Love Song, by Glacis. Characters property of Panzer,
What better place for prey to hide, than in the all covering camouflage
of the hunters? The thought struck the dark vein of humor that had kept him on
the seemly side of sanity for millennia. There was power there, deep, and
seductive, and chiming with the light sound of schoolboy's laughter. It called
to him in his darkness, and the lust to claim it nearly overpowered him. It was
time for a new hunting ground, then, a new, old prey, time to consume the light
with the dark.
The Watchers never knew what hit them.
"How the hell should I know?" Frustration screamed through a
normally rich whiskey voice as Joe Dawson fought unsuccessfully to control his
rising temper. "They've just disappeared, damnit!
And, NO, there was no identifiable face in the fucking security tapes!" He
took a deep, shaky breath, and closed his eyes, reining in the anger,
concentrating on the sniping voice on the other end of the line. "Look,
Patterson, they were researchers, okay? They weren't field agents. They weren't
in a secured building, but the hotel was a good one, and the security cameras
showed no suspicious characters lurking around the lobby." Breath gusted
out again, anger and worry needing some avenue of escape.
"From the look of it they all went off to do some sightseeing and
never came back." Fine dark brows drew together fiercely under a fringe of
gray. "NO, they did not come to the bar. And NO, MacLeod hasn't seen
anything of them. And NO there HAVEN'T been any police reports -- I checked those right after I checked with the hospitals!"
He listened to the panicked voice squeaking down the line from
He slammed the phone back into its cradle and glared at the offending
instrument. "Assholes. Living in the back of
beyond, sending a bunch of wet behind the ears researchers out to the middle of
Seattle and wondering what could happen to them when they--"
"Talking to yourself, Joe? That's not a
good sign!" A light tenor cut through his muttered imprecations, and he
glowered at the new arrival.
"Where the hell have you been, Adam?" The lanky newcomer stared
at him for a moment, taken aback by the ferocity in the question.
"Around," the deceptively young appearing man answered shortly.
"What bit you?"
Joe sighed again. "Sorry, man, it's just been a hell of a
night." He met the inquiring glance with rueful smile that didn't quite
reach his dark eyes. Sweeping a hand to the stools along the front of the bar,
he waited until his friend settled and reached behind the bar for a cold bottle
of lager. "Some of the Watcher researcher corps came in for a flying trip,
and now they've turned up missing."
Methos, or Adam, as he was known at the time, flicked the top absently
along the polished bartop. "Is that Liz's group?
I'd heard they were coming in for a seminar at the U, something about Celtic
pictographs, but I was keeping my head down at the time, so I don't recall the
details."
"You could've saved 'em the time and
effort. Hell, you could've translated that chronicle fragment for them."
An innocent look from sparkling eyes was his immediate answer.
"What, and ruin my cover? I'm s'posed to be
twenty eight, Joe, not five thousand, and my specialty runs closer to Romans
than the Gael." He paused for a healthy swig of beer and smiled
contentedly. "Or Sumerians." When the other
man didn't respond to his teasing, he finished the beer off and plunked the
bottle down on the mat. "All right, I'll keep an eye out. It's not that big a city."
Joe smiled his thanks, and Methos swung away from the stool, burrowing
his hands deeply into his pockets and huddling in the warmth as he made his way
into the cool early morning air. Joe's smile softened as he watched him go.
*He's been hanging around MacLeod for awhile now and it's starting to rub off
... he's starting to act like a 'boy scout'.*
The mortal woman had talked. Oh, she hadn't known much, and she'd been an
officious, unpleasant, obnoxious bitch ... it had been a pleasure to kill her,
in the end. And her little round white head had looked engagingly funny settled
so gently atop the broad wide neck of the brawny boy ... what had been his
name? Oh, right, Louis. The boy had tried to stop him, and the old man as well,
but neither was particularly adept at fighting, especially when faced with an
opponent with several centuries of experience. But, in the end, the whining
little wretch had spilled a drop of information.
There was an Immortal nearby who had forged bonds of friendship with the
Watchers, with a field agent who ran a local bar, and with a researcher who
chased legends. He had heard of the Highlander and was not particularly anxious
to engage him. His target was elsewhere, and much older ... the Scot would need
more age on him before he became interesting prey. And he didn't want to be
distracted. But it had been an enjoyable prank to leave the bodies to be found
by the youngling.
Now he had a bartender to roust.
