The Morning After
by Chelle

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, and the way they've been bickering today I wish Rysher, Panzer and Davis would take them back. But not permanently, of course.

Author's Notes: I need to thank... Who was it again? Duncan, stop that. It's distracting. You know, the person I always thank.

What's that, Duncan? The -expletive deleted- who said Brian from Queer as Folk had a fuckable mouth.

That would be Kamil. You really are going to have to forgive her for that, you know.

Why? Because she's my friend, and because you owe me.

Let it go, Duncan. If you stop now I'll let you read more Pat Califia. Just don't tell Methos. He claims it gives you ideas.

If that last bit hasn't convinced you I'm insane, I hope you enjoy the story. And once again I am deeply in Kamil's debt for reading this thing in bits and pieces and in full draft not once, but twice. Thank you, hon.


December 31, 2000. 9:00pm

New Year's Eve. It had long ago ceased being one of Duncan's favorite holidays. He walked about the barge restlessly, looking for something to do that would keep his mind occupied, knowing nothing he tried was likely to work. He'd already given up on his book.

He flipped through his CDs. Nothing he felt like hearing. Maybe he should try a little web surfing. Surely, he could find something to distract him until he was ready to sleep.

Joe'd asked him to come by the bar, but he'd declined. He didn't want to be surrounded by strangers trying too hard to have a good time.

He was reaching for his mouse when presence hit him. Shit. Either a friend he didn't want to see, or a challenger he didn't want to fight.

A knock. "Mac?" called a familiar baritone.

Methos. Duncan was surprised he'd knocked. Maybe it meant the old guy would be sensitive to his mood for once and leave him alone. Then Duncan remembered that he'd locked the door. Shaking his head, he went to open it.

"Hey," Methos said, stepping into the room. "How's it going?"

"Just fine."

Methos stopped in his progress toward Duncan's refrigerator to look back at him and smile. "Good." He continued toward the kitchen, placing the bags he'd brought on the counter. "I wasn't certain what you'd be in the mood for, so I brought a little bit of everything." He pulled out a bottle of champagne, examined the label. "Not the best, I know, but all I could get. Do you know some liquor stores actually sell out of champagne on New Year's Eve? You'd think they could plan better, especially in Paris."

He withdrew two six packs. "Ale and lager," Methos explained as he opened up the refrigerator. There wasn't much in it, and Methos turned to look questioningly at him. "On a diet, or going somewhere?"

"Neither." Curious, in spite of himself, Duncan took a step toward the kitchen and the other bag. "What else did you bring?"

"Movies. How do you feel about Katherine Hepburn?"

"Lovely woman. Good actress."

Methos grinned. "My thoughts exactly. I picked up Holiday. Cary Grant's in love with her sister, clearly the man has no taste."

"I've never seen it."

Methos pulled the tape from the bag. "Then let the festivities begin."

"You needed that whole bag for a video tape?"

"No."

"So what else is in there?"

Methos threw the video to him. "Just put in the movie, MacLeod. You can satisfy your curiosity later."


Duncan found himself smiling at the image of Cary Grant somersaulting down the hallway of a cruise ship. This had proven to be a most welcome diversion after all. Unfortunately, it was the end of the film. Nothing left but an embrace and the credits.

"Shall I open the champagne?" Methos asked, drawing his attention.

Duncan glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. "Sure."

He watched more openly than usual as Methos walked into the kitchen. There was something about the way the man moved. Methos opened the champagne quickly, managing to get most of the bubbling overflow into the sink. Duncan rose, and pulled out fluted glasses, holding them while Methos poured. "The fireworks should start soon. We can watch from the deck if you like."

Methos smiled, and gestured toward the door. "After you."

Duncan inhaled deeply as he stepped onto the deck. The night was clear and brisk, and he regretted that the city lights made it impossible to see the stars. It was a perfect night for being out of doors, in a quiet bit of wilderness with the stars above, and a crackling fire. Instead he was in Paris with its lights, and New Year's revelers.

He stood at the rail, Methos beside him, neither of them speaking. It was oddly comforting.

The first rocket took him by surprise, zooming quickly upward and exploding into myriad red dots. It was followed quickly by explosions of blue, yellow, and green.

"Must be midnight."

"Must be," Duncan agreed, turning to look at his friend.

"Happy New Year, Duncan," Methos said, his voice sliding over Duncan.

"Happy New Year, Methos," he answered. Methos raised his glass, and Duncan clinked their glasses together, but instead of bringing his champagne to his lips, he leaned forward. Methos did as well, and their lips brushed briefly, sending a charge through him. It was only a New Year's kiss, part of the tradition, he told himself, but instead of pulling back, he pressed closer.

Another kiss, lasting longer, giving Duncan a better impression of what it felt like to have Methos' firm lips against his own.

The third kiss found him wrapping his free arm around Methos' waist, pulling him closer. A fourth, and lips were parting, tongues meeting.

He stopped counting after that, couldn't have counted if he'd wanted to. One kiss was blending into another, each hungrier than the last. His own hunger didn't surprise him; he'd been lonely for so long it had begun to feel like his normal state of being. Methos' hunger probably shouldn't have surprised him either, but it did. No, it wasn't Methos' hunger that surprised him; it was his own desire to feed that hunger.

They came up for air and Duncan pulled back. "Inside."

Methos looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded once, before turning toward the door.

Duncan abandoned his glass on the first flat surface he passed, and let his coat fall to the floor. Methos did the same, and then they were reaching for each other.

The kisses were frantic now. Too frantic, it couldn't last. Duncan pulled away, his head falling to Methos' shoulder. Long arms held him close.

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"We can stop."

"No." Duncan lifted his head. "No," he repeated, just before he reclaimed Methos' lips.

The kisses were gentler now, and in a way this was harder to bear than the frantic need of a few moments before. Other emotions were making their way to the surface, caring, tenderness, and vulnerability as deep as any chasm Duncan had ever seen. Part of him wanted to run, but the need wouldn't let him. He took Methos' head in his hands, slowing the kisses still further, taking first one of Methos' lips and then the other between his own, feeling, caressing.

Methos was clutching at him, his hands tightening on Duncan's back, his pelvis pressing more firmly into Duncan's. Duncan released him at last, his hands dropping to his sides. Methos reached immediately for the hem of his sweatshirt, his eyes on Duncan's face. Duncan held his gaze until the sweatshirt passed between them. It dropped to the floor, and Duncan was reaching for Methos' sweater, pulling it off to reveal smooth, gleaming skin. Once again they reached for each other. No kisses this time, just an embrace, and the welcome feel of skin against skin.

