by C.L. Finn
"I promise, Methos. It won't take too long to find it."
"I hope not. It's hot in here, Mac. And I don't see why you feel the need to find the letter in the first place."
"It's not that bad, and I bought you ice cream so don't bitch. It's important... I don't know why... I guess I just like the idea that we crossed paths and didn't know it. Humor me, okay?"
"Consider yourself humored."
How could I not? The new Duncan MacLeod is far too pleasant to deny. This Duncan MacLeod is fun, and light-hearted, and apparently happy. His experience in the train yard when O'Roarke shot him, and the subsequent trip he took, transformed the man. He tried to explain it to me, but I just think he's watched too many reruns of "It's a Wonderful Life". It all boils down to the fact that he let go of some demons. That is something I can understand.
So now we're standing in his long-term storage, looking for a letter from three-hundred years ago, in the middle of the summer when it's near 37 celcius outside and only slightly less in this supposedly air-conditioned room. All because I can't keep my bloody mouth shut. A pleasant conversation about Darius over lunch at an outdoor cafe turned to discussion of Brother Paul, and I had to open my mouth and tell him that I spent some time in Brother Paul's monastery not long after he'd left there. And then I just had to mention Brother Francis.
Big mistake, as it turns out. He managed to piece together a few snatches of memory, which has now set him on the scent of the ever-elusive past of the world's oldest Immortal. I had no idea the boy was corresponding with MacLeod-- he was one of the few mortal's in the order. Damn sloppy on my part I suppose. I wonder what he would think if I told him just how many times we've crossed paths in the last four-hundred years. I told him when we met there were entries in my journal about him... clearly he wasn't listening. Perhaps I'll tell him one day.
But not today, or we'll never get out of this bloody place.
I drop my backback and finish off my ice cream cone while he starts moving boxes to get toward the crates in the back of the room. I can tell we're going to be here a while. I might as well entertain myself while he's digging.
There's actually something incredibly intimate about this place-- so many parts of Duncan's past all crammed into one space. It occurs to me, looking around at the things boxed up and the things setting out as if on display only for him, that this place is Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He is in every book, every piece of art or weaponry, every box in the room. This place is his journal. His past captured in things, not words like my own.
"Francis picked up where Timon left off and taught me to write. So when I left, he made me promise to correspond with him so he'd know that I was continuing to learn. In the second letter I got from him he went on and on about a new visitor named Brother Matthew. You really must have made an impression on him, Methos."
Oh, I made an impression on the boy all right. He remains one of my sweeter memories.
He's talking while he digs-- talking about Brother Paul and Brother Francis and the time he spent in that refuge-- but I let the words fade into the background, just listening to the soft, deep timber of his voice as I move around the room, touching the things that belong to him, that he has touched hundreds of times.
There are several swords. One I recognize as Fitzcairn's. Another, I'm pretty sure was the sword given to him by Bonnie Prince Charlie. The others are less familiar. There are some pieces of modern sculpture-- surely Tessa's work. And the antique astrolabe that used to sit on Darius' desk. Near Tessa's artwork a motorcycle trophy sits, odd amongst the artwork, but just as precious for its memories of Richie.
One item stands out even more than the trophy, looking more like it belongs in a garage sale than this storage space. My curiosity is piqued. Picking it up, I turn and call out to Duncan.
"Mac, what on earth is this?"
"Huh?" he asks, looking up from the pile of papers he's sorting through. "It's Napoleon's head... what does it look like?"
"I can see that much. It's hideous. What's it doing here?"
It truly is a hideous piece of cheap ceramic, and it's been broken and haphazardly glued back together. Duncan chuckles and looks at the thing fondly as if it's a great work of art.
"When we first moved back to Paris, Richie bought it for Tessa. I don't know if he got it from a flea market or if some shopkeeper took advantage of an American boy. It was the thought that counted. Tessa had about the same opinion of it that you do and accidentally broke it one day. Richie tried to glue it back together for her when he found out. I think that's when Tessa figured out that the kid had gotten under her skin."
Duncan sighs wistfully and turns back to his papers. "She really loved him," he says quietly. I'm not sure if the comment is meant for me or not so I put the head back where I found it and move around behind some more crates to continue my exploration.
That's when I come across the Holy Grail.
Okay... that's a bit of an overstatement. It's just a few yards of cloth and some leather after all. But there's just something about the sight of Duncan's plaid hanging on a small rack that draws me to it. The blue and green wool is rough to the fingers, but there is a well-worn softness to the fabric that speaks of its age. Hanging next to the wool fabric is a leather and brass breast-plate, scuffed and scoured in places by battle, and stained in spots with the dark brown of long-dried blood.
