Anything...by Kevin H. Robnett
Irony was being in the same hospital, the same floor, the same room. Watching the same sympathetic nurses hovering as they performed almost the exact same tasks. Sitting in the same God damned chair for the same fucking amount of time and praying the exact shitty prayers to the same uncaring deity. Hearing the same wheezy sounds of the respirator and the steady freaking beep of the heart monitor. Looking at the slackness of the features on the face. Knowing that yet again, someone you cared about was going to die.
Sometime in the last 5,000 years, Methos learned to appreciate irony. Duncan hadn't.
Duncan paced. Duncan brooded. Duncan bothered the nurses, walked the halls, listened to every word the doctors told him. He scowled at the limp, unmoving form as if his anger could make Joe wake. He snapped at the nurses, snapped at Methos. The irony escaped the young Highlander.
But Methos could sense an even deeper distress. Something else bothered Duncan, something he hadn't shared with the ancient Immortal. It felt like there was more at stake, more than just Joe's life. Methos had quickly learned not to ask.
The cafeteria food hadn't gotten any better. It was the same runny powdered potatoes and indescribable meat substitute. The room was abuzz with chatter, mindless pleasantries that hid the concern, the fear beneath the words. Here was the place families made their way to when they could no longer face the bedside vigil.
Methos just wanted to run away. When things got tough, he got going. Rule number 5 for surviving the millennia. Some place quiet, unexciting. He tried to remember what that felt like. Lately, things had been so chaotic, so jumbled. Sword fights, Hunters, death, Duncan. Something simple, like studying botany. He really enjoyed it the last time...Babylon, it had been. Helping with the Hanging Gardens. Something simple. That's what he needed.
He returned to the fifth floor and the featureless room just as Joe stirred. Duncan left his chair and was beside the Watcher in an instant. "Joe, it's Duncan. Can you hear me? I need you to tell me where Richie is, Joe. I need you to...."
Duncan's deeper distress crystallized in an instant, but the realization was quickly overcome by Methos' shock of MacLeod's actions. "Nurse!" he called down the hall from the doorway. Damn it, where was everyone? "Nurse!"
A man in green scrubs appeared down the hall, answering Methos' page. The old Immortal turned just as Duncan grew forceful. "You've got to tell me...." MacLeod stopped as the heart monitor alarm went off, a straight line on the monitor. Cardiac arrest.
"Damn," Methos cursed as he ran to the bed. He pressed the blue recessed button on the wall panel, and shouted at the nurse in the hall. "Code Blue -- get a crash cart." His hands found their way to Joe's chest and unconsciously placed themselves on the sternum. One, two, three, four, five....
MacLeod wouldn't stop. "Joe!"
"Get out of here," Methos growled, not stopping his compressions. Duncan looked up in shock, as if he finally realized what was going on, what he had done. "Get out!"
Duncan backed away from the bed, a dazed look on his face. More staff poured in, two people guiding the cart. Someone pulled the Highlander out into the hall, but Methos was too absorbed with the CPR to notice. A doctor readied the paddles as he prepared to step away.
"Clear," the man said, and with meticulous precision, the Immortal's hands were replaced with mechanical marvels. *Ka-thunk* Joe's body arched from the shock. "Again. Clear!" *Ka-thunk* This time, the heart monitor reward the effort with a steady beep.
Joe would be fine, Methos told himself. Duncan, however, would not.
Methos finally found the Highlander, alone in one of the underground parking garages. The ancient Immortal felt his quarry much sooner than he saw him. Not that it was easy finding a man dressed in brown in the darkened garage. Methos stepped from the lighted elevator area and turned the first corner. "What the bloody hell do you think...." His voice trailed off, his tirade forgotten, when he saw Duncan.
The Highlander was leaning against the cement wall, his head pressed against the concrete and hidden by one arm. It was the sound that echoed in the cavernous blackness that disturbed him the most. The soft moan/whimper of a man who just realized he had unwittingly sold his soul.
