Mythmaking, by Glacis. Rated NC-17 for explicit language and homoerotic activity. No infringement intended.  This follows the episode "Methos". It precedes (doesn’t take into account) information learned about Methos' character in the fifth season.

Methos smiled wryly to himself -- it had been as hard as he  expected it to be. Harder, in fact. He certainly hadn't expected  to find himself voluntarily baring his throat to another Immortal's  blade, much less literally taking the other Immortal's hands in his  own and placing the shining edge of the katana against his neck.  Practically begging Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod to kill  him.

And the bastard hadn't done it.

He huddled deeper into his overcoat, staring at the murky waters  of the Seine below him, eyes turned inward. Kalas had frightened  him tonight, more than he had been frightened in centuries.  Almost frightened to death. Frightened into suicide, if MacLeod  had been a little less quick to stop his swing. Frightened. So very  frightened. The word rang over and over through his mind until  he began to feel a little dizzy. With a jerky motion, he pulled  himself away from the railing of the bridge and swung somewhat  unsteadily off into the cold darkness. Time to call his buddies the  movers and get the Chronicles into a safe place. Time to move on,  again. Time to hole up and practice so he wouldn't be so damned  rusty when Kalas got out and came after him again. Time to stop  feeling the warmth of Duncan MacLeod's hands under his own,  steel sinews and hard bones and silken skin wrapped around the  carved handle of the katana as they stood in the shadow of a stone  arch. Time to stop being frightened.

Erasing his life didn't take long. After all, it wasn't the first time  he'd had to disappear. But this time, for some strange reason, it hurt,  just a little more than he'd expected. Not to leave the place. After  all, one place was pretty much like another, after so many centuries.  And he hadn't really felt at home anywhere in so long he wasn't  sure he could remember or identify the feeling of "belonging."  It had been a very long time since he had cared, too. But there  was a spark there, now, one he hadn't felt in a long time. Almost  ... passion. Not hate, not even the fear that was gradually receding,  but something different. Something warm. Almost hot. A tiny  spark. Reflected in hazel eyes, caught in tangled raven curls,  played out on the shining blade held in strong hands, supported  by swift legs and a broad back.

Oh, damn. He stopped, swaying slightly as it hit him.

Not MacLeod.

He grinned, a little unwillingly.

Could be worse, he supposed. Could have been Dawson.  Although now that Joe knew he was an Immortal, maybe he'd  have a chance. He'd wondered for months about Joe and  MacLeod. The highlander. His tongue crept out to moisten  dry lips. Now, what in the hell was he going to do about that.

He studied the cloudy sky, gradually brightening into dawn.  The Chronicles were safely away, and so too should he be.  But he just might have time for a little visit.

To ward off the chill. To kill off the last of the fear.

To thank him for not taking his head.

"And offer him the other one?" he snickered to himself.  "Maybe this one, he'll take." The resulting grin from that  thought kept him warm all the way to the barge.

Live, he'd told him. Grow stronger. Fight another day. And when the Highlander had refused the final sacrifice, wrenched the blade from his throat, he had done the only thing he knew to do, concentrated, projected, bled some of his Quickening into the storm of electricity that was MacLeod's personal signature. Just enough to confuse Kalas, just enough to give MacLeod that little bit of an edge. But not enough to ensure the right outcome, the only  acceptable outcome, to the meeting. So he'd arranged for  insurance, and justice of a mortal sort, all at the same time.  Kalas would pay for at least one of his crimes, the death of the gentle bookseller. And Duncan MacLeod would never know what the small wave of dizziness had been that had rocked  him on his feet as he had turned his back and left Methos in the fog under that dark stone bridge.

But Methos felt it, still. Felt the wild taste of the Scottish highlands that sang through the other man's soul. Felt the warmth of that flaring passion clear through his own ancient soul, and for the first time in nearly two hundred years, tasted desire for another Immortal.

Wouldn't MacLeod just shit bricks if he knew that one.

He couldn't stop the grin that lifted his lips again, leaning nonchalantly against the gray stone across from the barge, feeling the faint buzz that made the air go fluid around him and caused time to slow. Unlike younger Immortals, he could detect the flavor of the Immortal by his Quickening. He could  identify those Immortals he knew by that delicate tint, almost as if it was a personal scent. And Duncan's was alluring. His tongue darted out to wet dry lips, and his golden green eyes narrowed. He could sit out here in the drizzle and freeze his skinny ass off, he mused, or take his chances that the Highlander wasn't still pissed off at him for attempting to give him his head. And then, if he was lucky and MacLeod had had enough to drink to overcome his ingrained straightlaced 400 year old ideas about sex, maybe, just maybe, Methos would get lucky.

