Methos dug out another dandelion from the herb garden, tossing it into an accumulated pile of nutgrass and other weeds that threatened the more desirable plants.  He could, no doubt, have had the gardener do it, and had probably earned a new round of grumbles from the staff that normally attended the large house, but it was a pleasant chore on a relatively balmy day for London.  His friend, co-author and sometime lover, Lord Jonathan Andrew Stewart Montesque, was off in Malaysia somewhere, looking at temple ruins.  The man was a gifted photographer who loved to spend time in inconvenient and uncivilized places. 

Methos, however, had spent too many centuries both inconvenienced and uncivilized to want to deliberately recreate the experience.  When Andy got back, they would pour over the hundreds of pictures he had taken, discuss his adventures at great length, and ultimately write a book about the history, culture and people of wherever he had visited.  It would be large and beautiful, decorating many an antique coffee table.  Given Andrew's status and connections, Methos hoped they might even make some money from it. 

Andy's long sojourns into the wild left Methos alone in the large London townhouse, where he found his life pleasantly quiet and peaceful and serene, even in the heart of the busy old city.  He hadn't had a single deadly adventure since that awful business with the Sanctuary bloodbath, when he had made a mad dash to the States.  His mouth tensed at the remembrance of Connor MacLeod's death.  It was a damned shame.  There were too few Immortals left who cared about more than where their next million, or their next Quickening, came from. 

In the aftermath of Jacob Kell's slaughter of all the Immortals who had voluntarily retreated from the world, it seemed unlikely that anyone would re-establish a new Sanctuary any time soon.  If the Watchers tried to use involuntary Immortals, Duncan MacLeod would eventually hear about it and, no doubt, tear the place down brick by brick.  If they were voluntary, the stubborn, but decidedly charismatic man would probably take the despairing Immortal in hand and wheedle and cajole and generally take over the poor asshole's existence until they gave up their quest just to get MacLeod to leave them alone. 

Methos smiled to himself.  At least he was hoping that was the case.  Mac had had more than his own share of grief and despair, but always seemed eventually to bounce back, a little battered, a little more sadness around his eyes, but always with hope for the future.  Sometimes it took a good swift kick in the bum to get him there, but the man was like these weeds.  No matter the power brought to bear to root them out, they would always return. 

Methos scooped up the pile of dandelions he had gathered and dumped them into the plastic dustbin he had brought along for the purpose.  He pushed himself to his feet, stretching legs and back cramped from stooping so long, and gathered the borrowed gardening tools to put back into the shed.  It wouldn't do not to have everything just so, or Albert, the gardener, would give him no end of grief. 

Along with the twinge of discomfort from strained muscles came a familiar jolt of unease whenever he thought about MacLeod.  The man had found him after Alexa had died and been a steady and consoling presence afterwards, not offering sympathy, exactly.  Methos hadn't wanted sympathy.  He had gathered Alexa into his heart knowing it was temporary, knowing she was dying, knowing it would hurt when she did.  But Duncan was there, giving him palpable reassurance that life continues, that there would be other, better times, other loves to provide that sharp, sweet exhilaration of living totally, happily in the moment. 

But MacLeod was less willing, or less able, to accept similar consolation, and had disappeared after his beloved teacher and kinsman, Connor, had committed suicide on Duncan's blade, and the subsequent battle with Jacob Kell.  Methos was glad he had been too far away to watch that one.  MacLeod had survived - again, but had spurned any of Methos' admittedly tentative offerings of companionship or comfort, opting to retreat to the wilds of Northern Scotland for the past year and a half.  Their mutual friend, Joe Dawson, had let him know Mac was making tentative forays into the wider world in the last few months, but Methos had not heard from Mac, and probably wouldn't, perhaps for years or decades.  Methos' presence might very well be a reminder of too many painful moments in the man's tumultuous life. 

He mounted the stairs into the back solarium, and heard the phone ringing.  It was Sunday, his favorite day since the staff had the day off and he had the house to himself.  The answering machine clicked on as he attempted to clean the grime from his hands by wiping them onto his jeans before he picked up the receiver. 

"Adam!" a deep, cultured bass voice sounded from the machine's speaker.  "Out picking up a hot date, eh?  I plan to break you of that habit soon, dear boy.  Anyway, I'm headed home unexpectedly.  I'm arriving at Heathrow at 3 a.m. Monday morning.  Don't bother to meet me, I'll catch a cab, but I didn't want..." 

Methos grabbed the phone.  "Andy!  What the hell are you coming home for?  I thought you'd be gone another six weeks or so.  Is something wrong?" 

"Ah, there you are.  Well, Sharon managed to reach me.  It seems Caroline has gotten herself into a spot of trouble and Sharon thinks I need to be on hand."  In the background Methos could hear the echo of a large, noisy room and the distinctive babble of loudspeakers common to airports around the world. 

"What happened?"  Methos asked grimly.  Caroline, Andy's daughter, had rebelled against her upper class roots and the last time Methos had seen her, she had been preparing for a demonstration at a World Trade Organization meeting by having herself tattooed with whales and dolphins. 

Andy's deep sigh spoke of his complex feelings about his ex-wife, his love for his child, and his frustration that Caroline might as well have been an alien from outer space for all his understanding of her.  "Caro got herself arrested night before last.  It seems she was with a crowd demonstrating outside some nightclub.  A fight started and she cracked a bottle over someone's head.  She's been charged with assault, and refused to let Sharon bail her out.  The hearing isn't until after the wedding and Sharon considers the whole episode a deliberate effort to spoil the ceremony." 

"You should have called me before. I can go see her and try to get her to listen to reason.  She and I always managed to be civil to one another.  You don't need to abandon your work right in the middle of an expedition." 

"Yes, I do, Adam.  I neglected Caroline enough while she was growing up.  I need to be there now."  Andy's morose tone lightened a little.  "And the only reason you and she ever got along was because you knew more about rock music than she did, and are closer in age to her than you are to me.  Besides, I can better deal with the solicitors and arranging bail and the rest." 

Methos closed his eyes.  It was a source of ongoing tension between them, this perceived difference in their ages and experience that was part and parcel of his Adam Pierson persona.  If Andy only knew.  "Andrew," he began. 

"It's all right, Adam," Andy reassured him.  "I can pick up my trip again in the fall.  In the meantime, I have lots of material we can work with.  Look, they're calling my flight, I must be off.  See you soon, love," Andy added softly. 

Methos hung up the phone, looking at it with distaste.  The miracle of modern communication was sometimes more of a curse than a benefit.  A hundred years ago, young Lady Caroline would have had to extricate herself from her own mess without pulling her father away from business on the other side of the world.  Methos snorted to himself.  Who was he kidding?  A hundred years ago, it was unlikely that the child would have been given the opportunity for such open rebellion, and if she had, the heavy, suffocating hand of the nobility would have protected her, just to maintain the façade of impeccable and unimpeachable social correctness.  Progress?  Who knew? 

It was well after dark, and Methos had settled into his favorite chair with a brandy and a book, when the phone rang again. 

"Adam, it's Sharon.  Do you know when Andy will be getting in?" 

"He's due to arrive in the small hours tonight.  I'm sure he'll contact you first thing in the morning." 

"Well, I'm not so certain. Tell him I need to talk to him before he goes to see Caroline.  He's always taking her side on these things, and there are more important things than his always being the hero to his darling little girl." 

