by Tilla


Standard disclaimers apply. Be warned-- the boys aren't mine; I probably wouldn't know what to do with them if they were. They belong to Rysher & Company and Mr. Panzer and Mr. Davis. I am merely borrowing them for a while and will return them unharmed when I'm done playing with them. This one is NC-17-- no explicit sex, just some mild erotic implications and a tiny bit of `activity' between our two heroes. Not my fault folks, I am taking lessons but it takes a long time for them to seep through.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod untangled himself from the long limbs sprawled haphazardly across his bed and stumbled, no, he thought giddily, staggered into the kitchen. Stumbling implied at least some conscious control of direction while the true stagger, which he was endeavoring at this moment to perfect, involved merely putting one foot randomly in front of the other. The bath would have been as welcome a destination as the kitchen and he had every intention of paying a visit there as soon as he had had a bite of something to eat. Something besides the delectable morsel lying yonder that is.

The banquet had been not as horrendous an experience as either of them had expected, but the exertions of the evening immediately following that event had left him famished, sweaty and exhausted. A quick snack would take care of the former; a week's sleep might take care of the latter and a shower would surely take care of the middle-- for a while at least. He leaned on the cook-top counter while he ate, studying the lean figure on the bed and wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, how anyone so slight and unassuming on the surface could possibly occupy that much space. Give the man an inch, and he took the whole sofa, or in this case, approximately three-quarters of the bed. Duncan looked a little closer. No, make that seven-eighths of the bed.

Mac was not accustomed to sharing living and sleeping accommodations with one who so routinely overflowed her, or in this case his, allotted space. Tessa, Anne and Amanda, great cuddlers all, had known instinctively which side of the bed was theirs and which was not. He had never had to worry, with them, about finding himself edged out onto the floor with only his pillow for company or waking shivering in the early dawn to find a blanket shrouded mummy stretched out by his side. After six months, Methos still had not achieved that ability to distinguish between his space and Mac's. In fact, the Old Man seemed bent on merging even further, if that were possible. They were practically sharing chromosomes as it was.

Still, it was nice having Methos here. Mac had not expected it to feel so `right' living with the older Immortal given all the bickering they'd done in the past. But it did feel right, exactly right; it felt the most natural thing in the world and the thought of `sharing chromosomes' more often with that slender body brought a smile to his lips and did wonderful things to certain other parts of Mac's anatomy. It was nice having someone to talk to, though often enough the talks turned into arguments. Even the arguments were enjoyable, the verbal sparring with a Master served to sharpen Mac's own wits and the `making up' afterwards sharpened his appreciation for other things.

It was also nice, now that Richie was off on the circuit, to have someone of nearly equal ability to cross swords with as well. Of course, crossing swords with Methos led as often as not to activities that proved equally strenuous to parts south of MacLeod's shoulders, chest and arms; a strain that would be singularly welcome right about now and the shower could wait. The bulge straining against his sweats could not.

It was a matter of some consternation to the Highlander how his entire socio-psychological profile could have been so turned around in the space of a few short months. Some consideration really ought to be given as to the `how' and `why' this had occurred, but he was not in the mood for psychoanalysis right now. There were more important things to be taken care of than his sudden inexplicable switch in gender preference.

His eyes traveled to the lithe figure on the bed once more. It came to him with a start; the switch was hardly inexplicable. Difficult to understand for some people, impossible for others, but it was suddenly crystal clear to him. It wasn't just sex, though that was better with Methos than it had been with anyone since Tessa. It wasn't just having someone to share cooking, housework, and a hundred other little things about the loft, though this, too, was a part of it. It wasn't just the reading or story-telling or the jokes they engaged in of an evening after their bouts of `play', though Mac found Methos' way of spinning a tale or reciting poetry more than a trifle erotic. It wasn't just the way the Old Man made him examine every facet of his own life, though he'd needed that, too. Every `truth' he'd never questioned before Methos had been reexamined in light of other `truths' and a good many of them found wanting. It had to do with his spirit, as much as with his mind and heart and body. Methos had said he `lacked the passion, the fire' and Mac had been all passion and fire -- too quick to judge and condemn. Methos had taught him patience, tolerance and compassion. It had been a long hard lesson, but worth the learning.

