an instant he looked very young. "Er, yeah. Sure." Then, rallying, "You know, MacLeod, just because I don't *only* listen to opera doesn't mean that I'm incapable of appreciating a great artist when I hear one." Duncan couldn't suppress a smile. He'd missed this. "Did I ever tell you that I saw Callas singing Lucia de Lammamor at the La Scala back in the fifties? Made a special trip to Milan too, which was very inconvenient seeing that I was living in Hong Kong at the time."
"Must've been a terrible sacrifice for you," Duncan said dryly as he followed Methos towards the stairs.
Methos looked back at him. "You've obviously forgotten what air travel was like in the fifties, those un-pressurised cabins and--" His voice cut off abruptly as he tripped over an out-flung chair leg. Moving swiftly Duncan grabbed hold of him, pulling Methos' body against his to steady him. Methos was muttering, "Thanks," but his voice faltered and died as he looked at Duncan. His face changed, sobered as the moment stretched, caught fast, both men standing motionless staring at the other. Duncan's fragile control snapped.
He pulled Methos ruthlessly against him and kissed him--hard. There was a heady moment of triumph at Methos' response, as his lips parted helplessly against Duncan's, surrendering to the demanding onslaught. The taste of him was indescribable, fine, well-aged wine and whisky, uniquely Methos. And the feel of him in Duncan's arms was addictive, the lithe form strong against his. His fingers brushed against the nape of Methos' neck, the cropped hair incredibly soft to the touch, then his hand moved to the warm smooth skin of Methos' neck. At that, Methos moaned and shuddered against him.
He kissed the long neck. Methos groaned low in the back of his throat. Duncan grasped slender hips and pulled them against his, feeling the other man's arousal--hard, hot flesh--even through the hampering layers of clothes. He shivered at the touch.
God! He wanted this, had wanted it for years, had never dared to admit to himself just how much he wanted it.
He bent to Methos' lips once more, taking his mouth greedily, savouring the silken heat. Methos was moving against him, his writhings only serving to increase Duncan's hunger. It thrummed through him. But even as he clasped Methos closer yet he dimly realised that Methos was struggling against him, trying to free himself, to push him away.
His hands opened and Methos was free, slipping to one side, to stand staring at him with huge, great-pupilled eyes. Methos' chest was heaving. "Really MacLeod." A familiar note of mockery was in the breathless voice but there was a betraying flush hectic on his high cheekbones. "I would be flattered, if I didn't know that this is just the result of Byron's quickening."
"It's not!"
It was, Duncan realised to his own amazement, the truth.
Methos lifted an insouciant eyebrow. "No?" He looked almost imperturbable, save for the glitter in his hazel eyes. As he spoke he wrapped his coat around himself, hugging it close to his body and crossing his arms. But it was too late--Duncan had already felt the betraying evidence of Methos' arousal.
"No, I--"
Methos cocked his head to one side expectantly.
Duncan took a deep breath. "It's-- I want you."
"Well, yes. That's rather obvious. But you know--as do I--that this is a result of the quickening, rather than my irresistible charm."
Duncan shook his head stubbornly. "That's not it."
"Of course it is. Or else..." Methos' eyes narrowed. "It's Byron, isn't it?"
Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but Methos was continuing, spitting words at him like poisoned darts. "You've realised that Byron and I were lovers--although really, you'd have to be pretty thick not to have noticed--and have decided to emulate him. Honestly, Highlander, I know you didn't like him, but *this* is ridiculous."
Duncan's mouth dropped open in amazement. "What! Do you really think I'm *that* petty."
"Not...usually," Methos replied. There was an unpleasant note of mockery in his voice. "But jealously makes fools of all of us, MacLeod."
"Jealous? Of Byron?"
"Well, aren't you? You disliked him from the moment you saw him so decided he had to die. Then you attempted to obliterate him from my memory or something, by stooping so low as to make a pass at me."
"What?"
