Notes: Thank you to ilexa for the encouragement and thank you to rhiannonhero for being a terrific and patient beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Dedication: This story is dedicated to rhiannonhero for encouraging me in the Duncan/Methos love, for being a wonderful friend, and for always laughing at my jokes.

Methos was undeniably beautiful. At first, Duncan wasn't sure what drew his eyes so inextricably to him. He tried calling it charisma, or some special oldest living immortal aura, but he finally had to admit to himself that Methos was simply beautiful.

He was luminous. He drew his gaze. Duncan couldn't stop staring at the long lines of Methos' body, at those expressive features that were both angular and soft. He found it slightly disturbing that another man's beauty should so mesmerize and affect him. He'd appreciated men aesthetically before, of course. Even indulged in the quick, companionable trade of gratification between soldiers, but his attraction to Methos felt different, more compelling and more dangerous; he was powerless to look away, enthralled.

And it wasn't only Methos' appearance which drew him. Methos' unpredictable wit offset by his rare flashes of seriousness and the occasional crumbs of insight into his long life all left Mac fascinated and hungry for more. And Mac simply loved the sound of Methos' voice. He liked all the different ways Methos had of saying 'MacLeod.' With the slightest change of inflection Methos could sound like the name delighted him, pained him, confounded him, astounded him, so many rich, nuances of emotion. Duncan found he wanted to hear every different MacLeod in Methos' repertoire, wanted to hear each one again and again and wondered what it would take to get Methos to call him Duncan. Wondered what new subtlety of emotion the utterance of his given name might reveal.

A pleasant sun dappled afternoon of basking in the warm intensity of Methos' regard and floating in a 'MacLeod' symphony was drawing to a close. Telling time by the sundial of Methos' nose, Mac judged it was getting to be late afternoon, and they'd been sitting in this outdoor café since lunch. He felt reluctant to part. More and more of late Mac felt unsettled in his gut when it came time to say goodbye to Methos.

Mac made the dinner invitation knowing it would be declined, feeling disappointed none the less.

He walked home alone, but not lonely, accompanied by his memories of the afternoon's conversation. Occasionally Mac would frown or smile to himself thinking of Methos' attempts to scandalize and provoke him. Finally he allowed himself to linger on the memory of the farewell 'Macleod.' Had it really been tinged with desire and longing, or was that just wishful thinking? The heart once grown so fond was also doubtful and afraid.

***

Mac wasn't really surprised when Methos disappeared. It wasn't the first time the old guy had gone haring off into the night and doubtless wouldn't be the last, but he felt the absence more acutely than in the past.

Methos' absence did nothing to diminish Mac's fascination with his body. Thoughts of Methos' hands, long tapered fingers gesticulating as he spoke or tapping restlessly and provocatively along the neck of a bottle of beer, would spring to mind unbidden. For hours he'd be gripped by his visions. He'd fantasize about taking Methos' hand in his, about tracing the contours of palm and knuckles with his own finger tips. He'd imagine pressing Methos' palm flat against his chest.

Another day it would be the graceful curve of Methos' neck, or his mouth, the way a smile shimmered about the corners when he teased, the shape it made around the end of a beer bottle. And it didn't take a Freudian prodigy to pick up on the prevalence of bottles in Mac's day dreaming. A background hum of frustrated arousal became the accompaniment to his life.

On top of his lustful imaginings, Duncan would often become gripped with fear that something might happen to Methos out there wherever he was, and that he would never return. With immortals there was the impression of unlimited time, but Duncan was only too aware of the falseness of that impression.

The pleasantly mild September passed into a dreary and drizzly October and then a cold, gray November and still no word from Methos. Duncan thought about asking Joe if he had any news, but he feared he couldn't keep his tone casual. Besides, he doubted Methos kept Joe any better apprised of his comings and goings.

Mac had hoped his anatomical visions would fade with time, but they didn't. If anything they became more vivid and desperate, and with each passing day his life felt a little emptier.

***

Duncan tensed, sensing another immortal as he approached the barge. He knew there was a better chance it was friend than foe, but he crept cautiously and silently to the door and listened for a moment before thrusting it open with full force, sword out and ready.

Methos.

