The Seine was flooding again. A series of heavy winter storms had more than saturated the farmlands that surrounded the headwaters of the historic river. As each of the small tributaries crested and poured their swollen contents into the Seine, the river itself grew brown and turbulent. A mass of water and debris headed for Paris was forced to squeeze through the tall, walled embankments of the ancient city, causing the flood waters to rise even quicker. These precautions were not enough, and the murky water overflowed and sought to drown anything within its eager reach.
Methos watched disgustedly as the water seethed into the basement of the bookstore that he managed for the Watchers. Thanks to the flooding from the month before, he was better prepared this time. In only an hour, he had moved his most valuable books upstairs and relocated the rest to the tops of the tallest bookshelves. Satisfied with their safety, he decided to head for the quay where Duncan kept his barge tied up. Perhaps the Highlander would need a hand with his boat.
The weather was miserable; near freezing, it was pouring rain and the icy sleet sliced at any exposed skin. Methos turned up his collar and hurried to the street that turned off to curve down to the quayside. When he saw the river, his heart sank. Duncan stood tensely on the bridge of the barge, the motor loud but still only idling as he tried to ready the craft while attempting to hold the rudder steady. The river had already overflowed the pavement of the quay and the powerful current caught at the barge, causing it to twist at its submerged moorings. If the boat wasn't freed soon, it would be disastrous.
Realizing he was soon going to be a lot wetter than he already was, Methos cursed and waded into the thigh–deep freezing water. He did not even attempt to call out until he knew MacLeod had felt his approach.
"What can I do?" he shouted, the wind snatching away his words as soon as they left his mouth.
Duncan, his dark good looks nearly hidden beneath a heavy peacoat, looked over at him, momentarily surprised. "Untie the moorings —; the stern's first," he yelled, motioning at the downstream tie–off in case Methos could not hear all his words.
Methos sloshed through the dark water until he neared where the taut rope disappeared. Bending over, he felt about carefully and was engulfed to his armpits into the cold, swift current. Numb fingers worked at the line and he finally freed it. Tossing the rope onto the ship, he turned against the torrent to get to the bow line. He stumbled as something submerged knocked into his shin. As he fell to one knee, his overcoat caught the current and pulled him over. He was swept tumbling and skidding through the powerful water until he was slammed unexpectedly against a bolted–down park bench. Thoroughly drenched and coughing out a portion of the river, he pulled himself upright and held on until he got his bearings.
"Adam!"
He wiped the water from his eyes and saw that MacLeod had abandoned the barge's wheel and was now standing on the stern, life preserver and rope in hand. He called to Methos again and gestured, wordlessly asking if he wanted the flotation device thrown to him.
Methos waved him off and got to his feet. Determinedly, he fought his way upstream towards the only thing that kept the barge tethered to it's now dangerous moorings. In that short amount of time, the river had risen enough that as Methos reached in to untie the rope, the chop of the water was splashing over his head. It was an impossible job and he reverted to his secondary plan. He stood up, removed his sword and sawed determinedly at the thick line. Within five cuts, the razor sharp edge had severed the rope.
Duncan felt the boat swing free and he eased the throttle forward. He steered the barge back towards its former berth, too well aware that Methos was now surrounded by a flood of freezing water. It was a long way back to dry land and he doubted Methos could make it safely through the treacherous current.
Tying off the boat's wheel, he jumped from the bridge and ran forward. The barge was still the same level above the water, but now there was no walk–way up to it. There was no way a soaked and freezing man would be able to board the barge by himself. Duncan yelled for his friend and then he lay down on the deck and swung his arm over the side. Methos waded forward and waited for the barge to come within range. He grabbed hold of MacLeod's arm and pulled himself up until his other hand caught the edge of the deck. Duncan shifted his hold on Methos to his other hand and then reached down and grasped Methos' belt. With a heave, he dragged the drenched Immortal onto the deck.
"Come on," he shouted. "We have to go upstream to a boat yard. I know where there is safe docking." As Duncan ran back and took the wheel, Methos went forward to huddle near the prow, offering guidance away from the flood borne hazards of trees and other debris.
An hour later, they reached the protected enclosure and secured the craft. Having done all they could for the vessel, they headed inside. MacLeod, concerned that the freezing, wet conditions might have Methos well into hypothermia, made sure the shivering Immortal preceded him down the steps. As they entered the galley area, he put his hand on Methos' arm to stop him.
"Give me your clothes. I've a small washer/dryer unit in the corner here."
"That's a relief. I've been smelling wet dog since I've been on board. Trouble is, you don't have one, do you, MacLeod?" he said, his teeth chattering with the effects of the cold. He removed his sword and laid it on the counter. Shrugging off his overcoat, he threw it in the sink. Sweater, shirt, and t–shirt followed.
MacLeod was busying himself with the oven. He opened the door and turned. "Hey, Fido, fetch me your shoes, then head to the shower."
"Smart ass. Try not to ruin them, all right?" he said tossing them one at a time to the Highlander. His trousers landed with a wet plop on his other clothes. Nude, he walked slowly, joints stiff from the cold, towards the head and its shower. "Please let there be hot water," he prayed aloud.
MacLeod paused to admire the view, even if a majority of the skin was decidedly blue. Since it would soon be dark outside, there would be no easy way to safely leave the barge tonight; apparently Methos and he would have to find their own ways to amuse themselves and pass the time. MacLeod smiled.
When Methos emerged twenty minutes later, his skin glowed a healthy, vibrant pink that contrasted nicely with the thick, white towel he was wrapping about his narrow hips. Padding into the galley, he gave a lopsided grin and vigorously tousled his short, wet hair. "This barge has more hot water than most country inns," he complimented.
"Yeah, well, if you've used it all up, I'll take it outta your hide," MacLeod promised as he picked up his robe and edged past Methos.
The ancient Immortal's eyes sparkled impishly. "You really should have spoke up earlier, you know."
MacLeod didn't even break his stride. "Funny. Ha, ha," he tossed sarcastically over his shoulder.
Relieved to finally be warm and dry, Methos busied himself by inspecting his shoes and preparing a meal of sorts. The barge had warmed up considerably and rather than put on clothes, he simply snagged one of the extra blankets to wrap cloak–like around himself. When he heard the shower stop, he piled two plates with buttered bread, cheese and cut fruit, and transferred them and two bowls of soup to the table behind the couch. He had turned to go back for the wine when his eye was caught by MacLeod re–entering the room. He had pulled his robe on and was adjusting it about his shoulders, causing the garment to flare open and close, revealing the Highlander's tanned, muscular and nude body.
Methos stared openly. "Is that the new semaphore signal for 'I'm available for sex'?"
MacLeod smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'm supposed to let the Navy know how effective it is." He flashed Methos a few more times. "Whaddya think?"
Methos considered the question thoughtfully. "Well, it should get the attention of any interested parties," he said with a shrug and walked back into the galley for the wine.
