|The Methos Suicides
Disclaimer: Not mine. I was just having a little fun with them, and I'll return them unharmed, well, relatively.
The SO suggested both the idea for the story and several of the scenes. He also read it through a couple of times and made suggestions.
Kamil not only endured me reading the damn thing aloud, she also made some wonderful suggestions, which found their way into the story.
Amy B. contributed the title. Thank you, Amy. And Solo read it over in search of grammar errors and typos. Thank you, Solo. Any remaining errors are, of course, my fault.
Additional inspiration came from others too numerous to mention, but I suspect they know who they are.
Methos rolled over and punched his pillow, before settling his head onto it. He couldn't get the words out of his mind, or the image of Mac saying them, his upper lip drooping, and his lovely brown eyes wide with pain.
Yes, they were through, and Methos didn't know how he would survive in a world in which Duncan MacLeod hated him.
Methos picked at his breakfast. He didn't want food, not really. How could he eat when Duncan MacLeod hated him? Damn Boy Scout. Sure, he'd killed people, a lot of people, but everyone had their faults.
He didn't need a judgmental, unforgiving Scot in his life, even if he did have warm brown eyes, and full luscious lips that had clearly been made for kissing... or sucking cock.
Methos squirmed in his seat. He had to find a way to stop thinking about Duncan MacLeod, Highland tease. Too bad he couldn't recreate that avalanche he'd been caught in around 700 BC. He'd stayed dead for a couple of centuries, until the rocks had shifted. 'Course, he'd been lucky nothing had found a way to chew on him.
Still, the idea of being dead for a while had a certain appeal. The only problem was: how to find a way to stay dead? He could stick a dagger through his heart, but there was no way to guarantee that someone trustworthy would be available to pull it out.
He could always hang himself. That usually worked, except he'd keep reviving and dying again. It was worse than being buried, and he wanted oblivion, not self-torture.
No point in slitting his wrists, or shooting...
Suddenly, an image appeared in his mind. Duncan MacLeod on his hand and knees, naked, that finely muscled ass presented for fucking. This was the last thing he needed. Annoyed, he shoved the image aside.
It reappeared, with sound. Duncan was asking, no begging, Methos to fuck him. Methos held his breath as he watched himself kneel behind Duncan and press into him. It was hard, fast, a little wild, and distressingly short. Great, he couldn't even imagine himself fucking Duncan well. Not that Duncan had complained, but then he wouldn't. After all, Boy Scouts are polite.
Ignoring the erection sticking out of his boxers, Methos went back to contemplating his suicides.
Kneeling in front of the oven, he stuck his head inside. He really needed to clean it more than once a year. Maybe when he revived. Right now, he just wanted to get away from all thoughts of Duncan MacLeod, especially ones in which the doe-eyed Scot was on his knees, begging to be fucked.
He turned on the oven and waited, and waited. It was getting warm. In fact, he was feeling slightly singed, but he wasn't getting light-headed. Surely, the gas would have an effect soon. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable; his neck was getting stiff.
Methos sighed. He really should be getting light-headed. Another image began to form in his mind. They were on the barge, and Duncan was saying something. What the hell? He might as well listen. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.
Methos snorted. Like that would happen. The image shifted, and they were in the loft, sitting on the couch.
Methos nodded. That was much more like it. He rubbed at his neck. Why hadn't that gas taken effect? It was so hot in the oven he could smell his hair starting to singe. Oh, fuck. He knew why. He had an electric oven.
This was all Duncan MacLeod's fault, he thought angrily. Bloody Scot had him in such a muddle he couldn't even remember what kind of oven he had.
Methos rolled over. He couldn't sleep, again. Bloody, damn Scot refused to stay out of Methos' mind. Now he was building a shelter, shirtless, of course. They needed the shelter because they were trapped on a tropical island, just the two of them. Duncan expected him to help, of course. He looked up from his assignment, binding branches together with vines, and studied Duncan's naked back. They'd no doubt be fucking each other senseless as soon as they found some lube, or one of them realized they could use spit.
Methos sat up, pushing at the covers. That did it. He'd shoot himself.
Methos settled back onto the bed. He'd shoot himself in the morning, first thing.
Methos woke slowly. Just how many orgasms had he had last night? He'd lost count after that cucumber had found it's way into Duncan's ass. He laughed in spite of himself. That made it sound as though the cucumber had just walked over to the bed and somehow managed to shove itself into Duncan. It hadn't gone that way at all. Duncan had retrieved the vegetable from the fridge all by himself, and coated it with lube, and...