Elation made his heart beat faster before it constricted in a tight coil of annoyance. Methos was standing there, just as calm as you please, propped against the couch, ankles crossed, looking at Duncan with a small enigmatic smile as if he'd been round just last Thursday and not gone without a word for months.

"Hello, MacLeod." A warm, rich 'MacLeod' and then a true smile broke out across Methos' face.

Duncan felt all the anger leech out of him. Methos was safe. And he was here. "Hi." An answering grin spread across his face as he let his gaze sweep over the much dreamed of form. Methos' long limbs were akimbo in artless grace, his dark hair, cropped shorter than when he left, was sticking up in multiple directions. Mac had been starving for a glimpse of Methos. Now he took his time, allowing himself to glut. He took in the baggy clothes, the slightly hunched shoulders, the thin dark eyebrows arched over sparkling hazel eyes looking at him expectantly. "Hungry?"

"Ravenous."

"I was just about to start dinner."

"What are we having?"

"Pork chops sound good?"

"Sounds great. So does another beer."

MacLeod noticed the two empties already sitting on his coffee table. Methos made no move toward the refrigerator. "I suppose you want me to get it for you?"

"Oh, that would be nice." Methos flopped down on the couch, tipping his head back to innocently smile up at Duncan.

Duncan had to turn away quickly to keep Methos from seeing his idiotic grin. Somehow Methos made exasperation feel like delight, part of the disorienting effect he had on Duncan.

Even after his months of longing for Methos, Duncan felt surprised at the extent of his joy at seeing him again. He had to resist the urge to click his heels or whistle a happy tune as he walked to and from the refrigerator, the euphoria bubbling up inside him seeking an outlet.

The bottle was cold in his hands and Methos' fingers were startlingly hot as they accidentally curled around his own. Mac's heart stopped at the electric jolt of contact, and he froze for what felt like a long time but could only have been a split second. He jerked his had away, searching Methos' face for some sign of reciprocity. Methos' expression was blank, faintly inquisitive perhaps. If he knew how much that small touch had addled Duncan, if it had provoked similar feelings in him, there was no telling from his face. Duncan felt compelled to speak, imagining Methos could hear his rapid heart beat in the silence weighing in on them. "It's good to see you, Methos." His voice sounded breathless and uncertain, not at all casual like he'd wanted.

Methos kept him hanging in that inscrutable regard for a few more moments before tipping his head back to take an appreciative swig of his beer. "Mmm," the old man drew the back of his hand across his mouth like a child with a glass of milk, "that's what they all say for the first ten minutes." Deflecting with levity. Mac supposed it was for the best. He wasn't quite certain what he would do with a serious Methos.

***

Methos made no move to help with the cleanup, remaining sprawled on the couch looking sleepily cozy and content. Duncan hurried with the dishes so that he could join him, but as he was drying the last dish he realized Methos was no longer inside.

Stepping out into the chill night air, Duncan shuddered and pulled his coat a little closer around him. It was unlike Methos to voluntarily stand out in the cold. Duncan found him at the far end of the deck, head tipped back, eyes wide, staring at the full moon.

"No howling, please. Someone might call the police."

Methos did Mac the favor of turning to him and rolling his eyes before returning to his silent contemplation. His pale profile was in stark contrast with the dark night. Duncan joined Methos in his study, standing close enough that the fabric of their coat sleeves brushed, and he could almost imagine that he felt the heat of Methos' arm through the many layers of fabric, but not quite. Methos made no move to pull away though Duncan was standing much too close. The night was silent save for their breathing and the occasional rumble of a passing car.

"Always the same moon." Duncan said after awhile, breaking the quiet.

"Yes."

"I find it comforting to look up and see her always there, waxing and waning eternally as we do."

"I suppose." Mac's rare poetic mood seemed to amuse Methos.

"What did you think when Apollo landed?"

"I thought it was about bloody time."

A wave of affection rolled through Duncan, escaping as a chuckle. "Yeah, I suppose you would."

"And you?"

"I was so jealous I thought I might be sick."

Methos looked over at him, and Mac was relieved to see understanding in his eyes. A heartbeat of sympathetic silence passed. "Oh, Highlander," Methos said almost sadly, "must you always have new lands to conquer? Is this wide world not enough for you?"