Methos stopped in his tracks, his anger from seconds before melting into compassion for MacLeod. He had felt that pain too many times in his long life, and would do anything to spare the Scot. But it seemed he was too late.
His footsteps must have drawn Duncan from his reverie. "I don't know what I was doing," the Highlander whispered. "I thought he was going to die...and I had to know about Richie. God, I would have let him die just to find..." A look of panicked concern crossed the silhouetted features. "He's not dead, is he?"
A quick head shake eased MacLeod's worries. "He fine," Methos told him. "Not quite out of the woods, but regaining consciousness is a good sign." His hand somehow found its way to Duncan's back, and slowly rubbed in circles to soothe the distraught Scot. "Duncan, if you're that concerned, *I* can go see what's up with Richie."
The Highlander looked shocked, then contrite. He had apparently overlooked Methos was posing as a Watcher. "God," Duncan cursed, "I completely forgot about you." The request in his eyes needed no words to explain the depth of care the Scot had for his protégé.
Methos looked down, not wanting the much younger Immortal to get a hint of his thoughts. Gods, what he would give for MacLeod to feel that way about him. "I'll go see," he promised Duncan, trying hard to keep his voice from catching. He turned and left, heading for his car one level below, not looking up from the cement.
Not looking at the need and desire Duncan still had on his face, but for another besides the ancient one.
"He's sleeping," Duncan informed him as Methos entered the small hospital room hours later. Joe was once again looking like a peaceful corpse on the sheets of white. The old Immortal could not stop himself, seeing the Watcher in such a state brought tears to his eyes. "Did you..." Duncan began, stopping when he saw Methos' face.
"No," Methos breathed, no longer concerned with hiding his mounting pain. For Joe, for failing the Scot he would do anything for, for Alexis' still agonizing memory. "Joe didn't mention Richie in any of his reports." His heart broke when he saw the look of utter loss on the Highlander's face. "There were a few sightings from other Watchers, mainly of other Immortals he's fought. But they can't get a lead on him, and no one knows where he is at the moment." He had tried to give MacLeod some measure of hope, but his words backfired.
Duncan looked at Joe like a drowning man, one who had lost everything. "There's nothing left." The pain made the baritone voice quiver. "I've lost them both."
No longer able to do nothing as the Highlander suffered, Methos stepped close. Enough so that his hand could rest gently on the broad shoulder, offering as much support as he thought he could give. Duncan hardly noticed as he stared at the ill mortal. "Go home, MacLeod. Get some rest." Methos heard himself speak, all the while wanting desperately to wrap his arms around the brawny Immortal and comfort him. "I'll stay the night, and you can come relieve me in the morning."
It was with haggard brown eyes that the Highlander looked at Methos. The younger Immortal looked as bad as the ancient one felt. "I'll watch him," Duncan told him, voice raw. The Scot most likely had been crying, and not getting any real rest.
"I can stay a bit longer. You really should lie down and get some...."
MacLeod's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Methos," Duncan breathed, "you haven't slept in days. Thank you for trying to help me, but it's your turn to rest." The Highlander was a firm as he could be, herding Methos out of the room. "Come back at dusk," was the Scot's final words.
It was turning into a bad nightmare full of deja vu. The hospital, the little corner bakery where he stopped for something to eat. The lonely walk along the Seine as Methos started at the water, but saw many other things instead. Friends dying. Lovers fading away. Cold, empty beds.
The barge floated serenely on the bank, her prow slicing through the river's passage in the same way Methos felt he moved through time. But some places were too hard to anchor against, and it was best to move on. That's what Methos finally decided, to move on.
Not that he wouldn't miss Joe or Duncan, or the dulled prospect of getting to know MacLeod's student. But he was not up for another round of slow, lingering death and the misery and pain it left behind. It was time to become someone else, someone happier and less hampered by friends. It was time to leave.
The morning and early afternoon were filled with arranging transportation for his possessions in storage. What he absolutely needed in the immediate future was brought to the barge and filled two suitcases and a large duffel bag. Funds were wired to foreign banks, accounts closed, and a hapless, "accidental" drowning for Adam Peirson neatly severed the ties he had in Paris.
