Den of Chaos Fiction
Highlander: the Series

Su Casa
by Taselby

This story is rated G, and is about the blandest thing I've ever written. As always the characters of Methos and Duncan MacLeod belong to those faceless corporate goons with more lawyers tham me, and I don't dispute that. This is just for fun, and no money changed hands.

Questions, comments, and silly remarks to me <>

Duncan MacLeod pushed away the small twinge of uncertainty he was feeling, and steeled himself to do this properly. The plans for this had secretly been in place for over a week, and he was too deeply committed to back out now.

After all, it wasn't like Methos had never offered. Point in fact, it was among the very first things the deceptively innocuous-seeming Immortal had ever said to MacLeod. Mac had simply filed the phrase away as one of those glib, pop-culture things that people said without really meaning literally, and in a rare moment of whimsy, had tossed the greeting back at Methos upon his unexpected arrival in Seacouver some months later. After all, it was just a saying.

"Mi casa es su casa." My house is your house. All things considered, maybe the cheerfully cynical Dr. Pierson should consider adopting another catch-phrase for greeting unwary guests. "Enter freely and of your own will," or maybe "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." Perhaps something like "Check your weapons at the door." Mac was certainly reconsidering his own use of the Spanish traditional, because Methos evidently took it literally.

Yes, Mac nodded to himself, Methos had certainly made himself cozy, effortlessly insinuating himself into those private spaces previously reserved for the Highlander alone. Duncan had returned more than once to find his personal sanctuary invaded, his beer gone, his refrigerator plundered, his dishes dirty, and his towels used. Methos would typically be located sprawled possessively across the now-rumpled bed, sipping on the last of the pilfered beer and listening to God-only-knew-what on the stereo.

Duncan firmly smashed down a flare of irritation at this catalog of offenses. He liked Methos, loved him like a brother, and had, truthfully, invited the man into his circle of intimates. Duncan had, in a strange way, asked for this kind of treatment. And in an even stranger way, he liked it. It made him feel like he had accomplished something when his friends felt that comfortable in his house. He gritted his teeth. Methos just seemed to feel a bit more comfy than most.

He tried to tell himself that he wasn't being territorial. But somehow it never seemed so... invasive when Amanda used his razor or liberated a credit card from his wallet for an afternoon spree. She was always suitably contrite afterward, and usually found the most... interesting ways to apologize. Methos just acted like it was his undisputed right to be there. Well, today it was time for the shoe to be on the other foot.

After all, he reminded himself as he fished for the forgotten extra key to Methos' flat, it wasn't like Methos had never offered.

The key was another testament to the levels of trust and friendship between the two men, given to MacLeod in anticipation of a trip to the States, so that Duncan could, among other things, water the plants. The trip had never materialized, but Methos had never asked for the key's return. And Mac had never insulted him by offering.

Like his own personal "open sesame," the key gained him access to the loft, pushing aside the sturdy deadbolt. The door swung open on silent hinges, and Duncan couldn't stifle a mischievous chuckle as he proceeded to make himself completely at home.

Methos trudged up the walk to his flat on weary legs. He loved the university, and enjoyed his work there more than most people might realize, but some days it was all he could do to bite his tongue (sometimes until it bled) and not scream in the faces of all the self-important scions of academia how absolutely fucking wrong they were about almost everything. Today was best put behind him and forgotten as quickly as possible.

With that thought firmly in place, he fumbled for his key, assuming a better mood and promising himself beer, and quiet, and more beer as soon as he could get the door open. He might even rent a movie and order some take-out tonight. And have some beer... Yes, definitely beer.

"Wilma, I'm home!" he cried out into the empty loft, caving in to a silly impulse as he dropped his bag by the door. The giddy sense of homecoming died as the Presence of another Immortal registered on his numbed mind. Methos stiffened in brief panic, reaching for his sword as the bathroom door opened in a billow of steam.

He was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him. "Mac?" The tip of the elegant broadsword swung to the floor as Methos gaped in shock. "Mac?" he repeated cleverly. It looked like Duncan, sort of. Wrapped in nothing but a damp towel, rubbing at his hair with another, and negligently holding a beer in his free hand, it might have been Duncan, but it was just as likely that Methos was either napping or suffering a concussion from a nasty fall down the stairs.

The damp, towel-clad hallucination strode over to the bed, sipping at the beer. "Good thing I brought some of my own stuff, nothing in your closet fits me." There was a brief rummage through a bag on the bed, producing sweatpants and a t-shirt. A graceful gesture with the now-empty beer bottle. "Oh, and you're almost out of beer."

"Beer," Methos repeated softly, then shook himself to a more alert state, shivering off his surprise. "Mac, what are you doing here?"

"What?" Duncan asked with deceptive innocence as he pulled on his clothes. "Oh, the barge needs some work, and I can't stay there while it's being done."

"So you're staying here?"

Mac nodded, stepping past Methos to go fetch another beer.

"Um, how long will this work take? N-not that you aren't welcome for as long as you care to stay."

Duncan suppressed a smile; this was perfect. "Take? Oh, several days, at least."


"Maybe a week or more."

"W-weeks?" There was the tiniest crack in the smooth baritone voice. Methos glanced around his apartment. The signs of Mac's occupation were everywhere: beer bottles on the counter, shoes in the floor, a sweater tossed across the back of his chair. The bathroom didn't bear thinking about.

Duncan took in the nervousness of the hazel eyes, the paleness of the sharp face, and fought hard to keep from laughing. He decided it was time to move in for the kill. He strolled easily back across the room, and punched a button on the stereo. The sounds of opera filled the room.

"Sure, two weeks, on the outside." He paused for effect. "Unless they find more stuff that needs fixing, of course. Then there's no telling how long it might be." He flopped possessively across the bed, crossing his ankles and sucking on the fresh beer.

Methos was making soft, strangled noises, the tip of his sword digging murderously into the wood floor.

Mac grinned as smugly as he could manage without collapsing into laughter at the look on his friend's face. "After all, Methos, how many ways can we say it to each other? What's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine."


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