It had started out to be such a pleasant day. Duncan MacLeod had put in a
good three miles, slogging through the drizzle, enjoying the warmth of the
stretching muscles as he ran, looking forward to a good workout when he got
back to the dojo. It was still very early, the sunlight that strange, pearly
diffusion so peculiar to the
The scene was incongruous in its appearance of normalcy, made all the
more horrifying by the apparent lack of violence done to the bodies. There were
no bruises, aside from the right wrist and hand of the woman's body, which
appeared to have been crushed ... but there was something off kilter about the
picture. MacLeod stared at the strange little tableau for a stark moment before
the inherent wrongness finally became clear, and when it did he nearly vomited.
Each mortal, for they were indeed mortal and not one of his kind, had been
neatly decapitated, somewhere else from the lack of blood in the surrounding
area. Then the bodies had been transported to the narrow alley behind the dojo,
placed precisely, and the heads had been neatly balanced ... on the wrong
necks. A round, pale white feminine face with wispy white hair and a twisted button
mouth was securely wedged against a muscular dark brown neck, a narrow,
parchment skinned male face perched bizarrely on a pudgy female figure, and a
broad, handsome dark face overshadowed a thin, withered frame.
MacLeod leaned against the side of the wall, eyes gone wide and dark with
shock, and caught the final detail of the careful staging. Each corpse had one
arm with the knuckles up, and one with the palm up. And each forearm facing the
sky had a very familiar marking on it.
Watchers.
Someone was slaughtering Watchers.
Leaving the gruesome scene, taking the back stairs to his loft at a run,
desperate to get to his phone,
He had to warn Joe.
He'd taken the long way home. With so much Watcher activity in the
immediate area and MacLeod's known preference for things Watcher, he was
finding it harder to maintain both his anonymity and the secrecy of their
relationship. They hadn't been lovers long enough for him to be sanguine about
others knowing, even those others who knew his true identity. To the
organization in general, it would compromise his situation severely to be known
to be involved in a relationship with an Immortal. Besides ...
Humming softly under his breath he crossed the wooden floor of the dojo,
a smile curving his lips. "And when you push from behind I know I can ...
cover a mountain, with the palm of my hand..." Leaning against the back
wall of the elevator, feeling the buzz he could taste, recognizing the flavor
unique to Mac, he sang softly, "Babe, you can make history young
again..."
The clatter of the gate covered the words MacLeod spat into the
telephone, but the urgency in his voice was unmistakable. The receiver slapped
into the cradle and he swung around, the blade of his katana sweeping up with
lethal speed to rest, quivering slightly, an inch from
Methos' nose. The ancient immortal froze, staring at his lover with something
akin to amazement behind his eyes. MacLeod dropped the blade as swiftly as he
had raised it, and took a deep breath.
"Sorry, Methos." He licked his lips, and glanced around the loft. "There's ... I .... Oh, damn. Look in the alley."
Methos stared at him for a silent moment, then crossed to the side window
and stared down. Seeing the bodies, clearly highlighted by the sun now shining
softly into the alley, he cursed fluently in a long forgotten Greek dialect. He
knew them, or at least one of them, and given the identity of his old tutor
Mark Shelton he had a good guess who the other two
were.
"Damn, is right, MacLeod. Was that Joe?"
Mac's warm weight settled along his back, and a heavy arm snaked around
his waist. "Yeah," the younger man sighed into the back of his neck,
resting his cheek on Methos' shoulder. "I talked to Mike. Joseph's out
looking for ... well. I told him what happened. He's going to send a clean up
squad out."
"Uhm-hm," Methos agreed absently. "Watcher business. We look after our own."
"And they're bringing protection. Whoever did this, they knew who
they were after." The wiry body standing so quietly next to his felt
unnaturally still, and MacLeod brought his attention
back to the man under his hands. "Methos? You
okay?"
"Mark ... was a friend." MacLeod's arm tightened in sympathy.
"And I knew Liz. I didn't like her, but she didn't deserve this. It's ...
it's more than that, though." His narrowed eyes didn't waver from the
scene below, even as two dark vans pulled up, disgorging a crew of men who
efficiently and carefully placed the bodies and the severed heads in the back
of one van. Four other men, armed with what looked remarkably like submachine
guns, stood guard over the operation. "He's looking for something."
"Maybe he thought they were Hunters," Mac offered.
"No," Methos responded softly. "No, I don't think
so." So much death, so many mortals gone. At
times like this the weight of his age threatened to overburden his thoughts. weigh down his mind until all he saw around him was
darkness. He gave himself a strong mental shake and determinedly came back to
the present, suddenly needing to distract himself from his memories. The
ancient Immortal turned to rub his cheek against the soft pelt of dark hair
hanging by his face. "Hmm. You smell good."
MacLeod gave a startled bark of laughter. "I smell like I've been
running and haven't had a chance to take a shower."