Methos sighed. He had to stop these fantasies of Duncan. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of them coming true. They were through. Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, the most desirable man Methos had encountered in his five thousand years, hated him.
He pushed aside the covers and went to his desk. He opened the secret compartment where he kept his most valued possessions, his journals and his gun collection. He'd had to have the desk specially built. Five thousand years worth of journals took up a lot of space. Too bad he'd had to copy the papyrus ones onto something more durable. Scrolls were far easier to store. He should probably just transfer them all to computer, but he liked the hieroglyphics, and the smell and feel of paper. Writing lost all of its sensuality when done on computer.
Guns. He poked through his gun collection, picking up the one he'd used to shoot MacLeod a couple of days before. There might be some poetic justice in using that one. Then he spotted the case containing his dueling pistols. Perfect.
He opened the case and ran his fingers lovingly over the metal. It might not be the best choice. He was going to have to shoot himself several times if he wanted to stay dead for any length of time. Suicide had been a lot easier when he was younger and hadn't healed quite so quickly. He'd probably heal completely while he was reloading the pistol for a second shot. Unless...
No one was quite sure what would happen if an Immortal suffered a severe injury to the brain. Brain cells being such delicate things, there was a chance he might not fully recover, a chance he might be permanently impaired. Methos smiled. If he were brain damaged the honorable Scot would take care of him; Methos was sure of it. His smile broadened as he imagined himself with the mental acuity of a six year old, snuggling onto Duncan's lap to be read to, sucking his thumb and calling Duncan "Daddy," refusing to get dressed in the mornings and forcing Duncan to chase him around the barge yelling, "Will you just put your damn pants on?"
Methos took out the dueling pistol.
He dropped the little ball into the pistol and carefully packed gunpowder around it. He cocked it and started to raise it to his temple. A small ball went rolling across the floor. Cursing, Methos followed it. It rolled under the bed, and Methos knelt down to retrieve it. Gunpowder spilled across the floor.
Clenching the ball in his hand, he went back to the table and began to once again pack powder into the pistol.
Gun to his head, he released the hammer. It jammed. Fuck. When was the last time he'd cleaned these things anyway?
He stomped across the room, and took one of the other guns from the desk. It was loaded. He clicked off the safety and pressed the barrel to his temple. Then he pulled the trigger.
Methos blinked. The light was blinding, and his head felt like it was in a million pieces, and every damn one of them hurt. A lot.
He squeezed his eyes tightly closed. It appeared that all of his mental faculties were still there and still working. A memory teased at his consciousness and he let it take shape in his mind. He was shackled and the man in front of him was grinning. A most unpleasant grin. Wonderful. He'd spent centuries repressing that memory, and now it was back. This was all Duncan's fault, all of it. Methos would have hated him if he could, but he couldn't, because, because...
Methos had to be honest with himself. He couldn't hate Duncan because the man was everything he admired, everything he aspired to be, and he had the most fuckable ass the world had ever seen.
And Methos? Methos had a headache. The kind of headache where it hurt to blink, to move, to even think.
In his mind's eye, Duncan wagged that fuckable ass in his face once again, and Methos felt himself getting hard.
That did it. He'd find someone to take his head. As soon as he could move without searing pain.
Methos paced, slowly. His head still hurt, but after two days he was getting used to it. He needed to find someone to take his head. But who? It couldn't be anyone who'd hurt MacLeod. That, he couldn't allow. Richie wasn't an option. He was a baby. Methos would overwhelm him, and he had no desire to go through the rest of his life with red hair and a nineteen-year-old libido. Which left him with only two options: Connor, who no one had seen in nearly a decade, and Amanda. He could find Amanda easily enough, but could he trust her to do it, or would she go running to MacLeod and tell him everything?
There was one other possibility. Cassandra would kill him. He was sure of it. But she might turn on MacLeod someday. Most likely she wouldn't, but could he afford to take that chance?
Methos went to his desk and opened his laptop. It shouldn't be too hard to find Cassandra. After all, he'd created the Watchers to keep track of her and his former brothers.
Well, well, the Watchers certainly had improved security since he'd left, but he was Methos, five thousand year old genius. There wasn't a code he couldn't crack.
Six hours later, Methos leaned back in his chair. He was no closer to getting into the Watchers' computer system than he'd been when he started. He snapped the lid on his laptop closed. He had only one other option: Joe.
Joe looked up as he entered. He was wiping the counter. Methos was convinced that Joe had the cleanest bar in Paris, maybe in all of Europe.
"Hey, Joe, I need your help."