Methos took a long breath before he responded.  He and Andy's ex were marginally on speaking terms, but only because Sharon was far too 'refined' to state her true feelings about her ex-husband's gold-digging, young male lover to his face.  He was sure she saved that for Andy in their private moments.  "I'll tell him you called," he said evenly, and started to hang up. 

"Adam?" she interrupted his action. 

"Yes?" 

"I do hope you understand about not being invited to the wedding," she said in a rush.  "I had invited Andrew for Caroline’s sake, and now that he’ll be back in town, it might be an issue.  It's just that it will be a major social event and there will be a lot of people who knew us when we were married, a lot of the peerage, and, well, it would be awkward." 

"I don't mind, Sharon," was all he said.  There would be no point in any other response, even if he had actually wanted to go.  Ever since the elaborately engraved invitation had arrived a few weeks before, inviting Lord Montesque, but with the "and guest" carefully crossed out on the RSVP card, he had been glad Andy was going to be out of town for the event.  His lover would be incensed, but, in truth, he didn't mind since he would rather lie on a bed of acid-tipped nails than be subjected to that particular 'major social event.' 

"Well," she responded awkwardly.  "I'm...I'm glad for that.  You probably would hate it anyway," she added with a harsh, false laugh. "All those socialites bowing and scraping to each other, talking about their investments and their horses and their estates." 

"No doubt." 

"But if Caroline is still in jail, it will be an awful scandal!" she added distractedly.  "Andrew simply must do something about it." 

"Yes, well, I'm sure he'll do what he thinks is best for Caroline." 

"Yes, well..." 

"Goodbye, Sharon."  He hung up the phone, unwilling to continue the conversation, even for Andy's sake. 

Methos was dozing in the library, a book lying neglected on his chest, when he heard the front door close, and was instantly on his feet.  "Andy?" he called, heading towards the marble foyer, where his voice echoed off the hard surfaces. 

"You were expecting Prince Phillip, perhaps?" tired voice answered.  Andy set down two large, well-worn bags and turned to him, and Methos gathered him into his arms. 

They stood like that for a minute, just holding each other.  "You must be exhausted," Methos said softly. 

The head of thick, curly salt-and-pepper gray hair tucked into the crook of his neck nodded.  "Long trip," Andy observed, finally pulling away and looking at Methos, his gray eyes warm with affection and dark with fatigue.  Methos kissed him gently, then reached for the bags, but Andy got to them first, insisting on taking them.  Andy was tall and fairly burly, had played rugby at university, and he had always prided himself on physical strength and vigor. 

"Why don't you pour us a brandy while I put these up in the bedroom?" Andy asked. 

Methos ruefully watched him struggle up the grand staircase with the two heavy bags and shook his head.  Stubborn, prideful man.  He seemed to be attracted to the type. 

Andy was too tired to make love that night, despite their long separation, so they just slept.  Methos lay awake awhile, listening to the reassuring sound of gentle snores.  As much as he valued his solitude, he truly preferred sleeping with another body in the same bed, preferably one of someone he liked, or, if he was very lucky, even loved.  He fell asleep just before dawn with that comforting thought in mind. 

The phone rang sometime after the sun was up, but Andy slept through the noise and Methos ignored it when it stopped after only one ring, figuring the housekeeper had picked it up.  He turned, instead, and moved close up against Andy's broad, furry back, smiling when it tickled his chest a little.  The human form was so varied, and yet so similar. Male or female, old or young, hairy or smooth.  He enjoyed physical beauty as much as the next person, maybe more since he had a wider basis for comparison, but still and all, it was the soul inhabiting the body that defined grace and courage and compassion, and Andy had plenty of all of those. 

He also had a few less attractive qualities, but so did they all.  And Methos counted his own among them, more than most.  After all, he had had several millennia to refine them.  But he had learned to disguise his own failings, and he did it well.  Andy thought him an intellectual whiz kid, a wit, a bookish, shy man, reclusive, uncomfortable dealing with life's practical problems.  Those carefully cultivated weaknesses - a befuddled ineptitude in problem solving, and a certain charming lack of sophistication in navigating the intricacies of Lord Montesque's upper-class social connections - relieved him from dealing with some of life's unpleasantness, and simultaneously made Andy feel needed and protective of his young, vulnerable co-writer and lover.  If it was a total fabrication, then it was a benign one.  Certainly, Andrew would never have fallen for a lean, hungry killer and schemer, the multi-billionaire ages-old cynic who had seen everything and done everything more times than Lord Montesque could even imagine. 

A gentle tap on the door brought his head up off the pillow. 

"What is it?" he called softly.  Mrs. Harrison, a rotund grandmotherly woman who had helped raise Andy, called gently through the door.  "It's Lady Montesque, Mr. Adam.  She insists on talking to his Lordship.  I told her he was out of the country, but she insists he came home last night, and when I saw the used brandy glasses in the library, I thought..." 

"What time is it?" Methos asked, scrubbing his face to force himself awake as Andy stirred slightly at the disturbance. 

"It's just past nine o'clock." 

"Tell her Andy will call her back shortly, please, Mrs. Harrison." 

"That I will, sir."  And Methos could hear her heavy footsteps as she went back down the hall. 

Andy rolled over with a groan.  "Christ, but I am not built to sit in an airplane seat for twenty hours at a stretch." 

"Perhaps you just need a little exercise to work out the kinks," Methos smiled down at him.  He ran his hand under the covers, over the broad expanse of Andy's barrel chest, and down into the rough, curly hair of his groin where a morning erection was stirring the covers. 

Andy smiled.  "How ever did you get along without me?" 

"I bar-hopped every night, cruising for dates," Methos confessed with a smile.  "I brought home a dozen different dark-eyed body-builders who made mad, passionate love to me, but I still prefer you as my bedwarmer." 

"My, you have been a busy boy."  It was an old joke between them.  Methos maintained a relatively reclusive façade, which kept him generally out of the way of any wandering Immortals who might otherwise stumble across him and want a taste of his ancient Quickening.  Andy, on the other hand, loved to socialize, and was on a first name basis with the proprietor of every nightclub and pub in a three-mile radius. 

While their living relationship was convenient and comfortable, Methos knew Andrew was not entirely faithful, that his long sojourns into out-of-the-way parts of the world were not exercises in celibacy.  He had his own occasional fling, and studiously ignored his bi-sexual lover's wandering eye, although sometimes he felt a surprising amount of sympathy for Sharon, who clearly had less patience for his Lordship's varying sexual appetites, which only seemed to get sharper as he got older. 

Andy rolled over, his weight sinking Methos down into the soft bed.  "I can only hope you have a little stamina left over for your poor, old, broken-down lover." 

"Hmm.  You don't seem particularly broken down at the moment," Methos smiled. 

Andy kissed him, his rough stubble abrading Methos' skin.  The stimulation felt good.  He let Andy pin his wrists as he was nipped and sucked and bitten down his neck to his shoulder. 

"God, you are the most beautiful man," Andy moaned into his neck.  "I don't know how you do it.  Such perfect skin, such a flawless body, so young and firm."  Andy let Methos' hands go so he could move further down Methos' torso, lipping his nipples until Methos couldn't contain a small groan.  He was hard, the heat and tension in his groin a pleasure bordering on the edge of pain.  When Andy took Methos' cock into his mouth, he hissed, arching up off the bed as he was sucked with wonderful, greedy slurping noises while Andy simultaneously played with Methos' balls, finally resting a thick finger against his anus, teasing it gently at first, but the closer Methos got to orgasm, the more he pushed in. 