"Mm-hm," Methos purred in return.
"Good." Mac grinned despite himself at the abruptly predatory look on
the angular features so close to his own.
"Hungry?"
"Yessssss." By the time the hissed word clipped to a finish hard lips were fastened
securely on softer, fuller ones, and MacLeod found himself borne backward onto
the wide bed along the far wall of the loft. The edge of the mattress hit the
back of his knees and he tumbled onto the soft quilt. Methos followed him down,
not losing contact, careful only to pull his tongue back in case MacLeod's jaw
should accidentally snap shut in the fall. He hadn't lived this long to lose
his tongue just when he'd found someone interesting to use it on again. As soon
as they were settled securely, he went back to his explorations. There was an
edge to his kiss that translated into hard urgency, and the younger Immortal
found himself caught up in the intensity of the sensual attack.
Sinewy hands met long fingers, slid, meshed, grasped, clung.
Long arms dueled for a hold, sliding along strong torsos, around sharply
delineated ribs, across broad shoulders. Narrow hips thrust demandingly into
the haven of muscular thighs, and the fingers unclenched long enough to pull
frantically at sweatshirt, pullover, sweatpants, jeans.
The twisting and wriggling were nearly as arousing as the arrhythmic thrusting, and it seemed to take ages before all the
restricting clothing was finally, haphazardly thrown alongside the bed.
Bare skin slid against bare skin, beads of sweat easing the glide of
muscles along muscles, and MacLeod found himself flat on his back, his thighs
widespread, Methos running one hand up and over his erect shaft and kneading
his buttocks with the other. Both men were breathing hard, as if they were
competing in a race. Mac's hands ran restlessly across the slender, smooth
chest above him, smoothing the pectoral muscle, teasing a nipple into a
hardened nub. He felt, distantly, that they should slow down, enjoy the feel
and scent and taste of one another, but the more immediate sensations were
robbing him of the ability to think at all, and his body was screaming at him
to hurry up, do it, now, hard, fast, fuck me -- Methos' earthy chuckle startled
him.
"Oh, I plan on it, Duncan MacLeod of the Cla--nmah-" He hadn't thought he'd spoken aloud, but he did
get some satisfaction from the throaty moan that tore through Methos' composure
and stole his voice as he sank deeply into Mac's body. If he was going to be
incoherent then Methos had damned well better be, too. Before he could crow
aloud, he felt his knees shifted higher, and Methos commenced a deep,
controlled thrusting that had him rapidly losing any semblance of sanity. Each downstroke pressed the sensitive gland deep inside, and he
reveled in the unusually vulnerable position he found himself in. Small, broken
pleas rumbled from his chest, and Methos answered each with a soft grunt as he
pushed in, until their control began to fray and the tempo grew wild. Methos'
hand milked his straining cock expertly in time with the increasingly frantic
thrusts, until the sensory overload ripped a scream from deep within him and
wrung his orgasm from him.
The tight clenching around his cock combined with the sight of MacLeod
writhing helplessly under him wrenched the last vestiges of Methos' control
from him and he came explosively, pressing as far into his lover as he could
reach, wanting to crawl into him, all the way in, disappear in him and never
come out again.
When the world stopped looking fuzzy around the edges, Methos carefully
eased himself out of MacLeod and ran trembling fingers down the tensed thighs,
gently working out the cramped muscles. The Scot smiled dreamily up at him, then
gathered him closely, snuggling Methos' face into the crook of his shoulder,
content to hold him and enjoy the last sizzling ripples of the Quickening
crackling softly between their bodies. Lost in the comfort of one another's
arms, the two Immortals put the events of the morning behind them for the
moment and concentrated on each other. MacLeod almost missed the whispered
words.
"I hate it when they die."
The bar was small and smoky and echoed of sad music. There was a solid,
peppery graying man behind the bar, polishing beer mugs, the
low light glinting off the lenses in his eyeglasses. He moved quickly, swinging
behind the long bar, crouching to settle the now sparkling mugs beside their
mates. Not the one he was looking for, then -- the woman had said he had
artificial legs, and this one moved too easily for that. He debated, briefly,
taking the information that he needed from the mortal, but decided against it
in the end. There were too many witnesses, even at this early hour.
Two young women huddled over an oversized notebook at a table near the
bandstand, arguing over tempo and key. A beefy young man with a somewhat vacant
look on his face stood patiently near the end of the bar, shifting instruments
agreeably at the direction of two other, older men, the musicians occasionally
calling out something to a "Mike," the mortal he had originally
thought to be the Watcher. Too many eyes. Not the
right time, and he hadn't enough to spare. The Highlander would have found his
little surprise by now, and may very well have reported it to his Watcher
friend. He'd have to take the more ... direct route.