Methos' thumb was caressing the nape of his neck, and Duncan shivered, burrowing his face more deeply into Methos' neck. Methos turned his head, and warm breath brushed the skin near the caressing thumb. The breath was followed by even warmer lips. A kiss, another, and then sucking. Duncan groaned.

The sucking continued until Duncan didn't think he could stand it any longer, and then the mouth moved, seeking and finding a new location. It didn't linger on Duncan's collarbone, but continued downward, a trail of kisses headed straight for-

He inhaled sharply as Methos sucked a nipple into his mouth. Flicks of a firm tongue, nice, repetitive suction, the occasional scrape of teeth. He pressed a hand to the back of Methos' head, encouraging him.

Methos released him, but before he could protest, the other side was receiving the same treatment. "Methos," he breathed.

Methos responded with slightly stronger suction.

He needed something to lean against. His ability to hold himself upright was fading fast. Methos must have known, because he released the nipple and took Duncan's hips in his hands, guiding Duncan back against the counter.

The mouth returned, lower now, tracing a pattern down his abdomen, down. His sweatpants were being pulled down, his briefs with them. His cock bobbed free, and a hand closed around it, stroking slowly.

Duncan could only stare. Methos was on his knees in front of him, his hand wrapped around Duncan's cock, and he was leaning forward, his lips parting. Methos' tongue snaked out, licking quickly at Duncan's glans. Another lick, firmer this time, and then Methos' lips were closing around him.

The other man's eyes were closed, and his cheeks were hollowed as he sucked. Duncan reached for him, stroking his lover's hair. A groan. Duncan wasn't certain which of them it came from.

He watched as Methos began to move, his mouth and hand working in concert, establishing a nice, steady rhythm, neither teasingly slow nor overwhelmingly fast. Duncan gave himself over to that rhythm, letting it erase everything else.

The pace never changed, remaining steady even when Duncan's orgasm became eminent, even when it arrived. He watched the entire time, watched as Methos swallowed his semen, watched as Methos released him, sitting back on his heels and licking at his lips.

His hand was still in Methos' hair and he brought it around, reverently touching Methos' lips with his fingertips.

Stepping away from the counter, he held out his hand. Methos rose gracefully to his feet and took it. Duncan started to lead the other man to the bed, but he paused after only a couple of steps. It was hard to walk with sweatpants around your thighs.

Methos didn't bother to hide his amusement as Duncan pulled up his pants. Which was fine, Duncan simply smiled back.

When they reached the bed, he guided Methos onto it, squatting to remove the other man's hiking boots and socks. Methos stood, and Duncan opened his jeans, unable to resist the urge to press his hand against the waiting erection. Methos pushed the denim down, stepping out of it, and Duncan reached immediately for his boxers.

He ran his hand up Methos' naked flank, his eyes moving slowly over the body in front of him. Methos touched his hand, and Duncan looked up, smiling.

He stood, and their lips immediately reconnected. The desire in this kiss left him breathless and hard and wanting. He wasn't even sure precisely what he wanted; he simply wanted more. More of this connection, more of this pleasure. More.

Impatient, he shoved his sweatpants to the floor, having to stop and kick off his sneakers before he could fully remove them. He could feel Methos' eyes on him, and he looked up as he tugged at his socks. He was expecting amusement, but what he saw was longing. Naked, exposed longing. Remaining sock forgotten, he reached for Methos, pulling him close and holding him. "What do you want?" he whispered.

"You."

Duncan started to speak, but Methos continued.

"Don't care about how, whatever you want, whatever will give you pleasure."

"You've already given me pleasure. Now, it's your turn."

"There are no turns, Duncan. It's all mutual."

"Yes, it is," Duncan agreed, pulling back to look into Methos' eyes, and in that instant he knew precisely what he wanted. "I want to feel you inside me."

Methos' expression became even more open, more vulnerable. "Okay."

"Let me kiss you, touch you some more first."

Methos swallowed, then nodded. Duncan gestured at the bed and Methos settled into the center of it, lying on his back, arms at his sides, legs slightly apart. Duncan knelt at the base of it, between Methos' spread legs. He took hold of Methos' foot, raising it in the air and stroking it with his hands. Lifting it to his shoulder, he pressed his lips playfully to Methos' ankle.

"MacLeod." The foot in his hands jerked slightly.

He repeated the action, and this time Methos pulled his foot back; Duncan held on, smiling. "Your ankles are ticklish."

"They are not. They're just sensitive."

Duncan held Methos' foot firmly against his shoulder with one hand, traced patterns on Methos' ankle with the other.

"Stop that."

"Most people like having sensitive places caressed."

"I have other sensitive places you can caress. Leave that one alone."

"Where?"

"You'll have to find them on your own."

"I think I can manage that," Duncan answered, abandoning Methos' ankle, and running his hand up the inside of his leg.

Methos' eyes fell shut.

Duncan lowered the leg to the bed and shifted higher, between Methos' thighs. He petted with both hands, moving along the outside of Methos' legs, and then inward, to trace the area alongside Methos' testicles. He brushed between the slightly parted cheeks with his thumb, and Methos gasped. Smiling, he did it again. Finding himself thinking about lube, he stopped. He wasn't ready for that yet.

He brought his fingertips around Methos' testicles, and alongside the cock jutting at such a nice angle above Methos' abdomen. He slipped his fingers under it and laced them together; thumbs pressing into the underside, he raised his hands along Methos' length. He'd started back down again, when a hand closed over his left wrist.

Duncan looked up, and their gazes locked. Answering the unspoken request, Duncan released the flesh in his hands, and moved to settle onto his hip beside Methos. He raised a hand to Methos' cheek.

A kiss followed the touch, gentle, careful, respectful of the other man's vulnerability, and his own. The kisses continued, leisurely, and still gentle, and Duncan resumed touching, a shoulder, a bicep, a nipple.

At last, Methos released his lips, sighing, and letting his head drop to Duncan's shoulder. The position left a tempting stretch of Methos' neck within easy reach of Duncan's mouth, and he took advantage of it. Methos groaned at the new sensation, and the sound went straight to Duncan's cock, adding to the ache building there.

