Going to the Chapelby Kevin H. Robnett
It was probably a nice party. In the annals of history, it would go down as a pretty darn good bash. Robert & Gina would fondly look back on their fourth wedding reception as the one that almost wasn't. Duncan was still worried they might break up, and probably wouldn't remember much at all. In volume 3627-b of the Methos Chronicles, this shindig would get a side note saying the maiden voyage of the Titanic was more exciting.
To a certain 5000 year old Immortal, it was bad enough he had to pretend to be overjoyed for two people he just met. And almost got beheaded for. He played happy guest every time Gina looked over at him sitting alone at one of the tables covered with white linen. No, what was worse was having the exquisite pleasure of seeing the Highlander in a tuxedo for the very first time, and trying not to let his lust show.
For a Scottish barbarian, Duncan MacLeod sure looked debonair in formal wear. Methos alternated between wondering what the outfit would look like with a kilt in MacLeod colors, or the Highlander with stylish short hair and a white scarf around his neck. Both mental images did wonderful things to Methos' anatomy, which would probably not be appreciated at someone else's wedding reception.
So he sat, and watched, and drooled, and slowly sipped his punch, not wanting to stand with the raging erection in his pants. It wasn't helping that every now and then, Duncan would look over at the corner table with the most adorable look of concern on his face. One that made the Highlander change from drop-dead-gorgeous, "I want to eat you alive" to "awww, poor baby, let me kiss it and make it better." Which made things even worse.
Methos wanted nothing else than to totally and completely make Duncan feel *so* much better. Right here, right now, on the lily white table linen if need be. Only three things stopped him. Duncan was a) 99.9% straight, b) still devastated by all the horrible things he had done while under the spell of a Dark Quickening, and finally c) it was considered bad taste to start an orgy during a wedding reception. Well, at least since Rome fell.
Of course, in Methos' not-so-limited opinion, Duncan's run amok had nothing to do with a so-called negative spiritual Quickening, but more with his need to express his darker side. That way he could do all the things he would never consciously do and blame it on something besides his own needs. Keeping all the selfish desires locked away, unable to act any way but good, could eat you alive after the centuries. One had to let go, at least every other hundred years.
Not that everything that happened was for the better. Sean Burn's death had been a tragedy. But Richie had needed a good kick in the pants, Duncan had to let himself know he was *not* a knight in shining armor, and Methos had no complaints about his own treatment. That little episode at the inn was still fueling his fantasies. The shower, the carpet, the bed....
"You're not having fun," the devil himself said as he stood by the deserted table. Methos looked up, caught in the warm brown eyes of the Highlander. "I've been here enough times to know what happens next. Let me take you to a hotel."
"I don't *want* to go to a hotel," Methos shot back, a little testy. Too much wine, not enough blood to his brain.
Duncan was being unusually giving today. "Come back to the barge, then. We'll find something enjoyable to do. A game of chess." If Duncan noticed Methos' state of arousal when the older Immortal stood, he didn't mention it. Nothing was said until they were back on the barge, not counting their good-byes to the married couple.
Methos settled himself on the sofa as Duncan headed to the kitchen, automatically bringing back two beers. The older Immortal accepted his silently. Things were even worse now that he was so close he could smell MacLeod's cologne.
"I want to make it up to you," the Highlander said, out of the blue. "I never thought Gina would come after you."
"She was coming to see you," Methos pointed out. "I was just in the wrong place."
"Still.... You dinna want the barge. There must be some way to repay yew." The more Duncan drank, the stronger his accent crept through.
"Don't worry about it," Methos said as he stood to pace. His body was already thinking of several things it wanted. Especially MacLeod. He didn't notice Duncan stand until he turned and there the Scot was before him.
"What du yew want, instead?" the Highlander asked.