The last thing on his mental list -- in fact, the last thing he ever wanted to do -- was to write his farewell to MacLeod. He knew if he ever saw the Highlander face to face, even for one last time, his resolve would be lost. No, he needed to say goodbye this way, or he would never leave.
The words wouldn't come. He ran through several pages, trying to find the right phrase to start with, to put the correct spin on his abrupt departure. But nothing felt right, nothing conveyed the longing and emptiness their separation would cause. He stared at the blank page of a fresh sheet, trying to find the perfect way to express his love and hopes...
Sitting still, lost in thought, was his downfall. Seventy-two hours with almost no sleep caught up with his body, and he slumped unconscious over the desk.
"Methos?"
The word was whispered in his ear. It was carried by a silky smooth voice into his subconscious, where it waited for his attention. It was husky and masculine, his nose picking up the hot breath as the air shivered from the sound waves.
The word was wrapped in peat moss and forest hills, earth and green plants and musky warm dirt. It held hints of many places, the mysterious East, the rambunctious West, the rainy slopes of the Highlands. Warm, olive skin and brawny muscles, black hair and dark flashing eyes. Soft, full lips and a firm tongue....
"Methos?"
The ancient one opened his eyes on his dream, inches from MacLeod's worried features. Hands rested lightly on his shoulders and Duncan's face was covered in concern. Those lips.... All Methos wanted to do was lean ever-so-slightly forward and merge with the charismatic man he had grown to love.
"Methos?"
His faced flushed, realizing he had been caught so easily. It was dark now, the inside of the barge lit with a soft glow from the few lamps MacLeod owned. The dark eyes searched his, confused at what was going on. "I'm leaving," Methos blurted, too off-balance to lie or evade.
The flash of bone-numbing pain that crossed the Highlander's face shook Methos to his core. Ashamed, he looked down. But that was almost worse. MacLeod was sitting on his haunches beside the chair, his muscled body so near Methos' own. His eyes lingered on the open shirt and the patch of dark skin that was revealed, the black chest hair he longed to run his fingers through. On down to the covered groin his hand itched to cup, to pet, to explore. Here was everything he dreamed of, all literally within his reach, and he was walking away.
"You canno'," Duncan breathed in shock, his brogue slipping through. As if his denial could turn back the Seine from it's course.
"I must," Methos emphasized as he stood breaking all contact with the Highlander. This was turning out all wrong. He had to get away, now. Had to....
The hand that grabbed his arm to stop him was not so gentle, but that did nothing to still the surge of electricity that suddenly coursed through the ancient man's veins. "No," was all Duncan said as he pulled Methos close, wrapping his brawny arms and trapping the other Immortal in his grasp.
It wasn't difficult to understand the Highlander's fear. His last lifeline was walking out on him. Methos felt the warmth from the Scottish body seeping through his clothes, and all he wanted to do was relax, give up, and rest in MacLeod's arms, fall asleep and wake to the younger man's kisses.
Methos almost took a chance, and began to raise his head, feeling his lips brush against the strong jaw line as they headed toward the full mouth, but the contact made Duncan stiffen. Almost imperceptively, but Methos noticed, and knew what it heralded. "Goodbye," he whispered softly in the near ear of the Highlander, gently untangling himself from the hug.
It took a moment for Duncan to find his voice. Methos made it as far as the bags by the front door. "Please," the Highlander begged, lips trembling. "Don't leave me...." But the plea would not sway the other Immortal. His hand settled on the door, cold to his touch. Cold like his heart was freezing as it drained all the pain and worry and helplessness from it.
"I'll do anything...."
The words were whispered, barely intelligible over the soft shushing of water on the hull, the city noises that wormed their way into the interior. It was felt, more than heard, in a heart that ached for a way out of this path he had chosen. "You don't know what you're saying," he replied, understanding that Duncan was desperate, and had no clue what Methos wanted, or needed.