Methos could feel himself tighten up, his breath coming in short pants of need.  So close.  Then Andy turned his finger and found the sweet spot, and Methos jerked and came with a cry, endorphins flooding his system with wonderful heat as he convulsively pressed his hips towards the warm, wet haven of Andy's mouth. 

He was still gasping for breath when his legs were pushed up and apart.  Andy spit come into his hand, spreading some on his cock, and sliding some of the slick liquid further into Methos' anus, now relaxed and opening easily at the invasion of first one finger, then another.  At last, Andy pulled Methos' hips onto his thighs and slid his impressively large cock inside, moving slowly, watching Methos' face for any signs of more discomfort than he wanted to bear. 

But Methos just smiled, biting his lip at the invasion of his most private places.  Methos enjoyed the pain.  The contrast of intense feeling enhanced the pleasure, and Methos grabbed Andy's forearms and pulled himself further onto his lover's cock. 

"Oh, you like this, don't you?" Andy murmured, his eyes half closed, his sweat-covered chest rising and falling quickly as he gasped for air.  "You like it rough.  Shy little Adam.  My own private slut-boy." 

"You have no idea," Methos murmured, unsure whether his words were loud enough to be heard, but not really caring.  Over the eons, he had been the dominator, he had been the dominated, and had learned the joy of both roles, but Andrew would never know or understand that what he considered "rough sex" was child's play compared to...well, those memories were dismissed as he let himself be ridden hard, his cock rising and filling again as Andy pounded into his body, stroking over his prostate again and again. 

Andy pummeled into him faster and faster, his face red with strain, his neck veins distended with the pressure, then with a yell, he came, his eyes closed tight, his neck thrown back.  Methos didn't come again, but enjoyed the ride, nonetheless, cradling his Lordship when he collapsed, gasping on top of him, slick with sweat and radiating heat. 

The years had brought only small bits of true wisdom to the world's oldest man.  Solitude had its own joys, but simple companionship and good sex were necessary to life. 

Getting Caroline out of jail had taken them most of the day.  Andy had emerged from his interview with her, fuming with frustration.  He had already been irritated by a long, argumentative telephone conversation with his ex-wife, and dealing with his equally stubborn daughter had left him so angry that Methos was beginning to worry about Andy's blood pressure.  At last, father and daughter emerged from the grim police building, neither talking to the other, stomping towards the limousine.  Carl, the chauffeur, kept his face carefully neutral as he opened the door, tipped his hat, and gave a "Good day, Miss Caroline," to the young woman as she flounced past him and into the back seat. 

Methos and Carl shared a long look, and Methos got in the front passenger seat while Andy went around to the other side.  Carl started the car, and looked questioningly into the rearview mirror.  "Where to, sir?" he asked. 

"Take us home, Carl," Andy responded, grimly staring out the window. 

Carl uncomfortably cleared his throat.  "Uh, which home, sir, yours or Miss Caroline's?" 

Andy looked up, his mouth set in a grim line.  "Mine." 

Methos looked back over his shoulder, quirking an eyebrow at his lover. 

"Don't worry, Adam," Caroline snapped.  "I'll try not to interfere with any embarrassingly intimate moments."  She crossed her arms, staring out of her side of the car into the gray, damp day.  She was tall, like her father, but had her mother's light auburn hair and creamy, classically English complexion. 

"Caroline, don't be rude," Andy warned, then sighed, closing his eyes.  "She only agreed to be bailed out of jail if she didn't have to go back and live with her mother," he explained to Methos.

"How generous of her," Methos murmured. 

"And Caroline has agreed I am to know where she is at all times, and - assuming my solicitors can keep her out of jail - to either go back to university or get herself a real job. Right, Caroline?" 

There was a tense silence as Caroline stared out the window, but Methos could see that her eyes were dark with exhaustion, and her lip trembled slightly.  Her experience in the confines of London's jails had no doubt been an unpleasant one that might have given her a slightly different view of the consequences of her actions. 

"Right?" Andy insisted. 

"Right!" Caroline snapped, at last.  "Happy now, are we?" 

No one bothered to reply, and Methos was left wondering how much of his rather idyllic, isolated life was going to be disrupted by the presence of the rebellious, angry young woman. 

Caroline stomped up the steps into the house, with her father and Methos trailing behind.  "I hope it won't be for too long, Adam," Andrew said quietly over his shoulder.  "I just didn't know what else to do." 

Adam put his hand on Andy's back in reassurance.  "It's okay.  I understand.  I've dealt with rebellious children before." 

"Really?" Andy asked, turning to look at him.  "When was that?" 

Oops.  "I, uh, was a warden at an Oxford college for a couple of terms.  Had lots of homesick, spoiled children to deal with." 

Andy laughed.  "Children?  You can't have been any older than they were.  What tidbits of great wisdom did you have for them?" 

"Oh, just that parents are human, that they can get angry and make mistakes, but that whatever they do, it is done with love and the best intentions," Methos replied, moving into the kitchen to snag a bite of homemade shortbread Mrs. Harrison always put out in the afternoon. 

Andy smiled sadly, taking a biscuit for himself.  "Not bad for a kid," he said gently, reaching with his other hand to cradle Methos' chin in his hand, so he could brush his lips with a kiss. 

"Oh, please," Caroline commented dryly from the doorway.  "Can you two refrain from the lovey dovey crap while I'm around, at least?  Being around Mother and her intended was bad enough.  You wouldn’t believe…." 

"Caro, watch your language," her father growled in warning, his face reddening with embarrassment, but Methos just laughed. 

"Live with it," he said to Caroline with a grin, bussed Andy noisily on the mouth, and offered Caroline a biscuit.  He suspected her hostility was mostly an affectation designed to deliberately piss off any authority figure, especially a parental one. 

She took the offering, and their eyes met. A moment of understanding passed between them, and a small peace was made.  She bit into the biscuit, and a look of bliss passed over her face as she closed her eyes.  "Mmm.  Mrs. Harrison's shortbread.  You know," Caroline said as she invaded the refrigerator to pour herself a glass of milk, "she could probably market these, make a huge fortune and not have to be a slave to the ruling classes anymore." 

"Mrs. Harrison is not a slave, for God's sake!" Andy huffed.  "She's worked for this family for over forty years, and I dare say if she didn't like it she wouldn't stay." 

Caroline turned, leaning up against the fridge, a smile dancing in her eyes.  "Oh, Daddy, you're so easy," she laughed, tossed her head and left, her steps noisily pounding up the stairs. 

"She's right, you know," Methos agreed, barely controlling his laughter. 

Andy made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.  "My God, that's all I need.  Two mouthy adolescents in the house." 

With Caroline's movements constrained, and Andy feeling the need to stay close to the house, the tension between the three of them did not ease, and by only the third day, Methos was already thinking of places he might have a need to be.  Maybe a translation job in the Middle East? Perhaps he should make sure MacLeod was doing okay in Scotland.  That seemed cowardly, but his mind refused to relinquish the notion entirely.  At least the day was relatively clear, and maybe if he could get outside for a while, he wouldn't feel so hemmed in.  He put on some old shorts and a t-shirt.  There was a really nice park just across the road from the house, and a jog would settle his mind a little.  Caroline looked up from flipping through a magazine as he came down the steps. 

"Going out?" she asked. 

"Just for a run, to clear the cobwebs," he explained. 

"Didn't know you were a jogger." 

"Yes, well, there's probably a lot you don't know about me." 