The vaguely salty taste of Methos' skin was irresistible, and Duncan sought more of it, moving his mouth over his lover's flesh. He sucked at the place where neck and shoulder meet, pulling a shuddering gasp from the other man. He increased the suction, sliding a hand along Methos' flank at the same time.

"Duncan," Methos said, lifting his head from Duncan's shoulder. "Lube?"

"There's massage oil in the bathroom. I'll get it." Duncan slipped from the bed, feeling Methos' eyes following him.

In the bathroom he inhaled deeply, leaning his forehead against the mirror over the sink. Too late now for doubts. He lifted his head, and opened the medicine cabinet.

Methos had drawn back the covers and was lying beneath them, propped up on an elbow, when Duncan returned. He pulled the covers aside, and Duncan slid between them.

Methos rested a hand in the center of Duncan's chest. Duncan lifted it, and kissed the palm lightly, before pressing the bottle of oil into it. Seeing Methos hesitate, he opened the flip top.

He watched as Methos coated his fingers, drawing his legs back when the other man reached between them.

The brush of Methos' fingers against his anus sent a shock through him, and he gasped. Methos pressed inward, and Duncan instinctively pulled his legs back even more, desperate to be touched.

Methos turned his finger slowly, working it gradually deeper at the same time. Duncan clutched the sheet beneath him, torn between wanting more, and wanting it now, and never wanting the almost unbearably tender caress to end.

But it did end. Methos withdrew his finger to add more oil.

Two fingers this time, stretching him, coating him. Methos was staring at the place where their bodies joined, at the moment the only point of contact between them. Duncan stared as well, utterly mesmerized by what was happening between them.

At last the fingers were withdrawn, and Duncan watched as Methos poured a small puddle of oil into his palm, watched as Methos coated his cock with it. The oil made it glisten, and in that instant, Methos' cock was everything Duncan wanted.

Methos leaned over him, taking his lips in a lingering kiss, before sitting back on his heels and raising Duncan's hips onto his bent knees. But he made no effort to push forward, and Duncan reached up, brushing his cheek, silently encouraging him.

Apparently that was what Methos needed, because he pressed forward at last, entering Duncan, stretching him. It had been a long time since he'd engaged in this particular act, and he'd forgotten how vulnerable it made him. Not that it mattered, not that it would have stopped him.

Methos paused, partway inside him. Duncan already felt filled, and he couldn't imagine what it would be like when Methos was fully within him, but he wanted to know, wanted to be penetrated completely, filled beyond capacity. He didn't care if it burned; the only thing he cared about was getting Methos farther into him, deepening the connection between them until it couldn't get any deeper.

"Methos," he begged, and it didn't matter that he was begging, it only mattered that Methos pressed deeper in answer.

Methos began to move, pulling back and pushing forward, advancing farther with every inward movement. Duncan could hear himself groaning with each thrust, and whimpering with each withdrawal. He forced himself to stop, and focused his attention on Methos. The other man was breathtaking. Every muscle within Duncan's view was straining, except his face. His face wasn't strained, his face was that of a man transported somewhere beautiful, somewhere where there was only warmth, and sunshine, and deep, sensual pleasure.

Methos' eyes opened, and their gazes locked. Duncan was certain that even if he lived to be as old as the man fucking him, he'd never find the words to express what he saw in Methos' gaze.

The slow fucking continued, becoming, if anything, even slower as Methos sought to draw it out.

At last a hand closed around his cock, and Methos leaned forward, kissing him as deeply as the position allowed.

Methos was over him and in him, surrounding Duncan with his presence and his tenderness. Despite the cock in his ass, he almost couldn't believe it was real. Then Methos said his name, said it in a tone Duncan would never have imagined him using, a tone full of vulnerability and longing, the ache in it palpable.

But there was no time to think about it, to try and understand what it might mean, because Methos was fucking him, and he was lost in sensation: Methos' cock, and Methos' hand, and finally, blissfully, Methos' come spilling into him and sending him over the edge.


Duncan awoke to the feel of a warm back pressed against his own. He and Methos, back to back, it was easy to imagine they could fend off the rest of the world like this, and the thought made him smile. "Methos?"

"Hmmm?"

"What time is it?" The clock was on Methos' side of the bed.

"7:30."

In spite of the sunlight sneaking into the room, it seemed awfully early to Duncan. "Too early," he muttered.

"Yeah."

That subject apparently exhausted, Duncan flailed about, trying to find another topic of conversation.

"They should get less awkward, but they don't," Methos said.

"What should?"

"Mornings after."

"You're right, they should." Duncan paused. "We could always pretend it was still the night before."

"We could."

Duncan started to turn over and Methos followed suit. They were facing one another, faces only a couple of inches apart. "Thank you for stopping by."

"My pleasure."

"I noticed." Duncan smiled. He liked this, lying in bed beside Methos; it was surprisingly comfortable.

"Kind of hard not to, under the circumstances."

Duncan chuckled. "I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening as well."

"Did you have something special planned?"

Duncan reached for the erection he knew he'd find. "Not really. Thought I'd see what you were in the mood for."

"I'm up for," Methos inhaled sharply, as a thumb brushed his glans, "any number of alternatives."

Duncan chuckled. "I cannot believe you said that with a straight face."

"You should be impressed I said anything, with your." A firm tug on Methos' erection pulled the skin just under the head of his penis upward, and a groan replaced whatever words he'd been about to say.

"Like that, huh?"

A warm hand enclosed his own erection, pulling a gasp from Duncan.

"What do you think?"

"Yes?"

"Bright boy."

Duncan could have come up with a retort, but why bother when Methos' mouth was a mere two inches away, promising far more pleasurable entertainments? Methos must have read his thoughts, because he chuckled softly as Duncan's lips closed over his.

These kisses were far more relaxed than the ones they'd exchanged the night before, and they slipped into an easy tempo, tongues and hands working in counterpoint. It was less complicated than their earlier lovemaking, a straightforward sharing of pleasure, a measured build up, and a climax that left relaxation and contentment in its wake.

Ignoring the semen covering both of their chests, they rolled onto their backs.

"We can't go back to sleep."

"Not without showering and changing the sheets," Methos agreed.

"Might make it a little hard to pretend it's still nighttime."

"I don't know. Don't you ever shower at night?"

"Good point."

"So we shower, change the sheets, and go back to sleep."

"How about we change the sheets and then shower?"

"Whichever." Methos paused a moment before adding, "It gets dark pretty early this time of year."