Arms wrapped around him again, pulling him away from the black night. Warm, hard muscles crushing him with their strength. "Then show me," MacLeod begged, his soft breath brushing the back of the ancient Immortal's neck. "Tell me what I can do to make you stay."
Methos shrugged out of Duncan's embrace. He was getting tired of the younger man's naive persistence. "You want to know what I want, MacLeod?" he asked, his face suddenly flushed. His lips found the Highlander's, pressing together with a ferocity he hadn't felt in a long time.
MacLeod resisted, briefly, but then the pursed mouth opened and invited his tongue in, letting Methos explore where he wanted to. It was hot, and wet, and tasted so inviting. The older Immortal shoved the Highlander against a bulkhead wall, one hand reaching up and entwining in the shoulder length hair, twisting the head to the exact position he wanted it in.
It was hard to separate, to back away and remember to breathe. Methos saw Duncan had his eyes closed, pressed tightly together. Denial? "Tonight, Highlander, you're *mine*," the ancient one told him, adding a jerk to the hair on the last word. "I'll show you exactly what you can give me." MacLeod's eyes flew open, his gaze warring between shock and wariness.
The intensity of Methos' attention was too much, and he lowered his eyes before he spoke. "I don't want you to leave," he admitted. "Besides, you.... I.... That night...."
Another jerk of the dark, silky hair. "*Don't* think for a minute this is payback for what you did to me. *If* I stay, I'll wring every last ounce I want from you for that night."
Duncan's gaze flicked up to Methos' face, full of simmering anger and acceptance. The Highlander's mouth parted, as if he something else to say, but instead, he pulled forward, trying to catch Methos' lips, heedless of the pain in his scalp from the older Immortal's grip on his hair.
Methos had to admit it was a good try, but MacLeod was still somewhat hesitant, unsure. The kiss was...lacking. The Scot was also horny as hell, but pure desire wouldn't assure his continued participation. And Methos wanted to make sure MacLeod experienced everything the older Immortal wanted to show him.
And if by some miracle they survived the night, and he stayed, Duncan would have a better idea what price Methos expected him to pay.
"Drink this," Methos said as he handed the mug to Duncan. The Highlander sniffed the brew, trying to place the smells. His dark eyebrows raised in question as he looked at the older Immortal. "Drink it, or I tie you down," Methos calmly informed him.
It was interesting to watch MacLeod's adams apple bob, from the nervousness and swallowing. But the Scot drank all of the potion without a word, setting aside the empty cup and leaning back on the sofa, waiting. "What now?" he finally asked.
Methos settled on the opposite end of the couch, his hand reaching out and tracing lines along the arm Duncan had sprawled along the back. "Now we wait," Methos said, enjoying the feel of the silken flesh and hard muscles under his fingers. "It will take a bit for you to start feeling the effects." That got a glare from MacLeod. "You'll feel a slight warmth and tingling spreading out from your stomach. And you'll notice your inhibitions are...dulled."
Duncan lay his head back, closing his eyes, accepting this fate he had agreed to. "Drugs, Methos? You don't think I can keep my end of the bargain?" The arm muscles tensed under the ancient Immortal's roaming palm. Not what he had in mind.
"Duncan, I want you to enjoy this, too," Methos said, moving closer. "Don't think of it as torture." His pale hand brushed the Highlander's cheek, darkened by the day-old stubble. "The only pain I plan for you is too much pleasure...."
The last was whispered, right before Methos softly kissed the Highlander's red lips. He felt Duncan sigh, relaxing further, giving in. Hands found the silver clasp holding MacLeod's hair in a ponytail. Once it was opened, Methos ran his fingers through the silky strands, climbing up to settle on Duncan's inviting lap.
Methos' erection found the Scot's hardening cock, sending shivers through his lithe frame. No longer fighting, Duncan was kissing for all his worth. It was easy to see why Amanda put up with this barbarian for so long -- he kissed like a succubus.
And kissed and kissed. There was so much passion and sensuality tied up in MacLeod's mouth, the way he moved his lips hungrily, licking and biting as if enjoying his last meal. His hot breath ignited the pale skin it slid across as arms reached around and pulled Methos closer.
