by C.L. Finn
I don't know how I get myself into these situations. Oh, alright... I hang out with the world's oldest brat and I open my big mouth. A deadly combination. The man absolutely loves mind games, and he's been in rare form since we left Paris a few months ago.
This particular game started with him being irritated at me this morning. When I pointed out that he was annoyed because I'd flirted with the waitress at breakfast, he'd leapt to a denial. Of course, it had that 'methinks the Old Man doth protest too much' quality to it, but who am I to judge? I could tell it was eating him up all day, too. So I couldn't help myself as we wandered around Key West, I took every opportunity I had to use my charm on members of both sexes. Yeah, so I'm not above game playing myself when I get the chance to get back at him just a little.
In typical Methos fashion, he decided he had to prove his point and brought it up again at dinner.
"I must say," he said out of the blue when I was busy enjoying my key-lime pie, "your little display today wasn't terribly subtle."
"What display?" I asked, knowing exactly what he was referring to.
"You know what display," he snapped. "Mr. God's gift to the women... and men... of the earth. Flirting with everyone who crossed our paths. It was incredibly childish if you ask me."
"Well, as you like to point out... I am a child compared to you."
His hazel eyes narrowed in annoyance and I got the feeling I was walking a very fine line. I was just asking for it.
"I don't get jealous," he said simply and intently.
"Of course not. And you haven't felt guilt since the eleventh century. And you haven't lived this long by caring about anyone but yourself. And your own survival is more important than anything else. And..."
"All right," he cut me off. "For God's sake, what do you do? Keep a tape recorder around just so you can quote me back to myself?"
"No... but it's a good idea," I grinned. I couldn't help it. He's just too cute when he's really annoyed at me. Yeah, so arguing is what passes as foreplay with us. Twisted, isn't it? It seems to work for us.
"You, Highlander, are the territorial one. You're the one who gets jealous."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"Name one time."
He stared at me for a second and then leaned back in his seat with a smug grin. "Byron."
Very low blow. "Nope," I shook my head emphatically. "Doesn't count. We weren't together. And I didn't kill him because I was jealous."
He grinned even wider, enjoying the fact that he'd hit a sore nerve. Then I saw something that truly frightened me- his eyes lit up with an idea- an idea I wasn't going to like from the looks of it.
"So, you're telling me that if I felt like going out and picking up some hot, young thing, you wouldn't have a problem with it?"
"Nope," I said. Damn Highland bravado.
"Riiiiight," he drawled. "Male, hot young thing?"
"No problem."
One thing Methos can't resist is a dare.
So, now I'm sitting next to him in this gay nightclub, listening to him discuss the various physical attributes of other men as they wander in. He hasn't let me in on his plan, but I can pretty much figure out that we're here to choose said "hot young thing". He seems to want my help in making his choice. If I live through this night, I just might strangle him with my bare hands.
"Hey," Methos breaks in, nudging me with an elbow. "Hey Mac... how about him? I've always had a thing for long hair."
I just barely manage not to spit beer all over myself. This particular guy is probably 6'3" and a walking advertisement for steroids. Tight jeans, cowboy boots, a leather vest, and wavy blond hair laying on his shoulders make him look like an extra from some '80s rock video.
"Who? Hercules over there?" I ask, laughing at the suggestion. He's obviously trying to goad me now. "Go for it, Methos. I'm sure he's just your type."
"Nah... I never did like Hercules. Talk about an ego..."
"Don't start," I interrupt him before he can start some outrageous story about an ancient Greek mythical figure. This is his new favorite past-time- spinning tales about his past that leave me not knowing what's true and what isn't.
"Okay, fine," he shrugs and turns back to the bar, motioning the bartender for another beer. "If you don't want to learn about the past, who'm I to complain. Just because you think the history of the world begins in the Scottish Highlands, doesn't mean... Hel-lo," he sing songs, catching sight of something back near the front door. He takes his beer and turns away, leaving me to pay the bartender.