"If we sleep long enough, it might be dark again when we wake up."

"And we can put the morning after off until tomorrow."

"We might be able to put it off until the day after that, if we really try."

"Or the day after that."

"We could just become creatures of the night, and spend all day sleeping."

Methos grinned. "I like the way you think."

Duncan answered the grin with one of his own. "Silk or flannel?"

Methos looked puzzled.

"For the sheets," Duncan explained.

"Flannel. It's cozier."

Duncan slid from the bed, and padded to the small closet where he kept the linens.

"Duncan."

Duncan turned to look at him.

"You're still wearing one sock."

Duncan looked down at his feet. "I got distracted." He bent down to strip off the sock.

"I remember." Methos rose, and began stripping the bed. "You would have silk sheets."

"Amanda bought them."

"Uh-huh."

"I bought the flannel."

"Course you did."

"What happens when we run out of massage oil?" Duncan asked, suddenly afraid he'd found a flaw in their plan.

"You've got a kitchen. Didn't you ever see Last Tango in Paris?"

Duncan made a face as he walked back to the bed.

"What? You don't like butter?"

He threw a pillow at Methos, who caught it, and neatly removed the pillowcase. Duncan handed him a fresh one.

"Course, I hear they have this new-fangled invention called the light bulb," Methos continued, "which lets stores stay open after dark. Or this even newer one, called the Internet, that lets you buy things twenty-four hours a day."

"Lots of options on the Internet," Duncan agreed.

Methos grinned mischievously, "Maybe even butter-flavored."

"This butter thing isn't a fetish, is it?"

"Nope, my fetishes are far more interesting."

"Are you going to tell me, or will I have to find them out on my own?"

"Don't know yet. We'll just have to wait and see."


January 1, 2001. 5:00pm

As Methos had predicted, it was dark again when they woke. Duncan stretched lazily, glancing at the man beside him.

A stomach growled.

"Was that yours or mine?" Duncan asked, rolling onto his side.

"I don't know, but I want food."

"Me, too. Shall I have something delivered?" Duncan rose, and went to his armoire, pulling out a pair of sweats and tossing them in Methos' direction, before pulling on a pair himself.

"Chinese," Methos answered, dressing quickly. "Can I have a shirt, too?"

Duncan tossed him a t-shirt, and went to pick up the phone.

Food ordered, he wandered into the kitchen. He'd completely forgotten about the other bag Methos had brought with him. He peeked inside. Tortilla chips. He pulled them out. Salsa, a bag of popcorn, another of miniature carrots, and M&Ms. A strange combination, but nothing worthy of the mystery with which Methos had imbued it.

Methos was coming out of the bathroom. "Did you order the food?"

"Yeah. What's with this stuff?" He gestured at the bag's former contents, now spread out on his counter.

"Movie munchies. I wasn't sure what you'd be in the mood for."

"Why didn't you tell me you had food in the bag?"

Methos shrugged and opened the fridge. "I was feeling perverse."

Duncan chose to ignore that. "Good thing I wasn't hungry."

A mischievous grin. "I ate." Methos handed him a beer.

Duncan shook his head.

"Give me a carrot, would you? I'm starved."

"You ate."

"That was hours ago."

Duncan opened the bag of carrots and held it out.

Methos took one. "So, what do you want to do with the rest of the evening?"

"Dinner, and then, I don't know, chess?" Duncan suggested.

"Chess," Methos repeated. He stepped close to Duncan. "If that's what you really want." He raised the beer to his lips and took a long drink, before sauntering away to the couch.

Duncan watched him, convinced he'd just been checkmated.


"Checkmate."

Duncan stared at the board. He'd just been checkmated, in ten moves. Studying the board, he tried to trace the pattern of Methos' game.

But Methos picked the free-standing board up and moved it to the side. Duncan started to object, but Methos took the board's place, kneeling in front of him. Long arms reached for him, pulling him into a demanding kiss.

"Methos." Duncan tried to protest, but it didn't come out that way.

"I'll show you how I did it later." Methos was pressing their mouths together again. No teasing preliminaries, just Methos' tongue, going deep into his mouth. Duncan fought back, tangling his tongue with Methos', and pushing it back into the other man's mouth. He was checkmated again when Methos sucked eagerly on his tongue, bringing his hands up to hold Duncan's head exactly where he wanted it.

Both turned on and annoyed, Duncan slid to the floor, kneeling in front of Methos and reaching for his t-shirt. Methos kept kissing him until Duncan nipped at his lips, forcing him to pull back. Duncan immediately tugged the shirt off. He studied the bare flesh hungrily. Methos' nipples were hard and perfectly round, and he realized with a shock that he hadn't had them in his mouth yet.

Taking Methos' bare shoulders in his hands, he pushed the other man onto his back. He pounced before Methos could react, pulling a nipple into his mouth. The hardness against his tongue fed his excitement, escalating it precipitously.

Methos' hands locked on his head, and Duncan seized his wrists, forcing them to the floor, without pausing in his sucking.

He switched sides, and Methos made a sound low in his throat, thrusting his cock against Duncan's abdomen.

Duncan surged upward, taking Methos' mouth with his own. Methos pushed against his cock in response, and Duncan pushed back. Lust was driving him, and Duncan surrendered to it, knowing Methos could take whatever Duncan dished out.

And then some. Methos was writhing against him, and he was plundering Duncan's mouth, alternately sucking and nipping, and sweeping his tongue deep inside.

Duncan released his wrists in order to seize Methos' head in his hands, matching the force of Methos' kiss with his own.

Methos immediately put his freed hands to use, sliding them into Duncan's sweats and squeezing his ass, holding Duncan tight against him when he thrust.

Duncan pulled away, sitting back on his heels. They stared at each other, each daring the other to give in, and then Duncan reached for Methos' pants. Methos lifted his hips, and moments later he was nude.

Duncan looked him over, studying the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen, the long legs and strong arms, the erection. Everything about Methos' body was a challenge, inviting Duncan to take him.

"Strip."

Much as he hated being ordered about, Duncan complied.

Methos watched him, and Duncan caught his gaze, letting his nudity challenge Methos, the same way Methos' was challenging him.

Methos' hand moved from his side, up over his hip, to close around his own erection. Duncan watched him, alternately turned on and put out that Methos would dare to touch something that belonged to him.

A small part of his mind pointed out that it was Methos' cock, and Methos was entitled to touch it if he wanted to. Duncan ignored it.