She rose, dropping the magazine.  "Can I come along?  It will get me out of this damned house, and Daddy can't object if you're..." 

"Daddy can't object about what?" Andy asked from the second floor landing above. 

Caroline rolled her eyes.  "For Heaven's sake, Dad.  I just wanted to go for a jog in the park with Adam." 

"Well, I need a good run, and I promised your mother I wouldn't let you out of my sight, so why don't we all go?" 

So much for a little relaxing solitude, Methos thought as Caroline rolled her eyes again. 

Actually, the run was a pretty good idea.  Andy was too breathless to talk, and Adam and Caroline had a chance to chat a little as they ran slowly around the perimeter of the park.  Once Adam got her started, Caroline seemed eager to discuss the misadventure that led to her arrest.  It seemed she and some friends had been protesting against the wearing of fur outside a nightclub frequented by the fur-clad, when she had gotten in a shouting and shoving match with some woman in a mink coat, and ended up bopping her adversary's escort with a plastic soda bottle in self-defense - or so she claimed - when the man took a swing at one of her fellow protestors.  The case would probably have been dismissed had the man not been a Member of Parliament. 

"He was a jerk!" Caroline insisted, swiping a tendril of hair away from her damp forehead. 

"Possibly, but you were the ones who accosted him and his date," Methos reminded her.  She was obviously passionate about her beliefs, and gave Methos a lecture on the conditions under which fur bearing animals were raised and slaughtered, accompanied by more information than he cared to know about the economic benefits of supporting non-fur-based weaving industries of the third world.  At least she had her facts in order, he thought, admiring her lean, hard body as she ran easily at his side.  Andy had fallen slightly behind though, so he slowed his pace to check on his lover. 

Just then, he almost stopped in his tracks as an Immortal presence washed over him, strong and caustic, triggering a rush of adrenaline that set his heart to pounding.  Damn.  This was one reason why he had avoided getting out in public these last few years.  Here he was, with only the dagger tucked next to his back, and with two vulnerable mortals.  His mind worked furiously, and he let himself stumble, looking carefully for the right spot, then deliberately fell with a cry, tumbling into relatively soft grass at the side of the trail. 

"Adam!" Andrew cried breathlessly.  "Are you all right?  Did you hurt yourself?" 

With a grimace of pain, and a low groan, Methos lay still for a moment, hoping the nearby Immortal would be discouraged by all the attention, but the presence didn't recede.  Oh, well, this ploy would at least get them back to the house in short order. 

"I just slipped," he said breathlessly, "but I think I pulled something when I fell."  He groaned in pain and reached around and grabbed at his lower back, a region that could be injured without any visible evidence. 

"Is everything all right?" a new voice asked.  A familiar voice.  Low, slightly accented, and...slightly amused. 

Methos turned his head to see Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod kneeling beside him.  His expression was full of solicitous concern, with only the slightest hint of an upward curl at the corner of his mouth. 

"I've had medical training, let me take a look," Duncan insisted, reaching to feel Methos' back, his hands pausing slightly as they encountered the stiletto hidden there, then moving on. 

"Oh, I think I'll live," Methos growled, glaring at MacLeod's ill-concealed amusement. 

"Let him look," Andy insisted.  "I've never known you to fall like that before.  You must have pulled a muscle, or even broken something.  Are you sure your ankles and knees weren't hurt?" 

"Let me check," Duncan ordered, his hands probing gently at Methos' grass-stained knees and bare ankles.  Methos suspected MacLeod was deliberately trying to tickle him as somehow fingers managed to delve repeatedly into nerve centers, making him jerk, which his audience mistakenly interpreted, of course, as a reaction to pain. 

"Should we get him to hospital?" Caroline asked anxiously, pulling out her cell phone from her jacket pocket. 

"No, I think he'll be fine, but he probably needs to get some ice on that back right away," Duncan opined, ignoring Methos' dagger-filled stare. 

"Thanks, but I'm fine," Methos snapped pushing himself to a sitting position, but Duncan firmly pressed him back. 

"Oh, I don't think so.  I could feel a definite distortion in your lower back," Duncan replied, his face serious but his dark eyes dancing with secret humor.  "Moving too quickly would probably only aggravate it. Here, let me help you up." 

"Careful!" Andy cautioned as Methos clambered awkwardly to his feet, with too many hands trying to help him. 

Fuck.  Methos allowed himself to be assisted.  Then both Duncan and Andy supported him on either side as they slowly made their way back to the house, with Caroline darting ahead to alert Mrs. Harrison that they had an injured patient to care for. 

Great.  Just great. 

"Christ on a crutch!" Methos yelped as intense cold was suddenly plastered to his lower back. 

"Oh, is that cold?" Duncan asked solicitously.  "Well, it will feel better in a minute, and will help keep the swelling down." 

"I can't thank you enough," Andy effused, much to Methos' ever-increasing irritation with the whole ridiculous situation. 

"Oh, you are most welcome," Duncan replied smoothly in his most urbane, sophisticated manner.  "I was glad to help."  He pressed a little on the cold pack now freezing Methos' lower back and a significant portion of his bum.  "Just keep ice on there for a few hours, then he should have complete bed rest for a few days.  Certainly no strenuous activity.  As a matter of fact, it might be good to see if you could get a bedpan for him to use.  I really wouldn't want to strain those muscles any more than necessary."  He carefully urged Methos to sit back against the pillows, making sure the pack was situated at the most sensitive part of his spine. 

Methos could feel his teeth grind, and a few deliciously appropriate curses occurred to him. 

"Excuse me, did you say something?  Is there anything we can get you?" Duncan asked sweetly. 

"Oh, no thanks," Methos snarled with a tight smile.  "You've already done more than enough.  I was just thinking of how I could possibly repay you for all this kindness." 

"Perhaps he could stay to dinner," Andy suggested. 

"Oh, yes," Caroline's voice piped up enthusiastically from the doorway, where she had watched the whole pathetic proceeding.  "Please do stay.  By the way, my name is Caroline.  Caroline Montesque." 

Duncan stood, and Methos watched, unobserved and ignored as Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod turned the full force of his charm on Lord Montesque and his lovely daughter.  He had to admit it was an impressive display.  Mac looked as stunning as ever, his dark hair slightly mussed from their exertions, with an errant curl dangling onto his forehead.  He was in an elegant camelhair coat, hanging open over a soft, clinging white cashmere sweater and black pants.  Methos could have sworn he could hear Caroline panting from across the room and smell pheromones dancing in the air. 

"I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself before.  My name is Duncan.  Duncan MacLeod."  He took Caroline's hand and bowed over it, gently brushing his lips over her knuckles while Caroline watched, flushing in pleasure and embarrassment at the elegant gesture. 

"Andrew's the name. I'm Caroline's dad, and your reluctant patient here is Adam Pierson," Andy offered.  Andy and Mac shook hands and Methos could sense the tension in the room, both from his lover and his fellow Immortal.  The clasp of hands was slightly aggressive, as though each was measuring the other, and when they parted, there was a relaxation as the two men recognized a kinship of some subliminal kind.  Two alpha males sizing each other up.  This was getting worse and worse, Methos decided. 

"So," Caroline probed.  "Duncan...can you stay for dinner?  It would be so lovely to have someone new at the table."  Her voice sounded high and excited, like a schoolgirl. 

"I'm sure Mr. MacLeod has other important, pressing engagements," Methos inserted. 

"Well, I wouldn't want to impose..." 

