Under the Influence
by Rachael Sabotini

 

CYA: All standard disclaimers apply. I don't own these guys; I just like to have fun with them. I make no money off this; I mean no harm.

WARNING: This story contains adult themes, R-rated m/m stuff, satire and parody. You have been warned.


The phone woke him in the middle of the night. "Adam Pierson," he managed, groggily.

"Adam--Methos--it's Joe."

Intelligence returning, Methos sat up in bed. Bad news was the only reason Joe would call him at-- he looked at the clock--three in the morning. "Joe? What's wrong?"

"It's Mac."

His heart froze. Not dead, please, no, not dead. He managed to ask, "What's happened?"

"I'm not sure, but Richie came in panicked tonight, babbling something about Mac acting really strange after taking some guy's head."

"Another Dark Quickening?" He'd never heard of an immortal surviving two. He reached into his trans-dimensional pajama pocket and fingered his sword. He would never be able to take MacLeod. No, fighting was out, packing was in. It would take him--What? Twenty, maybe forty minutes?--to clear out.

Joe's voice dragged him back from his thoughts. "No, not a Dark Quickening, not from the way Richie described it. It's something different, something weird."

Good, not a Dark Quickening. With a sigh of relief, Methos tucked himself back against the headboard. There were other--stranger--things that could happen to an immortal than a Dark Quickening, though. Things that the Watcher might not know about. Methos shuffled the possibilities in his minds, trying to define the worst-case scenario, and drawing a blank. "Well, if it's not a Dark Quickening, what is it?"

"I don't know if you've seen this before, but from what Richie described, I'd call it a," Dawson paused, as if the idea was too horrible to contemplate, "a Gay Quickening." Joe's voice cracked as he added, "I just thought you should know."

Methos stared at the phone after Dawson hung up. A Gay Quickening? Dawson might never have heard of one, but Methos had. Oh yes, Methos had indeed. And he knew, understanding the Highlander the way he did, that Duncan had no way to handle one. Not without Methos anyway. No wonder poor little Richie was scared. The kid just didn't have the experience to deal with this. Quickly getting out of bed, he began to gather what he would need, trying not to skip as he did so. Unfortunately, there were no Holy Springs in Seacouver, so he'd have to take care of this in a more hands-on fashion.

He couldn't help humming to himself as he packed lube, nipple clamps, and his black leather string bikini into a small brown satchel. He snapped it closed and smiled. It was good to have friends like Joe.


Joe met him outside the dojo, his arm around Richie; though who was supporting whom was hard to say.

The kid looked in bad shape, desperation a fine sheen of sweat on his neck and shoulders. "He's gone insane, Methos. You've got to help him."

"What happened?"

"My date hadn't turned out like I planned, so I was working out when Duncan came in at around 1:00 this morning. He had his sword out and was... playing with it; I knew he'd taken someone's head. I figured his date must not have gone so well either." Richie hesitated, staring into the mid-distance.

"Go on," Methos prompted. So far, it didn't sound too bad.

Richie looked up at Joe, who nodded his support. He took a deep breath before continuing, "The first thing Mac said was had I ever considered a hot oil treatment for my hair. I thought I'd misheard, because that didn't make any sense. Then he suggested I try my hand at Greco-Roman wrestling. He said to do it properly, I needed to strip. I thought it was weird, but what the hey, the guy taught me everything I know. When he says do it, I do it. Next thing I know, while I have my back turned, Mac comes over and pinches my butt!"

Richie's voice turned hysterical, and Methos wondered if he would need to slap him to get his attention.

Then again, he could slap him for the fun of it.

But before he could follow through with the thought, Richie got himself back under control. "I walked out and went straight to Joe's. I haven't been back since."

"Joe, anything new since we talked?" His little bag of tricks was growing heavy, so Methos shifted to a two-handed grip.

"I don't know, man. I haven't been in there since Richie showed up." The two men exchanged a worried glance behind Richie's back. Veterans both, they knew well the moment the call to arms sounded before the battle. They nodded in unison, and Methos swung his bag to one side, entering the dojo.