Kneeling, he once again seized Methos' wrist, and forced it to the floor.

A small smile curling his lips, Methos raised the other hand. This time he took hold of Duncan's cock. Duncan stared at the hand caressing him for several strokes, and then he raised his eyes to Methos' face. Methos was also watching his hand, and the look on his face-tenderness that boarded on reverence; it shook Duncan to the core.

He knelt over Methos, carefully lowering his body onto the other man's. Methos withdrew his hand, just in time to prevent it from becoming trapped between them.

He cupped Methos' head in his hands and brought their lips together. The wild lust had vanished the instant he'd caught that look on Methos' face, and this kiss was sweet, slow and sweet, gentle suction, and tongues that danced instead of dueled.

Almost unconsciously, they began to rock together. Methos' legs locked behind his calves, improving their leverage, and Duncan realized abruptly that he was close to coming. He tried to pull back, but he couldn't break away from Methos' mouth, not when it was so tasty and knowing, and Methos' body was warm against his, and they were pressed completely together, everything in perfect alignment.

Methos moaned.

The thrusting slowed; his cock was the epicenter, with pleasure spreading out from it in waves.

Warm fluid splattered his chest, and Duncan pulled away from Methos' mouth, unable to maintain the kiss in the midst of his orgasm.

He pressed his cheek to Methos', feeling as well as hearing the other man's chuckle. He lifted his head and looked into his lover's grinning face. Methos pointedly ran a finger through the fluid covering them both. Duncan couldn't help but laugh, and his laughter brought back Methos'.

"So, will you tell me how you did that?" Duncan asked when they fell silent.

"You seemed to know already."

"I meant the chess moves."

"Your moves worked pretty well."

"Methos."

"Well, they did. Besides, this was a lot more fun than chess." Methos raised his wet finger to his mouth, and sucked it clean to accentuate his point.

Duncan struggled to keep his face straight. "Maybe."

"Maybe," Methos echoed.

"There's a lot to be said for a good chess game."

"There's even more to be said for a short one."

Duncan chuckled as he stood, and held out a hand. "Another shower, or just a couple of warm washcloths?"

"Washcloths. All these showers are turning me into a prune."

"Believe it or not, I'm enough of a diplomat not to comment on that."

"You just did."

"No, I didn't."

"Saying you're not going to comment constitutes a comment."

"No, it doesn't."

"It most certainly does."

They were still bickering when Duncan handed Methos a towel.


January 2, 2001. Morning

Warm, soft lips were teasing the back of his neck. Methos smiled to himself. There were decidedly worse ways to be awakened. Suction just below the juncture of neck and shoulder caused him to sigh.

He dropped his head forward, and the mouth on his neck shifted slightly. It was the only point of contact between them, and Methos had to resist the urge to push back against the warm body behind him.

His shoulder was being tasted now, and a hand was brought to rest on his hip. Oh yes, this was definitely the way to wake up.

The hand shoved gently, pushing him onto his stomach. Methos raised his hips, adjusting his erection into a more comfortable position against the sheets.

Duncan's mouth was between his shoulder blades now, and the hand on his hip was moving upward, stroking his side.

Another sigh escaped his lips.

It continued that way for some time: a warm hand caressing his back, and a sweet mouth doing delightful things to his skin. Then Duncan straddled him, and Methos could feel the other man's erection resting temptingly between his buttocks. Both hands went to work on him and the mouth increased its pace, moving purposefully down the center of his back.

Duncan's fingers were tracing patterns on his buttocks, skating perilously close to the cock resting there, and reinforcing Methos' awareness of its presence.

Duncan shifted and Methos spread his legs, creating space for Duncan to kneel between them. Light licks to the small of his back made him tremble, and the broad fingers toying with the edges of his buttocks didn't help.

A longer lick, a little lower. Another, still lower, another. The tip of Duncan's tongue touched the place where his buttocks joined. He clutched the pillow beneath his head more tightly, thinking that he might need it to stifle his own cries soon if Duncan didn't stop, and if Duncan stopped, Methos would have to kill him.

Another lick, longer, generating more contact. Another, starting lower and going a little deeper. He groaned, an inhuman sound that came from God-knows-where. The pattern continued; each lick started a little lower than the one before it, and continued upward to the top of his buttocks.

Fine tremors were running through him, and he was only dimly aware of the hands gripping his hips. His entire being was focused on one thing: Duncan MacLeod's tongue.

A long lick this time, covering almost the full length of his buttocks. The next one would bring Duncan into contact with his opening. He held his breath, waiting, and then warm, moist flesh touched him, but only for a fraction of a second before moving upward. He groaned, the sound an outlet for the mixture of frustration and pleasure filling him.

Duncan lifted his hips, pulling Methos to his knees. Anticipation made his abdominal muscles clench.

A single touch, right there, where he wanted it. He bit his lower lip. Another touch, firmer this time. "Duncan."

"Shhh," Duncan soothed.

Then his tongue was there again, circling. A pause, another circle, and the tip of Duncan's tongue pressed just inside. He began to shake, and Duncan's hands gripped him more tightly.

The tongue was withdrawn, and then returned, going slightly deeper. Another withdrawal, followed by renewed penetration. Duncan was fucking him- with his tongue. It was something Methos had never allowed himself to imagine, not even in the most secret recesses of his mind, and now it was happening. Duncan's tongue was moving in and out of him, and Methos was making sounds he didn't recognize, and the tension was building, and. Oh, god. He was going to come, just from this, from Duncan's incredible, maddening tongue.

Another swipe, and it began. He fell silent as his entire body began to convulse. Duncan continued to caress him, the penetration replaced with soft, soothing licks that added more sparks to the pleasure shaking Methos apart.

He was gasping for air, hyperventilating in fact, but he didn't care. What were a few dead brain cells compared to this?

Duncan brushed a kiss to the small of his back and released his hips. Methos collapsed onto the damp bed, and Duncan settled beside him.

"Jesus, Duncan."

Duncan smiled, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "Good, huh?"

"Calling it good would be like calling the Mona Lisa a nice picture."

Duncan's smile broadened.

"If I'd had any idea how talented that mouth of yours was, I'd have done this years ago."

Duncan shook his head. "It wouldn't have been like this years ago."

"Probably not, but imagine the fun we could have had with the paint that day in Seacouver."

"I'd rather think about the fun we're having now."