Feeling too exposed, Duncan broke eye contact, looking down to where Methos' scarf had fallen open revealing the long, ivory column of his throat. Mac was seized with the immense desire to trail his lips along the silken skin. Letting his eyes travel the path to where Methos' neck disappeared into the collar of his coat, he had a sudden vision of himself discovering the landscape of Methos' body, the disembodied pieces of his longings laid out in a glorious whole for him to explore. If Methos were a woman he might have attempted some innuendo of that nature. Instead he only muttered, "I suppose it will have to do." His voice sounded thick and distant in his ears, difficult to hear over the thrum of arousal rushing through him. His gaze was still fixated on the exposed skin of Methos' neck. As if from very far away he heard himself say, "You were gone a long time."

"Bora Bora is very nice this time of year."

"I don't believe you were really in Bora Bora."

Methos turned away and cleared his throat noncommittally.

A stab of pain caught Duncan in the chest. Methos had been gone so long without a word. Duncan had missed him so desperately, and now Methos wouldn't even tell him where he'd been. It hurt.

"Do you never miss me when you're gone?" The words spilled out of him without thought. It was too late to take it back now. Methos' head snapped around to look at him, and Duncan could see that he'd revealed too much from Methos' wide, shocked eyes. Duncan was sick of hiding, anyway. He was tired of dancing around the attraction between them. Despite the butterflies in his stomach, he felt wild and bold, and Methos' face was just inches away. His pink, chapped lips an invitation to soothing kisses. It would be so easy to lean a little closer, slowly tilt his head to bring their mouths into alignment, feel Methos' hot, moist breath puff across his lips, and just, just . . .

"Just what exactly do you think you're doing MacLeod?" A quiet, cautious 'MacLeod', the one that implied that Duncan was some untamed and incomprehensible subset of the human species.

"I was thinking I might kiss you."

Methos blinked, then smiled; his expression turned reassuringly open and warm. "I would like it if you kissed me."

"Oh, good." Duncan wasn't sure if he had said it or if he merely thought it before Methos' lips were pressed to his, devouring and melting him with their lush invasion. It was all heat and softness where they were joined, and Duncan felt the warmth spreading through him like his body was slowly turning toward the sun.

Methos was licking him open, so gentle and sure, and Duncan felt completely at sea. He'd expected more passion and fire between them and didn't know what to do with this warm tenderness. Methos' arms twined tightly around him, and all Duncan could do was whimper helplessly into the kiss, any idea he'd had of being the leader in this completely abandoned.

Methos pulled back, gently caressing Duncan's cheek. "Have you kissed a man before?"

"Not a man like you. I've never kissed anyone like you before," Duncan answered honestly.

Methos leaned in and kissed Duncan again, still tenderly but deeper, with a new note of possessiveness.

Duncan's whole body felt oddly light, and he clung to Methos as an anchor. Methos slid his hands down and pulled their groins tightly together. Waves of sensation went shimmering up his spine as Duncan rolled his hips against Methos'. The fire he'd been expecting broke out across his skin, and he sagged against the broad chest in front of him, panting.

Methos' breath was hot on Duncan's ear. "Let's go inside." His rough timbre caught at the fabric of Duncan's arousal, making him harder than he could remember being in ages.

Duncan stumbled as he made his way to the door, and Methos caught his hand and led him down the steps.

Inside Duncan squeezed his watering eyes against the too bright light. The dinner plates drying on the dish drain caught his attention, the morning paper was draped over one arm of the couch. Mundane details surrounded him, grounding Duncan in reality. Suddenly his labored breathing felt less like arousal and more like panic.

"We don't have to do this, MacLeod. I'll go."

Methos' voice startled him. "No! No, don't go." Mac closed the short distance between them, placing his hands lightly on Methos' shoulders. "Just kiss me again." Methos obliged, but the kiss had changed. They bumped noses as they leaned in. Mac felt he was all tongue and teeth, and the rhythm was wrong.

When Methos reached down to cup his ass Mac jumped a mile.

"I think I'd better go."