Methos had long since left to rendezvous with
He felt the buzz in the floor below and sighed, reaching for his katana.
It shouldn't be his lover already. Methos had left barely an hour before, and
Mac knew that it would take longer than that to convince their friend to
protect himself. Richie was away in London at the
moment, allegedly keeping Amanda from slipping off the straight and narrow at
an international jewel exhibition, so it wasn't either of them. Connor, last
he'd heard, was somewhere meditating in Tibet ... probably in an isolated hut with a pretty Tibetan lass, if he knew his man. So, that
left a threat. Slipping down the side stairs, he approached the back entrance
by the office with extreme caution.
As he slid around the corner of the room, he heard the rustle of papers
and the clatter of drawers being swiftly opened and closed. Whoever
it was seemed more interested in the contents of his files than the definite
threat of his presence. Through the glass windows he saw a bright head
rise, saw a trim body tense, and knew that he had been sensed in turn. The
intruder rose in one swift move, hand whipping out from his side to show a
long, straight Norman sword, glinting dully in the subdued midafternoon
sunlight. Pale gray eyes, so clear they appeared almost translucent in the
sharp face, stared directly at him under a fall of straw colored hair.
MacLeod took a lightning inventory, taking in the compact fighter's body,
broad shoulders, strong thighs, capable hands, moving to concentrate on the
firm mouth, Celtic bone structure and vaguely amused look on his face. But the
stance was easy, and deadly, and the eyes were steady. The Highlander narrowed
his own dark eyes at the strange Immortal, and bowed his head slightly, katana
at the ready.
"I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod." Patient, waiting
for the response, willing to avoid a fight if possible but equally willing to
take one on if need be.
"Hm. So I see. I am not here for you, MacLeod." Neither man relaxed
their readiness. "I search for a mortal, a researcher. His name is Adam
Pierson."
MacLeod stiffened slightly, and set his mouth firmly against the words
that sprang immediately to his lips. Instead of 'Over my dead body' he ground
out, "He's not here. And he's under my protection."
"How convenient," the intruder purred.
Without another word, he attacked, a direct,
chopping, dauntingly intense frontal assault that had MacLeod on the defensive
almost immediately. His mind automatically categorized the moves and countered
them as quickly as the came, trying to spot a weakness, trying to finish this
quickly. It soon became apparent that the Immortal he faced was very experienced,
and very old, and not above using dirty tricks. He barely deflected a kick
aimed at his genitals, taking it in a glancing blow off his thigh that
temporarily put him on the floor, and he saved his neck only by tearing a
muscle in his back as he squirmed and flipped himself out of the way.
Before he could right himself, a slashing blow caught him in the ribs,
followed immediately by a flurry of brutal kicks to his chest and side. He
curled desperately in an attempt to get away from the vicious boot and he
gasped at the pain of broken ribs and the sharp lancing sensation of a rib tip
ripping into his lung. Relying on centuries of study and a strong determination
to live, he fought through the pain and managed to bring his katana up in a
sliding motion that should have gutted his opponent.
Except ... his enemy was no longer there. He hadn't seen the move the
other Immortal had made, and he wasn't sure he would have recognized it, given
the number of movess he'd seen in the fight that were
new to him. Before he could face the startled recognition of the fact that he
had lost, and was going to die, the bastard was beside him again. He closed his
eyes, and swallowed, then gasped around the ball of agony in his gut when his
opponent rammed the tip of the sword through his stomach. As the edges of the
world faded to red, then black, the lingering sense of disbelief went with him
into death.
The victor stared at the sprawled body of the Scotsman pinned to the
wooden floor by his sword like a butterfly pinned to a board. He could take his
head, of course. He knew from the younger Immortal's reputation that the
Quickening would be delicious, and powerful. Perhaps, later, he would. But
right now MacLeod was worth more to him as an information source than a
Quickening. He wanted the researcher, and through him, the Old One. The
Highlander would make the perfect bait.
No buzz. That was odd. MacLeod hadn't said anything to him about going
out. On the other hand, he wasn't the Highlander's baby-sitter, just his soulmate. A shadow of a smile quirked his lips as he
stamped lightly up the stairs, noting with absent approval the lack of any
indication of the bodies that had lain in the alley earlier that day.