"Finally, a little substance," he murmurs and I turn to follow his line of sight. The substance of which he is obviously interested is standing just inside the door looking around the room. He is nothing like the other men Methos has been commenting on all night. There's nothing remarkable about his body or clothes- simply functional and comfortable-- except for the ridiculous pork-pie hat perched on his head. He is, at first glance, like Methos himself, just a guy.
But Methos is right. There is something of substance to this man, something that makes him stand out from this crowd. He is African-American, but his cinnamon-colored skin hints at a bi-racial background. His dark eyes are soft, but keenly observant, if not a bit wary. His unusual mouth is framed by a basic black goatee, which he rubs unconsciously once as his eyes move over the dance floor.
As the guy's gaze moves toward the bar, Methos shifts slightly away from me, slipping into a casual pose that's clearly meant to make him appear alone. I don't know if his gaze stops to consider my lover, because I'm too busy watching him myself. It always astounds me when he changes persona lightening-quick like this. One minute he is Methos, my cynical, smugly amused, ancient friend and lover. The next he is what appears to be a variation on Adam Pierson- young, skittish, wide-eyed. Only this Adam isn't slouched into his over-sized clothing, giving the impression of an ungainly colt. No, this Adam is more like a gazelle- a keen awareness of his own long limbs as he moves with spare grace. Not much movement, just a shifting to a slightly different perch on his bar-stool and a reach to his left to grab a couple pretzels before taking a long pull on his beer.
He is utterly hypnotic.
A crooked, shy smile forms on Methos' face and I turn around to locate his prey again. The guy's eyes narrow briefly and I can tell he's looking Methos up and down, finding him perhaps not as hypnotic as I do, but definitely worth a second look.
Just as quickly, his eyes move away again and he heads across the room, sliding onto a barstool a few feet down from where we are standing. He leans over and places his order with the bartender, who fills a beer mug and passes it over.
I glance back over at Methos, only to find him watching me. Watching me with that penetrating, curious, but slightly amused gaze that he aims at me so often. It un-nerves me, not simply because it gives me the odd feeling of a bug under a microscope, looking inside me and knowing me, but also because it sends a strange current of excitement down my spine and into my gut. He is measuring, calculating, and planning. And whatever that plan is, it will surely tilt my foundation just that little bit more.
How one person can simultaneously terrify and arouse me continues to mystify me.
And if I didn't think he could make me more nervous, he gives me a crooked grin and asks, "Ready to have some fun, MacLeod?"
"Depends on what kind of fun."
His Mona Lisa smile never wavers as he stands up from his stool and downs half his beer, then slides the rest of the glass over in front of me.
"All you have to do is hang out and behave yourself.."
Before I can even consider a response to that, he is gone, moving through the small crowd around the bar to lean up to the bar practically on top of goatee-guy. The bar is circular, so I have a fairly good view of what Methos is up to. Clearly, his intention. So, this is a test. He's going to pick up this guy while I watch just to see if I'll get jealous and possessive on him.
It's times like these when I wonder why I didn't just go off with Amanda to her island in the Mediterranean.
Methos orders another beer from the bartender, paying for this one himself, and turns to say something to the man he's standing next to. Whatever it is, makes the fellow smile and nod. A brief reply has Methos laughing then sticking his hand out to introduce himself. He turns around, leaning against the bar on his elbow and proceeds to engage the fellow in conversation.
I have no idea what he's saying to this guy-- the bar is too crowded and noisy, and even if I could lip-read, Methos is turned away from me now. I'm left watching his new friend's reactions to whatever amusing story he's telling. And watching the tilt of his head, the shifting of his back through the black t-shirt that he wore tonight.
I have to admit, I like being in a warm climate with Methos. His usual baggy sweaters and oversized coat have been shed in favor of worn jeans and t-shirts or light-weight cotton button-downs. The sun has taken away his pallor, giving his skin a healthy, warm glow, emphasizing his gold eyes and lightening his dark hair. In the two months since we left Paris, we have both shed our former skins to some degree. Everything seems lighter, easier, joyful even.