Mac wanted to break something in frustration. Wasn't this what he'd been fantasizing about? He'd finally gotten his opportunity, and he was he ruining it by acting like a jittery schoolboy. "But I want you to stay." It was more of a wail than Mac cared to admit. "Please. Let's just sit for a minute."

Methos' pursed lips and arched brows eloquently conveyed his skepticism, but he went and sat down on the couch. Duncan sighed in relief, taking a seat next to Methos. Methos, who had been so warm and open out in the cold, dark night, seemed to have turned to ice in the warm light of Mac's living room.

Duncan took deep breaths, trying to calm himself, trying to figure out what he wanted and how to overcome this obstacle that had sprung up between them. His fantasies had been vague, all touching and disembodied body parts. The hard reality was much more powerful, more arousing, and more frightening. Methos remained still and silent next to him, his mouth drawn thin and pale from the tight press of lips, his long slender fingers clenched tightly against the denim of his thighs.

Methos jumped as Mac reached for his hand. Mac didn't let go; he found this first sign of uncertainty from Methos oddly touching. As he uncurled Methos' fingers, Duncan noticed the half moon indentations where nails had bitten into tender flesh. He allowed each of his fingers to slide along its mate on Methos' hand and then twined their fingers together. Then he took Methos' other hand guiding it to his chest to lay flat above his heart. Methos just stared at him, eyes bright and wide. Though Methos was completely still there was a subliminal tremor about him like a thoroughbred at the starting post, as if he might bolt at any moment.

"This is sort of new territory for me," Duncan said quietly, "but I do want this, want you."

The kiss was perfect, hot and slow. The floating feeling returned, and Duncan fell backwards pulling Methos down on top of him to press him into the couch. Methos' weight felt wonderful pressed all along the length of his body, and Duncan gave in to the instinct to rock up into all that solid warmth, enjoying Methos' small sounds of encouragement and approval.

Mac spread his legs, allowing Methos to slip between them, bringing more pressure to his groin, and he ground up and up and up, loving how each thrust only made him ache more. He could feel that Methos was hard for him as Methos ground down making small gasping noises like the ones he made when they sparred. Those sounds brought on a visceral memory of sweat and nearness and aggression that heightened Duncan's excitement and desire. He tangled his legs around Methos' waist, needing more contact.

The pressure was building now, and Mac continued thrusting, tipping his head back to moan long and loud. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his skin as his temperature soared with the warm tension building in his groin. Every thrust of his hips, every stroke of Methos hands or press of his lips felt wonderful. Duncan never wanted this to end, but he was already on the edge of coming. Methos was losing control above him. Moving wildly and kissing and biting all the exposed skin he could find. A few more thrusts, a few more nips just right *there* to his jaw, his neck, his ear, and he knew he'd fall over the edge. He wanted it now, and he tried to move faster, but he couldn't get the leverage he needed in this position; he grunted with the frustrated effort.

"Mac," Methos gasped out, raising himself up on his hands and looking down at him, "slo—ohhh," Methos' eyes squeezed shut as Mac gave a particularly energetic twist of his hips, "--slow down," he finished, looking incredibly appealing with his flushed cheeks and dazed expression. Methos' hand went tentatively to Duncan's forehead and smoothed his hair back. His expression was amused but gentle. "We have time. Slow down, MacLeod. Let me do this." And Mac found the strength to still his frantic drive to release because that was the most tender 'MacLeod' Methos had ever uttered. It was gentle and full of promise. Every nerve in Duncan's body cried out in protest, but his reason argued there were even better sensations to be had.

Methos kept his eyes open as he slowly leaned in, and Mac had time to reflect that their color was that of parched grass in summertime, before his own were closing, and he gave in to the sweet give and take of the kiss. Methos kissed the side of Mac's mouth, then the point of his chin and all along his jaw line. Methos' hair tickled Mac's nose, and he tipped his head back, exposing his neck. A murmur of approval and then that warm lush mouth was licking and sucking up and down the column of Mac's throat. The slick slide of Methos' lips and swirl of his tongue soothed him, and he felt a warmth unfolding from deep within, still erotic, but less frantic than before.