MacLeod followed. When Methos turned about, he found he was trapped against the counter.
"I'm interested in the reaction from one party in particular," MacLeod said, his voice low and seductive.
"Really?" Methos asked, pretending innocence. "And who would that be?"
MacLeod wrapped his arms about Methos and leaned in for a soft, lingering kiss. "I think you know who."
Methos smiled. "You're pretty confident."
"You can't get away; there's no way off this barge until morning." He nuzzled into an ear and leaned forward to kiss the nape of Methos' neck.
The ancient Immortal tilted his head to allow better access. "Captain MacLeod has a captive," he mused. "Willing or un?"
MacLeod stilled and shifted until he could look Methos in the eye. "Maybe not so much a captive," he ventured tentatively. "How about a cabin boy? Rescued…off a pirate ship…."
Methos' face was carefully expressionless. "Poor lad. Saved from a fate worse than death?"
MacLeod's hands rubbed at the blanket wrapped back, his eyes going hooded. "Maybe…."
"He was probably very hungry, being on a pirate ship and all."
"Ravenous." MacLeod closed the space between them and claimed Methos' mouth in a kiss that left no doubt as to who exactly the ravenous one was.
When the kiss ended, Methos looked amused. "All right, Highlander. You can have your wicked way with me, but let's move our base of operations over to the couch."
Duncan entwined his fingers with his lover's and drew him along side as they walked to the couch. When they were standing in front of it, he reached out to take Methos in his arms again, but was surprised when Methos pushed him away, causing him to fall back on the cushions. He sat there looking puzzled until Methos placed one knee next to Duncan's hip, purposely positioning it on top of the robe's material. Staring the Highlander boldly in the eye, he reached down and flicked the robe apart at the waist, exposing Duncan's powerful thighs, a dark nest of hair and the thick cock that snuggled there. His second knee followed suit to Duncan's other side and Methos settled on MacLeod's lap with a sigh, effectively using his weight on the robe to pin Duncan beneath him.
"It's going to be a looong night, MacLeod," he said, his voice suddenly much deeper. "What do you say we explore the delights of pacing?"
Using both hands, Methos slowly pushed Duncan's robe open, letting his fingers and palms glide across the warm contours of the broad, muscled chest. He opened his blanket and extended it to encompass Duncan, including both of them within its folds. Inching closer, he let the skin of his scrotum and ass rub sensuously over MacLeod's lap. Unable to resist, he let his hands seek out the brawny shoulders again and he squeezed the hard muscles, enjoying the feel of their solid nature and bulk.
Leaning close, he could feel the body heat between them building, their chests just an inch or two apart. The rising warmth carried the tantalizing smell of expensive soap, MacLeod's aftershave and the warm musk of MacLeod himself — a scent that never failed to remind Methos of the wilds of a highland moor.
MacLeod's hands slid up Methos' hard thighs and blindly caressed the lean hips and flanks, tracing muscle definitions around to include the small of Methos' back. He flexed his arms, trying to pull the ancient closer yet, wanting full body contact.
"Patience," Methos murmured, then claimed Duncan's mouth in a passionate, deep kiss. He brought up one hand to cradle the Highlander's head, steadying him while he lengthened the kiss, showing no indication that he would be ending it any time soon.
Finally, MacLeod understood and he brought his hands down to encircle both of their rampant cocks. He squeezed them together, enjoying the exquisite feeling and knowledge that what one felt, so did the other. He started slow, languid strokes that were soon completely in synch with the rhythms Methos was setting with his mouth.
No longer in any rush, Duncan settled in, focusing totally on the sensations Methos was producing with his kiss. The point was not to reach a finish, but to explore one another and take enjoyment in the process. It was a slow, steady titillation that would take a very long time to build…and MacLeod looked forward to extending his personal best.
* * * * *
Lucien LaCroix, both a vampire and an old acquaintance of Methos, floated above a boat yard, attracted to it by the definite sensation of an Immortal's buzz. He had found himself drawn to Paris by a sudden craving for another tryst with his favorite Immortal and the accompanying sweet taste of the ancient one's blood. Knowing Methos might possibly be located by finding Duncan MacLeod first, LaCroix searched the memories he had absorbed from Methos' blood then flew to where the barge should be tied up. He found only a rain–swollen river.
Not ready to end his search so quickly, he traveled both downstream and up, finally discovering this boat yard and the unusual emanations from it. It seemed that Lady Luck was with him, for he was sure he could feel the presence of two Immortals on the ship below.
Carefully, he floated down closer and stared through a wide window in the stern of the vessel. His superior night vision more than compensated for the fact that he had to peer through the tilted slates of the half–closed blinds; he easily saw an enormous bed and movement on it.
He leaned forward to get a better view.
In the uncertain light, he could see the pale body of Methos on all fours, his muscles taut and well–defined by their exertions. There behind him was the Immortal named Duncan MacLeod; his skin darker, more olive in color; his long, dark hair loose, half covering his face. He had hold of Methos' hips and was rhythmically thrusting into him, a look of concentration and distance on his face, his muscles bunched and corded with his effort. Both men were covered in sweat, their skin glistening, and their hair clumped and wet. They had obviously been at this for a very long time.
LaCroix felt a surge of jealousy as he watched the Highlander enjoying the very thing he had come in search of. Giving into a rather vicious mood, he began to change his plans for the evening, expanding them to include his unpleasant temperament.
* * * * *
Duncan shifted a little, inching closer. The new angle was devastating for Methos and Duncan's hot shaft was now pounding into his prostate. Methos wanted to hold back until he was sure MacLeod was about to come, but the Highlander's stamina was proving to be awesome tonight. Near to exhaustion by hours of lovemaking, Methos was desperate for release from this, the latest of their couplings. Duncan was relentless and Methos could hear him gasping for breath as he strained harder, faster towards completion within the ancient Immortal's own body. If this didn't end soon, Methos thought they both would die from heart failure. The thought of perishing in the sheer ecstasy of the Highlander's embrace was enough to tip the scales. He cried out and gave up, not knowing whether it was to death or an orgasm he was relinquishing his soul to — only that it would occur within the arms of Duncan MacLeod. He felt his scrotum contract, pulling his balls higher as he came hard, spurting his climax, his body tight, jerking and totally overwhelmed.
Slowly, his vision and hearing cleared from the blackness that had threatened to drown him and he became aware of a new sensation — the strange, vaguely unpleasant presence that a different type of Immortal generated; a vampire was near. LaCroix or someone else; either way it was bad news.
"Damn!" he cursed. He looked around and noticed Duncan's katana lay against the wall, next to the head of the bed.
"Duncan," he gritted. "You have to stop; there is danger."
There was no lessening to the deep, powerful thrusts that stretched and filled him. He leaned forward to try to reach the weapon with his right hand, but the movement shifted him away from Duncan.