Methos rolled onto his side, having to edge forward to restore the physical closeness between them. "What would you like, Duncan?"

"I.." A hand returned to his hip, sliding down to the space between his buttocks. "I would like to fuck you."

Methos wasn't sure if it was the words themselves, or the tone of Duncan's voice, or the naked longing in the other man's face, but a delicious ache concentrated itself in his groin. "Yes." He kissed Duncan tenderly. "Yes."

"Methos," Duncan breathed, renewing their kiss an instant later.

He could detect faint traces of his own flesh on Duncan's tongue, and it added to the desire already renewing itself deep inside him.

The kiss ended, and Methos turned over to retrieve the massage oil. He positioned himself on his back and spread his legs, oblivious to the wet spot beneath him. He looked at the bottle in his hand before handing it to Duncan. "We may need to do a little web surfing later."

"Why do I think you know all of the places we should go?"

"Because you're perceptive?"

Duncan smiled, but it faded rapidly. He placed oiled fingers at Methos' entrance and Methos pulled his legs back, tilting his hips invitingly.

Duncan plunged in quickly, causing mild discomfort, but Methos didn't care. He wanted Duncan to lose control, to let loose the barely restrained lust pouring off him and pound into Methos' body, using it to give himself pleasure.

Methos sat up, forcing Duncan to withdraw his fingers, and reached for the oil; Duncan silently handed it over, hissing in a breath when Methos touched him. Methos kept his touch light, not wanting to send his lover over the edge, although the sight of Duncan sitting back on his heels with his cock jutting demandingly in front of him, and his eyes tightly closed, tempted him greatly. It would be so easy to give Duncan an orgasm. Methos removed his hands from temptation and wrapped them around Duncan's neck; pulling him down for a wild kiss he didn't give a thought to trying to control.

"Fuck me, Duncan, as hard, as fast, as you need to."

Duncan swallowed visibly.

Methos kissed him again, gently this time, and lay back on the bed.

Duncan lifted Methos' legs onto his shoulders and positioned his cock. Methos inhaled deeply, exhaling as Duncan pressed into him. He was being filled, slowly, inexorably filled, with Duncan MacLeod, and feelings were stirring within him that he wasn't sure he wanted, but it was too late now because Duncan MacLeod's cock was in his ass, and Methos knew he'd do just about anything to keep it there.

Duncan was moving gently, carefully, and the effort showed. His eyes were screwed shut, and if Methos hadn't known otherwise, he might have thought the other man was in pain. Methos raised a hand to his lover's cheek. "Let go, Duncan."

"I..."

"Let go."

Duncan groaned and his next thrust was harder; the one following it harder still, and Methos grunted as he was driven into the mattress. Duncan placed a hand on either side of Methos' chest and Methos clutched at his back as Duncan gave him what he wanted, thrusting hard and fast.

"Touch your cock."

Methos did as he was instructed, and Duncan watched him. He stroked hard, being as rough with his cock as Duncan was being with his ass.

"I'm gonna come."

"Do it. Come in my ass, Duncan. Fill me."

"Christ, Methos."

Another couple of thrusts and they were beyond speech, beyond thought, lost in a rhythm of blood, and passion, and blind, desperate need.

Duncan began to come, hips still thrusting, and Methos jerked harder on his cock, wanting to be there with his lover. Duncan thrust against his prostate, and Methos followed him into oblivion.

Two hundred pounds of Highland warrior collapsed on top of him, and Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan's shaking shoulders. Duncan's trembling gradually subsided, replaced with slow, even breaths.

Sleeping Duncan on top of him, and a massive wet spot underneath him, Methos smiled to himself, there were far worse places to be. He glanced at the clock. 8:30. They'd probably sleep until at least noon. Another morning after safely avoided.


January 3, 2001. Morning

"Methos."

"Yeah?"

"There's light coming through the windows."

"It's a boat. I thought they were portholes."

"It's a barge. Windows, portholes, it's still sunlight."

"Nah, it's just a really full moon."

"That's a relief. Can we drink coffee by the light of the moon?"

"Don't see why not."


Methos put down his coffee, and picked up the art section of the paper.

He skimmed through a review of Quills. A movie about the Marquis de Sade, perhaps he could convince Duncan to go. He glanced up; Duncan was watching him with the oddest expression. "Something wrong?"

"We missed something."

"We did?"

"Well, I did."

"What did you miss?"

"Fellatio."

"You want a blow job?"

"I want to give you one."

"Oh."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, that's not a problem." Although if you are half as good at it as you are at rimming, I may not survive it, Methos added silently.

"Good."

Methos went back to his movie reviews, trying not to think about Duncan, and blow jobs. It was a wasted effort, because a minute later Duncan was kneeling in front of him and tugging at his sweats.

"MacLeod, what are you doing?"

"Pulling down your pants."

"I can see that."

"Stand up for me, will you?"

"I'm trying to read the paper."

"You can go right back to reading it. I only need you to stand up for a minute."

Methos stood, and Duncan tugged his pants past his hips.

"You can sit back down."

Methos bit back a sarcastic retort, and sat.

"You can keep reading if you like," Duncan added, all innocence.

Methos picked up his paper, but lost his concentration when a warm hand cupped his flaccid penis.


Duncan petted the soft flesh gently, before taking the whole of it into his mouth. He suckled lightly, feeling Methos' cock grow and stretch, causing the bottom half of it to slip from his mouth. Duncan was ambivalent about that. He liked having all of Methos in his mouth, liked the vulnerability of a flaccid cock, but an aroused Methos was, after all, his goal.

He kissed the tip reverently. His tongue slipped between his lips as he drew back, reaching out to delicately taste Methos' slit. He circled his tongue around the top, and then took it into his mouth. He sucked almost daintily, and then raised his head, letting Methos' cock slide between his lips, before lowering his mouth once again.

Releasing the head, he shifted downward. He licked at the base, but he couldn't quite get close enough to suck. Drawing back, he lifted Methos right leg and pulled it free of the sweats. Placing his hands on the inside of Methos' thighs, he pushed them apart.

The chair was still in his way. Why couldn't the man slouch at the table? Duncan placed his hands on Methos' hips and pulled him forward until they were at the edge of the chair. He paused to enjoy the sight in front of him. Methos with his pants bunched up around one calf, his legs splayed, and his cock jutting in front of him, crying out for Duncan's attention.

Methos moved the paper to one side, and looked at him expectantly.