"Nonsense!" Andy responded.  "Caroline, go tell Mrs. Harrison there will be a fourth for dinner, although I suppose you'll need to take your meal in here, won't you Adam?"  Andy's hand stroked through his hair, and Methos' couldn't contain a snarl, which Andrew unfortunately misinterpreted as a groan of pain.  "Poor chap, can I get you something?" 

"How about a drink?" Methos snarled through gritted teeth, feeling the ice bag at his back leak cold water into the sheets. 

"Well, how about we start with some aspirin, or maybe I have something stronger in the medicine cabinet," Andy offered. 

"Well, I certainly think he'll need the strongest you've got, but he shouldn't have any alcohol with it," MacLeod opined. 

"Oh, right, I understand.  Well, let me see what I have," and Andy bustled off to the bathroom. Finally, for a moment at least, they were alone. 

Methos fixed his fellow Immortal with the most dangerous stare he could conjure, but MacLeod was annoyingly unimpressed.  "I'm going to kill you for this, MacLeod!" 

"Moi?" Mac asked innocently, his palm pressed to his chest.  "I am just a helpful bystander, trying to make sure you are treated with the greatest of care." 

"What the hell were you doing in the park, anyway?" 

"On my way to see you, of course, but before I could call out, you had taken that ridiculous nosedive into the turf and were writhing in pain on the ground.  How was I to know you lived with these people?  Last time I was here, I assumed you were living alone." 

Then Andy was back in the room, reading off various labels of prescription drugs he had accumulated over the years.  Mac inspected them carefully and advised him to administer the codeine-laced Tylenol, over Methos' strenuous protest. 

"Now, Duncan knows best, and you may not feel it now, but pretty soon you'll hardly be able to move, and you'll be grateful for this.  Now take the pill!" Andy insisted, dropping one in Methos' hand and handing him a glass of water. 

Methos put his hand to his mouth and took a sip of water, palming the unswallowed medication.  "There!  Happy?" 

"Adam! I never expected you to be such a terrible patient," Andy frowned at him, grabbing his hand and peeling the fingers back, exposing Methos' deceit.  He took the pill and held it in front of Methos' mouth.  "Now open." 

"I do not want to take that.  It will make me groggy and stupid and I don't need it.  It was just a silly fall and I already feel fine.  All this fuss is just..." 

"It was not just a fall.  You took quite a tumble, and I heard you cry out.  Now don't argue with me about this, young man.  Take the bloody pill!" 

Methos looked to MacLeod, sending him a glare that insisted that he intervene, but Mac just maintained a benign smile on his face.  A smile Methos could cheerfully have removed with his fist - or a very sharp blade.  Methos opened his mouth, to say as much, but Andy popped the pill inside, and handed him the water.  Methos considered spitting it out, but it wasn't something Adam Pierson would do, and it might make this whole situation into more of a fiasco than it already was, and the longer he thought about it, the more the damn thing melted into a bitter-tasting, gritty puddle in his mouth.  He snatched the water and drank, setting the glass down hard enough that the remaining water sloshed over the edges. 

"Now, Adam, stop being so childish.  It's all for your own good, you know."  Andy leaned over and brushed Methos' forehead with his lips.  Methos expected some kind of look of reproach from MacLeod at that, but the benign smile only twitched a little broader.  "Now rest, and I'll check in on you later."  He lovingly tucked an afghan around Methos' body and the two men finally left him in peace. 

As the door closed he could hear Andrew telling MacLeod, "The poor boy must be in pain, you know.  I've never seen him act like this....." 

Mrs. Harrison solicitously brought him a tray of soup and a new ice bag, which she insisted on slipping behind his back again, scolding him all the while for removing the one MacLeod had oh-so-thoughtfully applied to his nether regions.  Methos could hardly lift the spoon as the powerful pain medication made him feel like he was moving through thick, warm molasses.  He gave into the inevitable, and turned over to sleep, dumping the offending cold pack onto the floor again as soon as Mrs. Harrison had left the room. 

Of course, then he woke in the middle of the night, feeling vaguely hung over, and finding Andy had snuck into the bed in the meantime.  He smelled of brandy and cigars, and he could well imagine that he and MacLeod had sat up late, talking politics and indulging themselves in various male vices.  A small stab of jealousy surprised him, and he stared at the shadowed ceiling, inspecting his reaction carefully. 

Was he jealous of MacLeod spending time with Andrew, doing that male bonding thing the Scot did so well?  It was not a role he had ever played with his lover, as it was not in Adam Pierson's character to do so.  Or...his thoughts slowed, was he jealous of Andrew getting an entire evening with MacLeod, an evening of good conversation and gentle affection?  Hmm.  Life was always so complicated whenever MacLeod was around.  Methos turned over, maneuvering around the damp spot left in the mattress where the ice bag had leaked.  That reminded him of the debacle MacLeod had so gleefully orchestrated, and he fell asleep imagining all kinds of tortures he might one day inflict on his friend and nemesis, Duncan MacLeod. 
 
 

Chapter Two

Methos was up long before Andy or Caroline, and went for a long, solitary run in the park, more as an act of defiance than anything else.  He returned, ostentatiously smelly and sweaty, to a house filled with wonderful odors of eggs and bacon and strong, freshly brewed tea, and entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Harrison putting the final touches on a breakfast guaranteed to raise the cholesterol count of the unwary by at least 50 points. 

"And what do you think you're doing, Mr. Adam?"  Mrs. Harrison looked vaguely scandalized at Methos' shorts-clad, dripping body.  "That nice Mr. MacLeod said you should stick to your bed for at least another day or two.  Now, you go right along and...stop that!"  She slapped at his hand when he snatched a piece of bacon and popped it into his mouth. 

"Nice Mr. MacLeod, eh?" Methos mumbled around the food.  "I suppose by the end of the evening you were ready to adopt him?" 

"Well," she answered, a blush staining her round cheeks as she bustled around, getting out serving dishes.  "I do like someone who appreciates good food.  He went out of his way to come to the kitchen and tell me how much he liked it, and he certainly is a fine figure of a man, now isn't he?  And so nice to help you like that.  If I were forty years younger..." 

"Oh, yeah, really nice," Methos agreed grumpily, as he poured himself a cup of tea. 

"Now, shoo!  You shouldn't be out of bed, much less..." 

"Adam Benjamin Pierson!" Andy bellowed from the doorway, and Methos winced at the noise.  "What the hell do you think you're doing out of bed?"  Andy was still in his bathrobe, his hair a curly, disheveled mass around his head.  He had a disreputable looking gray-specked beard stubble, and the rather pasty color of his skin made Methos suspect he was still feeling some effects from the previous evening's revelries with that "Nice Mr. MacLeod." 

Enough was enough.  Methos drew himself up to his full height, stretched his shoulders and stared his sometime-lover straight in the eye.  "If you must know, I ran a good five miles, and now I'm going to take a shower, do you mind?" 

There was a small beat of silence as Andrew drew his chin in, his eyes widening.  "Uh, well, I thought..." 

"Well, you thought wrong!" Methos snapped.  "I'm not some poor invalid you or anyone else needs to care for, regardless of what your precious Duncan MacLeod might say."  Methos brushed by Andrew and deliberately trotted up the stairs two steps at a time.  He was in the shower when the door opened and he could see Andrew's fuzzy outline through the frosted, wavy glass of the shower door. 

"Um, Adam?" 

"Yes?" 

"Is something wrong?"

"No."

"It's just, I've never seen you like this." 

"Like what?" 