MacLeod felt it first, burning through the slight haze of the brandy. Oh, damn it. Like he needed another fight today. Warily, moving like a cat on quick and silent feet, he swept his katana up and slipped to the shadows at the side of the barge. A light rap interrupted the  stillness, and he cocked his head. Well, at least this one was polite.

"MacLeod?" A somewhat hesitant light tenor, curling up on the end  of the word with an unusual accent. Duncan sighed and lowered his sword.

"Come in, Methos," he called quietly, sinking into the soft couch,  staring at the lean, lanky form as the older Immortal let himself into the barge and looked around curiously.

"Nice," he commented approvingly, letting his eyes roam from one piece of sculpture to another, across the small paintings and rows of books to the carved chess set and the dark man slouched on the couch behind it. "Very nice, indeed."

MacLeod couldn't tell for a moment if Methos meant the decor or the  Highlander. His hazel eyes widened for a moment, then he shook off  the thought. Surely he misunderstood.

"Thanks. Want something to drink?"

Methos looked at the comfortable sprawl his companion was in and shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm fine." He didn't finish the thought -- somehow the concept of simply telling Duncan straight  out that the only refreshment he wanted was him just didn't quite work out mentally. And if he actually said it aloud he had a feeling he'd get his butt whipped. The thought made his mouth curl  wistfully. MacLeod saw the strange little half smile and narrowed  his eyes.

"What is it, Methos?" The question came out softer than he had expected. He patted the seat next to him, and the other man shyly  came forward, seeming for all the world like some forest animal approaching a human for the first time. MacLeod found himself trapped in dreaming green gold eyes, noticing for the first time how long Methos' lashes were, and the almost sly smile flickering across his lips. "Faery." He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until Methos shot him a startled look and dropped to the floor in front of the couch.

"What's that supposed to mean?" There was a disarming mixture of laughter and suspicion in the ancient's eyes.

"Just, well, your smile, and the way your eyes look-" Duncan  sputtered, not quite sure how to articulate what had been a visceral  reaction. "I d'no, you just for a minute there reminded me o' the  Faeriekind I'd heard of as a chil'-" His Scottish burr grew thicker  as his words tangled. Methos got a decided sparkle in those eyes,  and decided that he really, really couldn't resist. If MacLeod  couldn't handle it, he'd deal with the consequences ... but he didn't  reach more than five millennia by not at least trying for what he  wanted.

MacLeod had tripped over his tongue long enough, and stubbornly stared into his brandy snifter. He almost missed the glide as Methos slid up onto the soft cushions next to him, but the long, elegant  fingers wrapping around his hands for the second time that night  captured his attention. He watched those hands gently remove the glass from his own, then silently set it on the table next to the couch. He stared at the glass for a long moment, then started slightly as Methos reached across with two fingers and tilted  his chin up until their eyes met. Duncan's eyes had darkened from a combination of confusion, fatigue and alcohol, and he stared into the unreadable green of the Ancient's eyes for a long moment, unsure exactly what was taking place. It ... felt like a seduction. But he wasn't quite sure, and the other Immortal certainly wasn't giving him any hints.

Methos was caught in those wide dark eyes. He could taste the emotions running through the nerves of his companion, a hint of surprise, a bit of interest, a touch of arousal, all mixed together. He allowed his intent features to relax into a reassuring smile, and turned the other man gently away from him. To his own  slight surprise, Duncan allowed himself to be manipulated. The smile widened. This was a good sign. He carefully parted the wild fall of ebon curls and ran his hands up the highlander's spine, from directly between the shoulder blades along the strong column of the back of his neck, and up into his scalp, splaying his fingers and applying alternating firm and gentle pressure, a skill he had perfected in the blurry days as a mortal, when he had been  a body slave to some long dead petty despot. His touch had saved  his young life then, and he had had five millennia to perfect it.

Duncan never stood a chance. Those hands felt like magic,  unwinding muscles held too tense for too long. He felt his  spine turn to liquid, his arms sliding out and along the side of the couch, his body slumping bonelessly under the thorough muscle massage. He couldn't help the soft groans that sighed from him as Methos found every knotted muscle that had been giving him fits since Tessa died. He began to tense up at the thought, and the hands grew firmer, working the muscle deeply. The sensation was exquisite, pain so concentrated it was a pleasure, whether from the release or the touch, he couldn't tell.