Joe sighed heavily. "Of course you do."
"First, promise me you won't tell MacLeod."
"What do you want, Methos?"
"Promise you won't tell."
Joe rolled his eyes. "Fine, I promise."
"Your fingers weren't crossed, were they?"
"No, my fingers weren't crossed. Now, what is it you want?"
"I need to find Cassandra."
"I want to talk to her."
"You're going to take her head, aren't you?"
"If I were going to kill her would I have come to you? Really, Joe, I'd never ask you to violate your oath by interfering in the Game."
Joe laughed, and the laughter contained just a hint of bitterness. "Tell it to someone who doesn't know you."
Methos had enough grace to look sheepish.
"Save the Adam Pierson act for MacLeod. It doesn't work on me."
"It doesn't work on him anymore, either," Methos said mournfully.
"Why are you looking for Cassandra?" Joe asked.
"I already told you, I can't tell you."
"I'm a Watcher, not an Immie tracking service. You want information, you give me some."
"Quid pro quo, huh?"
"Just as long as you don't suggest we rub each other's backs."
"I wouldn't do that."
Joe snorted. "I've read your chronicle."
"I doctored my chronicle."
"You didn't doctor Byron's."
"I want to make amends," Methos said, "to Cassandra."
Joe evidently believed him, because he disappeared into his office and returned a few minutes later with a piece of paper. He handed it to Methos. On it was written an address in London. "Just don't call me to come and take care of the body."
"Let me guess, you're a Watcher, not a mortician."
"I came to see justice done," Methos answered, glancing around her house. It was way too frilly, and pink, and it bore the distinct markings of a house decorated with help from a Martha Stewart book. Fortunately, when he was dead he wouldn't have to look at it.
"Justice?" Cassandra asked, leading the way to the overstuffed couch.
He nodded. "I came to offer you my head."
"I see," Cassandra said solemnly. "While it is gratifying to see you accepting responsibility for your actions, I'm afraid I can't accept it."
"Can't..." Methos struggled to process this new information. "But why?"
"I've forgiven you."
"Forgiven?" Methos repeated, still dumbfounded. "But I raped you."
"I enslaved you."
"I helped slaughter your village, everyone you knew and loved."
"Everyone dies sometime. It was their time."
"I gave you to Kronos."
"Well, that one did take a little longer."
"I don't understand," Methos said, hanging his head.
"Forgiveness, Methos. It frees us from hate, enables us to get on with our lives, liberates us from the trap created by the need for vengeance."
"But a few months ago, you were all set to take my head. What happened?"
"Oprah. The woman is a Godsend. Her TV show, her magazine, even her book club. After I saw my first episode I went to the bookstore to get some of the books she talked about. Do you know they have an entire section dedicated to self-improvement? Ever since I read Dale Carnegie I hardly ever need to use The Voice."
"Self-help books," Methos muttered, shaking his head.
"You look like you could use some. I'd be happy to loan you a couple."
Methos stared at her in stunned confusion.
"Methos? What are you doing here? Is Mac okay?" Amanda asked from the doorway to her apartment.
"He's fine, Amanda. I need a favor."
Amanda gestured for him to enter. "I'd offer you coffee, but I don't have any."
"That's okay. I'm not thirsty."
Amanda sat and patted the space beside her on the couch. "What's this favor you need?"
Methos sat. "I want you to take my head."
"I can't do that. MacLeod would never forgive me."
"So don't tell him."
Amanda reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Why don't you tell me what has you in this state?"
Methos shrugged. "I'm just tired; it's time to let go."
"Uh-huh, now tell me the truth."
"I know it has something to do with MacLeod, so you might as well spill it."
"He hates me."
"He does. He found out about my past, and now he hates me. He said we were through."
"He's said that to me at least a dozen times. It doesn't mean anything."
"You didn't see his face," Methos said mournfully. It felt so good to finally have someone to talk to.
"You two still haven't fucked, have you?"
"No," Methos confessed, "we haven't fucked."
"There's your answer. You don't need to kill yourself. You just need to push him onto his back and ride him like the stallion he is."
"I don't think that'll work."
"Sure it will; I'll help."
"He won't want to have sex with me."
"I'll tie him down and blindfold him for you. By the time he finds out it's you he won't care. Trust me, Methos. Mac always forgives his lovers. Look at Kristin."
"What about Nefertiri? And Brian Cullen?"
Amanda paled visibly.
"Amanda, have you been having sex with Duncan so that he won't kill you?"
"No, of course not. I mean, look at him, but, yeah, I thought the added insurance couldn't hurt."