And maybe that is why I'm sitting at this bar admiring my lover's back, taking pleasure in watching him charm another man. If his intention was to make me jealous, he has failed. And that thought, more than any other, makes me grin like a fool.
Methos' new buddy is laughing now, talking animatedly with his hands. All of the ancient Immortal's attention is riveted on him, those gold eyes surely sparkling in amusement at whatever nonsense this guy is spouting. It's fascinating to watch, but my curiosity is not appeased. I need to hear his voice... the deep timber that he uses to seduce.
I must confess to a certain weakness for Methos' voice. It is the one thing about him that truly fits a five-thousand year old man. Sometimes late at night, I'll get him talking about something... nothing important, just esoteric nonsense... and close my eyes. I can hear the dark smoke of ancient storytellers around campfires, and the sure authority of one who has ruled and conquered. And atop that, there is a fond gentleness that I like to imagine is for me. One of these days I'm going to find a way to get him to read ancient poetry to me. But not until I can find a way to do it without setting myself up for endless ridicule.
Picking up the beer Methos has left me, I work my way around the bar, settling into a barstool just behind Methos where I can eavesdrop on his conversation.
". . .so the bear says, I didn't come here to hunt."
Methos laughs ridiculously at whatever joke his companion has been telling, then shakes his head. "You Yanks have a strange sense of humor."
"Hey," he snorts in response, "I ain't ever claimed to be sophisticated. Not much call for it in a murder police."
Methos is hitting on a cop? Terrific. An inner-city cop from the sound of his speech pattern-- not from around here either.
"Fair enough," Methos answers with a tip of his head and his beer glass. "What's it's like being a homicide detective? It must be bloody fascinating. I must say, I can't imagine seeing dead bodies on a regular basis."
He says this with an eloquent little shiver and I can barely keep myself from groaning out loud. The old man is really pouring it on.
"All part of the job," he answers then grimaces. "But no shop talk, I'm on vacation. Dance with me instead."
"Dance?" Methos asks, seemingly startled. "I'm British, we don't dance." I just know he kept a straight face when he said that too.
"Sure ya do... come on." He reaches out and grabs Methos by the hand, pulling him reluctantly onto his feet and pushing him toward the dance-floor, the old man laughing and protesting the whole way.
Apparently, he was right. He doesn't dance-- at least Adam Pierson doesn't. He kind of flails around, all arms and legs, attempting to imitate some of the more proficient young men around him. His buddy is much better-- not the best dancer in the place by any means, but not bad either. He also seems to be amused by Methos' attempts at keeping up with the hard driving techno-rock they're playing.
This piques my curiosity. I've never actually seen Methos dance before. I wonder if this is just part of his Adam Pierson persona or if he really doesn't have any rhythm. It's hard for me to believe considering how much natural grace the man has, whether he's drinking a beer or making love. And his fighting style is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. No, he must be a good dancer. I'm going to have to get him in a tux sometime and find out if he can waltz. Or perhaps a Tango would be more suited to us.
The music changes, slows down, becomes something more sensual, more latin. Methos' companion pauses for a minute, uncertain of his next move, but it doesn't matter because Methos-the-cat has moved in closer, leaning in to say something in his ear, one hand resting feather light on his shoulder. His friend smiles and relaxes, his arms coming up, encircling Methos. And then they move, perfectly in sync, gangly Adam Pierson is gone in favor of this lithe, sensual creature.
God, he is beautiful.