"No," the older Immortal said between gasps, pulling back to look at the Highlander. "This is my show." He grabbed Duncan's wrists and placed them between their two groins, moving forward to trap them in place. "Now, where were we?"
It was exciting to feel MacLeod testing with his hands, inadvertently rubbing both men's hard cocks. The Highlander could have pulled free, easily, but he seemed intent on playing whatever game Methos was leading him on. The pretend struggles only aroused both of them more, as Methos went back to exploring Duncan's mouth. "Bastard," the Scot said between kisses, dripping with more sarcasm than anger.
Methos used one hand in Duncan's hair to control the Highlander's head, his other roamed freely over the Scot's muscled chest. He traced the contours through the sweater MacLeod habitually wore, feeling the nipples harden and the pectorals flinch.
Suddenly, Methos wanted to see that olive-skinned treasure, MacLeod's chest. Duncan had the frustrating habit of working out half-dressed and Methos had spent a lot of time secretly watching the Scot gracefully move around. It was curvy in all the right places, matted with just the right amount of black hair, and held the most inviting set of nipples. Just waiting to be licked, and bit, and teased.
"You're wearing too much clothes," Methos informed his captive, sitting back on Duncan's legs to pull at the hem of the sweater. The Highlander lifted his arms, letting the older Immortal raise the garment and reveal the already sweaty torso. Methos sighed as he watched each inch of dark skin exposed to the light, savoring the striptease as long as possible.
Once Duncan's face popped from the neck hole, Methos stopped, leaving the Highlander's arms trapped in the garment above his head. Duncan's chest was stretched, and looked tasty and inviting. "Just like that..." Methos murmured, running his hands over the glistening flesh.
MacLeod wiggled. He jerked as Methos' fingers raked a few sensitive places. His arms strained against the sweater, bobbing down in an attempt to fight off the teasing digits. "Stop it," Methos warned, giving the younger Immortal as baleful a glare as he could. "I want you *just* like this."
It took Methos' thumb and forefinger rolling a hardened nipple a little too roughly to get Duncan to fight back. The Scot finished removing the sweater, tossing it behind the couch. His hands grabbed Methos' wrists, pulling them away from the heaving chest. "Stop."
Methos was breathing hard himself, lost in his unrestrained examination of his companion. The older Immortal didn't like to be interrupted. "Stop?" he asked, as if he couldn't believe Duncan would use that word with him? "I haven't *begun* yet."
With practiced ease, the older Immortal quickly stood up, pulling the Scot off the sofa by their still-connected wrists. The Highlander was surprised at the move, unable to stop Methos from pushing him to the side, as they both fell to the barge floor in the tight space between the couch and table.
It was easy to turn the Highlander on his stomach before Methos settled his weight on the small of the Scot's back. "You've been a bad boy, Duncan," Methos said as he forcefully pulled MacLeod's wrists behind him. One knee kept them in place as the older Immortal slid off his belt. The leather was wrapped around them and the belt buckled. The Highlander was caught.
Methos flipped Duncan over, settling again on MacLeod's ample crotch. The Highlander had a very evil grin plastered on his face, part anger, part madness. But he was definitely enjoying the ride so far; his pupils were dilated and there was a hefty bulge in the worn jeans. "I thought you *liked* bad boys," Duncan hissed through clenched teeth, reminiscent of his tone during the Dark Quickening. But the sadistic component was missing, and what was left was more sexy than threatening.
"Now where was I?" Methos mused as his hands, both finally free, began running through the mat of black chest hair with fingers splayed. He traced the chiseled pectorals with a finger, smiling as Duncan shifted. It was like having a living statue underneath him, breathing and moving, each muscle alive. His fingers found their way to a crinkled nub hidden in the forest of hair, teasing it until MacLeod finally moaned.
Smiling, the older Immortal pinched the tender flesh, rewarded with an angry hiss as the Highlander arched his chest. "Sorry," Methos apologized, his chuckle barely restrained.