Duncan grinned. "Giving up on the paper?"

"No. Just wanted to let you know I don't appreciate being moved around like a rag doll."

"You will." Duncan pressed his lips to the inside of Methos' thigh, a brief kiss, and then he moved upward. Another kiss. He worked his way up to Methos' scrotum. He pressed his tongue to the skin behind and underneath it, flicking it with increasing firmness.

He inhaled deeply, filling himself with the smell of his lover, and then he began to explore in earnest, using his lips and tongue to familiarize himself with Methos' balls, their weight, and shape, and taste, the heat of the skin surrounding them.

He glanced up. Methos was still holding the paper, but his eyes were closed. "No good movies, huh?" he asked quietly.

Methos shook his head. "There are possibilities."

"Yes, there are," Duncan answered, turning his attention to the base of Methos' cock, now able to suck it between his lips. He worked his way along the underside of Methos' shaft, alert for those signals which would mean he'd found an especially sensitive spot.

He was back at the glans again, and he breathed deeply, fighting to control the urge to simply devour the flesh in front of him. Touching Methos like this, exploring him, tasting him, was bringing to the surface the tangled mass of emotions Methos had stirred in him over the last couple of days. Tenderness, an affection with so much depth and dimension he didn't want to look to closely at it yet, and want. He wanted this man, wanted to devour him, and to be in turn, devoured. It was terrifying to want so much, and exhilarating. It made him feel alive again, like there were, indeed, possibilities.

He took Methos' flesh in his mouth, unable to stop the growl that formed deep in his throat as Methos' cock and his tongue met once again. He slid his mouth down, as far as he could comfortably go, and he sucked, carefully at first, and then with increasing strength.

Methos' hand was in his hair, stroking in time with Duncan's movements, encouraging him.

One hand closed around the base of Methos' shaft, and the other slipped into his own sweats, wrapping around his cock. He moved both hands and his mouth in concert, lost in the pleasure of sucking Methos, of surrendering to his own want.

"Duncan."

Duncan looked up, his eyes locking with Methos'. The want he saw there matched his own, shaking him. He'd have groaned his lover's name in answer, but the flesh in his mouth prevented it. He felt even more exposed than he had when Methos fucked him. On his knees, sucking the other man off, his own hand stroking frantically away on his cock. No way to hide it, what the other man did to him, no way to hide anything from those knowing eyes.

Methos' hand in his hair stroked tenderly, offering reassurance, and Methos' hips began to thrust minutely, in time with Duncan's sucking.

Without conscious thought, Duncan added his tongue to the mix, flicking the area just beneath the head of his lover's cock, and Methos came. Duncan swallowed anxiously, not wanting any part of Methos to be lost to him, and his hand jerked rapidly, bringing on his own orgasm, just as Methos' ended.

Regretfully, Duncan released his prize. Methos closed his legs, and then guided Duncan's head to his thigh. Duncan leaned against him, sighing contentedly.

He wasn't sure how long they remained like that, but it was long enough for his pants to become uncomfortable. He squirmed, and Methos chuckled affectionately.

"You need a shower and clean clothes, I suspect."

"Hmmm," Duncan answered, reluctantly lifting his head.

Methos' fingers trailed from the top of his head, down along his cheek, to his lips. He was smiling, and the warmth in it was creating an answering emotion in Duncan. "You go shower, I'll make the bed."

Duncan glanced at the bed. It was still a mess from the night before. "Maybe we should have sex, then change the sheets, and then sleep."

"You want to have sex on dirty sheets?"

"It's the sex that makes them dirty."

"No it isn't. Sex just makes them homey."

"Homey?"

"Don't you like to go to sleep surrounded by reminders of what we've just done?"

"Yeah, I do." Duncan rose, kissing Methos before continuing into the bathroom.


January 5, 2001. Morning

"Duncan."

"Yeah."

"It's awfully bright in here."

"Extra full moon."

"Must be."

"Wanna share a late night shower?"

"Best offer I've had in hours."


Duncan whistled as he dried his hair. Being tone deaf didn't mean he couldn't whistle. It simply meant that he tried to do it outside of others' hearing. He threw the towel over his shoulder. Somehow, he doubted Methos would care if he whistled badly, as long as he--

"Good morning."

Duncan came to an abrupt halt, staring at the man sitting on his couch. "Hello, Joe." He took the towel from his shoulder and tied it around his waist. "What's up?" He continued into the kitchen and began making coffee, trying to be casual.

"It's Methos. No one has seen him since New Year's Eve. His Watcher saw him come here and then left to go to a celebration of her own, thinking she'd pick him up again at his place the next day. But he hasn't been there."

"I don't think you need to worry. He's a big--"

"Joe." Methos spotted the other man more quickly than Duncan had, and he stopped just outside the bathroom door. "What brings you by?"

"You."

"Something come up I need to know about?"

"Nah, I just wanted to say 'good morning,'" Joe answered without a trace of sarcasm.

"Morning?" Methos asked, glancing anxiously at Duncan.

Duncan looked at the clock on the shelf by the sink. "It's quarter after one."

"Good afternoon, Joe," Methos said, walking to Duncan's armoire and pulling out a pair of jeans. He then proceeded to help himself to socks and a sweater.

"Since it's obvious you just got out of bed, morning seemed more appropriate."

"Have you got a problem, Joe?" Methos sat on the edge of the bed to put on his boots.

"No, no problem. I was worried about my friend, but it seems he's fine."

"Why were you worried?"

"You haven't been seen in days."

Methos went to the kitchen and accepted a cup of coffee from Duncan. "I've been around."

"That's one word for it," Joe muttered.

Duncan handed Joe a cup of coffee, joining him on the couch.

"Don't go there, Joseph. Some things are none of your business."

"I'm Mac's Watcher."

"Doesn't make my private life your business, or his, for that matter."

Duncan held up a hand. "Let's change the subject, shall we?"

"No need." Methos sat his cup on the counter. "I'm gonna head out. You want to have dinner later?"

"Sure."

"Come by around six. I'll cook."

"Sounds good."

Methos started toward the door. "Bye, Joe."

Duncan rose. "Methos, wait."

Methos stopped, and Duncan threw him a video case. "The movie."

"With the late fees I'm going to owe, it might be cheaper to keep it."

"I'll see you tonight."

Methos smiled, and then he was gone. Duncan turned back to Joe.

"What the hell is going on?" Joe demanded.