The Highlander was almost there. He had worked for a very long time on this climax and nothing else existed save the man on his knees in front of him and the sweet goal that was coming ever closer. When he felt Methos try to pull away from him, he groaned in frustration. No, he would not be denied this!
Cupping his left hand around the back of Methos' head, he shifted his weight, pushing his partner face first into the soft mattress. He brought his left knee onto Methos' calf, effectively preventing him from moving further. He surged forward until his right hand could grab the hand that Methos was extending. Clasping it, he brought it close to the body he had trapped beneath him, providing him with yet better leverage. Thoroughly in control, he strengthened his thrusts, giving in to the blind desire that would tolerate no other possibility than for him to finish in the heavenly, hot tightness he possessed completely.
He felt a ripple of ineffectual movement in the body pinned beneath him and an accompanying rush of power as the realization hit that Methos was now his prisoner, securely restrained and totally under his control. The eroticism inherent in the idea of holding the ancient Immortal against his will flamed through him like white fire and he came hard, crying out as he shoved himself fully into his captive.
The intensity of MacLeod's orgasm surrounded Methos with an iron grip as his partner's desperate need poured into him, the molten warmth pooling deep inside. Spent and exhausted, MacLeod collapsed heavily on top of him, gasping for breath. Methos was loath to disturb what should have been their most intimate of moments together, but he was even more alarmed by what would happened if he didn't. "Duncan, please…get off! We have trouble!" he persisted.
"What are you going on about?" MacLeod asked dazedly, letting his face rest in Methos' soft dark hair, breathing deep the familiar scent of his lover as it mixed with the tanginess of sex.
A new voice spoke behind them. "He means you have an intruder."
"What—?" Duncan said. Startled, he straightened his arms as he began to push himself off Methos.
"I think not," came the decisive, cool reply.
Methos was flattened as the weight above him doubled. He felt a brief but violent struggle and then Duncan went limp.
"MacLeod! Duncan!" he shouted, trying to squeeze out sideways from the crushing weight. "LaCroix! Don't you hurt him! LaCroix!" Immediately above his ear, he could hear a noisy sucking and swallowing, could feel warm liquid trickling down his own neck. He became more frantic, thrashing about in his attempt to turn and see what the hell was going on behind him.
"Dear gods…no. Don't you do this, LaCroix! Do you hear me? Stop this now!"
Suddenly, the vampire's cold hand closed over his mouth and nose, clamping down firmly. He couldn't breath and he fought wildly, but the combined weight of the two men, plus being pushed into a soft mattress, gave him nothing to lever against. His desperate hunger for air panicked him. The pounding of his blood filled his head and finally, blackness swallowed his sight; he went limp.
* * * * *
LaCroix had tired of Methos making such a fuss, so he had simply denied the Immortal air until he passed out. LaCroix had not killed Methos, for that did not fit into the vampire's plan. He finished feeding off of Methos' big male lover, but he was careful not to take his fill; his plans required that he save room for some of Methos' delightful life's blood.
Pushing himself away, he waited for the slashing wound on MacLeod's neck to heal with the blue energy that was intrinsic to all Immortals, but it was slow in coming. No matter. LaCroix knew this beautiful warrior was Immortal and was in no danger; he would recover. Still hungry, the vampire watched the blood surge sluggishly from the wound in synch with the rapid beat of the Highlander's strong heart and when he looked at MacLeod's face, he found the eyes opened and frightened.
"Don't worry; you'll survive. The rest of what I have planned concerns your lover." LaCroix paused as the erotic images and feelings he had absorbed through the Highlander's passion–flavored blood inflamed his already jealous mood. "I've had him before, you know; hundreds of years before you were even born and again more recently," he said spitefully. "Now you will have the rare honor of watching as I take him again."
MacLeod's expression darkened with anger and he twisted about trying to seize LaCroix, but his movements were clumsy and weak from blood loss. "No! You will not!" he rasped.
LaCroix stared intensely into the brown eyes. "No, you will not," he said, forcing his will onto MacLeod. "You can not move. You can not speak. You are unable to do anything but remain still and watch. Who knows — you may enjoy it," he said, a small smile playing about his lips. "I know you wonder about Methos' past; perhaps this is your chance to find out more."
From the thunderstruck expression on MacLeod's face, LaCroix was satisfied that his methods were effective. Pulling MacLeod off the very limp Methos, he wrestled the muscular body to the head of the bed. He left MacLeod lying on his side, propped against the headboard, yet turned so he would witness in silent horror what LaCroix was about to do.
Knowing from past experiences that he would not have much time, LaCroix quickly shed his clothes. Reaching down, he found a shirt that belonged to the much larger MacLeod. He gave it a twist and used it to blindfold Methos. Grabbing an arm and a thigh, he shifted the slack body and with a flip, turned him over onto his back. He lifted the knees, effectively exposing lax, spent genitals, and the glistening pink bud of tender anus. LaCroix's erection, now possible due to MacLeod's blood, strained for the supple body so close. Emitting a deep, primal growl, the vampire positioned Methos' legs over his shoulders and thrust himself home. The tight passage was creamy and slick with the Highlander's essence, and LaCroix set a relentless rhythm.
As Methos gasped back to consciousness, LaCroix settled him, sending him the message that it was his lover, MacLeod, who now had possession of his body.
Feeling as though he had simply been enthusiastically woken, Methos smiled and brought his hands up to caress the body that strained above him, stretching and fucking him so thoroughly. "You are insatiable tonight," he said sleepily. Using his nails to rake across the muscular ribs, he arched himself to meet the drives that were pounding into him and he groaned. He felt his own erection begin to fill again. "Gods…what does this make? Four times tonight?" He fingered the cloth tied around his head. "Something new, eh? Very well, but I wonder how far you are prepared to go down that path."
LaCroix drove harder when he felt the energy within him start to move. Unable to hold off any longer, he gripped the slight man and ground into him. The quickening energy that had been transferred into him through MacLeod's blood gathered and shot out in painful ecstasy from him to be sucked into Methos through their point of greatest intimacy. Both men were frozen in place, paralyzed by the electrical discharge and the intense orgasms ripping through them both.
Still clutched by the delightful pain, LaCroix elbowed the slender legs to either side and dropped heavily down, gasping. His hands skimmed greedily over the incredible, lithe body beneath him as he felt with agonizing ecstasy the muscles around his erection clench, milking the sensitized shaft with a technique he hadn't felt for centuries. As good as sex had been between them before, he now realized that Methos had not fully participated. The vampire envied the Highlander for being the recipient of the gift of the ancient Immortal's love and unique talents. Having drank MacLeod's blood, LaCroix had tasted his memories. He knew intimately what these two Immortals had done for each other, to each other, and how it had felt. He grew resentful and he turned his head to catch MacLeod staring at him, the paralyzed Immortal's eyes hard with cold fury. Compelled by an evil notion to flaunt his victory, LaCroix let his tongue slide up to an ear and after a moment's tease, pushed the point into the ear itself. The body beneath him shuddered with pleasure.