Fitting his key in the lock, he found himself humming again. "When
you run your fingers down my spine, It's like throwing
a switch on the hands of time." He was feeling unusually revved, pleased
with himself at the hard- fought victory over Joe Dawson's stubborn nature. It
had taken most of the afternoon, but he'd finally convinced his friend that
dead, for him, was forever, and there were too many people who wanted him to
stay alive for him to toss it all away on pride and bull headedness.
His mind divided evenly between the puzzle of the apparent vendetta
against the Watchers and the much more pleasant anticipation of the things he
was going to do to MacLeod when he got home, it took a moment for the state of
the room to catch his attention. MacLeod's -- no, their bed -- had been neatly made, then
just as neatly, the quilt had been cut into ribbons. Lying across the cuts was
MacLeod's katana, blood dried to a rusty brown liberally splashed over the
blade and, nauseatingly, into the intricate carvings along the handle.
For a heartbeat, Methos felt his knees go liquid, and a thundering roar
filled his ears. Unaware of his actions, he stumbled to the bed and stretched a
trembling hand out to touch the nicked blade. A tearing sense of loss filled
him, leaving him bewildered and shaking. He should have known. It was so very
long since he had had such an Immortal companion, and the pain of his loss had
nearly destroyed him.
So long ago, to feel so fresh in his mind. His thoughts wandered as he stared numbly at the defaced bed, and he
found himself in his past, a place of pain he thought he had left behind
himself forever.
It had started on a boat. Of course. He hated
the sea, hated it with a passion, and it hadn't helped that Jason had enjoyed
pointing out his intolerance of the waves ... usually when he was bent over the
side losing his breakfast. Only the companionship of a young Thracian prince
and the music the prince had made had saved him from diving overboard the first
chance he'd gotten. No one there had known of the young minstrel's Immortality,
and his first death, trying to save his young wife from that lecherous ass Aristaeus, and the rather public return he'd made to life
before Methos could spirit him away to some place private, had given rise to a
number of wild stories. Methos' personal favorite had been the one that had his
companion melting the hearts of the Gods of the Underworld in a failed attempt
to win back his fair Eurydice. But Methos had known better, had taught his
student the truth of his new life, and had made the unusual mistake of falling
in love with his best friend. In the end that love had
killed him. He should have let him go.
He also should have seen it coming. Orpheus was too skilled on the lyre
and with his beautiful, haunting voice, to remain anonymous for long. He had
pled, cajoled, argued and finally threatened him to stay in the shadows for
awhile, as he had to make a trip south to Sestus to
pursue a missing Chronicle. Even then he'd had a hard time keeping hold of his
diaries. The last time they made love, he'd felt the music in his Quickening,
strong and sweet, and it had stayed with him on the long journey. His mission
accomplished, the scrolls securely stuffed into his pack, he was almost home
when the music had changed.
It had taken him completely by surprise, the soft sighing singing
undertone shifted in an instant to a shrieking cry, a soul-destroying scream
that had ended abruptly, mid-note, leaving behind an agonizing emptiness that
had very nearly killed him. Pushing himself to his limits, he had cut the
journey in half, only to return to their camp and find ... an absence of
Quickening, a deadening of sound, and blood splashed over more area than it
could have been had his love been torn apart by wild hounds. The silence was
gradually replaced by a strange, high, keening wail, and it took concentrated
effort to discover that the sound was coming from himself.
Three months later, staring at the tomb in
He had cursed Dionysus and all his followers, cursed the mortals whose
jealousy and lust had driven them to murder, cursed his own stupidity in
leaving his the keeper of his soul unprotected and unsuspecting on a lonely
mountain in Thrace. He had cursed the hole in his Quickening that he knew would
never completely heal, cursed the music that had first bound him to Orpheus,
cursed the complete insanity of love. It had taken another long boat trip, this
one down the river Hebrus, and a pilgrimage to
Then, when he had lost it, he had known. Shouldn't he have felt it now?
Eyes unseeing, he forced himself to his feet from where he had sunk
beside the bed. He staggered slightly as he let himself into the elevator,
clanging the gate closed, leaning against the cold
solidity of the metal wall. As the door opened on the ground floor, he gave an
involuntary cry, a small, gasping keen that echoed the emotion inside. There
was blood standing in a pool in the shadows by the entrance to the office,
signs of a fierce fight, an outcome he was having the hardest time accepting.
He swallowed dryly, forcing the wail back into his chest, and forced his body
to walk forward, to check out the scene of the confrontation. What he saw
stopped him in his tracks.
The pool was inordinately large. Quickenings,
when taken, tended to cauterize the neck wounds and there was seldom any
carotidal or jugular splash. This amount of blood could only come from body
wounds, deep, mortal, deliberate. His searching eyes caught another mark on the
floor, a dark smear roughly the width of MacLeod's hips, leading away from the
bloody mess toward the side door.