Methos has pulled their hips together, one of his thighs thrust between the other man's legs. One arm is wrapped around him, holding him close as they move, the other hand in constant fluid motion, touching lightly here and there, exploring. He follows Methos' lead effortlessly, his dark eyes now half-lidded, yet watching Methos intently. His tongue snakes out to wet his lips as Methos' fingers graze feather-light across his cheek, trace his goatee, and then run down his throat. A soft smile on Methos' face, he moves the hand around to the back of his neck, gently tilting his head up. He leans in and says something to the man, his lips grazing an ear as he does. Even from here I can see his companion shiver and nod slightly.
A grin lights Methos' face, his gold eyes flashing in the shifting light on the dance floor. Then he swoops back in, claiming those unusual lips, softly, but with no hesitation, no question. His partner responds enthusiastically, leaning into the kiss, his dark hands moving up Methos' pale arms, exploring his shifting, angular biceps.
I can't believe he's actually doing this.
I really can't believe I'm standing here watching it. But I'm glued to the spot.
As if he hears my thoughts, Methos pulls away from the kiss, moving to nuzzle at the man's neck, and he looks up, straight at me. His eyes are incredibly hot, incredibly intent, and incredibly amused. I know I should do something, say something, maybe stop this little game of his. But I can't. I should be angry at him for this, but all I can manage to be is amazingly, unbearably aroused.
I wonder idly if this is some kind of punishment or reward... that I should love this aggravating, occasionally infuriating, remarkably sensual, and utterly intoxicating creature. He is my very own incubus, bewitching me and holding me in his spell, reshaping me into something different. He makes me insane.
I'm not sure, if given the choice, I would have it any other way.
The music ends, changing back into that driving techno-rock they've been playing all night. Methos and his companion don't seem to notice the change at first, then Methos is pulling back, talking to him again. This time, it is the other man, who reaches up, taking the initiative, pulling him back into a brief, hard kiss. Then he's stepping back, moving away, turning around and heading toward the back of the club, Methos right behind him.
They pass right by me and Methos pauses, kneeling down as if he's dropped something. He stands up slowly, smirking at me and asks simply, "How'd you like to watch?"
Then he's gone again, snaking through the crowd that has begun to grow in this club. Unbelievable. Damn smug bastard, he knows exactly what his little show on the dance floor did to me. So he figures he can go as far as he wants and I'll go right along.
Perhaps he's not so wrong.
I throw some cash down on the bar as a tip and gulp down the last of my now-warm beer, then I wade into the crowd myself, easily following his presence without being able to see him. As I come out the other side of the crowd, I see him slipping out a door, clearly marked "Emergency Exit Only".
He's not really going to... Is he?
Sex in an alley with a stranger? Really Methos!
That's my first thought. My next thought isn't something I want to share.
Slipping out the same door, I stop in the dark moldy alley and look around. It's a fairly large area, but very poorly lit, only a single flickering bulb giving off any light. There are piles of beer crates, and overfilled dumpsters... with all the attendant aromas. I wonder briefly if there are other couples out here, deep in the shadows.
But Methos has made it easy for me. He and his new friend are illuminated by the small, shifting pool of light. I move away from the door, hiding myself in one of the dark shadows where I can see what Methos is up to. If he wants me to watch, then I suppose that's what I'm going to do.
Methos has his back propped up against the wall, his feet spread wide to accommodate the man who is currently devouring his mouth. Their hips are grinding together in a slow, sensuous rhythm, still mirroring the earlier latin beat, and fed by the current bass beat vibrating from the walls of the club. I can feel it in my feet and my hand against the brick wall... I can only imagine how it feels to Methos.
Though he is being pressed up against the wall, Methos is by no means passive. His long graceful fingers are framing his lover's head, controlling the angle of the kiss. I have to say the contrast between their skin is fascinating, Methos with his vanilla-ivory skin up against the color of chocolate ice-cream. It is utterly breathtaking.
The darker man moves down, sucking and biting at Methos' long throat, while his hands move up inside Methos' t-shirt to explore more intimately. Then I hear him... he's moaning softly, talking low and deep to the man making love to him. I'm not close enough to hear what he is saying, but I can hear the low murmurings of that voice.