"You remind me a lot of him, you know." Methos saw the thick black lashes flutter and realized that he had MacLeod's attention again. Good. He thought he'd lost him there for a moment.  Running his hands in a wringing motion across the strong muscles angling under the silken skin toward the tight muscles in his ass, he had the other Immortal's sweatshirt up and over  his head almost before Duncan realized what he was doing. Methos had had a *lot* of practice, although not much recently.

"Who?" MacLeod managed to mutter.

"Theseus," Methos returned matter-of-factly. Duncan's eyes went wide.

"The Hero of Athens?"

"Mm-hm," murmured Methos, getting a little distracted as he began  a staccato chopping motion along the backs of Duncan's thighs, encouraging him to stretch out on his stomach and trying not very hard to ignore the undulations in the mounds of muscle so close to his face. "He was a wrestler, built solidly, like you are. Not as long in the legs, but well built through the chest and arms, and a broad back like yours. Same hair, too, dark ... and wavy, and ..." He lost his train of thought completely as Duncan squirmed comfortably under his hands. To hell with reminiscing. This man was utterly delicious. And very relaxed. And if his Quickening was anything to go by,  getting more aroused by the minute.

"Why'd'ya stop?" Low, sexy rumble. Yup. Definitely getting hot.

"I didn't, MacLeod. I'm just ... changing focus." He swept his hands in a long curve up the length of Duncan's jeans, firmly kneading the quads and his ass before sinking into the small of his back and sweeping up the breadth of his back, then threading back into his loosened hair, holding his head still as he lowered his lips to the side of that strong throat. He opened himself just a little, and he could feel the energies fusing as his mouth fastened on that sweet, slightly salty skin. The highlander froze, then a shiver ran through his frame, and he moaned. He hadn't been expecting this. Methos licked lightly at the red mark his teeth had made on the tender skin of MacLeod's neck, then began to  nibble his way along the tendon to the curve of his ear. Taking  the lobe between his teeth, he nipped sharply, enjoying the other  man's quick indrawn breath, then sucked at it strongly. Another  gasping moan worked out from Duncan's throat, and he tried to regain a measure of control by flipping over under Methos' body. The ancient Immortal knew a few countermoves himself, and  laughed as he rode the motion, ending the movement in a sprawl  on the floor, Methos still determinedly on top.

Duncan looked up into the laughing face of his tormentor and  couldn't help but grin himself. It had been a very long time  since he had made love with a man, someone he didn't have  to be careful of, someone who was not fragile. Darius had been  wonderful, teacher, lover, friend. When he was murdered, a part  of him had died. Now, in this other ancient Immortal, he caught  a glimpse of the sensitivity of his dead friend, and a depth that  even Darius seemed pale in comparison with. He'd only met  Methos that morning, and here he was, rolling around on the  floor with him, half naked, wholly aroused, completely at sea.  And after the debacle with Kalas, needing him more than he  would have thought possible.

One strong arm shot out, and Methos instinctively ducked.  MacLeod stopped immediately, then gripped the more slender  man's arms and brought his face close to his own.

"Dinna ye wan' this, Methos?" His voice was a soft burr.

"Yes," he paused, and stared at the deceptively sleepy face  below, so close to his own. "Do you?" he asked plainly, his  own voice deeper than usual.

"Oh, aye. That I do."

Methos took the invitation in that wide, curved mouth.  Thinking that at least he wasn't going to get his butt kicked  for trying, he relaxed in MacLeod's grip, drooping over the  prone man until he could reach his face. Duncan lightened  his grip, allowing Methos to take the lead. The elder Immortal  delicately traced MacLeod's lips with the tip of his tongue,  tasting, testing, before slipping it into the highlander's mouth,  deepening the kiss, forcing his lips apart, exploring the moist  inner lip, the tender flesh at the inside of his cheek, thrusting  counterpoint to the tongue trying to push its way into his own  mouth. For a time, the silence in the barge was broken only  by the quiet sucking sounds of two hungry mouths plundering  one another, but that wasn't enough for either man.

Duncan's hands worked at Methos' shirt, pushing up the thick  fabric. "Ye'r o'erdressed, old man," he growled, finally pushing  Methos away just far enough to bunch the rest of the material up  and over his head. The slighter man laughed aloud at MacLeod's  haste, and felt the bite of hunger in his hands, his chest, his cock,  cascading from his scalp to his toes. Gods above and below, he  wanted this man. He had tracked Duncan MacLeod with interest  in the last four hundred years. Now he realized the interest had  masked desire, and the mask was ripped off.