So. He wasn't dead, or
at least, not permanently. That explained why Methos still tasted the tangy
sweet flavor that was MacLeod in his own Quickening. Whoever had done this had
wanted Methos to find out, had wanted to be followed. A snarl twisted the
angular face and narrowed the fine green eyes. The son of a bitch would get
what he wanted, then. More than he bargained for. And if he killed the
Highlander in the meantime, then he, Methos, would tear the godforsaken son of
a whore into very small pieces.
He hated dying. It hurt enough to bleed to death, but he was so damnably
thirsty when he woke up. A buzz, very close by, just added to the usual
skull-splitting headache. Prying one bleary eye open, trying to work up enough
saliva to swallow, Mac shied back at the cup in front of his face. As he opened
his mouth to demand an explanation, the cup tipped, and blessedly cool water
poured down his throat. In danger of drowning and having to go through all of
the bother of dying and waking up again, he swallowed as quickly as he could
and took an inventory of his circumstances. They didn't look good.
His wrists were secured to the wall behind him, with what felt like
handcuffs on short chains, his ankles were bound together, and it was so damned
dark he could barely see the slender pale hand holding the cup to his lips.
Finally getting the majority of the water down, ignoring the rest that dripped
along his jaw and onto his chest, he allowed his head to fall back against the
wall and stared through the murky light at his captor. Even through the dimness
he could see the glitter in the pale eyes. Whoever this Immortal was, he was
skilled, and smart ... and completely insane.
"Why didn't you kill me?"
The thin mouth spread in a genuinely amused grin. "But I did!"
he shot back, then chuckled. MacLeod stared at him
stonily, and the chuckle died into a small huff. "No sense of humor.
That's one of the things about you younglings I just can't abide." MacLeod
raised one dark brow and waited with forced patience. After all, he wasn't
going anywhere any time soon. Getting no response to his gibe, the other man
continued. "You meant to ask, I assume, why did I not take your
head?" He waited in turn, and the younger Immortal gave in, nodding
briskly, encouraging him to get on with the explanation. "I probably will,
eventually. But at the moment you serve my purposes much better alive."
"What's your purpose, then?" MacLeod spat out through clenched
teeth.
"No, dear," the other man returned. "Your purpose. Tethered
goat. I want your researcher. More to the point, I want information that
he has. And when I have it, then I'll dispatch him and take your
Quickening." He rose in one fluid motion and headed for a door in the side
wall. "Make yourself comfortable, child. Depending on how good a tracker
your Watcher friend is, it may take the rest of the night."
The door closed behind him, and MacLeod began to work at his bonds. He
didn't know how much time he had, but he didn't want Methos to take this one on
alone. Besides the fact that he didn't want to lose his lover, the thought of
the madman who held him captive taking Methos' Quickening made him shudder.
It hadn't taken him very long. His enemy had left a trail a blind man
could follow, seemingly determined to be found. It ended at an abandoned
warehouse in a run-down dockside of the Sound. Methos was wary, and energized,
focused completely on the hunt. He had been out of the Game for a long time,
but since MacLeod had found him, he had honed ancient skills to a sharpness
they had not seen in centuries. And this was more than the Game. This was
bloodlust, a wild singing in his veins and through his Quickening that he had
not felt in millennia, and which he had never been able to assuage.
He felt him before he saw him. Sour, this one, off kilter and off key.
For him, each Quickening had a distinct sound or flavor or color, and this
particular bastard was an ancient cancer. He was almost surprised they hadn't
found one another before, but he had been relatively cloistered in the last
several centuries. Now, of course, it was a moot point. Now, they would meet.
Through the discordance of the enemy, he tasted his Highlander, strong again,
caged, frustrated, but alive. The jolt of adrenaline he got from the knowledge
carried him into the madman's den.
"Well," a soft baritone greeted him politely, "it appears
the researcher and the Ancient are one and the same. How ...
delightfully unexpected."
He pivoted to face his opponent. Smaller than he, with
a somewhat shorter reach. Light on his feet.
Concentrated, and ... grinning. Oh, so he thought he was going to enjoy this?
Unaware of the feral smile on his own firm mouth, he raised his broadsword and
watched for an opening.
"I suppose we could exchange pleasantries." The Norman sword
rose in counterpoint, each Immortal studying the face of the other. "At
the very least, a proper introduction is in order. I am Ramsey. And you
are...?"
A sudden strike was his immediate answer. He evaded it smoothly, and the
ancient Immortal noted the move. Egyption.
"Nemesis," he answered softly. "Yours."