* * * * *
Methos was truly contented. He could smell MacLeod and he luxuriated under his warm, heavy body, wishing the firm embrace would never end. He curved his lower legs behind MacLeod's broad back, using his heel to caress as he hugged the Highlander closer. When a tongue dove into his ear, he squirmed, reminded of how Tessa would do that.
He paused. He had never met Tessa; why would that pop suddenly into his mind? He thought back to his recent climax; it had almost felt like a quickening…. Puzzled, he searched the energy and impressions that were unique to his immortal self and froze, a sudden feeling of dread gripping his heart.
He tore off the blindfold and stared up into LaCroix's face inches from his own. His mouth dropped open and realization after realization hit him, his eyes growing rounder with each thought. "What have you done?" he whispered, horrified. "I have MacLeod's quickening! What in god's name have you done?! You BASTARD!" He lunged up at the vampire, the movement forcing LaCroix's cock to slither out of him. Enraged, he grabbed LaCroix by the throat, squeezing as hard as he could manage.
LaCroix reared back and slapped Methos for his impertinence. The angry blow was stunning and Methos went momentarily slack.
"If you are so concerned about your lover, all you have to do is look above you," LaCroix said coldly.
Shaking off the hit, Methos twisted his head to the left and saw still, pale legs lying lifelessly. Panicked, he twisted the other way and made eye contact with MacLeod. The Highlander was too white, nearly translucent from the severe depletion of blood. At his throat, the large wound still oozed, the precious fluid flowing in glistening rivulets across his throat. MacLeod lay there unmoving, his eyes showing the frustration and fury he felt.
"Yes," LaCroix said. "He lives still."
Methos bucked his hips and pushed his hands against the vampire's chest. "Get the hell away from me! Get off me, now," he hissed, filled with cold anger. He tried to wiggle away, but LaCroix held him down, pressing his hard cock against him, blindly seeking entrance again. The struggle was brief and doomed to failure; LaCroix, with his unnatural strength, was easily able to subdue Methos with one hand, using one other one to guide his cock in. Methos hissed as he felt the sharp, bright pain as he was again impaled.
LaCroix, smiling cruelly, grabbed Methos' hands and pinned them beside his head. "You are mistaken if you think we are through."
"We are through." He was furious at the liberties the vampire was taking. "I'm only telling you once more; get off of me!" he ordered.
LaCroix started thrusting, each drive hard and jabbing. "Did I ever tell you how intoxicating I find anger? How 'stimulating' it can be to a vampire?"
"You bastard!" he breathed. He attempted to kick LaCroix, but the vampire had both superior speed and reaction time. LaCroix suddenly had hold of his ankles and he spread Methos' legs straight out to each side, forcing them wide open. Methos cried out in pain.
"Foolish, foolish little man; I will have you," LaCroix taunted cruelly. "We can either do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way," he said, viciously emphasizing his words with a tendon–wrenching jerk.
Methos raged impotently as all his attempts at resistance and refusal were easily and callously disregarded. He felt humiliated by both the assault he was enduring and the knowledge that MacLeod was witnessing it.
Duncan. Dear gods! How could he possibly have the quickening energy from an Immortal that was still alive? What had LaCroix done? The combination of fear and distress for the Highlander tormented Methos even further and his eyes burned from the hot fluid that gathered in them..
LaCroix brought up one of Methos' feet and leaned over, giving a wet kiss to the ankle. Methos closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, rejecting what little he had in his power to refuse — even if it was just to deny LaCroix the satisfaction of looking him in the eyes.
Displeased, LaCroix used one of his canines with surgical precision to slice open a pale blue vein that ran along the top of the foot. The blood flowed warm and red down the ankle and lower leg until the vampire twisted to lick it up. He latched onto the wound, sucking the sweet fluid out in time with the thrusts of his pelvis. He moaned in pleasure at the combined sensations; he had never known anyone else that could offer the range of sensual delights that came with Methos.
But for Methos, the sex wasn't erotic, it was just painful. His will had been ignored, his body overpowered and he ached from its violation. He had been raped in the past, but it was something he would never become used to. Assaults like this stripped him of his confidence and reminded him of how vulnerable he really was. Being five thousand years old did not make him a super hero, only very, very experienced.
Seeking solace in the only place it was available to him, he opened his eyes and looked to Duncan MacLeod — then wished he hadn't. He had never seen MacLeod look so utterly hopeless before, his face a mask of rage and frustration. Methos found himself wishing he could crawl over to Duncan and hold him, and in return, be enfolded within the Highlander's strong embrace.
When he saw MacLeod's eyes widen with horror, he prepared himself. Knowing LaCroix's habits, he lifted his chin, exposing his throat even more. He felt his thighs flexed up and pushed wide, then his neck suffered a powerful blow. Large, sharp teeth brutally sliced open his throat and in pain, he cried out in an ancient tongue. The hot mouth clamped onto him and he could feel the hard, relentless vacuum and was torturously aware of the agony of having his life force violently pulled out of him. LaCroix's feeding had never hurt this intensely before and he panicked, pushing hard against the broad chest that held him pressed down. LaCroix's heavy weight settled further on him, smothering him as one of the vampire's hands held his head cruelly to the side while the other roamed freely across his chest, pinching him. Desperate for it to stop, he could do nothing but wonder how much more he would have to endure.
When LaCroix could drink no more, he leaned back to look at Methos' face, and for the first time noticed the glistening eyes and a face that was both closed and bitter. So caught up in his own sensations and the rush of power, he had been oblivious to the turmoil Methos was feeling. The depth of hurt and suffering rising from Methos surprised him.
"Come on! You make too much of it! You know this is the way it is," he said irritated.
"You filthy, Roman dog," Methos spat in Latin.
The old oath and the tone of voice used to deliver it stung, but LaCroix only smiled. "Always, my dear Methos. Never forget it," he said maliciously as he resumed thrusting, reveling in the absolute power he wielded.
"Bastard," Methos said, continuing to stare hatefully at his rapist.
"Would it give you satisfaction to know that you guessed right about that?" LaCroix moaned, feeling his eyes beginning to dilate as the quickening power coalesced within him. He gazed down, enthralled by his captive and licked his lips with anticipation. "It begins," he whispered reverently and claimed Methos' mouth in a punishing kiss. His eyes rolled up as the quickening energy that was in the blood he had drank sought to return to its rightful owner. The white power snapped and crackled where their skins touched, the dry connection causing the electrical force to jump between them, feeling like a thousand strong static shocks. Where their bodies merged together in a moist coupling, the quickening surged through without resistance. The sensitive nerve endings were quickly overloaded and the powerful orgasm that LaCroix sought exploded through him.