"Last night, and this morning...so angry and what-not.  Is it something I did?" 

Methos sighed.  MacLeod brought out the Immortal in him, the Methos in him, and that was enough to scare the bejeezus out of anyone used to shy, acquiescent Adam Pierson.  "No, Andy.  I just don't like being told what I can or can't do." 

"But Adam, dear fellow, you expect me to handle things for you all the time, and I thought..." 

"Just because I allow you to handle things does not mean I am incapable of doing so.  I'm not some helpless child, and we'd both be better off if you stopped treating me like one."  He turned off the water and drew back the shower door, yanking a towel off the bar and scrubbing himself dry. 

"I only step in when..." 

"Well, that won't happen again, I assure you," Methos snapped, only now realizing that he had gotten a mite weary of this particular, rather passive iteration of Adam Pierson.  "I am perfectly capable of managing my own life and I need neither you nor Duncan MacLeod of the bloody Clan MacLeod to solve my problems for me."  Methos instantly regretted his slip of the tongue, but assumed that Andrew would not recognize a title that constituted an infamously chilling challenge amongst Immortals. 

Andy watched in silence as Methos casually wrapped the towel around his waist and wiped the condensation off the mirror with his forearm.  Andy's arms were crossed tightly as he looked at the floor, then cleared his throat. 

"What?" Methos finally barked, staring at his lover in the mirror as he combed his hair. 

"Is there something you're trying to tell me, Adam?" Andy asked quietly. 

Methos quirked an eyebrow. 

"I mean, I know I am not exactly the most faithful person in the world.  And MacLeod is, well, you know..., but I assure you we never..." 

Methos laughed out loud, but that only generated an even darker frown on Andrew's face, so Methos shook his head.  "No, Andy.  It never occurred to me that MacLeod would make a pass at you."  Methos was unable to contain a chuckle at the thought of Mac seducing Andrew, or vice versa.  He realized in the midst of his musing, that Andy was looking quite insulted, so Methos quickly backtracked.  "While you are a prize anyone would be lucky to get, MacLeod didn't strike me as the type at all, and the last I saw, Caroline was coming on to him like a cat in heat." 

Andrew harrumphed.  "Yes, well it is about time she was attracted to someone other than those professional trouble-makers and rabble-rousers she hangs out with.  And I liked MacLeod.  Interesting chap.  Antiques dealer and appraiser.  He's young, but he's been around the block a few times, from what I can tell.  We drank brandy and smoked cigars until late, talking world politics.  He knows almost as much as you do about history, and about what's really going on in the world." 

"I doubt it," Methos murmured to himself. 

"What was that?" 

"I said I'd be careful, if I were you.  Look at this place.  Big house, lovely single daughter, with "His Lordship" for a daddy," Methos turned, laying his hands on Andrew's shoulders and cocked his head with an affectionate smile.  "MacLeod may just be some scheming Lothario out to seduce your daughter and steal your fortune, eh?  Can't judge a book by its cover," he added as he stepped out of the bathroom and rummaged in his bedroom dresser for fresh clothes. 

"So he was waiting in the park, hoping you would trip and fall so he could come to the rescue?  That seems a little far-fetched.  But I suppose we'll know more soon enough.  He knows Claudia Jardine, evidently, and has got us all box seats at her concert tomorrow night at Albert Hall, and he promised to take us backstage to meet her." 

Methos paused as he pulled on his shirt, trying to sort out the disparate feelings that bit of news generated:  Annoyance that MacLeod was moving in on 'his' family life; but perhaps a little flattered too, under the assumption that it was so the two of them could spend more time together; suspicion that there was something else going on that he should probably worry about; and anticipation that he might be given an opportunity to give back a little of the embarrassment and trouble Mac had managed to give him. 

"He's gotten us all tickets?" Methos asked.  "Even poor little, injured me?" 

"Yes," Andrew acknowledged.  He was sitting on the bed watching Methos dress with an unabashed look of appreciation.  "He said you would probably be up and around today, despite all advice to the contrary.  Seems he had you figured out better than I did," Andy said wistfully.  "When I told him you weren't usually so, so ..." 

"Rude?" Methos offered. 

Andy shrugged.  "He said people grow and change all the time, and it got me to thinking.  I've left you alone for most of the last year, and...well, maybe I've taken you for granted, Adam.  And I'm sorry." 

Methos recalled a night when MacLeod had said that life was about change, and that it was Methos who had taught him to accept that, and to move on.  It seemed that so many things came full circle in Immortals' lives. 

"Adam?" 

"Sorry. Woolgathering," Methos realized his mind had wandered far away from the conversation.  "No need to apologize, Andrew.  You know I enjoy my solitude, and I know you enjoy traveling and meeting new people.  MacLeod seems like an outgoing chap, too, and that's probably why the two of you hit it off.  Maybe you should try and seduce him," Methos teased.  Now wouldn't that be amusing?  Methos' male lover attempting to seduce the Immortal version of Casanova.  Methos didn't question that the Scot had some modicum of experience in alternative encounters after 400 years of an extraordinarily active sex life, but the awkwardness of such an attempted tryst made Methos' mouth twitch in a speculative smile.  No doubt Duncan would be scandalized, embarrassed and afraid to offend - both Andy and Methos - the notion had distinct possibilities. 

MacLeod came out of the small, exclusive inn in a quiet neighborhood near the Maryleybone station.  He had his coat over his arm, was wearing dark, pleated pants, and a dark blue cashmere jacket with a cream-colored turtleneck sweater.  Methos observed his companions' rather predictable reactions.  Caroline had two bright spots of color on her cheeks, and had even taken the trouble to actually wear a dress this evening, a spaghetti strap affair of soft green silk that provocatively displayed the outlines of her nipples, which appeared to be standing at attention at the moment.  A dolphin and a humpback whale were decorating the curve of her shoulder and Methos had to admit the tattoo was more attractive than he had expected. 

Carl opened the door for MacLeod, and Mac stepped into the stretch limousine, taking a seat next to Caroline so that he and she were facing the other two passengers.  He turned to look at Caroline with an appreciative smile.  "You look stunning," he said simply, then took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles.  "Claudia will be jealous." 

"You really think we can get to see her backstage?" Andrew asked. "She is famous for being temperamental and reclusive." 

"She's expecting us, actually," Duncan assured them.  "And I thought we could all go out for a late supper after the concert."  A quick look into Methos' eyes clearly conveyed the message that Claudia had been told to expect two Immortal presences.  No doubt Mac had also instructed her to not acknowledge that she and Methos had previously met.  Those days suddenly seemed very long ago, and Methos' thoughts wandered off to other places and times.  Claudia had not yet been Immortal, and Methos had been on the delicious cusp of falling in love.  It was a painfully sweet memory.  Alexa. 

"Adam?"  Duncan's voice and a touch on his knee jolted him back to the present.  Carl had opened the door, and everyone was waiting for him to get out first.  Adam met Mac's eyes for a second, where he thought he caught a glimpse of sympathetic understanding before he took a deep breath and climbed out of the limousine. 

Claudia Jardine strode regally onto the stage of the Royal Albert Hall dressed in a long, shimmering gown of black velvet studded with tiny rhinestones.   Her shoulder-length hair was an electric mass of curls that drifted with every shake of her head as she glared at the piano keys in intense concentration, or leaned her head back with her eyes closed in a near-trance state in the more legato passages, or - as the last chord died out - looked up at the audience in triumph.  Those big, dark eyes gleamed in pride and gratitude as the crowd surged to its feet in a final, wild ovation, and the members of the London Symphony applauded or rhythmically tapped their bows on their music stands to show their appreciation. 