This is Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Highland barbarian and Chieftain's son.
I can't resist its pull, so I pick it up and bring it to my nose. It's been cleaned, but the underlying scent, impregnating the very weave of the fabric, is strong. That scent and the vision it conjures travels a path straight from my nose to my cock.
It's the scent of damp wool-- damp with the heavy mist of the Highlands, and the musky sweat of its wearer. There is the dark tang of peat moss, the pungency of horse and sheep, the tang of blood, and the lightest hint of heather and sex. It smells of Duncan, only more, so much more. A younger, wilder, more primal Duncan MacLeod.
I can see him in my mind's eye-- that Duncan. Wrapped in the colors of his Clan, sword in hand, long, dark, wild hair framing his swarthy face, smudged with the blood and sweat of battle, his dark eyes deadly and intent.
Oh god. He's a beautiful creature. And it occurs to me that he's my creature, my Highland son, my barbarian.
"I found it," said barbarian exclaims from the other side of the room. But it doesn't matter... nothing matters now but the image in my head. Grabbing up the whole outfit, I make my way to him and drop the wool and leather in front on him. Reaching out I grab a fist full of his t-shirt and pull him to me in a hard kiss, then pull away just as abruptly.
"Put it on," I say. He just stares at me for a second, those brown eyes wide with confusion. Looking down at the clothing and then back up at me, he grins in that way that he always does when he can't figure me out. It's one of my favorite looks.
"You've got to be kidding?"
I shake my head and summon a voice and face from the distant past, then repeat my command.
"Put it on. Strip and put it on. Now!" I step back and lean against a crate, crossing my arms in front of me.
His eyes widen even further, then travel over me, taking in my flushed skin and the obvious erection pushing at my jeans. I can see it the moment he decides this is a game he will enjoy, that taking my orders will only benefit him in the long run.
Bright boy, my Highlander.
He quickly and efficiently toes out of his shoes, strips off his t-shirt and linen pants and only hesitates a moment before the briefs follow. Picking up the plaid wool, he shakes it out and folds it, wrapping it around and over his body as if it were only yesterday that he did it last. The leather and brass breast plate follows and I can't help but chuckle when he has to take a deep breath to jerk the buckles tight into place. Apparently, he's grown. I'd lay my money on muscle weight, not fat. There's not an ounce of unwanted tissue on the man these days.
When he's done, he steps forward, turns around once with his arms out to the sides and then bows before me with a flourish and a cheeky grin.
"Duncan MacLeod a' tha Clan MacLeod, at yer service, ma laird," he says in a deep Highland peasant burr.
God... is that what he used to sound like? What the hell was I doing four hundred years ago that was so important that I missed out on this? A good question to ponder for another time. Right now, another part of my anatomy is demanding attention.
He stands there, with that smug smile on his face, seeing how I'm affected by this image. Stupid bloody arrogant child. Someone should really teach him to respect his elders.
Moving forward, I circle him, taking in the sight, the smell, the heat of him. Stopping behind him, I lean forward and whisper into his ear, satisfied to see him shiver.
"On your knees, savage."
Oh, he likes that tone of voice. I'm a bit surprised to see how quickly he decides to do what I say. There is only a split second of indecision on his face before he slides gracefully down onto his knees and turns to look up at me, waiting for more instructions as I move back around to stand in front of him. He is a vision. The hair's not quite right, I think, reaching out to run my fingers through the short hair freeing some of the natural curl. But beggar's can't be choosers.
There's so much I want to do to him, so many possibilities. But first things first. One hand still in his hair, I reach down and rip open the buttons of my fly and free my cock.
"Suck it," I demand, pulling him forward.
He bobbles only slightly before reaching out to grab my thighs, finding his balance again. Heat flashes in his dark eyes just before he leans forward and touches the head of my cock with his tongue. Just the lightest of touches, but enough to send fire racing through my nerves. One path around the head and a warm fist closing around my shaft gives me no warning when he surges forward, pulling my foreskin down and enveloping the entire shaft in the wet, heat of his mouth.
Oh, he's gotten sinfully good at this particular activity. And the most infuriating thing about it is the smug pride he takes in being able to bring me to my own knees with just his mouth and throat.