"Not sorry enough," Duncan snarled, bucking again, enough so that he could get his legs out from under the ancient Immortal. Levi-clad thighs, hardened from centuries of training, wrapped around Methos' lithe frame. Black boots hooked together behind the older Immortal, and MacLeod began to squeeze.
Methos' hands slapped the deck on either side of Duncan's head, as he found himself supporting both their weight. It was hard to catch a breath; it felt like a python had wrapped itself around his guts. The older Immortal grunted, unable to find an easy way out.
"You really enjoy playing with fire," MacLeod pointed out, growling as he squeezed even harder. "Be careful what you wish for...."
"You are *so* naive," Methos spat back, one of his hands snaking between their sweating bodies. His face was inches from the Highlander's, close enough to smell the hot breath from both their panting. His fingers finally found the jean-covered mound between Duncan's muscled legs. He squashed the engorged basket, digging into MacLeod's pivates.
"FUCK YOU!" the Scot yelled, his legs flying apart in desperation from the pain. Methos jerked his hand again, gasping in lungfuls of air as Duncan moaned and writhed helplessly.
The ancient Immortal's voice dripped icicles. "We've already tried it that way. I've got something different in mind." With a snarl, Methos reached his free hand behind MacLeod neck, pulling the Highlander to his feet by his head and crotch. Once Duncan was standing, one hand gripped his belt, keeping him on his feet. "Now, we get serious."
Duncan was guided to the large bed by a push between the shoulder blades and a firm grip on the back of his jeans. One final shove and he fell on the mattress, unable to check his fall with his hands tied behind him. He almost wanted to curl into a ball, his testicles still smarting from Methos' painful grope, but he was content to lie there while his jeans were pulled off.
The soft sounds of cloth scraping over skin echoed in the enclosed space, barely heard above both men's raged breathing. The thud of a buckle hitting the hardwood floor. Thump-thump of shoes falling, the sound of another body laying on the mattress.
The Highlander's skin was warm under Methos' flesh, chilled in the night air. He lay down along Duncan's length, enjoying the arousing sensation of another person under him, the give and take as they found a comfortable position. His rigid penis rested lightly between the mounds of MacLeod's ass, slowly rubbing along the crack. Searching for a home.
The older Immortal's chest brushed the smooth backside of the Scot, the bound hands stroking along his abdomen, bringing him closer to climax. His mouth found one of Duncan's ears, his teeth gently nipping a pierced lobe. He'd have to see about talking MacLeod into wearing the earring again. Or if things went well tonight, the Highlander might not have an option.
"I hope you're ready," Methos hissed in his captive's ear, beginning to thrust with a purpose.
Duncan moaned under him. "Like I could stop you," he replied, his fingernails scratching along Methos' stomach.
"Good point." The older Immortal sat back on his haunches, pulling MacLeod's ass up, forcing the Scot into a tripod, knees and head. The little rosebud winked at him as he pushed Duncan's thighs wider apart, readying the other for the fucking of his relatively short life. "Lubricant -- where's lubricant?"
The Highlander tried to close his legs, but got his butt spanked for the effort. "Try the bathroom," Duncan reluctantly admitted.
Methos slapped MacLeod's rear again, enjoying the reddening of the skin. "I don't think I can leave you alone that long." He reached between Duncan's spread thighs, a finger twirling around the head of the Highlander's hard cock, coating the digit with glistening pre-cum. "Better," Methos sighed as he plunged the finger into the Scot's waiting anus. His other hand reached around and gripped Duncan's stiff member.
Right on cue, MacLeod tried to push forward, away from the invading finger, stopped only by the strong grip on his penis. The sensation of being assaulted mixed with the stimulation of his organ caused Duncan to moan again. Methos alternated his finger exploration with an achingly slow hand job, bringing MacLeod to orgasm much sooner than he had originally thought possible.
It almost made the older Immortal climax himself, watching the young Scot tremble and grunt as he ejaculated, coating Methos' hand with cum while the Highlander's ass gripped his finger. The copious amount of white fluid was all the lubricant Methos needed. He coated his own stiff member, applying the rest to the asshole in front of him. It was time.