Without hesitation, Methos pounced, tired of ignoring what had happened. Tired of squashing his feelings. His lips found MacLeod's startled mouth, his free hand slipping around the Scot's neck to trap the head. Duncan's lips were slack with surprise, letting Methos slide his tongue in. Then MacLeod got angry and started fighting back. That lasted only a moment, then the Highlander was unsure and timid, not quite knowing what to do with the unfamiliar invader exploring his mouth.
When they came up for air, both were panting. "Any questions?" Methos asked. He knew as he spoke he had gone too far. He turned away, suddenly frightened of Duncan's reaction. The last time he had tried this hadn't gone that well....
Touring the country and then the world with Alexa had been a fairy tale come true, for both of them. Watching her suffer on a cold hospital bed had been a nightmare. All those weeks watching her slowly slipping away, and then one dark night, she was gone.
MacLeod wasn't around for much of it, traveling in Russia with Amanda. Methos couldn't blame him for wanting to get away after all the Scot had been through. But with Joe in Seacouver, and Don dead, there weren't many friends left in Paris. That meant he spent the time standing a solitary vigil over his weakening love's bed.
It had been a relief when she finally died. It hurt that he felt that way. But the pain of betrayal was nothing compared to watching the slow, lingering death. The suffering. It was over swiftly, almost too quickly, as brief as snuffing out a light. In a daze, he had left the hospital and the nurses and the bed and the body and found the nearest pub. Five hours later, he was thoroughly plastered.
He didn't remember making his way back to his tiny apartment. He couldn't sleep, so he lay on his bed and experienced a haze of feelings and jumled images as the hours ticked away. The phone rang, several times, but there was no energy left in his body to answer it. There wasn't enough left to get off the bed after he threw up over it and himself.
All he did was lie there, wallowing in the guilt and the pain and the emptiness, wondering again if he had finally lived too long. If there would be anyone in his life that didn't eventually die, leaving him alone to walk through the centuries.
It was pitch black in the bedroom when the pounding started on the door. He managed to turn over and look at the bedside clock. Much too late to be a delivery person, way too early for the landlady. Alexa was dead and there was nobody else he wanted to see.
The knocking stopped and then the voice began. Methos was at the other end of the two room apartment, with too many things in between to muffle the sound. He really didn't feel like concentrating. His hand searched for the mini-fridge he used as a nightstand, and found a beer inside. It was beginning to hurt way too much again, so it was time to get drunk.
Eventually Duncan jimmied the front door open, and made his way to the bedroom. He found Methos lying in his own vomit, splashing beer onto his face. More alcohol splattered on the sheets then in his open mouth. "What the hell?" the Highlander shouted, which only made the drunk Immortal start laughing hysterically.
"What do you think you're...," Duncan began as he dragged Methos to his feet. He didn't get very far in his sentence, because the oldest living person proceeded to regurgitate the recently swallowed beer and the last of his supper. All over Duncan's shirt.
Duncan had admitted later he almost left at that point, letting Methos deal with his grief alone. But the recent events between them compelled him to stay, and try to help. The first thing he had done when he got back to Paris that afternoon was to call the hospital. A kind nurse informed him of Alexa's passing, and then the Highlander spent the rest of the evening searching. When there was no answer at Methos' place, he started on the pubs and bars. After they closed, he decided to check the apartment again. When he saw the Volvo outside, he knew Methos had to be inside.
The first order of business was to open the window and air out the reek that had built. The second was to strip off his shirt and let it soak in the sink. A kettle of water was placed on the stove, and then Duncan decided a good, cold shower would be the best way to sober up the "old man."
"Come on," Duncan urged the unresisting Immortal, dragging him to his feet. The supposed grad student sung sea chanteys no one remembered in a very off key. He looked startled that he was upright, or maybe that he saw four Duncans in front of him. His arms windmilled as he wobbled, his hands coming to rest on the Highlander's firm, bare pectorals.
"Niiiice," Methos informed him with a slur, as his fingers explored the bare chest.
"Stop that," Duncan said a little too harshly as he jerked Methos' wrists away.