"For a straight guy, you're pretty pushy here," he managed, as  Duncan efficiently stripped him of his shoes and socks, sliding  his hands under Methos' thighs and lifting his butt to slide off  the loose slacks, carefully managing to avoid the erection that  was starting to ache. Methos leaned back, resting his palms on  either side of MacLeod's knees as the younger Immortal finally  freed himself from his clothing as well. He couldn't remember  the last time he'd watched someone this beautiful strip down, so  quickly, and for him. All for him. For a moment, he sighed  inwardly over his own lanky frame, but the light in those dark  warrior's eyes reassured him. If the highlander wanted him,  and it was pretty obvious from the erect cock waving at him  from the bed of curls between his thighs, well, then, the highlander  could just have him.

Duncan grinned at Methos' comment. "Why limit yersel'?" he  began to ask, but before he could finish the query the ancient one  shifted and folded forward, running those talented hands from  his ankles to his crotch, sensitizing the skin all the way up. One  last glimpse of twinkling gold green eyes under ruffled dark hair,  and Methos' mouth closed around the tip of his cock, the long  fingers of his left hand wrapping around the shaft, the strong  right hand cupping his sac, rolling his balls in cross rhythm to  the licking and tiny bites he was spraying in a random pattern  along the length of his erection. For a frozen moment Duncan  thought he was going to come right there, and he forced himself  to relax.

That didn't last long. Methos opened his mouth a little wider,  slipped his left hand along the shaft of MacLeod's straining cock  to take the place of his roving right hand at his sac, and slipped  that hand sideways between the other Immortal's splayed thighs.  Duncan's hands ran restlessly over Methos' skull, rubbing his  hair, playing along the sharp angles of his face as Methos  expertly slid a finger into Duncan's ass, rubbing lightly,  stretching, probing. He found the small bump of his prostate  and a second finger joined the first, stroking firmly. MacLeod  was helpless to stop the small moans coming from his throat,  one after another until it was a continuous whimper, as Methos  worked him harder, faster, deeper, the driving tongue and teeth  on his cock perfectly complimented by the pumping counter rhythm of the fingers in his ass. Duncan's back arched, his  head rolling helplessly from side to side as Methos drove him  higher and higher, until orgasm hit and he screamed and the  world dissolved in a flash of light and electricity and the sudden  rush of a Quickening shared, through the medium of the body,  muted and constrained by the flesh still holding it but a sharing  nonetheless.

Methos held him as he came down from the peak, soothing him  with his hands, pulling himself along the shaking body below  him until he could cradle MacLeod's face in the crook of his  neck. He loved the highlander's scent. His taste. Wild, like  his Quickening. Earthy, and sensual, and so many things  Methos hadn't had in much too long. True, there were  advantages to being a myth. Other Immortals didn't hunt  you to kill you. The drawback was they didn't hunt you to  fuck you, either. And he'd missed this.

Gradually, MacLeod's breathing steadied, and he chuckled  hoarsely into the fine creamy skin under his face. "Hm," he  muttered, his hand snaking out to draw a finger along the  length of the erect cock now poking him in the side. "Some 'un didna get any."

In response, Methos pulled Duncan's head back and opened  his mouth over the full lips below his own, kissing him wetly.  Duncan surprised him by exploring his mouth thoroughly, not  shying away from the taste of his own cum. If anything, the  highlander was positively enthusiastic. He grinned through  the kiss. Might as well push his luck. As well as a few other  things. "So, is that an invitation?" he whispered hotly.  MacLeod didn't answer in words. He simply reached across  the couch into a small side table, drawing a tube of lubricant  that hadn't been used for some time. Thankfully, it was still  quite full. He pulled the cap off with his teeth and held it out  to Methos, one brow raised in wicked inquiry. The ancient  Immortal very nearly whimpered himself.

Not breaking eye contact, he took the tube and squirted some  back into the hand that had given it to him. "You do it," he  breathed. Duncan smiled back, a wide slice of white teeth  startling against the golden skin, and reached down for the  cock now nudging him insistently in the belly. The first firm  touch of his fingers on the aching flesh made Methos gasp. He  stopped, quirking the corner of his mouth up teasingly. "Gods,  don't stop now, damnit!" Methos thrust forward, unable to stop  himself. "Please, highlander."