Flowers were brought, the conductor gave her a kiss, more 'bravas' were shouted, and Mac tugged on Methos' elbow, pulling him out of the box, along with Caroline and Andrew, as they stepped down the red carpeted hallway just ahead of the rush of the exiting crowd.  A quick exit through a side door, a word to a staff member in a dark blue blazer, and they were being escorted through a maze of stairs and hallways, then backstage, with its usual hustle and bustle of stagehands, tired, sweaty musicians tugging their bowties loose, and glimpses of hot, bright lights and a snakepit of thick electrical cables running across the floor.  Finally they were led to a quiet hallway offstage, where Mac tapped on a door temporarily labeled, "Miss Jardine," and the door was opened by a uniformed maid. 

"Duncan!" Claudia swept across the floor from her dressing table and threw her arms around her benefactor.  "It's about time you came to one of my concerts.  I swear I was starting to think you had forgotten all about me.  You didn't even send me a telegram when I debuted in Moscow last year!  And it was Christmas, too," she pouted prettily. 

Mac looked down at the tawny-skinned musical prodigy he had nurtured since he had found her languishing in a foster home at the age of 14.  "As dear as you are to me, Claudia, I had a few other issues I was dealing with at the time."  He hugged her briefly.  "But I do apologize for my neglect.  Here," he turned to his three guests.  "I'd like you to meet some friends of mine." 

Claudia graciously accepted their compliments, even holding out her hand to Methos as though she expected him to kiss it.  He took it firmly and shook it, instead.  Their gazes met, eyes slightly narrowed as they acknowledged an acquaintance, but not really a friendship.  Very few Immortals, except MacLeod, counted more than a small handful of other Immortals as 'friends.' 

The dinner was good, by English standards, the service excellent, and Claudia held court like royalty, with drinks and compliments sent to the table by other patrons, and a few bold souls even approached to ask for autographs.  The interruptions were punctuated by Andrew's stories of wild adventures in Malaysia, and Claudia's tales of performances across the globe.  Claudia sat next to Duncan, and leaned towards him most of the evening, her hand frequently on his wrist, her eyes drifting towards him again and again. 

Methos observed, and only inserted a few acerbic comments when he thought Andy's tales drifted a little further from the truth than even modest exaggeration might accommodate.  Caroline made a few breathy comments, asking about the famous artists Claudia had met and worked with in her travels.  Duncan was also rather quiet, occupying himself keeping the orders of wine appropriate to the dinner, and watching Claudia with gentle affection.  A couple of times, Methos' and Duncan's eyes met, and Methos saw a message there, but wasn't sure exactly how to interpret it.  Shared amusement?  Boredom and exasperation at their companions' preoccupation with the Life of the Rich and Famous?  Something more private, perhaps? 

Methos was careful to respond only with a slightly sardonic raised eyebrow.  He was certainly not yet ready to forgive MacLeod for the incident in the park.  And it was slightly astonishing, in retrospect, how quickly Duncan MacLeod had insinuated himself into the Montesque family.  Mrs. Harrison practically wanted to adopt the bastard, talking about fixing him special little tidbits that she thought might appeal to his Scots heritage.  If she presented haggis at their next dinner, Methos feared he would retch. 

Evenso, between Methos' growing sense of unease with playing Andrew's acquiescent boytoy, and Caroline's sulking presence, plus the looming and sure-to-be disruptive wedding, MacLeod's occasional appearances in his life over the next two weeks, even if only as Andy's evening guest for drinks and conversation, were a welcome respite from what had become a rather oppressive home atmopshere. 

Even the library, which had always been a refuge of quiet reflection and reading, had been invaded on a regular basis by Caroline, who thought nothing of slamming through the double doors with a noisy bang, and, in this particular instance, demanding that her father "do" something about the dress she was required to wear as a member of the wedding party. 

"Caro, it won't kill you to wear it," Andy insisted tiredly from his place on the couch, where the two of them had been reading through some of the text Methos had written on the history of Malaysian cultural traditions.  "You are her daughter, after all, and a part of the wedding party.  And it's a lovely dress." 

"Lovely!" Caroline.  "You call this lovely?  God, I suppose you think the Queen Mum is the height of fashion chic." 

Methos was studiously silent as Caroline flounced around the book-lined room in an admittedly rather silly looking frock of pale blue satin, ruffled around the hem and with a neckline that would have made a nun's habit look risqué.   The looming nuptial event was taking on a logistical and psychological importance such that Methos no longer thought of it as a mere inconvenient disruption of his routine.  Now, it was The Wedding, and he had as yet studiously failed to mention the potentially incendiary news of his being 'disinvited' as Andy's guest. 

"Well, just think of Adam and your poor old dad," Andy sighed.  "We are required to wear morning suits, of all things.  You'd think the woman was marrying Prince Charles, as much of a fuss as she is making about the whole affair.  That reminds me, Adam, we have appointments on Thursday at the tailors." 

Methos was carefully considering his next words, when he heard the front doorbell sound.  "I'll get it, Mrs. H!" he shouted and almost leapt out of his chair, delighted at the distraction.  He opened the front door to look down at a pale young man with dirty blond hair hanging in dreadlocked disarray, dressed in a ragged teeshirt and a pair of over-large shorts that hung down to his knees.  A battered skateboard was hugged under his arm. 

"Yes?" he intoned in his best butler imitation. 

"Hey, man, is Caro here?" 

Oh, dear.  Andy would not be pleased. 

"Jed!" a small squeal of delight sounded behind him, and Caro pushed past Methos but then quickly stopped, leaning against the doorframe in a pose of studied nonchalance.  "Hey, man, wha'sup?" she asked, suddenly sounding ridiculously American. 

"Not much," Jed answered.  "We were all wondering what happened to you after your dad sprung you." 

"Ah," Methos inserted.  "Then you were among the co-conspirators who assaulted an MP with a deadly bottle of cola?" 

"The guy was an asshole," Jed responded with a shrug.  "Tried to take a swing at me.  Don't know what he was trying to prove, at his age.  I mean, he must've been forty or fifty, man.  A real geezer." 

"Yeah," Methos agreed with a smile.  "Positively ancient."  There was an awkward silence while the two youngsters waited for Methos to leave, so he backed into the house, leaving the door open. 

"Who the hell is that?" Andy was standing in the foyer, looking suspiciously at the duo now engaged in a murmured conversation on the wide marble stairs leading down to the street. 

"That," Methos answered, "is Jed, evidently.  American, I believe, and one of Caro's co-conspirators in her recent stint in the Old Bailey." 

Andy moved towards the door, but Methos stopped him with a hand on his arm.  "You know, in my experience, expressing disapproval of a suitor only enhances his status.  If I were you, I'd let it be." 

"In your experience?" Andy snapped.  "Is this from your extensive parenting days at Oxford?  That hardly qualifies you to give anyone advice on rearing children, Adam."  Andrew spun on his heel and headed to the front door. 

Methos held his tongue, but shook his head in silent frustration.  Mortals repeated the same mistakes over and over and over again.  Then he had to chuckle at himself.  So did Immortals, no matter how long they managed to stay alive. 

He wandered out to the solarium where he could see that the garden's roses had been coaxed into a few early blooms, punctuating the soft green of grass and shrubs with pink and red and white.  Moments later Caroline stomped in, huffing loudly, and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs with a thump.