The hands fell limply to the other Immortal's side, and then the Highlander began the daunting task of undressing the drunk. Of course, Methos tried to help, his hands stumbling clumsily into MacLeod's. The pair managed to unbutton the shirt, and as Duncan helped him take it off, their faces moved very close together.
Methos' voice grew husky as his alcohol tainted breath reached the Highlander. "You gonna fuck me again, Dunkie?"
Duncan pushed the half-naked Immortal into the bathroom, threw him into the tub and turned the shower on cold. Methos didn't seem to notice as the icy liquid hit his bare chest and jeans, nor did he react when Duncan closed the curtain on him.
It took a while for Methos to fight his way clear of the alcoholic fog. Not that he wanted to, but his body temperature was dropping and his subconscious was screaming at him. He noticed he was in the tub, half-naked, and under a very cold spray.
First order of business was to turn on the hot water. That really improved things. Stripping off his jeans and underwear, and leaving them in the sink, he then proceeded to clean off every bit of liquor and vomit that had permeated his skin. That taken care of, he shampooed his hair. Anything but think about what had happened to Alexa, or what wouldn't happen with Duncan, or what the hell he was going to do today, tomorrow, the day after....
He rinsed off, unable to get the picture of the dying woman lying helpless in the hospital bed out of his mind. All it caused was pain. It was still too soon, too raw for him to see things objectively. Maybe objectivity was a crock. Perhaps he remembered his dead lovers so many times, he finally forgot that it hurt. Or maybe it always hurt, and it just started to feel normal.
Maybe walking around all the time, alone and tired and in pain, was all that he had left. Old Willie had talked about it being better to have loved, but Methos wasn't so sure. He didn't think there could ever be a worse torment than he was feeling now.
Later, Duncan came back. Methos stood naked under a tepid spray. "Are you all right?" the Highlander asked. There was no reply.
It was after the Highlander managed to turn off the water that he noticed the tears streaming down the old Immortal's face. The eyes were glazed, as if he was lost inside himself, trapped with millennia of memories. There was no sound, nor any facial expression. Just the pouring tears.
The body responded when Duncan pulled it gently out of the tub. There was absolutely no resistance as Methos was towel dried. It felt to MacLeod like he was bathing a rather young boy, only this one was fully grown. Methos stumbled as Duncan led him to the front room, wrapping a blanket around the thin body and settling him near the warm radiator.
Duncan left a mug of hot tea in the other Immortals' hands, and returned to the small kitchen. Fifteen minutes later he came back to check on his friend. The mug was on the floor and empty. "Thank you," Methos whispered as the Highlander bent over him.
Saying those words must have opened other doors. Methos started sobbing then, a reedy, haunted sound. Tremors wracked his body, not from cold but from agony. It tore Duncan heart to see his friend in such pain. That was the price they paid to love a mortal, but knowing that didn't make the aftermath any less devastating. Understanding what he could do to help, but still hesitating, he watched the man suffer alone until he could stand it no more. He knelt and wrapped his arms around the crying man, offering words of comfort and support. Knowing there was very little he could do to ease the grief.
It was hard for Methos to recall exactly how things happened. He was drunk, he was standing. He was wet, clean and then somehow wrapped in a blanket with steaming hot tea in his hands. The warmth felt good. There was an Immortal nearby, he could both feel and hear them in the kitchen. Duncan, probably. Unless he was hallucinating again.
He managed to stutter his thanks, but the memories of Alexa, and others, were too much. How was he supposed to live through all the deaths, and pain? Why should any man exist so long that just being alive was torture? His tears came again, more overwhelming then before. Why did living have to hurt so much?
Strong arms embraced him, cradling him as he wept. Soft words echoed in his ears, but his sobs were too loud to understand them. But the voice and accent were soothing, and the hand that brushed the back of his head comforted him, and for one brief moment, he felt loved again.