"Ye'r beautiful when ye beg, lad," he whispered. Before Methos  could do more than grin at the endearment, ridiculous for one so  old, Duncan applied himself to the task at hand, and rapidly drove  all thoughts of repartee completely out of his head. When he was  sufficiently slick, Duncan leaned back and relaxed his thighs,  spreading his legs widely, drawing Methos' hips in tightly to his  own, rocking his pelvis to allow the other man easy access to his  hole. Wide green eyes sparkling like emeralds now, all traces of  gold submerged in the green and pupils so wide as to nearly swallow  even the emerald, the ancient Immortal carefully placed the head of  his penis against MacLeod's tight opening and pushed. He knew it  had been awhile, so he tried to move slowly, but Duncan was having  none of that. He shifted suddenly, hooking his ankles over Methos'  hips and shoving down forcefully with his calves, causing the other  man to sink to the balls into him. Methos very nearly screamed,  and the sound that came out sounded as if he was in as much pain  as he was drowning in pleasure.

"Oh, sorry, lad, was tha' too much too soon?" MacLeod managed to  gasp out, grinning fiercely up into his lover's face.

"Bastard," Methos hissed back affectionately, and Duncan laughed  back at him. The laughter was choked off as Methos began to move,  a long, slow, steady driving that felt as if he was trying to ream the  highlander clear up to his throat. MacLeod began to moan again,  his erection returning, and Methos closed his eyes to concentrate on  the incredible sensation surrounding his thrusting cock. Like a velvet  fist, Duncan closed around him, squeezing and rippling around his  cock, stealing his breath, scattering his thoughts. The highlander  had dropped one hand to his own cock and was frigging himself in  concert with the ancient's thrusts into his anus, the other hand  roaming over the silky skin of Methos' chest, playing with his  nipples, wrenching little gasps each time he tweaked one of the  sensitive nubs. In retribution, Methos shifted, just a fraction,  using his hands on MacLeod's legs to position him just ... so ...  and Duncan's moans turned into that wonderful whimpering that  he'd heard just before he came the first time.

Methos increased  his pace, finally losing control, slamming into the hard flesh below  him and leaving fingermarks in the soft skin he was gripping.  MacLeod came first, one hand milking his cock, the other twisting  one of Methos' nipples hard, and the rolling spasms clenching his  cock combined with the pleasure/pain of the fingers on his chest  sent Methos into his own orgasm. This time, the Quickening was  felt by both men, sparkling along their skin, twisting and writhing  in a mirror of their bodies' movements. Methos collapsed forward  onto MacLeod's sweaty chest, nuzzling his face into the other  Immortal's throat, licking the moisture there, unwilling for the  closeness to end too soon. Duncan seemed to read his mind, or  perhaps he was by nature a snuggler, because he wrapped his arms  around the taller man and pulled him close, cradling him, chest to  chest.

"I couldna believe it," he mused after they had both calmed down a  bit, and their breathing had regained some semblance of normalcy.

"You couldn't believe what, MacLeod?" Methos mumbled in return.

"I walk into your house, sword in hand ready to challenge you, in a  Watcher's house, for heaven's sake ... and you're sitting with your  naked neck to me, listening to music, reading a book! I could've  taken your head!"

Methos grinned at the way the Scots burr all but disappeared when  Duncan was not so excited. "I knew you were coming. Dawson  told me. And I knew of you, highlander. Had I met you in  readiness, my own sword in hand, you would have been wary  of me. But you wouldn't fight an unarmed man. So I did the  smartest thing I could do. I presented a completely nonthreatening  picture to you."

"And offered me a beer," Duncan snorted with remembered disbelief.  Methos snickered.

"You should have seen your face."

MacLeod settled back on the thick rug and studied Methos' grin,  finally matching it with one of his own. "It was nothin' compared  to your own, lad. I saw that once-over you gave me. Flirt!"

Methos gave him his very best innocent look. MacLeod lost it and  started laughing all over again. "What?" the older Immortal  demanded with mock outrage.

"That look nae doubt works much better when you're not lying  naked with my cum on your face and my sweat all over your body,"  Duncan answered reasonably.

"Well, there's always a solution to that," Methos shot back just as  reasonably.

MacLeod gave him a questioning look, just managing to hold on to  his composure. It felt so freeing, to laugh and fuck and tease like  this after the horrible time he had had lately. Between Kalas and  losing so many friends, he'd had much too much stress in his life.  This interlude with Methos was just exactly what he had needed.  "And wha' might that be?"

Methos noticed the burr creeping back into his lover's speech, and  levered himself to his feet. Reaching a long arm down to help the  highlander up, he pulled him close and whispered suggestively,  "Bath time."

They didn't get to the actual bed until sometime the next day.  It wasn't quite what MacLeod had been expecting when he went  searching for a myth. But it was better by far than anything he  had thought to find. As for Methos ... the day ended much, much  better than it began.

*F*I*N*