For the first time in this entire game of Methos' I feel a rising surge of jealousy. That voice belongs to me... that dark, low private tone is for me alone. Or so I like to believe. And then it occurs to me... maybe it is now as well. That particular thought shoots straight to my groin. My cock, which has been half-hard all night quickly switches to high-beam.
Apparently, goatee-guy isn't as appreciative of that voice as I am. Giving up on Methos' throat, he covers his mouth again, stifling the sound. In the space of a blink, Methos takes control again, reversing their positions, pushing his friend up against the wall and devouring his mouth , then moving down to attack his throat, sucking enthusiastically at his Adam's apple. The guy leans his head back to give him more access, knocking off his own hat in the process. It doesn't seem to register with either of them.
Methos is whispering again, seducing him with words as his hands move down his body, moving behind to grasp his ass, grinding his pelvis tighter against him, then moving around to trace the bulge in the man's jeans. The man, in turn, is pushing up Methos' t-shirt, grasping hard at his back. Methos' back catches the shifting light and I can see the defined muscles shifting as he moves.
Have I mentioned I love his back?
His friend moans and I tear my eyes away from Methos' back to see his nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his Levi's. He reaches inside, stroking his find once, hard and quick, causing a gasp and louder moan. Methos chuckles deep in his throat, and then he's moving...
He's moving down.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. I can't believe he's doing this.
I can't believe I'm doing this. Have I said that already?
Kneeling down, Methos places one hand firmly on his belly to keep him in place. With the other, he deftly frees the man's cock from his jeans and boxers, stroking it softly. When he relaxes against the wall again, Methos slides the hand on his belly down and around to cup the top of his thigh. Then he leans in and nuzzles the cock. And I just know that he's inhaling and humming softly as he does, because that's what he does to me.
And suddenly I can feel it. I can feel the heat of his breath, the minute vibration of his humming. Oh God. I have to clap my own hand over my mouth to keep from groaning and bringing attention to myself. I suddenly realize that my other hand is grasping my own cock through my shorts. I'm not even sure when I did that.
With an iron will I remove it and grab hold of a pipe on the wall next to me. There is no way I'm going to masturbate in an alley while watching Methos make love to another man. There's only so far I will go in this game. Besides, I have other plans for this damn painful erection that doesn't include my hand.
Methos kisses the tip of his penis, then laps at it with his tongue, before opening his mouth and taking it slowly in. His partner hisses, his body tensing up at the sensation. I tear my eyes away from Methos to look at his face. He's watching Methos through dark, hot eyes, and he unconsciously rubs at his goatee before reaching down to run his fingers through Methos's soft hair in a surprisingly affectionate gesture. My own fingers flex, feeling the strange softness of that short, dark hair.
Then Methos must be changing his technique, because his partner gasps and his head goes back against the wall again, his eyes closed. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and the hand not in Methos' hair clenches in a fist against the wall.
I know just how you feel, buddy. The man's got some real talent.
He is, after all, the world's oldest cocksucker.
That thought draws me back to my lover. Kneeling there at this man's feet, his hands wrapped around his solid thighs, and his lips wrapped around his dark cock. His eyes are closed, dark lashes shadows on his face, his cheeks are hollowed, making his cheekbones stand out in sharper relief than usual, and his neck is tilted back exposing that long, pale throat. Even from here, I can see his Adam's apple bob, his head moving slowly as he works up and down the cock in his mouth.
Dear God, is this how he looks? Being on the receiving end of that mouth, I've never had a good view of him like this. And like his friend here, my eyes are usually closed by this point. It's utterly fascinating to watch from the outside.
So to speak.
This isn't going to last long, I can tell. Methos is speeding up his movements and his companion has begun thrusting into his mouth, taking control of the situation by grabbing a handful of Methos' hair. The thought crosses my mind that if he hurts Methos, I'll kill him. But then I remember what it feels like to be at this point... battling Methos, who loves to tease and slow things down exactly when you need the opposite. And I've learned over the last months that Methos does this for precisely the purpose of getting you to lose control.