He didn't want it to end. When he felt the other pull away, he wrapped his arms around MacLeod, stopping him. His hands gripped the broad, naked back as his head was buried against the neck. He knew who it was, because the skin smelled of a warm summer day and bright sunlight, fresh cut hay and musty barns. MacLeod was so warm, so alive. So solid.
God, he wanted Duncan, needed him. To feel the firm flesh next to him, to doze in the embrace of the baritone voice. It was easy to pull slightly away, and turn his head. His lips brushed the Highlander's, testing, exploring.
Methos covered that sensual mouth with his own, ignoring the hand that disappeared from the back of his head. He tried to conquer those lips, but they held firm, resolute. His hand dropped down to the small of MacLeod's back as his other clasped the Scot's neck. He was positioning himself for the main attack.
The lips moved. "Stop," Duncan whispered. That was not the surrender Methos wanted to hear. He ravaged the ruby red mouth again with little success. "Please," MacLeod begged as he caught his breath. Close, but still not enough. He tried a third, but the Highlander finally used his hands. They pushed on Methos' chest, enough to keep his lips off Duncan's skin.
He couldn't stop a moan as he fought to reclaim what he just had. Duncan pushed harder, enough to shove Methos away. "I canno'...." the Highlander said, standing up quickly. Methos could see he had tears in his eyes. MacLeod grabbed his overcoat, ignoring his shirt, and fled out the door, leaving Methos on the floor, breathing hard. His last words echoed in the Immortal's ears. "I canno'...."
Hands gripped Methos' shoulder and spun him around again. Lips found his this time, full of all the urgency there had been seconds before. "Oh, gods," he managed to breathe as their tongue clashed, hands roaming over the tuxedo jackets. He felt Duncan's body press against his, crushing his erection.
A hand ran through his short hair, giving him the shivers. Fingers entwined and gripped the hair, gently pulling back. When the demanding mouth disappeared, he was powerless to chase after it. His heart skipped a beat, afraid it was now over, but the wet lips made their way to his jawline, kissing a trail down his exposed neck.
Methos groaned audibly as the mouth made its way to the back of his jaw, the firm tongue exploring his ear. His hands finally cupped the Scot's face, bringing it back so he could see the dark eyes. "You don't have to do this," Methos whispered. He had to give Duncan the out, else he would always wonder.
"I need to do this," was the Highlander's welcome reply. And then their mouths locked together once more, and Methos no longer worried about anything.
Hands pulled back on his tux jacket, sliding it slowly off his shoulders. The sensation of cloth sliding against cloth and the sudden coldness through his shirt made his skin tingle. He felt the hands reach up and grab his own as they worked on Duncan's coat.
"Stop," he heard himself saying. "Let me."
Methos saw Duncan smile, and the Highlander released him. Methos ran his fingers over the black jacket, gripping the lapels and slowly, so slowly, easing the black cloth off the broad shoulders. It was like opening a present on Christmas morn. His hands drew the coat to MacLeod's waist, far enough that the Scot's arms were free.
The jacket came off and Methos let it drop to the floor. His hands rose from the slim waist up the back, searching for the long ponytail. He pressed forward, into Duncan's body, to reach his goal. It was a marvelous sensation, the warm, firm body in his arms. His fingers found the silver clasp and quickly undid it, letting that marvelous mane of hair free.
Duncan shook his head, letting the hair settle haphazardly around his shoulders. It was a marked contrast from the white tux shirt. But even that wasn't truly white, it was somewhat translucent. Enough that the dark skin and the black body hair were slightly visible through it. The Highlander looked magnificent, a package waiting to be unwrapped. It was almost all Methos had dreamed about in the last year, and here it was. Waiting.
Overwhelmed, Methos lost control of his raging desire. He came in his pants, unable to stop the explosion. His body tensed as he ejaculated. He felt weak, embarrassed, enthralled and most definitely still excited. A groan escaped his lips when he realized it would be another hour or so before he reached that plateau again.