But Methos was not aroused and the energy did not release a climax. Instead, it felt more like a cruel application of electricity to the most sensitive parts of his body. He stiffened in agony and would have screamed, but his body was held rigid by the overpowering current.
With a groan, LaCroix collapsed spent and exhausted in a sated sprawl across Methos. It wasn't until he felt the fine tremors coursing through the body beneath him that LaCroix pushed himself up and off the strangely quiet Immortal. He staggered to his feet and watched warily as Methos slowly curled onto his side in a semi–fetal position. Puzzled by the strange and atypical reaction, he was uneasy but nevertheless, he gathered his trousers and shoes and headed for the toilet facilities to clean up, confident Methos would soon be his old self again.
When LaCroix returned, Methos had pushed himself up to sit at the edge of the bed. The Immortal paused, grimacing painfully as he straightened his back and shoulders. Shifting about to try to find a better position, one hand went to his lower abdomen and he rubbed at it, groaning. He shot an accusing look at the vampire.
For the first time, LaCroix noticed that Methos' sex was limp and pale with no sign of discharge. "You didn't come," he remarked, surprised.
Methos worked at keeping his anger down. "That's right," he said tightly. "That wasn't sex; that was rape. And it hurt. All of it."
LaCroix had always found Methos to be initially reluctant to participate in their unusual trysts, but always cooperative and enthusiastic by the end. He assumed Methos was being more spirited in his refusal because his Immortal lover was watching this time. LaCroix glanced at Duncan MacLeod and was disconcerted by the naked fury he saw there. He looked back to Methos. "I've always found that you've enjoyed being overpowered. You've never had this reaction before."
Methos burned with embarrassment at the too accurate observation, wishing MacLeod had not heard that last remark for they were only just reaching the stage in their relationship where revealing games could be ventured. "There is a difference, LaCroix. Besides, this time you went too far; you've hurt someone I care about."
Frowning pensively at the pair on the bed, the vampire began to realize he might have made a miscalculation. Blinded by his feelings of jealousy and envy, he could see now that he may have exceeded the limits of what was permissible in this strange relationship he maintained with Methos. By bringing Methos' cherished lover into the mix, he had activated the ancient Immortal's instincts of protection and defense. Methos was reacting strongly to the threat he sensed against MacLeod.
LaCroix was uneasy. The sex had been exhilarating as always, but what had been the price for this little escapade? "But he is like you," LaCroix defended. "He can't be injured permanently."
"You have meddled with something you know nothing about!" Methos seethed with barely controlled fury. He leaned over and grabbed the rest of the vampire's clothes from off the bed and threw them at LaCroix. The throw was bad and the shirt and jacket fell into a heap not very far away. "Just get out," he said, his voice filled with disgust.
LaCroix conceded it was best that he leave; he tilted his head in acquiescence. He stepped closer and bent down to pick up his clothes. When he attempted to straighten up, he felt the cold, sharp edge of a sword against the back of his neck. He froze.
Methos' voice was chilling. "Smart," he approved. "Because if you even think about moving, I'll kill you and you know I can."
LaCroix wasn't sure if Methos could move that fast, but he was not inclined to test it; beheadings were one of the ways that a vampire might be permanently dispatched. He could see out of the corner of his eye that the katana was no longer laying against the wall and knew Methos must have retrieved it while LaCroix was in the bathroom cleaning up. Japanese swords were famous for their slicing abilities and with a minimal movement and effort, Methos could do as he threatened. It was not a trial of speed and reflexes LaCroix was eager to put to the test.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice suddenly conciliatory.
"Right. First, what have you done to MacLeod?"
"Nothing harmful. It is only my will that keeps him still."
"Well then, you better find it in your will to release him. Do it now," he demanded, taking a firmer grip on the handle of the weapon.
"Of course. I would have done that anyway before I left."
"Shut up and do it."
MacLeod jerked, groaned and lunged over onto his stomach. He immediately started to crawl weakly towards the edge of the bed. "Keep the bastard there till I can get to your sword," he gasped.
LaCroix could see the promise of righteous retribution in the dark eyes of the Highlander and he felt a sudden desire to be somewhere else. If he was fast enough to avoid the sweep of Methos' sword, he would be free to leave, but now that both his hunger and lust had been satisfied, he felt more contrite towards Methos. The ancient Immortal was too good a fuck to alienate completely; perhaps he should make an honest attempt at a reconciliation instead of simply trying to escape.
LaCroix slowly tilted his head until he could see Methos' expression and he truly felt a pang of regret when he saw the hurt and anger there. Deciding to take a chance, LaCroix sighed and ever–so–slowly began to straighten up.
Instantly alarmed, Methos stiffened, his eyes wide. As LaCroix inched up, Methos kept the blade against his neck until the vampire was nearly standing. With the dynamics all wrong for the maneuver he had planned, Methos withdrew the katana, bringing the weapon close and into a ready position. As LaCroix stayed still and non–threatening, the tenseness of the situation dissipated as did the visible strain in Methos' body. The Immortal stood waiting, alert and very wary.
"Methos!" MacLeod cried out, fearing the vampire was mesmerizing his lover. "Don't look at him!"
Peeved at the attempted interference, LaCroix glanced in irritation at MacLeod…and instantly saw Methos' expression change into deadly resolve. Methos was primed to react badly to any perceived threat against his love and the vampire held up his hands in a placating gesture of surrender. "It was never my intention to inflict any permanent harm on him — I give you my word on that," he said, soothingly with complete sincerity. "Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if I just left."
"Oh, no! No!" Duncan protested, his accent growing stronger. "A creature like that can noh be allowed to live!"
Methos frowned at the words and LaCroix took advantage of his doubt. "If I go now, no one has to suffer any further damage," he said, purposely conjuring up what the result would be if Methos allowed their troubles to escalate into a struggle to the death. "You are both weakened and I am strong." When he saw the resentment in the hazel eyes, LaCroix quickly added, "And I also wish to apologize, Methos. You are right; I went too far. You know I value our friendship too much to wish an end to it. I admit I am guilty of both poor judgement and ignorance in the ways of Immortals. I am sure it is due to my sad lack of experience with others of your kind," he added, dolefully.
LaCroix apologizing? That was a first. The aura of danger dispersed and Methos knew the crisis had passed. Still aching from the physical abuse, he was unwilling to forgive unconditionally and he slowly shook his head. "Don't press your luck, LaCroix." Suddenly very tired, he let the katana drop down into a non–threatening position. "Just go."
LaCroix had to raise his voice to be heard over the very vocal protestations now coming from MacLeod. "I promise I will make this up to you."
"Yeah, well, you better not try to anytime soon."
The vampire bowed slightly. "As you wish," he said. And then he vanished as if he had never even been there.
* * * * *
MacLeod blinked in astonishment. "Where did he go?" he demanded. "How did he do that?"