Forgoing further conversation, he concentrated every one of his skills on
the single task of killing the Immortal in front of him. Metal rang against
metal as the two opponents circled one another, probing, testing defenses,
launching lightning strikes against one another, feinting, slashing, hacking with all their strength. Small bursts of Quickening
crackled along their blades as ancient force met ancient force, dark
determination fighting bright insanity. It was not elegant, nor graceful, but
sharp and brutal and painful.
An unexpected lunge nearly emasculated Methos, and he twisted and swung
in a two handed move that had not been seen since the killing fields between
As he drew back and stared into his fallen enemy's wide, pale eyes, he
hissed, "I am Methos. I reclaim what is mine." Swinging the blade
over his head with his right hand, he sliced through Ramsey's neck cleanly, then collapsed to his knees, exhausted from the fight and
the loss of blood from the myriad cuts along his body.
The age of his enemy was reflected in the force of the Quickening, the
force whipping viciously from the crumpled body to scream along the stained
walls, shattering the small windows along the top of the building, shorting out
the few remaining lights hanging from the rafters. Metal groaned under the
weight of the winds buffeting the walls, and fire flew in erratic patterns before
turning in on its target.
Methos was twisted and torn in the unearthly dance of the Quickening,
taken from his feet and thrown to the ground. The mental equivalent of a sonic
boom left him shaken and dazed. His body jolted as the energy sizzled along the
raw edges of his wounds, binding and healing and singeing his nerve endings in
ecstatic pain.
When it finally ended, he lay panting, nearly sobbing, utterly
drained. It could have been minutes, but it felt like eons, before he was able
to raise himself onto his hands and knees and shake the last aftereffects of
the Quickening from his head. Only one thought was foremost in his mind. He had
to find Duncan MacLeod. Gathering up his sword, pausing to wipe the worst of
the blood off of the blade onto the corpse's shirt, he began to look for his
lover.
He got stronger as he searched, the single-mindedness that had
characterized him since his discovery of MacLeod's disappearance helping him to
assimilate the Quickening and allowing him to concentrate completely on finding
the Highlander. He focused on the taste, and followed it, feeling it grow
stronger the further he went.
Finally, when the urging in his Quickening was nearly overpowering, he
saw the narrow door at the side of the warehouse, an office, or utility room of
some sort. Finding it locked, he raised his sword and hacked the handle off,
uncaring of damage to the blade. As he fell through the door, strong arms caught
him and threw him against the side wall. He stopped himself from raising his
broadsword by sheer force of will, fighting down the instincts that had just
won one of the most difficult fights of his very long life.
"MacLeod!" He lay completely still under the heavy hands
pinning him to the wall.
"Methos? Shit!!"
The hands were withdrawn, and he was jerked around and into a rib-crushing
embrace. "I'm sorry, mon,
I thought -- I didna know -- he was just --- oh
damn!"
Ignoring the babbling words pouring from the Scot's mouth, Methos shut
him up the most expedient way he knew, by kissing him until they were both
breathless. When he finally allowed MacLeod to speak again, the younger man was
finally collected enough to form a coherent sentence. "I thought it was that mad bastard come back again to take my head."
"No need to fear that, Highlander," Methos muttered, licking
hungrily along the corded tendon in the side of MacLeod's neck before stopping
at his ear and whispering, "He's gone, you're here, and the only head of
yours I want to take is not attached to your shoulders." MacLeod shivered
under the warm stream of air tickling the curve of his ear.
"Then what the devil are we waiting for? Let's go home!" He
started to pull Methos toward the door, only to come to an abrupt halt as the
ancient Immortal yanked him back into his arms.
"Do you have any idea how old Ramsey was?" MacLeod shook his
head mutely. "Damned old. And that Quickening was
enough to blow every circuit I have." A hungry mouth fastened itself on
the Scot's, nipping and sucking to gain entrance. The first strong thrust of
tongue over palate settled it. Home could wait ... this couldn't. "I'm not
going to lose the music again."
Mac tried to understand this last emphatic sentence, but before he could,
long clever fingers had stripped the tattered remains of his sweatshirt off and
were attacking the blood- encrusted fastenings of his jeans. He gave up trying
to make sense of anything then but the electricity running rampant between
them. The familiar urgency was there, with an underlying near desperation at
how close they had come to losing one another. Methos urged MacLeod down onto
the cold floor, hands not leaving their task until the other man was completely
bare to him. He finally left that delicious mouth and traveled down along the
broad chest, taking sideways forays to tease nipples to tight awareness,
threading through the hair in an arrow to the heat at Mac's groin. The Highlander
wasn't far behind in his own explorations, teasing his hands over the broad
shoulders and slender torso of his lover, testing the hard strength of his
stomach, bypassing the straining cock to run his palms down the solid thighs
before sliding them along the tensed hamstrings to cup the soft buttocks.