Methos eased himself into position, bringing his slimy hand to Duncan's mouth. "Clean it," he ordered, wondering what MacLeod's reaction would be. As soon as he felt a tongue wipe his fingers, he slid them into the Scot's mouth, sliding his cock in at the same time.
The fingers in MacLeod's mouth kept him from biting his tongue off as he screamed at the sudden intrusion. Methos steadily pushed until he was buried fully into the ass he had admired for years. Duncan went back to licking as the older Immortal found his rhythm, no longer able to wait for release.
It was a hard and fast fuck, Methos unable to hold back the undeniable explosion once he had started. He filled the Highlander as Duncan whimpered and shot his second load onto the sheets, his mouth muffled in the pillow. The older Immortal collapsed, almost passing out, his pale skin sliding easily over the sweaty olive-dark flesh below him. MacLeod managed to straighten his knees, settling fully onto the bed, laying in the pool of his own ejaculation.
Both men were sweating and breathing hard, muscles unwinding, penises dwindling. It was a while before either man found their voice. "I hope that wasn't your first, because it certainly isn't going to be your last," Methos whispered, running a hand through MacLeod's long, luxurious hair.
"Please..." Duncan begged, tasting himself in his mouth, working up saliva to wash away the fluid coating his tongue.
Methos shifted, moving to the side. "Please, what?" he asked, brushing the long strands away from MacLeod's face.
Duncan's eyes were closed, his tongue moving around in his mouth. "More," he whimpered, his body shivering.
A broad smile broke out on the ancient Immortal's face.
Methos lay back on the bed, a bucking Highlander on top of him. One hand rested on MacLeod's hip, guiding the younger Immortal as Duncan fucked himself on Methos' stiff rod. The other hand savagely gripped the Scot's straining cock. Both were moaning as sweat and long, black hair flew through the air.
Each thrust was accompanied by a groan as Methos watched Duncan in action, his muscles straining inside the golden flesh. His bound hands pulled his shoulders back, his chest thrust forward as he bounced, overcome with arousal. It was like watching living marble, glistening in the soft table lamps. It was a sight Methos thought he'd never see, the Highlander lost in the throes of passion.
The grunts came louder, and quicker. The older Immortal struggled to hold back, wanting again to climax with the Highlander, to meld them closer with shared pleasure. Duncan froze with Methos' penis buried deep within him, his ass muscles clenching in time to his cock's thrusts in Methos' hand. That drove the older Immortal over the edge, and both men came together, their bodies coated in sweat and fresh semen.
MacLeod could no longer hold himself up. He fell forward, sinking across Methos' lanky frame. The older Immortal welcomed him, wrapping his arms around the trembling form, whispering soft words, tender phrases in the Scot's ear. They came down from the plateau of climax together, their bodies firm against the other, the sweat evaporating and cooling their ardor.
"Shhh," Methos whispered, again stroking Duncan's silky hair, hearing the soft sobs of the Highlander. "That was incredible." The older Immortal began to gently kiss along MacLeod's jaw line, more to calm the man then to relight the excitement again. There was a salty taste of tears on the Highlander's cheek, which he smoothly licked clean. He found his way to Duncan's parted lips, tasting the Scottish semen still lingering there.
MacLeod was limp, letting Methos roll him over on his back, and take up position on top of him, the pale, lithe form settling neatly over the muscular Highlander. "Untie me," Duncan finally said, his tone and his body full of submission and satisfaction. Methos' hand found his belt, still wrapped around MacLeod's wrists, and carefully unbuckled it and set it aside.
A noticeable shiver wracked Duncan's naked form, goosebumps covering the dark skin in the chill air. Methos shuffled to the foot of the bed, pulling the sheets and comforter over them both, settling in on top of the Highlander again. He wrapped both their forms with the covering, their warm, naked bodies covered with sweat and fluids and the heady smell of recent sex.