"Look, a minute ago, you were saying you wanted me. I don't know what virus has crawled into your brain but as in all the time we've known each other you've never shown the slightest hint of attraction towards me--or any man I might add--what else am I supposed to think?" Methos voice was derisive, indicating clearly his impatience with Duncan's slow Highland wits.
However Duncan was, for once, wholly amused. Unable to prevent himself, he laughed. "Is that what you really think? That I'm not attracted to men?"
The look of uncertainty on Methos' face brought back memories of when Duncan had still thought that Methos was mostly Adam. However, Methos' voice was level, betraying nothing. "There's nothing in your Chronicle."
"There isn't?" Duncan was genuinely interested.
"No!" Methos said irritably. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How many male lovers have you had anyway?"
"What? You want a list?"
"So, I was right. There aren't any."
Duncan shook his head. "Wrong."
"A few adolescent fumblings in the dark don't count you know, MacLeod."
"That's not what I was talking about."
"You mean, you really have..."
"Of course." Duncan laughed. "I'm over four hundred years old. It would've been more surprising if I *hadn't* slept with a few men in all that time, don't you think?"
"I suppose so," Methos muttered, "but there were all those women..."
Duncan shrugged. "So what. I like sex, that's no secret. I'll admit there've been more women than men, but, trust me, there've been men along the way as well."
Methos was staring at him, his bewilderment plain.
"You know," Duncan said, "it's good. That the Watchers have been so blind. At least they don't know *everything* about me." He grinned at Methos, but the moment of vulnerability had passed.
"Fine!" Methos snapped. "So you like men. But not me. This is all Byron's influence."
"And I've told you that it's not. Or are you calling me a liar"?
Methos' lips twitched. "No. That's my role."
Duncan winced. "Do you have to--" he burst out, but Methos was already holding open his hands in wordless apology.
Duncan took a deep breath. "Look, I'll admit that I haven't said anything before now--" No need to admit that that was because he hadn't realised before now. "--but this isn't just because of the quickening." Knowing it to be one of his strengths, he fixed Methos with a look of absolute sincerity. "I want you," he said again, huskily. "I do."
Methos blinked. "Oh." To Duncan's delight, he flushed.
"You mean you never noticed?" Okay, so he hadn't noticed either, but what the hell. This was too good to miss.
Temper flared, a sure sign that Methos was feeling threatened. "When was I supposed to have noticed? When you were telling me that we're through? Or accusing me of going with the winner? Or telling me that if I took Keane's head, you'd take mine? Or--"
"Methos! I was thinking more of the times we... flirted together."
Methos shifted uneasily. "Flirted? When?"
"You know. Painting Anne's house, in the barge over the de Valicourts..."
"That was because you were trying to get me to do something for you."
Duncan bit his lip to prevent a smile. "Is that all it was? Really?"
"I--" Methos stopped and shook his head. He turned away for an instant, then swung back to face Duncan, his face composed. "Look, MacLeod, as you said, it's late. I'm going home. I suggest you do the same."
"Methos..."
"*No*, Mac. Trust me, you do *not* want to do this. You'll thank me in the morning."
"You--"
"*No*! For once, just leave it."
With that, he was gone, moving swiftly up the steps and through the curtain. A second later and his disembodied head poked back, but before Duncan had time for more than the briefest surge of hope, he was tossing Joe's keys to Duncan, saying, "Lock up, will you?" Duncan felt his presence fading away until only the merest thread, constant since Bordeaux, was left.
Duncan sank down shakily into the nearest chair, resting his head in his hands. Shit, shit, *shit*!
He stayed like that for a long moment, unmoving, but eventually took a deep breath and climbed to his feet, pulling his coat around him protectively. He would think about it later. With a shake of his head, he pulled back his shoulders and walked steadily out of the bar into the night.
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Date: 11 January 2004 03:42 (UTC)no subject
Date: 11 January 2004 06:50 (UTC)'Fraid it's the latter, hon.
I've spent part of the weekend watching DS, from which you may gather that I'm planning on working on several things at the same time. It'll keep me from getting stale, I'm hoping.
And thanks for the encouragement.