"I thought you'd deduced that already."

"I just wasn't sure I was seeing what it looked like I was seeing."

"Nope, that's what you were seeing."

Joe shook his head. "You and Methos. You sure you know what you're doing?"

"No, but I can't stop now."

"Sure you could, if you wanted to."

"That's just it. I don't want to."

"And Methos?"

Duncan shrugged. "I don't know."


Methos struggled to discipline his mind. Shouldn't be hard, he had a list of things to do: return the film, pick up something for dinner, go home, straighten a bit, check messages, maybe open his mail, start dinner, make sure he had some lube.

The last thought caught him off guard, and made him instantly hard. This was ridiculous. He couldn't remember when he'd been this passionate about a new lover, this at the mercy of his hormones. A small voice suggested that perhaps hormones weren't the cause, but he ignored it. He'd fucked Mac less than an hour ago, in the shower. Duncan had bent over, with his hands against the wall, and Methos had taken him with that peculiar mixture of lust and tenderness that seemed to be unique to them.

His hand snaked down between his legs, and Methos jerked it back to the steering wheel. He was fifty centuries old, for Christsake, five thousand years, more months than he could do the math for in his head, and every time he removed his hand, or his mouth, or his cock from Duncan MacLeod's flesh, all he could think about was when he could get it back there.

He should pick up some lube, just to be on the safe side.


Duncan stretched lazily. He was in Methos' bed, and the sheets had that wonderful, homey-- Methos had been right about that-- feel of sex, not just sex, but deep, soul-satisfying sex. The kind you had with... He stopped that thought before it could go any further.

Sighing, he rolled onto his side. Methos turned his head to look at him, smiled. Suddenly, it wasn't enough, sensing Methos' feelings in his touch, seeing them in his face. He wanted it out in the open. He wanted certainty. He wanted a morning after, god damn it. "Do you think maybe we're being childish?"

"At my age, childish is a compliment."

"Would it really be so bad?"

Methos' eyes narrowed. "You aren't suggesting we talk about our feelings, are you, MacLeod?"

"Just a little."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a guy. For that matter so are you, and guys don't."

Duncan didn't bother arguing the point. He and Methos had discussed their feelings more than once, just never their feelings for each other. "I figured we'd mostly talk about the sex. After all, we've spent five days doing very little else."

"Five? I thought it was the fourth."

Duncan shook his head. "It's the fifth."

"You're sure?"

Duncan nodded.

"I lost a day in there somewhere."

"Easy to do when you haven't done much besides fucking."

"Sure we did. I distinctly recall at least two sixty-nines, a couple of mutual hand jobs, that frottage when you wanted to play chess, and then there was the blow-job that started the whole thing, and the one you gave me when I was trying to read the paper, and--"

"I think you just proved my point."

"So we've been having a lot of sex. Is that a problem?"

"Why do you think we've been doing it?"

"Gee, MacLeod, I don't know. Maybe because it feels good."

"And why do you think it feels so good?"

"You really want an anatomy lesson?"

"I don't think nerve endings are the explanation," Duncan persisted.

"We've both been around for a while, and we've gotten good at it."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's part of it."

Methos sighed. "And the other part?"

"Caring."

"Caring?"

"Caring. Fondness. Affection. I know you're familiar with the concept."

"And you're suggesting that caring is part of what's been happening between us."

"Isn't it?"

"Yeah, I suppose it is."

The corners of Duncan's mouth quirked upward. "Why is it so hard for you to admit that there might be a bit of affection between us? Let me guess. You only fuck men, you don't care for them."

"Fine. I care for you."

"And I care for you."

"Great. Can we resume fucking one another senseless now?"

"Actually, I had a few thoughts about that."

Methos' eyes narrowed once again. "And what might those be?"

"You'll like them, I promise," Duncan answered, inching closer to Methos on the bed.

"What, exactly, were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I wanted you to roll over."

Methos started to roll over.

"Wait. Some kissing first."

"Kissing? First we have to discuss our feelings, and now foreplay. What's next? A headache?"

"You like kissing, Methos. Don't try to deny it."

"I didn't deny it."

"Shut up and kiss me, old man."

"That's more like it." Methos leaned forward, initiating the requested kiss. He pulled back. "Wait a minute. Who are you calling old? I was younger than you when I died the first time."

"I thought you didn't remember your first life."

"I don't, but I look younger than you."

"You win. Just roll over onto your side."

Methos turned onto his side, with his back toward Duncan. He looked back over his shoulder. "Now what?"

Duncan settled close behind him, lubricated fingers moving between them to Methos' entrance. "I was planning a long, leisurely fuck, during which I'd hold you close against me, and caress every bit of you within reach of my mouth and hands."

"Oh."

"And if you're really good, I'll whisper sweet nothings in your ear."

"MacLeod."

Duncan grinned. "Just kidding. My lips are sealed."

"Not sealed, I hope. 'Cause I have this earlobe thing."

"Yes, I know. I spent a lot of time finding all of your sensitive places, remember?"

"Yeah, I do," Methos answered, in one of the most sensual tones Duncan had ever heard.

Duncan chuckled. "You are such a hedonist."

"It's one of the things you like about me."

"Maybe."

"No 'maybe' about it." Methos pressed his hips back against the body behind him. "Now, fuck me, MacLeod, or I may relent and start talking about my feelings."

"No need to make threats," Duncan answered, withdrawing his fingers and reaching for the lube.

"Duncan," Methos asked, as Duncan was coating his cock, "now that we've done the whole talking thing, you think we can start getting up before noon?"

"Do you really want to?"

"Not especially."

"Good," Duncan replied, simultaneously sliding into Methos. "Neither do I."


Methos struggled to think, to find the words he needed, which wasn't easy with Duncan's cock in his ass. "Duncan." No answer. He must think it was simply an expression of pleasure. "Duncan."

"Hmmm."

Warm lips on his neck, a hand moving purposefully toward a nipple. He grabbed the hand, holding it still. "What about other people?"

"You want to do the group thing?"

"No." MacLeod had known that wasn't what he meant.

"You don't want other people."

"Yeah." The word became a sigh, as Duncan stroked slowly inward.

"Why, Methos, are you asking me to go steady?"

"No class ring."

"I can live without it."

"Is that a yes?"

"You'll take me to the prom?"

"I'll take you to the moon, as long as you don't stop."

Duncan chuckled. "It's a yes.


The End