He sighed, once he had settled, the millennia old man, nestled against a warm, broad body whose musky scent tickled his nose. His hand was wrapped around a narrow waist, and his head was resting against a sculpted chest, and he was as sated as he had ever been in the last thousand years. He would have professed his love for the Scottish barbarian, and profess he would gladly stay, but Duncan was already fast asleep, the breath softly whistling through his nose, timed to the gentle rise and fall of the torso Methos used as a pillow.
Just resting here, against the warm and perfect body, made the older Immortal's groin tingle in anticipation. He sighed again, knowing there was going to be a tomorrow.
Sometime during the night, he felt Duncan slip out of bed, his warm, soft pillow moving away, leaving a cold, clammy sheet under his head. But the Highlander quickly returned, nestling against him again, spooning their bodies together. It wasn't until MacLeod brushed his lips over Methos' bare neck, and gently spread the lubricant over the ancient Immortal's anus that he figured out what was going on. But he opened himself to the young Scot, and climaxed for the third time that night, once again in synch with the Highlander's unflagging ardor.
Methos woke, tired and sated, his nose imbedded in the forest of hair on MacLeod's torso. They lay facing each other, arms and legs wrapped tightly together, as if the other was a lifeline. The older Immortal stirred, shifting about until he had a stunning view of his partner's face.
Duncan woke very slowly. His mouth and inviting lips twitched as he took in a deep breath. His eyelashes fluttered, long and black, and opened to reveal the crisp brown eyes that Methos could not get enough of.
"Good morning, my love," the older man told him, a smile beaming on his pale face as he stared at the Highlander, waiting for an answering smile.
The lips pursed instead, drawing tight as MacLeod untangled his limbs and rolled over, presenting his back to the ancient Immortal. Not a very good sign. The Scot did manage a weak "morning" as he flopped about, but his words lack the conviction Methos had hoped for.
He had his answer, then. Methos slid off the other side of the bed, careful not to disturb the Highlander. He walked naked in the chill morning air across the barge floor, to the bathroom, and proceeded to clean every last trace of the night's debauchery off his flesh.
He came out after a bit, dressed in Duncan's robe, barely out of the bathroom before a olive-skinned flash sped by him into the small lavatory. The door slammed shut and the lock clicked. Methos shrugged the robe tighter around his lanky frame. "He should be in there quite awhile," the ancient one said under his breath.
Duncan was. Long enough for Methos to make a pot of coffee, and drink half of it. Enough to let him dress in clean clothes from one of the suitcases still positioned by the door. Enough time to call a cab for the airport and have it show up, and even carry the two suitcases out to it.
Either MacLeod ran out of water, or he heard the coming and going out the door and was curious. In any case, Duncan was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, using the frame as protection, a towel clutched around his waist, when Methos entered to fetch his last bag.
"You said you'd stay," Duncan pouted, looking lost and helpless. Maybe he was, but Methos no longer cared.
The older Immortal knew he sounded snippy, but he didn't worry about it. "I *said* I'd show you what I'd need to stay. I'm sorry that you weren't up to it." He had the duffel bag in his hand, and turned to walk out the door, but Duncan grabbed his arm and stopped him.
"I'll...I'll take that potion every night, I'll...." The Scot was begging, and it was so unbecoming. Methos felt pity for the man who would do something he detested night after night, just for the company. But now was not the time for delusions, or lies. Cards on the table.
"MacLeod... Duncan. The only thing that brew had was a light muscle relaxant and a few spices. Nothing more. Everything you did last night was something you *wanted* to do. You chose to do it. This morning you *chose* to regret it. And *now*, you choose to suffer through it nightly just to keep me around." There was shock in the hazel, Scottish eyes, and denial. "I can't live that way. I won't make *you* live that way. Goodbye."
He turned and left, shrugging off the weak grip on his arm, placing each foot one in front of the other as he walked across the deck and down the plank, heading for a waiting taxi that was as empty as his heart suddenly felt.
There was nothing for him here. Methos would find another place, becoming another man. And maybe he would meet another lover, one as handsome and sensual as MacLeod, one as empathic and touching as Alexis. Another partner who would enjoy anything.