Methos chuckled, shaking his head. "I thought the blonde hair was a dye job."
Amanda ignored his laughter. "What did you do, anyway?" she asked.
"I killed some people."
"Ten thousand or so."
"Mac doesn't like it when other people kill, especially that many."
"I know," Methos said glumly.
"Why don't you try talking to him?"
"It's either that, or build yourself a guillotine."
"Amanda, darling, you're a genius." He took her face in both hands and kissed her quickly. Then he left.
Methos studied the contraption before him. It was almost complete. He only needed to attach the blade to the rope, and he'd be ready. Immortal presence washed over him, and it bore the distinctive feel of Duncan MacLeod-masculine, commanding, and yet somehow Methos knew that in his most secret fantasies the Highlander wanted nothing more than to be pushed to his knees and fucked raw. It was one of those insights that stemmed from his finely honed ability to read people.
"Methos," Duncan called.
"Fuck," Methos muttered. He'd left the door unlocked. He started back into the house, but it was too late. MacLeod was already stepping into the yard.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Duncan caught sight of the wooden edifice. "What's that?"
Methos stepped between Mac and the guillotine. "Nothing."
"It doesn't look like nothing. Let me see." Mac stepped around him, his eyes widening at what he saw. "Methos, is that what I think it is?"
"That depends. What do you think it is?"
"Why are you building a guillotine?"
Methos shrugged. "No reason. Just trying to keep the carpentry skills up."
"Methos, are you thinking about ending it all?"
"What are you doing here, Mac?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
"I'm busy." Methos began sharpening the guillotine blade. "Besides, we're through, remember?"
"Through? Of course we're not through. I was just a little angry."
"You were furious."
"Yeah, I was furious, and hurt, and betrayed, but I'm over it now."
"You're over it?" Methos shouted, enraged at the thought of all he'd endured these last few weeks, believing that Mac hated him. "Do you have any idea what I've been through? I'm building a guillotine, and you're over it?"
A light dawned in the Scot's warm brown eyes, warming them even more. "You were going to kill yourself," he said, aghast. "But, Methos, why would you do that? You love living. You've been living for five thousand years. Why? Please, tell me."
Methos rolled his eyes. "For Chrissakes, you really are stupid. I was killing myself because you said we were through."
"Really? You were going to end it all because of me?"
"Yes, MacLeod, I was going to end it all because of you."
"Damn. I knew I was attractive, but I didn't think I was that attractive."
"You're flattered. I'm suicidal, and you're flattered. No concern for me, or my well-being."
"You're not still going to do it, are you?"
Methos sighed. "I guess not."
"Good, because there's something I really wanted to talk to you about. I've been having these dreams, except they're more like day dreams, or..."
"Fantasies?" Methos suggested.
"Were we on a tropical island together, by any chance?"
Duncan hesitated. "Yes."
"And did one of them involve a cucumber?"
Duncan's flush deepened. "How did you know?"
Methos sighed. "We're sharing each other's sexual fantasies."
"The double quickening. I should have known it'd bind us together."
"Methos?" Duncan asked softly.
"Did you like what you saw?"
"I did," Methos grinned and stepped toward Duncan, suddenly predatory. "Tell me, Duncan, are you really a virgin?"
Duncan swallowed. "No, but I can pretend if you want."
"Methos, I..." Duncan fluttered his eyelashes prettily. "I... Will you be my first?"
Duncan lifted himself up, reclining on his elbows so he could watch his new lover. Methos was opening drawers and slamming them shut again. "You really can't find any?"
"Nothing? Not even vegetable oil?"
"Vegetable oil isn't a good idea, you know. It isn't water-soluble. But, no, I don't even have that." Methos knelt on the bad, straddling one of Duncan's legs. "Guess we'll have to make do with spit."
"Spit dries too quickly. I'm a virgin. I need something more substantial."
"You're not really a virgin."
"Do you want verisimilitude or not?"
"We could do it in the shower," Methos suggested. "I have soap and shampoo."
Duncan shook his head. "Soap's a bad idea. It upsets the natural balance of bacteria that are supposed to live there."
"I don't think my quickening revives parasites."
Methos sighed. As a lover, Duncan MacLeod was proving to be a royal pain in the ass, and not the good kind.
"You could jerk me off and use my come," Duncan suggested.
"Of course that means we wouldn't get to have one of those mind-blowing mutual orgasms."
Mind-blowing mutual orgasms were the stuff of fiction anyway. Methos curled his hand around Duncan's cock, and began to jerk up and down. He'd get inside that ass one way or another.