Methos slid off the couch to kneel beside it and removed Mac's shirt to blaze hot moist trails all over his chest, stopping for a moment to suck at a nipple or gently nip an abdominal muscle. Mac had a sense of being minutely dissected and mapped by Methos' tongue.

There had been hints in the past that Methos had this sort of warm tenderness in him, and Mac was happy to bask in the radiance of being its focus. He filled with a happy lightness, and when Methos moved back on to the couch to straddle him he opened his eyes to smile up into Methos', trying to communicate his desire to share this feeling.

Mac slid his hand slowly up Methos' thigh and over to the bulge in his pants. He squeezed lightly, and Methos hissed and thrust forward into Mac's hand.

"What can I do for you?"

"Anything," Methos said, shimmying his hips against Mac's hand in a way that made Mac draw in a sharp breath. Methos looked so sexy and wanton, completely in the moment, giving himself over to pleasure wholly and unselfconsciously.

"Have you wanted this, Methos?" Mac asked, using the heel of his hand to rub harder against Methos' erection.

Methos just tipped his head back and continued to press back against Mac's hand.

"You aren't going to answer me?" Duncan gave another little squeeze.

Methos only bit his lip to stifle a moan and shook his head in response.

Mac had intended his questions playfully, but Methos' reluctance to join in the fun made him prickle with sudden irritation. "Why won't you answer? Because you're afraid of revealing too much by saying you have, or because you don't want to hurt my feelings by saying you haven't?" Methos continued to ignore him, rocking steadily against Duncan's hand until he took it away.

Methos' head snapped down to pin him in a penetrating gaze. "You always have to push. Don't you, MacLeod?" The most common of all 'MacLeods,' the long-suffering, MacLeod-is-an-ignorant-child, 'MacLeod.'

"Have you wanted this?" Duncan repeated deliberately, undaunted.

Methos' eyes narrowed. Duncan could feel his measure being taken. "What are you playing at here?"

"It's a simple question, Methos."

"Come on, Mac, like you don't know how sexy you are."

"You think I'm sexy?" That hadn't been what Duncan was expecting. He tried to fight it, but he could feel the grin spreading across his face. "Tell me more."

This only seemed to annoy Methos further. "What is it you want to hear, exactly? My particular jerk-off fantasies about you in all their gory detail?"

Yes! Duncan involuntarily raised his hips and gasped as a lightening bolt of certainty seared through every fiber of his being, the image of Methos masturbating while thinking of him sent fire coursing through his veins. "Oh, yes," Mac managed to squeeze out around the sudden tightness in his throat, his voice desperately gravely and low.

Methos nodded curtly in assent and climbed off the couch. He jerked his head towards the bed then deliberately turned his back and shed his sweater as he walked over.

Duncan followed obediently as Methos clearly expected, but when Methos' hands went to his fly Duncan protested. "Wait. I want to undress you."

"I thought we were acting out my fantasy." Methos' voice was as dispassionate as if they were discussing the weather. "Take your pants off and lie back on the bed." It was an order, and he clearly expected no dispute. Mac was familiar with the voice Methos used to command. His instinct in the past had always been to resist Methos' bossiness, finding the old guy's superior attitude disproportionately irritating. Now he recognized that it was because much of that irritation had really been attraction. Gone was the considerate, gentle Methos from only a few minutes earlier, yet this strong, commanding presence in his bedroom was even more arousing, if a little intimidating.

Completely naked Methos lay down on his side next to Duncan. "I always began here, you see," he breathed in Duncan's ear. "If I tried to imagine any kissing or foreplay, my innate realism would take over and deny it could ever happen. Though I must admit," Methos cast a sly, appraising eye down Duncan's body, "you were harder in my fantasies." Duncan's erection had waned somewhat from nerves, but Methos licked his palm with such slow, sexy deliberateness that he was practically fully hard again even before the tight fist closed around his cock.

Mac groaned through clenched teeth. Methos seemed to know just the right rhythm to make him forget everything but the electric pleasure sliding through him. He spread his arms and legs wide and arched up shamelessly into Methos' grip.

"Ah, so beautiful," Methos whispered as if to himself. "How could you ask if I wanted you? How could you not know how I've burned for you?"