They padded across the darkened room, each man with his own worries about Duncan MacLeod. Richie unlocked the elevator, and they packed in and closed the cage, trying to prepare themselves for what would happen next.


Methos got out of the elevator first; it was worse than he thought. Richie stood next to him, frozen in terror. Next to him, Joe whispered, "The horror." Methos nodded to Joe to get Richie out of the loft--no use getting the kid more freaked than he all ready was--and surveyed the damage.

Duncan had redecorated the loft in shades of teal and fuscia, accenting it with MacLeod Plaid. The sooner someone dragged him back to his normal state of heterosexuality, the better for the world. Methos smiled; besides, it would be fun.

"Methos!" He heard Duncan before he felt the buzz, a warm feeling spreading through his groin and deep into his spine. Well, either it was the buzz or the way Duncan looked. Hair loose around his shoulders, black silk shirt unbuttoned to mid chest, leather vest, tight black jeans and leather boots, he looked fantastic. Well, except for the eyeliner of course. And what exactly had Duncan done to his hair? It looked different somehow, in fact...

Methos couldn't keep the alarm out of his voice. "My god, MacLeod, you've permed your hair." This was worse than he'd expected. Trust MacLeod to overreact to everything!

Duncan lounged against the corner of the kitchen counter. "Do you like it?" He fluffed the end of it a bit then pushed it away from his face. "I just felt like doing something a little novel tonight." He shrugged and swayed upright, gliding toward Methos. "I know I look different. It's just that you've never seen me lookin' quite this good before." He ran his hands over Methos' chest and stared into the other immortal's eyes. "I don't think I've seen you lookin' this good before either."

Methos swallowed. Some part of Duncan had eagerly embraced the freedom offered by the Gay Quickening, re-making himself in a new image. This was not the man he had studied so often. It was the same body, but everything about him seemed wrong. The Duncan he knew had been replaced by something else, something with a different sense of style and taste, something that was baser and yet more refined.

Then it hit him: the short black vest, the heavy boots, the eyeliner.

Duncan MacLeod had become a leather queen.

Panic set in. Unless he wanted to find his friend singing the lead in the cross-gender version of "Victor, Victoria" he'd have to do something fast, before anything else went wrong. Steeling himself for the battle ahead, he immediately started to work.

"What do you remember about earlier tonight?" Methos backed away from Duncan and busied himself with looking through MacLeod's CD collection. The opera was still there, but he'd recently added Judy Garland's Greatest Hits and the original Broadway cast of Sunset Boulevard, not to mention Boy George and The Village People. Methos tried not to drop the pile in his haste to get rid of them. Lovely, just lovely, he thought. MacLeod will always have reminders of this moment.

"Earlier tonight?" Duncan lifted his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Richie was a little confused, that's all."

Duncan swept past Methos on his way to the kitchen. "Richie's always confused," he said archly. He opened the fridge and handed Methos a beer, then took out a small bottle of wine.

"So are you going to tell me what happened?" Methos casually reached for the bottle opener, then realized it was a twist-top. Ew. It took him a moment before he could actually open the beer.

"If you insist." Duncan opened the wine; Methos stared at the color and the label. That particular color of pink didn't actually occur in nature, did it?

"I do." He took a swig of the beer, then wished he hadn't. Since when had Duncan started drinking commercial stuff?

"It's all so," Duncan continued, languorously waving his hands in the air, "I don't know. Tedious, I suppose. Anyway, I went for a walk down by the beach during the early evening. It was gorgeous: clear sky, light sun, and this wonderful jogger with tightest butt I've ever seen."

Duncan sighed, and Methos winced. "Then someone, I don't remember who, asked me a question, and the next thing I knew it's nine hours later, and I find Richie in the dojo, wearing the most hideous yellow T-shirt that has ever been created."

MacLeod poured himself a glass of the white zinfandel, shocking Methos more than he could ever have thought possible. "Though it did fit him in all the right places, I must admit." Duncan took a sip of the zinfandel, and Methos felt the bile rise in his throat. Even light beer would have been better than this. "I asked him to take it off, and I just couldn't resist giving him a little pinch."