Methos sighed, already exhausted by the mere thought of the immense task ahead of him; how to explain it all to MacLeod. He walked wearily to the galley and opened the refrigerator, pulling out bottled water, a carton of fruit juice and all the beer he could carry. "Give me a minute, please…." he quietly begged as MacLeod continued vocally in the background.
The silence that settled throughout the barge crackled with impatience, but Methos was grateful for the momentary respite and the chance to gather himself. It was either the calm in the eye of the storm, or the hush that followed a cloudburst. He hoped it would be the latter; he felt brittle, stretched to his limits.
Back at the bedside, he dumped the sealed containers on the bed and laid the katana amidst the bottles. Looking up, he met MacLeod's eyes, feeling his heart ache at the expression of hurt and betrayal he saw in them. He climbed on top of the bed and on his knees, inched over to where MacLeod lay sprawled. Slipping his hands around the tense torso, he lifted and pulled, nudging MacLeod back. "Come," he murmured. "I will explain everything."
"You said that last time," he said accusingly, allowing Methos to tug and maneuver him until he was laying back against Methos' chest, wrapped protectively in his lover's arms.
Methos grimaced, realizing he had erred months ago. LaCroix had swooped out of nowhere, literally stealing Methos away for a night of debauchery. When MacLeod had pressed for an explanation, Methos, when recovered, was too embarrassed and had given evasions and vague answers. Lovers for less than a fortnight, MacLeod had respected Methos privacy and let the matter drop. Now, the situation was far worse — as the questions would be.
He scooped up the carton of juice and pressed it into MacLeod's hand. "Drink this," he said softly, leaning his head against Duncan's, proffering a tender kiss to his cheek as a peace offering.
Duncan sighed, then took a long draught of the cool liquid. Finishing about half, he passed the container back to Methos. "How could you let him go? After what he did to you…it wasn't right."
"I know…now he knows it, too." Methos sipped at the juice.
"He shouldna know anything; he should be dead. You let him go, Methos."
"He could have easily killed us both." When MacLeod started to protest, Methos hushed him with soothing strokes along his arm. "It's true. LaCroix is too fast and strong; you saw him disappear, you felt his strength. He can immobilize a man with a thought…and he knows the only way we can be killed."
MacLeod was uneasy. "Then why didn't he?"
Finished with the juice, Methos tossed the carton away. He chose the water for MacLeod and a beer for himself; he twisted the top off and took a long pull from the bottle. "Keep drinking," he ordered. "You'll feel better." When MacLeod did as he was told, Methos continued. "Believe it or not, LaCroix did not mean any harm."
MacLeod snorted his disbelief. "I can not beli—"
"It is true," Methos interrupted. "LaCroix likes games; things just got out of hand," he offered lamely. How could he explain to MacLeod that LaCroix was right; that Methos did enjoy the notion of being forced on occasion? That while he didn't even know LaCroix well enough to call him friend or enemy, he didn't care; he was addicted to the mind–blowingly intense sex he shared with the vampire. Or that to him, being abused was not the showstopper it was for most other people? There were things and people in the ancient Immortal's past that he didn't know if he could ever share with Duncan MacLeod, who in his four hundred years of life, still had not discovered that there were a million shades of grey verses the two tones that made up black and white.
"He raped you, Methos." MacLeod's voice shook at the words.
The truth fell heavily and left a long silence in its wake. Despite what LaCroix had intended, despite their games in the past, it was the truth and Methos was still shaken by the attack.
"Yes. I know." His voice sounded small and desolate even to his own ears. Shocked, he tried to cover the lapse and noisily cleared his throat. "What's done, is done," he said, praying that MacLeod would take the hint and drop the subject. "Now we have to decide wha—"
This time, MacLeod interrupted. "I am so sorry."
"You've nothing to be sorry for."
"I wanted to help you, to stop him — but I couldn't. I tried…. This is not over," he said, twisting around to look his lover in the eye.
Methos could see the promise of retribution in those dark eyes and it frightened him. He didn't need the gift of prophesy to see that one day, he would have to explain everything to MacLeod, his whole sordid past — and Methos had no faith that their relationship would survive such a revelation. To save MacLeod from the folly of challenging LaCroix, Methos would have to risk what they now shared.
Methos looked away from the future he saw reflected in the Highlander's earnest eyes. "Please, MacLeod. Leave it be; at least for now," he pleaded quietly. "We have more important things to discuss."
MacLeod curled further around until he could face Methos, bringing both his hands up to gently frame the angular face. "What could be more important than the despair I see in your eyes?" he asked softly.
Methos swallowed hard, searching for the strength to resist what his heart would freely give — which was anything Duncan MacLeod asked for.
Forcing his eyes away, he placed his own palm against MacLeod's bloody neck, then held it up so MacLeod could see the moist evidence himself. "This is more important. You are still bleeding."
"So?"
"You are not healing as fast as you should be and…I have your quickening — or at least part of it."
MacLeod shook his head. "That's impossible."
Methos picked up the katana and angled it so he could bring its razor sharp edge down on MacLeod's forearm with a gentle tap. The blade left a thin, red line, slicing MacLeod's skin without sensation; the Highlander stared at it. A minute passed and still the wound remained, blood beading along its length.
"And I have memories of Tessa."
MacLeod stared up in shock, finally beginning to realize Methos spoke the truth. "How could you?! That's impossible!"
"It's happened before with LaCroix; every time he feeds off of one of us, some of our power seems to be transferred with the blood. I think the fact that it goes directly from one body to another fools it for a brief while. Then, after a few minutes, it rushes back into the nearest Immortal. Unfortunately, I was closer and your quickening went from LaCroix into me. It seems to show no interest into returning to you."
MacLeod looked distinctly worried. "What does this mean? Will it regenerate? Am I now mortal?"
"I don't know." Methos had a few theories; might as well start with the easiest one. "Let me try something," he said, using the katana to slice open one of his own hands.
Duncan startled at the unexpected bloodshed under his own face, and Methos quickly said, "No, stay right here." He brought his bleeding palm flat against Duncan's still oozing neck wound, and waited.
Nothing happened.
"Does this make us blood brothers?" Duncan asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Methos stared back darkly, not amused. It was an unpleasant phrase from his ancient past, a serious oath–taking that still held some power, even today. "It would…in some cultures."
He removed his hand and they watched it mend, the bright electrical energy sealing cut, the swiftness of the healing emphasizing that something was seriously wrong with Duncan's ability.
He wiped the blood off onto bedsheets that were already ruined by many dark red stains. "Well, you could try drinking my blood," he offered, keeping any hint of emotion out of his voice.
"No," MacLeod said firmly.
Methos took in a deep breath and prepared himself for the suggestion that had to be made. "Or I could ask LaCroix if—"
"Absolutely not!" MacLeod looked murderous at the very mention of the vampire's name.
"It may be the only wa—"
"Then I'll do without."