But not this time. This time I'm in control. Putting both hands in his hair, I control the pace as he strokes and sucks and massages my cock with the same single-mindedness with which he does most everything in his life. With that kind of effort, it doesn't take long before I feel my center being pulled out of me by that mouth, erupting into his throat as the rest of my body shudders with orgasm.
When it's done, and I'm spent, he pulls back slowly caressing the over-sensitive skin as he does, making me shiver again. He looks up at me with that smug smile, bringing one hand up to wipe the fluid that has dripped down one side of his mouth-- that swollen, wet, red, amazing mouth. With the other hand he reaches under his kilt to touch himself.
"No!" I say, coming back to my senses. I have plans that don't include him helping himself. "Stand up."
He does as I say, keeping his eyes locked on my own the whole time. I reach out and grab the breast-plate, pulling him against me and claiming his mouth once more. This time I take my time, but I take what I want, diving deep and exploring thoroughly with my tongue, invading every corner of that exquisite mouth. When his arms reach around me to take control, I break the kiss and step back, pushing him away.
Pushing him back, up against the wall of the room. Looking around quickly, I find a length of leather cord, probably once used to tie a satchel or saddle bag.
"Give me your hands."
Again, he does what I say, but the smugness is gone. Now there is only a dark arousal and electricity about him. Oh, this is going to be fun. There's so much I want to do to him.
Jesus, what this man does to me!
Never in a million years would I have imagined myself willingly going to my knees before another man simply because he told me to. But that is the power Methos has over me. That's what he makes me want to do, anytime, anywhere.
I wonder if he knows what that voice does to me?
Of course he does. He knows everything about me. I don't want to examine why that voice sends sparks skittering across my nerves, and tightens my belly and groin. I've never asked, but I'm sure it's the voice of Methos the Horseman. How can I possibly be turned on by that?
Because I know it's only an act. I know that Methos is a part of the past, and this Methos is a man I can trust, have trusted with my life and soul. There is nothing he can do to me at this point that I wouldn't want him to do.
Perhaps that's an overstatement. I don't know. I don't really care at the moment.
"Lift your arms."
Oh yeah, I'll analyze later. There are better things to concentrate on right now.
He's tied my hands together with a leather cord and now he's stretching my arms up, tying them to a beam. He's stretched them just enough to make the muscles in the underside of my arms feel it.
It feels good-- the burn in my arms, the cool wall against my back, the tight pressure of my breast-plate against my chest. Jesus, he's devouring me with his eyes. I'm not sure my cock has ever been this hard before, and the wool is rubbing against it maddeningly. Dear god, I hope he does something soon.
Careful what you wish for, as they always say.
He's stripping off his own clothes now. Shoes, shirt, jeans. He is so amazingly beautiful naked. I never thought I'd see a naked man as beautiful in any way other than aesthetically. But he is beautiful on an elemental level. Those clothes he wears-- the over-sized sweaters and baggy coats-- they hide so much. He's getting better about that. I think now that he's not hiding behind Adam Pierson anymore, he feels freer to wear t-shirts and take off that god-awful coat of his.
But even the sparer clothes don't do justice to what's underneath. He is Michaelangelo's David. All pale skin, long lean muscles, perfectly proportioned limbs. And his grace. He puts cats to shame. All loose and unselfconscious, relaxed and comfortable in his own skin. I envy that. I really do. Maybe it's something that comes after a few thousand years, or maybe it's just him.
All I know is he takes my breath away.
But his body doesn't hold a candle to those eyes. Sometimes dark, sometimes green, and sometimes, like right now, they are gold. The pure gold of cat's eyes. Perhaps he is a cat-- the spirit of a Bengal tiger made human flesh.
Deadly, rare, sacred.
He must be, because right now he's stalking me, eyes tracking me as he moves. I have the sudden feeling that I'm his next meal. Sometimes, beyond the fact that he makes me happy, I have to stop and thank God that he loves me. Because he dangerous enough as a friend and lover. I don't think I ever want to know how dangerous he could be as an enemy.
Now he's in my space-- I don't even know how he got here that fast. One minute he's standing across the room watching me, the next his hot breath is on my face and his body is just barely touching the length of me. I try to kiss him, but he pulls back just out of reach of my mouth.
Dammit, Methos! Stop teasing me.
He reaches up, touching my wrists and trailing his hands down my arms, the inside of my elbows, my underarms, then down my sides, over my hips, and around to my buttocks. It's possessive, appreciative-- the way a man would stroke the hood of his Ferrari. I try to lean into the touch, but his hands are suddenly gone again, hanging loose at his sides. He leans in again and breaths into my ear.