Methos was on top of him in a flash, his full weight crushing Duncan's chest, and his mouth taking Duncan's in a rough kiss.

Duncan knew what it was to be devoured, wet suction and warm pressure everywhere. Methos' mouth and hands were skilled and sure, finding all his secret places that made him gasp and moan. Where the foreplay on the couch had been a languid exploration, this was a deliberate claiming. Methos was staking Duncan's body for his own.

Duncan's arms came up to enfold Methos, but Methos' hand flew to his biceps, pinning them to the bed. He rubbed his cock rhythmically against Mac's stomach, then slid higher, grinding into Mac's chest. Mac could imagine how the coarse hair felt scraping against the sensitive skin on Methos' cock, and he was wracked by a sympathetic shudder.

Methos continued his move up Mac's body until his cock was just under Mac's collar bone. Mac could feel and see it there, large and red. Methos bent forward to whisper in his ear, "Normally at this point I tell you to open up and suck me, but I don't have that kind of patience tonight."

Mac wasn't sure which was more frightening, the image of himself lying helpless on his back with Methos' cock in his mouth, or how much the idea turned him on.

He hadn't realized he'd opened his mouth until he heard Methos chuckle and noted the direction of the older man's gaze. "Oh, you like that idea? Well another time, then. I've waited too long to fuck you." Methos bent to lick Duncan's ear, thrusting his tongue in obscenely before growling, "I am going to fuck you so hard." Duncan's heart leapt and his hips bucked wildly in anticipation.

"Yes," he cried in fervent agreement, though there had been no question.

Methos continued to lick and nibble at Mac's ear, his arousal obvious from his harsh panting breath, and his small, involuntary noises of pleasure. The force of Methos' desire was a tidal wave, and it was easy to get lost in it, easy to drown in the flood of passion, to float along and to let Methos have his way with him, but Duncan should have known that Methos would never let anything be easy between them.

Methos drew back, any evidence that he was having difficulty maintaining control gone in an instant. "Get some lubricant" he ordered calmly. The implication was clear. There would be no illusion of accident, no excuse that one thing had lead to another. Duncan had to make the choice to proceed with intent and aforethought, and he was being given one last chance to back out.

Mac froze under the weight of the choice. He felt goose bumps break out across his flesh as his earlier uncertainty returned, and he couldn't move.

Methos' warm hand touched his thigh, and Duncan looked up at him, suddenly miserable in his certainty that Methos was going to offer to leave again, terrified that he would agree. "MacLeod," Methos began, it was the tender 'MacLeod' from earlier, but Duncan tensed against what would follow. Methos sighed, and Duncan saw a shift behind his eyes. "Where is it? I'll get it."

Swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat, Mac indicated the second drawer of the nightstand, and Methos quickly fetched the clear plastic tube.

Methos knelt between Mac's parted thighs and leaned in to kiss him, warm and slow like it was the first time again. Methos' hand splayed against his chest, and Mac sank back into the pillows, getting so lost in the warm lushness of Methos' mouth that he was surprised when a slick finger brushed against his opening.

Mac's startled inhalation broke the kiss. "Shhh, you're doing fine," Methos reassured, and Mac sighed and opened to it as the finger slipped inside. Methos returned to kissing him and Mac was surprised at the way the pleasure sung through him from his mouth to his ass.

Methos' other hand went to his hair, soothing him as he added a second finger. After the initial burn the stretch of Methos' fingers began to feel good, a tantalizing ache that promised so much more. Duncan thrust his hips to draw Methos deeper inside of him, wriggling in satisfaction when he succeeded. He heard a sharp, stuttered inhalation and the hand in his hair clenched convulsively.

Methos reached down to stroke Duncan's cock while he continued to stretch him. Duncan rocked happily between the two points of sensation. "Yes, yes, yes," he sighed in ecstasy.

"You're ready."

Methos' words hovered somewhere between a command and a question. All Mac could say was "yes."

"Turn over." Mac complied immediately, resting his forehead on his folded arms, ass in the air. He felt Methos kneel between his legs, and then he felt the first press against his hole. Duncan stifled a sound of pain, and Methos' hand went to his neck, not pressing, just caressing gently. This tenderness and a few deep breaths helped Duncan to relax until Methos had slipped all the way home, fully sheathed inside him. Methos' sigh of pleasure sounded suspiciously like the word 'perfect.'