Pulling their bodies closer together, he shuddered as Methos, hand trapped
between their bodies, edged his fingers sideways to encircle both their
erections in one broad fist.
Threading through the touches was the faint crackle of Quickening as
their skin came into contact, heightening their awareness, deepening their
connection. Slick with sweat and ejaculate, they slid easily against one
another, their movements settling into a strong rhythm. MacLeod was panting
heavily, and Methos was moaning softly with each downward thrust, when the
ancient Immortal suddenly froze. MacLeod managed a strangled protest, then
stilled as Methos continued to watch him.
"You are mine." The tone of his voice brooked no disagreement,
even had MacLeod been in any state to argue.
Wide dark eyes met and meshed with sparkling emerald. The normally pale,
angular face was flushed and seemed, for a moment, to belong to a stranger. Mac
opened his mouth to ask him where he had gone, what he had meant, then Methos
shifted again, settling between the younger Immortal's legs, sliding his shaft
through the spread thighs, pushing forward until their groins touched. MacLeod
felt surrounded by Methos' heat, his sac resting atop Methos' cock, enclosed by
the warm soft skin of his inner thighs, his own cock pressed tightly against
the hard muscles of Methos' belly. His lover started to move, thrusting slowly,
strongly, keeping his eyes locked on the Scot's the entire time.
Mac felt the wet, hot friction between his thighs, the steady rocking
pressure on his balls, and the crushing slam of solid groin muscles against his
cock with every thrust, and lost his control completely. Running his hands down
Methos' sides he gripped the other man's buttocks fiercely, nails leaving
half-moon cuts in the tender flesh that healed almost immediately, urging him
on, harder, and harder. Methos curled one hand into the long hair at the back
of MacLeod's head, using it as a handle to hold him still as he finally broke
the stare and took the mouth under his in a deep kiss, tongue mimicking the
motion of his cock.
His other hand snaked down between their bodies and began to pull
strongly at MacLeod's erection in counter rhythm to his thrusts. The triple
stimulation of mouth, cock and thighs, combined with the aftereffects of the
Quickening that was sparking between them, was too much for their systems to
sustain for long. Methos came first, thrusting hard against his lover, fist
milking in sharp reaction to the tensing and release of his body. The nearly
painful grip took MacLeod over the edge, a guttural cry tearing from his throat
as he spurted his seed between their abdomens, bucking hard under the force of
the orgasm.
When they came back to the present, they found themselves wrapped around
one another, clothes scattered around them, the odd
zing of Quickening occasionally leaping from calf to calf, shoulder to
shoulder, their arms and legs tangled together, Mac's head tucked under Methos'
chin. The ancient Immortal gave a quiet sigh and rubbed his cheek against the
dark silky hair.
"Time for home."
MacLeod nodded sleepily. "Yeah. That was
... you were ... we could--"
Methos laughed, unable to help himself. "Well said,
Highlander."
"Smart ass," MacLeod murmured affectionately, then rolled away
from Methos and started gathering up his clothes. He wrinkled his nose in
distaste at the dried crust of blood and liberal tears, then
snatched up Methos' overcoat, silently daring him to protest. His lover grinned
at him and nodded. Mac needed the covering a hell of a lot more than Methos
did. At least the legs of his jeans were relatively clear. "What did you
mean, earlier, about the music?" he asked suddenly.
Methos stared at him for a long moment, then dipped his head and began to
dress. "I ... can't tell you right now, MacLeod. It's too ... I
will." He took a deep breath and smiled rather shakily at the other man.
"Not today. Maybe, *probably* not right away. But
I will."
MacLeod pulled his sweatshirt down around the waistband of his jeans and
smiled reassuringly at his love. "All right. We
have time, after all."
He was rewarded with a full smile, an unusual expression for Methos, and
a nod of his head. As they stepped out the door into the damp darkness and
headed for Methos' car to go home, the oldest Immortal started to sing softly.
"Ancient minds, ancient lives ... Got a way of comin'
'round." MacLeod let out a snort of laughter.
"Only you, Methos. Only you could finish up a day like this with a rock song."
A mock innocent look, belied by unexpectedly solemn eyes, was his only
response. As they were settling in to drive back downtown, Methos finally
offered, "I didn't lose the music this time." MacLeod looked askance
at him, and Methos didn't offer any other explanation. It was enough. For now.
finis