"What do you want, Highlander?"
How can I be shivering so hard in this hot, stifling room? It's an easy question, though.
"You, Methos," I say, surprised at how hoarse I sound. "You."
His head snaps back and he laughs-- that deep baritone laugh from his belly that is a rare gift. His eyes twinkle in amusement, but my eyes stray to that throat, that incredibly long exquisite neck, his adam's-apple bobbing as he laughs. What the hell's so damn funny?
"You already have me. Perhaps I should restate the question... what do you want me to do?"
Oh. Okay. So it wasn't as simple a question as I thought. Well, he'll have to forgive me, there's very little blood anywhere near my brain at the moment. What do I want him to do?
Everything. Anything. Touch me. Kiss me. Fuck me. I don't care.
"Whatever you want, old man."
That amused grin turns tender, affectionate, and I swear my heart skips a beat or two. Another incredibly rare treat-- Methos unguarded and open. He lays a hand along the side of my face and strokes it slowly down my jaw and neck.
"Very good answer."
He leans in again to kiss me. But this time it's not hard and possessive, it's soft and slow and erotic, and it goes on forever. Breathing is not a problem, because he's breathing with me, for me. In through his nose, out into my mouth and lungs. He still tastes of vanilla ice cream and I'm dizzy from the lack of air. Holy Mary Mother of God! He's making love to my mouth, and from this alone, I could come.
But that doesn't seem to be in his plans. With a soft kiss to each of my eyelids, and a last lick across my lips, he moves back again. I groan at the loss, and groan again when he chuckles at my protest.
But it's okay, because now he's unbuckling the breast-plate, quickly and efficiently. Now we're getting down to business. I take deep breaths, trying to get myself under control again because I know I'm going to need it for whatever comes next.
He removes the armor and tosses it aside, without any regard for its age or value. Whatever. I'm just happy to be able to breathe deeply again. I had no idea I was that much smaller back then, I guess all the work has paid off. The kilt comes off with an easy tug and puddles at my feet, causing goosebumps as it grazes my sensitive flesh on the way down.
And then he's touching me. With his hands, and his mouth, and his body. Some hard, some soft. Prolonged, slow contact, followed by fleeting touches. He's got every nerve ending in my entire body vibrating, singing a tune that he commands, he controls, he desires. I think he may be killing me.
I love it when he's like this. Single minded, intent, focused totally on me, on taking me to some place I'm reluctant to go, but once I'm there, I rejoice in it. It's selfish and narcissistic, I know. But I love nothing more than having the world's oldest Immortal worshipping my body with five-thousand years of knowledge and skill and practice. You know what they say-- practice makes perfect.
Well, he's perfect.
And I'm in perfect agony. He has touched every centimeter of my body except for the one place that's begging and pleading for him. I'm so hard I feel like I could shatter from the slightest breeze. Everything's on fire, and I can hear my own voice in the distance, whimpering and begging, moaning and panting. My spine feels like it could snap from the tension in it, my arms are burning and my hands are numb, even the sweat dripping down my body feels like a caress on my super-heightened nerves.
Dear God.
And then, finally. Finally! There are gentle lips around the head of my cock, sucking in only an inch. But that's enough.
I really do shatter into a billion pieces. A billion pieces that fly apart in light and heat and electricity. No Quickening was ever this painful, and beautiful, and... and... Perfect. And then the pieces are being pulled back together, reassembled into trembling, liquid, whimpering flesh.
When I can open my eyes again, I look down to see him sitting back on his haunches, his arms crossed and resting over his knees, grinning up at me. His eyes are more green now than gold for some mysterious reason. He's so completely pleased with himself, I could smack him. Except I can't because I'm still tied up.
When he sees me pulling at the bonds, he rises fluidly, his hard cock jutting out in front of him, and retrieves his dagger from the pile of clothes he abandoned earlier. A quick, perfunctory kiss on my lips and he reaches up to cut through the leather, freeing my arms.
Damn it hurts when the blood rushes back into them. But he's there, holding me up on rubbery legs and rubbing at my arms to bring the feeling back into them. And then he's kissing me again and moving me back until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of a crate. He reaches around me and pushes stuff off the crate with a crash that makes me jump.
"Turn around, Duncan," he says gently, but it's no less a command than the previous ones. So I do. And he leans me over the crate, his hands grazing across my shoulders and down my back. I hold my breath, waiting. Waiting for what I know will come next.