Methos' cock inside of him was much more intense than fingers. Duncan felt split wide open. The newness of what he was feeling leaving him slightly dizzy.

"Deep breath, Mac." Methos sounded like it was an effort to keep his voice steady. Duncan complied and felt Methos simultaneously ease out marginally then push forward hard.

Duncan shouted as white hot sparks ripped through him. "Oh god. Do that again," he groaned. He could feel himself clenching around Methos as he rocked and squirmed in an effort to get Methos in contact with that magic spot again.

Methos' hands gripped his hips stilling him. He could hear their labored breathing in the moment of calm before Methos began thrusting into Duncan with wild abandon. The slap of Methos' hips reigning like blows against his ass.

Methos moaned wordlessly as he fucked Duncan, and the sound of Methos lost in pleasure, the feel of him losing control made Duncan almost as hot as the fucking itself.

Methos' grip tightened as his steady rhythm turned erratic and frantic. "I'm sorry—too good—I have to—I can't—" Methos' agitated mutterings were cut off as he fell forward across Duncan's back and came.

Duncan felt the hot wetness explode within him. He could feel each jerk and pulse of Methos' cock, each accompanied by a shudder or a small moan from the man on top of him.

When the last spasms of orgasm had passed Methos pulled Duncan over onto his side so that they were back to chest. A hand encircled his cock without warning, and Duncan cried out in surprise. Warm pressure both familiar and unfamiliar returned the focus of sensation to his cock, but it wasn't enough to distract him when Methos slipped out, and he whimpered at the sudden feeling of emptiness.

"Shh," Methos' hand stroked briefly through his hair before he felt two fingers pressed back inside of him.

"More," Duncan pleaded, and Methos added a third finger.

Methos began working him rhythmically and methodically, the fingers in his ass and the hand on his cock providing wonderful counterpoints of sensation. The pleasure slowly building as if he were floating up from the bottom of a deep lake. Duncan felt no hurry to arrive at the inevitable destination. He could stay in this pleasant suspended state forever. Relaxed and cradled and pleasured. He felt—cherished.

"Oh, MacLeod." Duncan felt the shudder run through Methos as he breathed in his ear. Then Methos began working him much more roughly. The languid pace exploded in a frenzy of action as Methos found his prostate and began stimulating it without cessation.

Everything was suddenly too much and not enough, the pleasure so consuming it was almost pain. The patience from moments before was lost. Duncan felt he couldn't breathe, every muscle in his body strained as he bucked and struggled in a wild attempt to break the surface. He gasped in relief as at last the tension broke and flowed out of him in delicious waves of heat. He pulsed into Methos' hand for what felt like a long time, rocking his hips to gently ride out the aftershocks, hearing and feeling the soothing noises rumbling in Methos' chest.

Duncan turned his head to burry his face in the salty skin of Methos' neck. He sucked a kiss there, trying to calm his gasping breaths sounding too close to the edge of sobs.

As his heart rate slowed and his muscles relaxed he felt himself sinking down into deep sleep. He was barely aware of the shift of the bed beneath him as the body beside him left and returned. He didn't come awake when a warm, wet rag stroked over his chest and back and ass cleaning him. But he knew for certain that he was not dreaming when he heard it: "MacLeod." It was full of wonder.

***

Duncan's hand trailed through the sheets beside him, their warmth indicating the object of his search must only recently have been there. As he slowly opened his eyes and the sleep cleared from his brain he noticed his hand was sitting in a patch of bright sunlight. Not body heat after all. His senses told him he was completely alone on the barge. He suspected he had been for some time. He wasn't particularly surprised and tried not to be too melancholy. He had to believe there would be time to explore all that Methos had told him with his body the night before. "You'll have to stop running someday, old man," he sighed to the empty room.

Then he noticed the slip of paper lying on the pillow next to his:

Don't brood, MacLeod. I shall return. In the meantime, don't doubt that I will miss you more than you know.

M.

~End~

compliments or criticisms welcome, feedback to pun at popullus.net