by Maygra de Rhema

It's that mood/muse thing again. Not mine, wish they were. PG13 for language and implied m/m sex. Duncan/Methos. RPD don't know me -- I don't know them...lets keep it that way. This wasn't because I was walking down memory lane. I was reading "Water on Stone" by Merry Lynne and this came up. I recommend her story. It has nothing even vaguely to do with this but you can find it at the link above. This is also for Jeanne who will probably never know I wrote this but she made me think.

Looking back over the years.

I don't recall what song it's from, who wrote it, or who sang it. Simon and Garfunkel, I think.

I doubt whoever it was had me in mind when they wrote it.

There's a gulf between the me of then and the me of now that I'll never be able to breach. Several gulfs, actually. Strung out between the millennia like lighthouses. Not by precise date of course; just there from time to time when I can look back and say, 'at this time I was like this, and at that time I was like that.' Not unlike the endlessly reflecting mirrors in a traveling carnival fun house.

And once a person knows those markers are there, they want to know what being like this or that was like -- how did it feel, what did you do, what were you thinking?

The easy answer is, I wasn't thinking -- I was surviving.

Except the easy answer isn't true, it just sounds better. What I was doing was living.

But the living I was doing won't fit into any modern codes of moral or ethical behavior. Well, most of the time it might, but it's not those times that make eyebrows raise, or the breath stop momentarily in the chest of the questioner as the realization sets in.

Yes, I was living while other people were dying around me. I was living while I was killing, while I was laying out seed for crops or tending goats or rutting my way through the physical release that is now called passion. Or making love.

It's a modern euphemism, that. Relatively modern as everything is where I am concerned. The romantic term: the art of love, of making love, of being a fabulous lover.

Cut and dried is what it is. Love either is or it isn't. There isn't any making about it. Sex can be an expression of that love. So is taking out the garbage without being asked or doing the laundry. Granted one is slightly more pleasurable than the other. I'd much rather do the laundry than take out the garbage.

"I want to make love to you."

That's what he said and it didn't even sound vaguely like, "Methos, take out the garbage."

I, of course came up with a witty and slightly off hand answer.

I said, "yes."

So, my reputation as a brilliant conversationalist is slightly overrated. He didn't want me for my conversation anyway and to be honest -- once he said it -- talk was the last thing on my mind as well.

It was spectacular as I expected. Duncan MacLeod did not get his reputation as a great lover on his looks alone. He was an aggressive lover, but passive as well, if that makes any sense. I fucked him and it bothered him not at all. Later, he fucked me and it bothered me even less -- or wouldn't have if I had been capable of thinking past the fact that my body had suddenly decided my mind was so much excess baggage.

Make love to me.

I suppose that's the way he thinks of it. He came out of a romantic era after all, chivalry and son of the clan chief and honor the women -- the bearers of our children. Something like that. He put my pleasure first and I let him. He made love to me with his body, with his voice, with his, I'm not going to say soul.

Love can't be made. It just is. And since what we shared was not just sex it has to be something else, right? Right?

Looking back over the years. In those years, I've had a lot of lovers. I have loved a lot of people and they were not necessarily the same people or at the same time. I've married for a lot of reasons -- sometimes for love. Sometimes for camouflage. Sometimes because I got caught with this man's daughter. Once or twice I've married for pity. Theirs and my own.

Post coital chat had less to do with performance than with two men too exhausted to really move much, trying to get comfortable without crowding each other or clinging too tightly.

We didn't analyze it, discuss it or otherwise try to make sense of it. It was what it was. We enjoyed satisfied a need in both of us.

He's not sleeping. He's sort of watching me as I sip coffee. No awkward morning after. I got a kiss and a pinch and lost the race to the bathroom. He was kind enough not to lock the door when he started the shower so I could take a piss. He also saved me hot water.


I agreed and that was the most scintillating conversation we had until now.

And now one of us is waiting for the other to speak. It will be Mac. He has no idea how long I can remain silent having only seen and heard my readiness to espouse an opinion on just about anything. I can almost hear him thinking.

"What are you thinking about?"


"The past."

"Immediate or far flung?"

There's a point where they converge. This seems to be about the right spot, right time. "Both."

He sits beside me with his coffee cup balanced against his knee. "Not the future?"

MacLeod can be incredibly subtle. Sometimes.

I don't answer him.

"One off then," he says and with a surprising lack of emotion, negative or positive.

"I didn't say that." I can't believe I said that.

There's that smile. Small. He's trying to hide it. I love that smile. It's like a wicked little boy only there is nothing even remotely boyish about MacLeod. Well, remotely.

Then he's gone, rising smoothly to refill our coffee cups and I am following him back to the kitchen island.

We're not going to discuss what we want. Not now. We aren't going to discuss for how long. Not at this moment.

He hands me the refilled cup, holding it so the handle is toward me. I take it with one hand and capture his slightly burned fingers with the other to blow on them.

In another thousand years I may look back and say this is who I was then.

I loved and was loved.

Makes for a pretty good lighthouse.