"That could be a fatal decision. You aren't healing; maybe this means that any death would now be permanent for you. Challenges would—"
"I said I'll do without. I'll noh have that creature touch you or me again!"
Patience stretched to the limit by the Scot's stubbornness, Methos waited long moments before he ventured another remark. "I don't exactly hear you offering any suggestions," he said testily.
"Here's one; we wait," he said firmly. "The power may strengthen on its own. Let's give it a few days."
"I hope you are right, Duncan, but if it doesn't come back, we will have to try something else."
"It'll come back," MacLeod assured him.
But it didn't.
* * * * *
MacLeod was first to rappel down into the comforting darkness of the ancient site. Cool air caressed his exposed skin and the earthy smell of damp clay rose about him, surrounding him with the sense of immense age. His feet scuffed lightly at the soil as he touched down and regained his balance. Unhooking his harness from the tough nylon cord, he anxiously squinted up into the grey circle of daylight that hovered above him. Loath to disturb the profound stillness with words, he whistled a bird call and gave the rope a sharp flick. Within a minute, Methos was gracefully lowering himself down. MacLeod reached a steadying hand up to stop Methos' slow rotation, guiding his lover to a safe landing at his side.
When MacLeod stayed close, Methos snuck a penetrating look at him. "Do you remember much from before?" he asked with studied casualness as he freed himself from the line and harness.
MacLeod shrugged. "Some." He walked a few steps toward the holy spring, then warily turned to eye a dark passageway to the side. "My memories are…fragmented, confusing," he reluctantly admitted, frowning.
Methos stepped next to Duncan. "This place does that to a person," he said, flashing Duncan a quick, reassuring grin. "Are you sure you are ready for this?" It had been over three days since events on the barge had taken place and Duncan showed no sign of returning to normal. In the end, both men had become more worried and, with their restlessness increasing, it was easy to decided to do something, anything — even putting their faith and future in the power of a holy spring.
MacLeod had been uneasy about returning to the sacred site and, very subdued, had asked about the source of the pool's power. Methos had paused as he struggled to find the words that could both encompass his own complex beliefs and have meaning for MacLeod — a man raised in Catholicism, but rejected and cast out of his clan as a demon. The only other belief system the Highlander had was the new religion of science — and that narrowed Methos' choices considerably.
Slowly, Methos had begun, "You know that the unexplainable exists; you've seen it…and we are living proof of it. There have been times in my life when accepted explanations involved miracles, or magic, or the mystical. The answer lies somewhere in between." When MacLeod had remained nonplused, Methos had tried a more concrete approach; science might be the tack to take. "You've heard of ley lines and vortices — channels of both negative and positive energy flowing from the Earth itself? Mountains and springs can be focal points, their power coming from deep within the earth. This spring is both yin and yang; it is in perfect balance. People, not just Immortals can feel it and they know it to be Holy. Think of it as a spiritual grounding." Duncan had taken his time to digest this information, but in the end, had seemed satisfied.
Now, he took in a deep breath and sighed heavily. "Ye know I trust you, Methos. If you feel that this is our best chance at put'n things to rights, then I am ready."
Methos barely suppressed a second smile when he heard the Highlander's accent deepen; this place had him spooked all right.
Methos glanced about, feeling the eerie spidery tingling that was unique to this sacred place. There was great power here and if the truth be told, even though he respected it, it unnerved him also.
"Let's do it." Decisively, he took the lead and made his way to where a pool of water glowed with a shimmering whitish–blue light. He stared down at the luminous spring, then shrugged out of his coat. Smoothly, he pulled off both his sweater and henley shirt and dropped them on top of his coat at the poolside.
Duncan was staring at him, more than a little shocked. "What do ye think you are doing?"
"Whatever happens here today, at least our clothes will be dry afterwards," he said, pulling off his shoes. "Besides, I've a personal rule about not contaminating holy springs with dirty socks if it can be possibly avoided."
Duncan nodded his head in reluctant agreement and began to strip.
When they had both shed all their clothes, Methos held out his hand to Duncan. "Together," he murmured, half request, half promise.
MacLeod took the proffered hand and gripped it tightly. "Together." His words were all promise.
In tandem, they stepped into the pool, its warm waters soothing and welcoming. When they reached the center, they stopped and waited. The waters grew brighter as streaks of pale energy gathered and dissipated on the waves that lapped gently at the earthen sides, but nothing else happened.
"Now what?" MacLeod asked, his voice hushed.
"Time for plan B," Methos said, turning to lean towards his clothes. He pulled a dagger from his coat and returned to the center of the pool and Duncan.
MacLeod eyed the glittering blade worriedly. "Bloodshed? Here?"
Methos reversed the blade in his hand. "Blood is what got us into this mess in the first place." He shifted, moving his feet more than shoulder–wide apart and slid the weapon below the waterline. With extreme care, he placed the tip of the dagger against a point where the top of his pubic hair met a groove formed where his leg and abdomen joined together. He lifted his gaze to met Duncan's bewildered eyes. "Femoral artery," he explained, and jabbed the blade home.
With a wince, he pulled the knife out and tossed it back near his clothes. Bright red blood spurted out into the pool, each strong pulse of Methos heart pushing the precious fluid out of his body. Fascinated, they watched and within seconds, they could no longer see the bottom of the spring. Within another dozen heartbeats, all the water was a lustrous crimson. MacLeod felt a wave of dizziness as the quality of the water was transmuted; now the pool sparkled as if it was an enormous ruby, the waves acting as facets that refracted the brilliance within and lighting up the whole chamber with an eerie scarlet radiance. MacLeod could feel the energy dance and crawl across his skin as that too, intensified.
Beside him, he heard Methos groan, and he lunged for him as the ancient's suddenly slack body slipped beneath the water. Grabbing an arm, he pulled Methos to him, threading his own arm around the nearly unconscious man's chest and drew him up. Pressing his lover close, he encouraged the dark head to fall limply back until it was resting on his shoulder and safe above the waterline. Worried that Methos was still losing blood, he felt about until he found the puncture wound and applied pressure, hoping to staunch the warm flow enough so that it would heal faster.
The tingling grew stronger and MacLeod, crouching down in the water to support Methos dead weight, grew concerned; from what he remembered from last time, it hadn't been anything like this. They must have been crazy to trust their lives to a natural phenomenon that they knew very little about. What if the water became hazardous? Would he be able to remove Methos in time from this slippery place? Suddenly, he was filled with doubt and he held Methos tighter.
Methos groaned and an energy wave surged throughout the crimson water. MacLeod felt him take in a deep breath, then another low groan was pulled out of the ancient Immortal as he suffered some unknown pain. Another wave of power rippled through the water.
"Methos," MacLeod whispered. "What is wrong? Can you talk to me?" He rubbed his cheek against the wet hair and wished he knew what to do.