He turned around to the stereo, too late to hide the growing stain of wetness. He didn't want to explain, or see what emotion crossed Duncan's face. A CD of soft, romantic music was buried near the bottom of the nearest pile. Methos slid it in, and set the volume on low.
"Dance with me," he told Duncan when he turned back around. The Highlander was there, in his arms, slowly swaying to the music. In such a close embrace, it was impossible to see what expression Duncan had. One of amusement, or humor, perhaps? Embarrassed? Lustful?
They turned round, swaying from side to side as the windows darkened, the barge interior awash with the faint light of dusk. The music had ended long ago, but the pair never stopped. Hands slowly explored each other's firm bodies, mouths gently nibbled whatever exposed skin was nearby. Their hearts were beating in synch, as they swayed to unheard music.
It was time, he decided. He was more than ready again, desperate to take the next step before Duncan came to his senses and fled again. "I want you," Methos breathed into the Scot's ear, the first words spoken since the music ended. His hands slipped out of MacLeod's and made their way to the Highlander's shirt collar. Nimble fingers untied the bowtie, and the black strip of cloth joined the jacket on the floor.
His hands shook as he fumbled with the collar button. He wanted this more than anything, but did Duncan? He was too terrified to look up, instead he focused on the glittering gold studs that came next. Each one slid out, opening the shirt more.
Afraid of losing his nerve, he bent down and kissed each inch of dark skin as it was exposed. The chest hair tickled his nose and his fingers worked lower and lower, finally coming to the cumberbun. With a final tease for the navel, he stood, getting his first glimpse of Duncan's face.
The Scot's eyes were closed and his head was slightly back. He seemed as excited as any other person Methos had been with. His hands rested at his side, clenched into fists. And there was a definite bulge of interest along the trouser leg.
Careful not to disturb MacLeod, Methos slid the shirt off Duncan's shoulders. The firm torso was exposed to the dimming light, the taut nipples hidden in the forest of black hair. The chest rose and fell to the Scot's heavy breathing. He seemed content to wait for the next step. Methos worked on the cuffs, then let the garment fall to the floor. The cufflinks and shirt studs were left on the stereo shelf.
He quickly unhooked MacLeod's cumberbun, tossing it toward the sofa. He bent and retrieved all the errant clothing, setting them aside as well. When he turned back around, his breath caught in his throat. Moonlight flooded into the barge from the circular windows, making Duncan's half-naked body glisten. The Highlander was magnificent, a chiseled body that moved with cat-like grace. God, how Methos wanted it. Wanted him.
His hands found their way to the pants' fasteners, the black trousers blending with the darkness. MacLeod grabbed the searching wrists, pulling them away, up to his chest. "Not yet," Duncan whispered in the silence. "My turn."
Fingers reached for him, quickly removing the tie and cumberbun. Those were thrown across the dark room. Strong fingers unbuttoned the tux shirt, glowing in the faint moonlight. That was slid off as well, the cotton fabric teasing his nipples and making his skin shiver. Then his upper body was bare, his pale skin white in the semi-darkness.
Hands reached around him, pulling him close, until he felt the Highlander's firm chest pressing into his own, the wiry chest hair tickling his pectorals. "I want to dance some more," Duncan told him quietly, a hand reaching out toward the glowing red CD light. Music started again, and MacLeod swayed with Methos in his arms.
Bare skin to bare skin was almost too much for the older Immortal. Duncan was all muscle and the sensation of the Highlander's body rubbing Methos' own was driving him wild. MacLeod's lips finally found his and crushed them with desire. The Scot was so warm, so inviting. Methos was lost in the emotions, of having everything he wanted.
Somehow, before the music ended, they found the bed. Without breaking their kiss, Duncan gently lowered Methos to the sheets. The older Immortal moaned in despair when the Highlander's lips suddenly vanished. Hands found his pants, and began freeing his engorged penis. The trousers were joined by his shoes, socks and underwear in the direction of the sofa.