Methos nodded, hypnotized by the train-wreck images in his mind. Duncan needed help, and he needed it fast. If he could figure out some way to get Duncan into bed, he knew he could cure him. All it would take was the judicious application of the Mystical Powers of Sexual Healing(TM), and everything would be okay. But how? He drained his beer, and set the bottle on the coffee table. He would think of something.

"Hey, MacLeod," he said tentatively, the wheels in his minds whirling like Dervishes, trying to plan his attack.

"Hey yourself, Methos." Duncan swept him up and carried him to the bed. Methos stared into MacLeod's eyes, studiously ignoring the horrid fuscia bedspread that he now rested upon.

Well, that was easy, Methos thought.

Duncan lay down next to the other immortal and ran a hand up his shirt, teasing his neck. "It's good to see you." He leaned in and nibbled on Methos' jaw, kissing his way up to the other immortal's face, and running his tongue around the other immortal's lips. Then, with a sigh, he nudged open Methos' mouth, plundering its depths. He sat back, momentarily resting his gaze on the other's crotch. He smiled and leaned down, whispering "Let's fuck" in Methos' ear.

Now there was an invitation that he'd never expected from Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Was it wrong to take advantage of him like this, knowing what MacLeod would say in the morning?

Probably.

Even though it was for his own good? Well... Maybe they should take a long shower first, or find a small country inn with bad mattresses, or do something with a little more romance in it for Duncan's first time.

A pico-second passed while Methos wrestled with his first moral dilemma in centuries. Then Duncan's hand swooped down and massaged Methos' cock through the heavy denim. "Since I first met you in Paris, some part of me always wondered what you'd look like once you got going. I bet you scream when you come."

Screaming. He could do screaming. Methos groaned as MacLeod unbuttoned the top button on his jeans. Fuck Romance! Even if part of Duncan was crying on the inside, another part of him was about to have Methos crying in an entirely different way. He pulled MacLeod hard against his chest, fiercely kissing him back. "Let's find out, shall we?" he panted.

And with that, Methos threw himself into his work.


When Methos awoke, Duncan's face was a mask of horror, staring first at the mussed bed, then the flattened, empty tubes of lubricant, and finally the slowly healing hickeys and love bites across Methos' pale chest. Before he could say anything, MacLeod asked quietly "Did I hurt you?"

The sound of his voice, his accent, his inflection, was so blessedly normal that Methos had to close his eyes. "No," he said, milking the moment for all it was worth, "nothing that hasn't happened before."

Duncan sat up, looking at him with puppy-dog eyes, misted with soft, highland tears. "I'm sorry..."

There was such shock, such embarrassment in those eyes, that Methos couldn't continue the teasing any longer. He started to giggle and, with another glance at MacLeod, collapsed in laughter against the bed. The Highlander just looked at him in confusion, until finally Methos could talk.

"I liked it, Highlander. I always have, I always will." He slid out of bed, pulling his things together. "I know this is hard for you to deal with, but you'll be fine. What you did while under the influence of a Gay Quickening isn't really you; you have to believe that." He reached out and patted the sheets resting on Duncan's legs, before fastening his own pants. "MacLeod, you are a confirmed heterosexual, and I'm sure that by this time tomorrow, you'll have found another senorita to spend the night with. Think of this," he waved at the trapeze, yak butter, and peacock feathers, "as an aberration. A lot of fun, but an aberration."

Duncan lay back against the sheets, his arm thrown over his eyes, obviously trying to avoid looking at Methos or seeing what his fit of redecorating had done to his previously masculine decor. He dropped his arm and stared pointedly at the ceiling, choking out an embarrassed, "Thanks."

Methos pulled on his sweater, and stuffed his feet into his shoes. "Don't mention it, Highlander. I'm sure you'd do the same for me. And who knows? You may want that," he reached up and gently pushed the trapeze, making it sway over the bed, "the next time Amanda drops by." Methos smiled and picked up his brown satchel, whistling on his way out the door.

 


The End