Methos bucked and moaned again, and the resulting power surge was stronger yet. MacLeod gasped as, this time, he felt the energy coarse into him. He could feel the power innervating his whole body; now that it was back, he was more aware of what he had been missing.
"Methos! Methos, it's working," he whispered, praying that he had guessed right.
The reply was mumbled, but Duncan distinctly heard the word 'good.' After three further waves of energy flowed from Methos to Duncan, and three further groans that indicated increasing amounts of pain, Methos began to struggle weakly, trying to get his feet under him. "No more, Duncan. Please, no more…." he gasped. "S'nough…!"
They were the words that Duncan had been waiting for and he floated the weakly flailing man to the edge of the pool. Unfortunately, MacLeod found he was pulled off–balanced by Methos' weight and his feet were unable to find solid purchase on the slippery pool bottom.
"Shh, shh," he soothed, rubbing his hand over Methos' chest. "I'll get you out of here," he promised, "but I need you to be still right now."
Methos calmed immediately. As his body relaxed, it gained buoyancy and floated towards the surface.
"That's right," Duncan encouraged as he guided Methos to the water's edge, nudging his head up onto the solid ground. "Just a little longer," he said. He vaulted out of the water, and within a couple of seconds, had fanned out Methos' coat, creating a clean, dry spot to place his ailing friend. Reaching back, he curled his arms around Methos' chest and lifted, heaving the lax body free from the glowing water. He settled him on the makeshift bedding then grabbed his own wool coat and flung it over both of them. As Duncan pressed himself against his chilled lover, Methos gasped, opening his eyes wide to stare dazedly at the ceiling.
Concerned by the shocky gaze and feeling his own skin contract from the cool air, Duncan reached back and nagged his own sweater. He rubbed Methos briskly with the heavy garment, drying as much of him as he could reach. Leaving the head till last, he dabbed the water off then wiped back his hair. Finished, he lifted Methos' head and stuffed the wadded up sweater beneath him.
"This is the second time this week I've had to rescue you from water," Duncan chided affectionately as he wrapped his arms about Methos and pressed closer. "It's getting to be a habit." Too well Duncan knew that both times it was because Methos had chosen to put himself at risk for Duncan's sake and the mixture of gratitude, worry and love he felt was a sweet ache that coiled tightly about his stomach and groin.
"Yeah, well, now you know why I don't like water; it doesn't like me." Methos' voice was shaky, but his breathing was starting to even out.
"Don't' tell me there are things in this world that are beyond your talent to charm." Becoming more serious, he kissed Methos' cheek. "Thank you." Methos turned his head and gazed searchingly at MacLeod. "Did it work?"
"Yes. It worked."
With a heavy sigh of relief, Methos relaxed and closed his eyes.
Following suit, MacLeod laid his head against Methos' and settled in to wait. He felt gloriously whole, the flush of his Quickening tingling warmly throughout his body, but especially at the points where his skin touched Methos'. As he enjoyed the vaguely erotic feeling of the energy as it gathered at those points, he wondered if Methos felt it, too. And if he did, did that mean that their energies, once merged, now longed to become integrated again? The urge to slide over onto Methos and gain more contact with the coveted skin as their naked flesh entwined together grew within him and he glanced hopefully at the man beside him. Methos lay quietly, skin pale and his face drawn; MacLeod had never seen him look more exhausted. He sighed, fighting the compulsion to jump his lover's bones and settled instead for massaging Methos' temples with soothing, circular movements. When his own heartbeat had returned to normal, he asked quietly, "Can you walk yet?"
Methos shook his head. "No. Not just yet. Give me a few more minutes," he said, lifting his hand until he found MacLeod's. He threaded his long fingers through Duncan's then pulled the captured hand down, holding it over his heart, squeezing hard. "I could stay like this for hours," he sighed, then shifted. "Or until my backside goes numb."
Duncan chuckled. "The sooner we get dressed, the sooner we will be warm, and the sooner we can get back to the barge." And the sooner I can get you back in my bed, he thought, but did not add.
Methos smiled, and Duncan felt encouraged that he would make a quick recovery.
"Flawlessly reasoned." Methos said. He sighed then put forth a mighty effort to sit up, but only managed to prop himself up on his elbows before he was forced to stop and rest.
MacLeod leaned in close, his lips softly tracing over Methos' before he went back for kiss of such sweet passion that it banished all other thoughts from Methos' mind. "Oh. You are back to normal all right," Methos said, his voice deepening. "But do you think this is really an appropriate place for this?"
"The sooner we get dressed, the sooner we will…."
"…be warm and the sooner we will be back on the barge. Yes, I believe I understood that the first time, Highlander."
"Well then, get off your skinny butt and let's get going."
Methos tilted his head to the side. "Are you sure you don't want to consummate our relationship here on holy ground?"
"Methos…."
A small grin appeared. "Just checking to see how irresistible I am."
MacLeod leaned close and placed a chaste kiss on Methos forehead. "Supremely. And you know you have my everlasting gratitude. Now, let's go."
* * * * *
A few days later, Methos woke and stretched luxuriously, taking full advantage of MacLeod's over–large bed. He had to admit, it was an exceptional bed and since their return from the holy spring, it had been given quite a workout. He smiled smugly; he had never known MacLeod to be randier than he was now. Seemingly sex–crazed, the mighty Highlander had barely allowed Methos out of the bed, insisting instead on plying him with food and drink — anything to keep him naked, in the mood, and at his mercy. Completely satiated, Methos was positive he had never before enjoyed a quasi–imprisonment quite so much.
The smell of strong coffee drifted through the barge, enticing him to leave his haven of warmth and comfort. He could just barely hear the sound of MacLeod in the shower massacring some opera — Italian by the sound of it. The morning was brisk and since the coffee wasn't magically going to come to him, he would have to get up and go get it himself. Amused, he idly wondered whether he had forfeited his ability to stand by neglecting it for so long. He threw back the blankets and sat sleepily on the bedside, his bare foot nudging a pair of wool–lined slippers. He stared at them and frowned; he could not recall having seen them before. How odd.
With a shrug, he pointed his toes and maneuvered his foot into the slipper, stopping suddenly when he felt an obstruction. Puzzled, he scooped up the mysterious footwear and slipped his hand inside, pulling out a small black velvet bag that was tied with a golden thread. He carefully loosened the cord and eased open the sack to lift out a small, dark jewelry case. Intrigued, he opened it. A small card fell out, revealing two small, golden earrings. They were studs and each had a decent sized ruby set in them. The gems glittered brightly and Methos could see they were of high quality.
Very curious, he retrieved the card, held it up to the light and read the tiny typed words: "The ruby has been prized for centuries as a symbol of Love and Immortality. Ancient lore held that the ruby was capable of curing illness and reconciling lover's quarrels."
Warily, Methos flipped the card over and read the graceful script that personalized the back:
"For you and your friend with my apologies. L"
Methos couldn't help but smile. Gracious yet subtle; how typically LaCroix.