Methos rose up, hands reaching for the last of Duncan's clothing. MacLeod knocked his hands away, pushing him back down on the bed. "I'll take care of it," Duncan told him. "I'm the one getting my barge back." And the Highlander proceeded to unzip his pants and strip the rest of the way under Methos' hungry gaze.
By the time Duncan was fully nude, Methos ached for him. It was pure bliss when naked flesh lay down on top of him, long black hair falling around his face. MacLeod was as desperate as he was, if his kiss was any indication. A hand found Methos' raging erection, slowly jerking up and down, bringing him to that plateau again.
"Wait," Methos almost cried, unsure how his voice could be working. "Please...." The hand stopped, and that made him groan in frustration. "I want...." Oh, god, how could he be saying this *now*? "I want...to see you, Duncan. I need to see you."
His eyes watered as he felt the crushing pressure of the Scot lift off of him, leaving him alone. His body was desperate for relief, for MacLeod. He had pushed too far, and Duncan was leaving. Angry at himself, he turned over, nestling his face in the crook of his arm and cried. He realized there would be no more chances, no more attempts. It was over.
Later, he felt someone sit on the bed, felt the mattress shift from the weight. How it could be Duncan, he couldn't fathom. He had just humiliated himself in front of his friend. "Go away," he told whoever it was, wanting to wallow in his self-pity alone.
"Shhh," Duncan's baritone urged, a hand slowly rubbing his bare backside. "I will no' leave yew, my dear, sweet friend."
Methos turned over, not believing that this could be happening. The room was ablaze with flickering light. When he focused on the Highlander, who's skin was golden from a hundred candles, he started crying again. Duncan was so beautiful. Gold skin, black hair, warm smile. Naked. Erect. Wanting him. Loving him.
No more words were needed as Duncan bent down, placing his lips on Methos' once more. The Scot's tongue gently washed the tears from the older Immortal's cheeks, kissing the eyelids softly as his hands caressed the pale skin. Methos broke away to take a deep breath, stopping a moment to gaze at the face and the body of the man he loved.
Somehow, Methos worked his way back onto his stomach again, Duncan resting on top of him. "Please, Duncan...." was all he needed to say. The Highlander reached over to a nightstand, and soon a cold gel was being rubbed over his anus, a warm finger gently spreading it around and into the tense rosebud.
Duncan's hard cock was slightly cold and slick as well, and it crept very slowly into Methos, to give him ample time to adjust to the girth. This was worse torture then just ramming it in. It felt like he would go crazy before Duncan was fully in him. He wanted it so badly, but in this position, MacLeod controlled the tempo. He finally howled in frustration. The Highlander froze, causing even more anguish.
"Why the bloody hell did you stop?" Methos cried out.
The Highlander started to pull out, "I dinna wanna... I'm hurtin' yew."
Out of patience, Methos growled and bucked, rising up on his knees and impaling himself on Duncan's stiff rod. He let loose a cry that was part satisfaction, part agony. "Much better," the older Immortal managed to gasp as he drew Duncan back down.
There was no more talk of stopping, or hurting. There was no more talking at all.
It was morning when Methos awoke. He felt Duncan's warm body nestled next to him, his arm trapped under the Highlander's head while the rest of his body covered the Scot like a blanket. He felt MacLeod's chest rise and fall with each breath under his cheek. He opened his eyes, taking in the sight of the mounds of hair-covered pectorals, the hardened nubs. His fingers itched to stroke and tease them, but he wanted to examine his lover undisturbed for as long as possible.
The rigid shaft that filled him last night was limp now, resting like a snake lounging on a muscled thigh. Methos felt content for the first time in a long while. Duncan had seemed like an Immortal he could trust as a lover, not only experienced but honorable. And MacLeod was turning into more than he had ever hoped for. Lover, friend, guardian, funny as it may sound.
He couldn't help a chuckle. What a boy scout. Glancing up the body, he spent a long while just staring at Duncan's face at rest. The scowl or hard features so common lately were gone, replaced by boyish charm and a hint of worldly experience. It was a good, handsome face. A strong face. One he could look at forever. And given last night's workout, the body wasn't going to give out any time soon, either.