The figure on the bed was stirring and Mac found something below counter-level stirring as well. Methos had promised him breakfast after all and there had been no doubt in either of their minds what he had meant by that. The Highlander moved quickly, before Methos could fully wake, and slid into bed. He wrapped his arms around his lover, breathing in the clean scent of his hair, trailing light kisses along the bare shoulder and down the spine; he could do this all day. His pulse quickened, as did the throbbing between his legs, as he imagined all the things he and Methos could do, if they were willing to spend all day at it. He was certainly willing, but was Methos?

He thought suddenly of rain-drenched forests and moonlight shimmering on stormy seas, of wind-swept moors and snow gusting down a steep mountain pass. Why he should think of these things in conjunction with Methos eluded him. All he knew of Methos' past was the Horsemen and they had had nothing to do with oceans or moors, forests or mountains. Perhaps it was the wildness, the mystery, he sensed in the other man these things brought to mind. Methos seemed more faerie than human sometimes and elfin folk were said to haunt the moors and forests and roam the seas and mountains.

Methos moaned in his sleep, his body arching back against Mac's as the Highlander stroked his chest and the strong dark hands traveled south. What a nice way to wake up, he thought somewhat groggily; though he himself was not a morning person, Mac certainly seemed to be. He arched further, stretching into the embrace. Mac's lips, teeth and tongue were sending tingly little shivers all down his spine and he reached behind to grasp the long hair and hold the man still, for just a moment.

Mac chuckled against the dark head; the Old Man was squirming against him and if they weren't careful something more than the bananas and peaches of last evening would catch fire-- the sheets for a start. Mac was feeling much too warm for comfort and even the light covers on the bed felt far too restrictive. He kicked them off. Methos pulled them back up. MacLeod shoved them back down and gripped his lover's arms. "I want to see you," he murmured, stroking the soft smooth skin gently, and Methos sighed again as he twisted to face his partner, his own hands doing a quick but thorough examination of the other man's anatomy.

"But it's cold, Mac," he whispered, the long slim fingers reaching lower along the Highlander's leg. A grab and a jerk and the blankets were back up around his shoulders where they belonged.

The Highlander drew a harsh breath and pounced, landing squarely atop his slender companion. "Is this warm enough for ye, Methos? I can make it a good deal warmer if ye like," he purred, rubbing the figure under the blankets briskly enough to strike sparks.

Methos moaned and arched. "Oh, yes, Highlander," he whispered, his own fingers doing a dance of their own along the other man's thighs, then reaching up to grasp the firm buttocks. "Come on, Mac, get in here and make it warmer. I'm freezing my ass off."

MacLeod jerked down the blankets and peered closely at the man beneath him. "Liar. It's still right there and not even blue yet." He laughed and gave that part of his companion's anatomy a playful swat, then slid down beside his friend and proceeded to make things a good deal warmer. Their mouths explored each other as though it were the first time and nothing in all the world could be more delicious to either of them than the taste of the other. Their eyes and hands roamed over one another as though nothing on this or any other planet could possibly be as fascinating as the touch of silken skin, the sight of the long hard body beside them. There were no words for what either of them felt, nothing that would not trivialize and render meaningless the attempt to express it.

And so, they were silent save for gasps and moans of pleasure and need. And the need built and the pleasure soared until both of them were nearly frantic with it; their bodies sweat-slicked and trembling, moans turning into sobs. Their hands explored deeper, pressing into intimate places, their tongues dancing together as their mouths meshed. Pulse and breathing quickened, bodies pressed even more firmly together and release came at last in waves coursing through them like pulsars, bursts of energy sizzling through their skin and veins like the birth of a hundred stars.

The old man smiled at his lover and MacLeod smiled back. "You know, Mac," the old one said dreamily. "You have quite a talent for mornings."