There it is. A soft, chaste kiss in the middle of my left shoulder-blade. I breathe again.
I don't know what it is, or why it means so much, but it does. He did this the first time he took me this way. I think he did it to calm my nerves, or to thank me for giving myself to him. I don't know, but now it's become ritual. I think if he ever forgets to do it, I'll know it's over. Irrational isn't it? To put that much meaning into such an innocuous gesture.
That's what he does to me. Makes me irrational. Makes me happy.
I wonder if Duncan knows he does that?
Holds his breath and waits for me to kiss him on his shoulder. It touches me every time he does it. I've considered skipping that part, just to see what he'll do. But I can't bring myself to do it. It seems to mean too much to him.
Okay-- I'll be honest-- it means too much to me. That spot, in the middle of his left shoulder blade, it's mine. That tiny piece of Duncan MacLeod belongs to me. The rest of him belongs to his Clan, but this is mine alone.
Ridiculous idea, isn't it? But it's not. He's a man that can not be owned, can not be controlled unless he willingly gives up that control. Believe me, I tried my best from the day I met him to control him. He refused to be manipulated into taking my head under that bridge, and I haven't truly been able to manipulate him since.
Sure, on the surface, there have been victories. Times that he's capitulated, done what I wanted him to do. But I don't delude myself into believing that it was nothing more than me pushing him in a direction he wanted to go in the first place. Even at the height of my manipulation, when I got him to destroy the Horsemen, all I could do was put the players into place and let MacLeod's nature take him where he needed to go.
I can't even begin to articulate how glad I am that he refused my head that first night. I really was ready to die at the time, but if I had, I wouldn't have been given this gift.
You see, no one on earth surrenders as beautifully as Duncan MacLeod.
When our relationship first turned sexual, I never would have expected this of him. I wasn't even sure he'd ever let me fuck him. But he did, and the most delightful surprise, of all the surprises he has given me, was how much he loved this. He's not a submissive man, but one thing is for sure.
Duncan MacLeod loves being fucked.
I grab a bottle of oil, kept here for polishing swords I assume, and pour some on my cock and down the crack of his ass. I can't wait any longer. I don't think he can either. In one long slide, I'm inside him.
I still don't really get it. I enjoy being on the receiving end. A lot. But he gets off on it in a way that astounds me. We don't even do this all that often, hands and mouths are enough most of the time. But when we do, it's an extraordinary experience.
I suppose it has to do with his very nature. Duncan gives of himself all the time. He doesn't know how to not give. He's also an incredibly sensual creature-- he delights in sensory abandon.
I can't do that. I can't let myself go, give up enough control to do that. The amazing thing is that he seems to understand, he doesn't expect it from me. He doesn't ask in return for what he gives.
Perhaps that's not fair. Perhaps I take too much.
I don't know. All I know right now is the feel of my cock buried deep in his body, his back sticking to my chest with sweat, the rumbling groan deep in his chest as he pushes back against me to get me to move.
How can I deny him?
So I move, and he sighs. I reach up under his chest and wrap my arms around him, burying my nose in his hair and my teeth in his neck, and then I thrust and I pound and I plunge into him. And he takes it, all of it, and loves it. He takes me inside of him and makes me part of him, a distant shadow of how he reached down inside me during that Quickening in Bordeaux and took a part of my soul away from me forever. And it was okay, because it already belonged to him.
I am submerged in him and I don't ever want to come back up for air.
But eventually I have to. I can feel the wave cresting, the end nearing. So I reach down with one of my hands and take his hard cock in my hand and I pull him over with me, right off a cliff in an endless plunge toward nothing and everything.
One day, this Highland barbarian, Chieftain's son, will be the death of me.
I think he's dead.
Okay, he's not really dead. I can feel his chest drawing air into his lungs, and I can feel that air being expelled against my hair. But he's not moving other than that. And he's getting damn heavy.
"Methos," I groan, pushing up against him. He slips out of me and kisses my shoulder again, then slides down to the floor, boneless.
"Leave me alone, MacLeod. I'm dying."
I can't help chuckling at that, and at the sleepy, grumpy voice. It's the same one I hear most mornings when I try to wake him. I'd never tell him this, but I think he's adorable when he's grumpy.
"I highly doubt that, old man." I slide down next to him and pull him into my arms, reaching behind me for the wool plaid when he shivers, covering us both with it.
"You better be careful," he says, pulling the fabric up to his face. "It was the smell of this thing that set me off in the first place."