When he tried to shift to a more comfortable pose, he found his skin stuck to the sheets with dried semen. Yep, this wasn't a dream, it was truly the morning after. Time for a shower. Not willing to disturb the sleeping Highlander just yet, he carefully slid his arm free, and bent over to lightly kiss those luscious lips. "Sleep well, lover mine," he whispered, stealing away to the bathroom.
Just as he was rinsing off, Duncan joined him in the small stall. "Now who left a statue of a Greek god in my bathroom?" MacLeod wondered aloud as he squeezed in with Methos. The shower could just barely fit two, and all that rubbing and pressing against each other made things twice as difficult, twice as hard, and twice as fun.
"I'm not Greek," the older Immortal reminded the Highlander as he passed over the soap.
Duncan stuck his head under the spray, balancing himself by grabbing Methos around the chest. "Well, I already ruled out Egyptian and Ishmalite...."
Methos pointed out a spot on his back that needed attention. "Because...."
"Ishmalites were hairy," Duncan pointed out, his hand running across the very smooth planes of Methos' chest. "And Egyptians looked like bald dogs in the pictographs, and you *definately* are the most gorgeous man in my arms...at the moment."
The older Immortal stopped laughing long enough for a kiss. "Only four hundred and already hedging your bets." He was about to add another comment, when his crotch was immersed in cold, freezing liquid. Methos gasped as his hands flew to his groin....
..."Oh, I am so sorry," Gina exclaimed, her hand moving automatically to wipe at the stain on his pants with a napkin. Methos jumped up, startled. Whatever erection he had been sporting was now flaccid under the icy assault.
"That's fine," he stuttered, moving her hand away and taking up the blotting himself. He realized everyone in the hall was staring at him. Even the band had stopped. And there was Duncan, standing next to Robert, trying not to laugh.
"I didn't *mean* to spill my champagne on you. The table shifted as I sat down." The older Immortal waved her to silence, acutely aware the stain in his pants was *not* from bubbly. He looked up and saw her wink at him, the gesture hidden from the rest of the wedding guests. "I saw you needed an excuse," she whispered as she hugged him. "You'll have to tell me about it sometime."
"Ah, thank you," Methos managed to stammer back. He looked down. It was a mess, but you couldn't tell it wasn't from the champagne. Good. All he needed was the Highlander trying to ferret out what had been going through his mind just then.
Minutes later, Gina caught his eye, standing on the other side of Duncan as the Scot chatted with Robert. Her eyebrows rose as she pointed to MacLeod. Methos blushed, enough of an answer. When he finally looked up, she winked again, looking definitely pleased. A quick, whispered conversation and then Duncan walked over.
"Gina thought you might want me to take you home...." He stopped when he realized Methos had no place to go. His apartment was now sold and the older Immortal hadn't decided on a hotel yet. "...back to the barge."
Methos sighed. Tonight certainly wasn't going to be as exciting as his fantasy. "Just let me pay my respects to the bride and groom."
Robert heartily shook his hand and offered his profound thanks. Gina drew him close for a quick kiss. "We'll exchange stories when we get back in a decade. Take a bottle of champagne. Always worked for me."
Armed with that tidbit, Methos hefted an unopened bottle, and looked around for his ride. Duncan was again busy in conversation, giving him the chance to just watch. The Highlander turned unexpectedly, catching him. He didn't turn away, didn't break the gaze.
Duncan was after all keeping the barge. The Highlander still owed him. And Methos could think of a lot of ways he could pay up. One night's worth at least. He unconsciously smiled, confusing MacLeod even more, by the look on the Scot's chiseled face. Yep, it was certainly time Duncan paid up. For recent and past sins. *Up* being the operative word. Methos grinned even wider as a stray thought popped into his head.
You do know what they say about weddings?