I have to admit, my cock is so hard right now, I could pound nails with it.
And Jesus, he's coming. His head's thrown back against the wall, eyes shut tight and mouth open in a near-silent gasp. The tendons in his neck are stretched tight and a low moan escapes, echoing in the cave-like alley.
This man is beautiful. Or perhaps it is Methos that makes him so.
I look back down at Methos. He lets the cock slip from his mouth, placing a final kiss on it before tucking it back into his jeans. He looks up at his companion and the light catches the small streak of liquid that has escaped Methos' mouth. My tongue slips out unconsciously to lick my lips. He reaches up to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, but a dark hand stops him, pulling him up by the wrist.
Methos stands and his friend pulls him close, his tongue sneaking out to lap at Methos' mouth, then plunge in for a slow, deep kiss. Dear God. I have to close my eyes and lean back against the cool bricks to get myself under control. My cock is unbearably hard and my hands itch to touch Methos, my mouth is watering at the thought of that mouth. I find it necessary to reach down, into my loose shorts and grasp the base of my cock hard just to keep from coming. Several deep breaths and I'm able to open my eyes again.
They're still kissing, but the ardor has faded somewhat, things are slowing down. Wanting to reciprocate, the man reaches down to undo Methos' jeans, but Methos stops him gently. He kisses him again and whispers something to him. Apparently, the game has ended.
Desperately needing some air, free of the stench of this alley and the smell of sex, I decide it's time to take my leave. I slip through the shadows to the end of the alley, out onto the boardwalk beyond, thankful for the long, loose shirt I chose to wear tonight. I sit down on the wood railing across the street and wipe the sweat off of my face, taking deep breaths of the salty, clean air.
A few minutes later, Methos comes sauntering out of the alley-way, a smug grin on his face. Oh, I can already tell he's going to be insufferable. See, he may not have proven what he set out to prove tonight, but he's found a new button to push. And he already knows it.
I stand up before he gets to the rail and start down the street. He falls into step beside me easily, our steps synchronizing as if from long familiarity. I look over at him once and find him watching me out of the corner of his eye.
"Done with your new playmate?" I ask him.
He grins at me... that rare, full-faced, open grin of his that I love so much... and he nods. "I got what I wanted," he says flippantly, "and he got what he wanted. Question is, Mac... did you get what you wanted?"
Why on earth do I put up with this infuriating man?
I give him what he wants... that long-suffering sigh that he's come to expect.
Then: "That remains to be seen."
He blinks at that, surprised by my comeback, apparently. Then he grins again and falls back into pace with me as we walk back down the boardwalk towards our bungalow, silence falling comfortably between us.
Stopping at the door to our little rented bungalow, he leans up against the doorjamb as I dig the key out of my pocket to unlock it. He's unconsciously tapping something against his leg, and before I push the door open I reach out to grab it. It's a small white business card with a city seal on it. It reads "Detective Meldrick Lewis, Baltimore Police Department". On the back, a phone number is scribbled in barely legible script, and I have to squint to make out what else is written on it.
"Express my gratitude to your buddy in the shadows."
Shit.
I look up at Methos, who is watching me with that damn amused, knowing smirk. All I can do is grin back at him. And then we're both laughing, and I'm pushing him inside and walking him backwards toward the bed. I toss him down on it and cover him with my body, claiming his mouth in a kiss.
And oh dear God, I can taste him. I'm suddenly harder than I was before.
I push my groin down into Methos' with a groan and laughter rumbles up from deep in his chest before he pulls away from the kiss and grins up at me with, those cat-eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Why Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, I do believe we've discovered a new kink."
"Shut up, Methos," I growl and then make sure that he won't be talking for quite a while. His mouth has gotten him into enough trouble tonight. I intend to put it to better use.