"You're joking?" I raise it to my nose and sniff it. It smells musty to me.
"Hmm. Smells like you. Sheep, sweat, blood."
"Oh thanks very much. You've got some bizarre kinks."
He snorts at that. He's got me there-- we've discovered some very odd kinks of my own since we've been lovers. And then we're both laughing-- at ourselves, at each other, and mostly just to dispel the intensity of what just happened. That's another thing I've learned about Methos-- he only does serious for about two minutes after orgasm. After that, serious is not tolerated.
"Perhaps we should discuss your little foot fetish," he says, running his toes up the instep on one of my feet, causing me to jerk at the sensation. It's true. I have this thing for his feet. I have no idea why, but I love to rub them, and it makes him happy. So why question it?
"God you make me young." He mumbles that as he burrows into my heat, but then stills suddenly as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud. I cherish it when he slips and says something he didn't mean to share.
I reach down and ruffle his short, soft hair, and whisper, "I love you too, old man." He jerks up to stare at me.
See what I mean about the seriousness boundary? I expect a cutting retort or joke. But he surprises the hell out of me. His face softens into a half-smile and he lays his head back down.
Wow. That's the closest I've come to getting a declaration from him. He doesn't say the words. I'm not sure why. Maybe one day I'll ask him. But it doesn't mean I don't know that he loves me. I do know. With every fiber of my being I know. And I know that he gives me what he is able. And that is enough for me.
It is probably more than I deserve.
His head comes up again and he rests his chin on his arm, which is now resting in my sternum. Complaining would probably be futile.
"I made a mess," he says, looking around at the things he tossed off the crate earlier. I grimace when I realize what it is. My memory box-- that's the best way to describe it. It's just an old wooden box that I keep things that mean something to me in. Not valuable things-- those are in a safety deposit box-- but the odd little things that I've collected to remember a moment in time, a valuable lesson, or a special person who crossed my path.
He's reaching over and sorting through the stuff with curiosity. Fitz's pipe is there, a snapshot of Tessa and Richie, Robert and Gina's wedding announcement, a little stuffed toy that I'd stuck in my pocket while being held in that damn chateau when the Watchers put Joe on trial.
And there's something else. Something he's managed to zero in on. A matchbook from Joe's, with the words "Hotel de Seze. Bordeaux." written on the back. Shit. I wonder what he thinks about that.
He reaches over and picks it up, turning it over in his fingers. His face is unreadable, blank, his eyes somewhere else. Finally, he looks up at me, an innocent, curious look on his face.
"How do you do that?" he asks.
"Do what?"
"Trust. How do you give trust like that?"
It's a broad, vague question, but I understand. It's not just about Bordeaux, it's more about how I can give over trust to him like I did here in this room. How can I give so much of myself? Funny thing is, that's exactly why I kept the matchbook. To remind me that I could trust him. That even when things look the worst, Methos will come through for me.
"I don't know, Methos. I just do. Only for you."
He nods and tosses the matchbook back in the box, as if that were a satisfactory answer. Perhaps it is. Perhaps it's just something to shelve for the time being. He sits up, and it's clear the conversation is over for now.
"I've had enough of this hard floor. Let's get out of here," he says, standing up and taking the plaid with him. He tosses it over a crate and reaches for his jeans. "And then you can buy me more ice cream."
"What? I already bought you ice cream." I put everything back in the box and reach for my own clothes. The meaningful moment is over. That's okay. I take them where and when I can get them with this man.
"Yeah, but I need to replenish my blood sugar."
He's got a whole host of rationalizations for eating ice cream. Aside from beer, it's his greatest weakness. I just laugh and make sure I pick up my wallet from where it fell out of my pants when I undressed. I also find the letter that we'd come in here for in the first place.
"Oh hey, you didn't read Brother Francis' letter." I hold it up, and he just grabs it from my hand and stuffs it in his backpack. I could protest that it's a very old piece of paper and he should be careful, but why bother.
"Later," he says as we leave the room and lock up.
"You know, it's the only letter that he mentioned you in. I lost touch with him after I left Kristin's."
"I don't doubt it. I wasn't there very long."
"Why not? Too many Immortals around?"
"Nope. Brother Paul asked me to leave."
"What?! Why would he do that?"
"He didn't appreciate me corrupting Brother Francis."
I can't help but laugh. Of course. It was an obvious answer. Only Methos could tempt a monk.
He tempted me after all.