"He's impossible!" she complained.  "Won't let me see any of my friends, treats them like they are all bomb-throwing radicals just because they didn't go to Eton and don't play polo on the weekends." 

"He only wants you to be safe and happy, Caroline.  And getting yourself into street fights and thrown into jail wasn't a real confidence-builder as far as your judgment is concerned." 

"Oh, right.  I forgot.  He's your sugar daddy so you have to take his side.  He'd fob me off to some rich social climber like Duncan MacLeod." 

Methos turned to look at her.  "I thought you liked Duncan." 

Caro shrugged, her cheeks coloring a little.  "Well, he's okay, I guess.  He's pretty sexy, and..." her voice trailed off as she plucked on a loose button in the armrest of her chair.  "But none of my friends would approve of him, you know?  He's so...so..." 

"Adult?" Methos supplied with a small smile. 

Caro shrugged again in what was becoming an annoying gesture.  "Too much like the kind of guy Dad and Mother want me to marry." 

"Ah," Methos commented.  "And that automatically disqualifies him as a potential suitor, eh?" 

"Well, he's also a good ten years older than me, and I don't think he's that interested, anyway.  All he seemed to want to talk about was Dad's travels, and asking about you and the books you had written together.  Boooring."  Caroline's eyes took on a small sparkle of mean mischief.  "Maybe he's actually after Dad, you know?  Some kind of gigolo who goes after rich old poofs for their money?  Wouldn't that be..." she suddenly looked into Methos' eyes and blushed deep red.  "Oh, I didn't mean.…" 

Methos chuckled and sat in the couch across from Caro's chair, stretching his legs out and lacing his hands over his stomach.  "Like mother, like daughter," he intoned. 

Caroline's complexion changed again, this time from red to white.  "I am not like my mother!" she snapped.  "I'm perfectly fine with Dad being," she waved her hand in a nebulous gesture, "that way.  It's kind of cool actually," she added haughtily.  "Some of my friends in the movement are gay, and they think you living openly with my Dad, him being titled and all, is pretty wicked." 

"Hmm," Methos nodded sagely.  "I take it being wicked is considered a good thing?" 

She made a face at him that told him he was hopelessly behind the times.  Then she sat up and leaned forward, her eyes sparking with evil mischief.  "You know what? I think I'll invite Jed to escort me to Mother’s wedding.  That will get her back for making me wear this awful dress." 

"Oh, yes.  It certainly would.  It would also probably get your allowance cut off again, and without a job, you would be limited to living with your Dad or your Mum, and abiding by their house rules."  Methos watched as a stubborn pout took over Caroline's face.  "Seems to me what you need to do is to convince them that their judgment about what's best for you is not always right, and that you should be trusted to deal with your own affairs." 

"Oh, right!  And how do you propose I do that?  Get some job at Harrod's selling perfume to blue-haired old ladies?  Invite Mr. Perfect Duncan MacLeod to be my escort at the wedding?" 

An evil thought then presented itself in Methos' brain, elegant in its duplicity, sublime in its potential for mischief.  He stretched his hand out, picking idly at the ragged edge of a fingernail.  "Why not?" he asked.  "As a matter of fact, I do have my suspicions about MacLeod.  A bit too perfect, if you know what I mean.  And all those questions about Andrew's travels, even about me?  Ever since, all your father can talk about is the great Duncan MacLeod.  I suspect he might be trying to...well," he let his voice crack a little, and swallowed. 

Caroline's eyes got large and she sat forward.  "You think he's trying to steal Daddy from you?  Why that...that's horrible!" 

"But I don't know how to find out for certain, or to expose him even if it's true."  Methos pushed himself out of his chair and crossed to the windows, crossing his arms tightly.  "But if I could get them into a situation where MacLeod thinks Andrew is vulnerable, and catch them at...you know.  I know your father has his little affairs on the side, but I didn't trust that MacLeod fellow from the moment I met him.  All his fine airs and tailor-made clothes, taking us to concerts and hanging around here for dinner and drinks.  I think he wants to worm his way into the family, and eventually push me out entirely."  He voice faded to a pained whisper, and he felt Caro's hands on his back, patting him in sympathy. 

"I'm so sorry, Adam.  I didn't realize..." she said.  "Well, there's only one thing to do.  We can kill two birds with one stone.  I'll ask him to escort me to the wedding, Dad will inevitably get pickled and we'll just see if Duncan MacLeod shows his true colors!" 

Adam turned and gave the girl a gentle hug.  "Thank you for being so understanding, Caro.  I didn't mean to get you involved in my sad little drama." 

"Oh, Adam," she comforted him with a squeeze.  "It will be all right.  Just because MacLeod looks like sex on a stick doesn't mean he can waltz in and take over this family!" 

Sex on a stick, Methos thought with a bemused smile.  A fairly apt description, now that he considered the notion. 

"She what!??!" Andrew bellowed. 

"I'm sure she didn't mean to offend," Methos inserted in a soothing, even tone.  Andrew's predictable reaction to the news Methos had just delivered was only problematic if Andy had a stroke as a result.  "And you know I'm really just as glad not to go, and it will save the expense of getting the suit..." 

"Hang the bloody expense!" Andy was stomping back and forth in their bedroom now, running his fingers angrily through his unruly hair.  They had been preparing to go to the tailor's for fittings when Methos finally mentioned that the bride-to-be had deliberately and pointedly excluded Adam from the invitation to The Wedding.  Then Andrew stopped his angry pacing and laughed, shaking his head.  "You’d think she would have gotten over that nonsense, given what I’ve heard about the groom.  I have some friends, who…well, never mind that.  I suppose it’s possible she just doesn’t want to put any temptations in his path.  But you are going, and if she says a single word, I swear, I'll..." 

"All right, all right, Andy.  Calm down.  I'm sure it will be okay, I just thought you ought to know.  I have no desire to create a scene." 

"I should have guessed," Andy replied.  "The woman is impossible.  She goes through my money like water down the loo, and now she has the balls to try to tell me who I can and cannot invite to a wedding she is paying for out of the very generous monthly stipend I send her!" 

"I'm sure it is just a misunderstanding..." 

"Misunderstanding, my arse.  Sharon has never reconciled herself to her own desires, but I’ll not have her take her insecurities out on you." 

The trip to the tailor's had been a trial and a tribulation.  Andy insisted on ordering the finest gray silk morning coats available, matching of course, complete with top hats.  Methos felt idiotic standing in front of the mirror next to his lover while they were measured, tucked and pinned.  Their body styles were quite different, and the long lines of the gray material were not particularly well suited to Andrew's barrel chest and fairly short arms, and the two of them hardly looked like the matched set Andy had intended.  It had been a long time since Methos had been in such formal attire, and he had to admit the beautifully cut fabric suited his long, slender frame. 

"You look delicious.  Sharon will be beside herself," Andrew murmured quietly as they waited for the attendants to complete their tasks. 

Methos caught Andy's eye in the mirror and had to smile, remembering other far more elaborate costumes he had worn in his long life.  "I clean up all right when necessary," he acceded with a smile.  "Speaking of cleaning up, did you know Caroline was going to ask MacLeod to escort her to the wedding?" 

Andy's face brightened.  "Oh, capital!  I was afraid she was going to drag along that wretched person skulking around our door the other day." 

"I thought you'd be pleased." 

Andy gave him a wary sideways glance, apparently wondering if there was any hidden meaning behind the comment, but there was no opportunity for further conversation as their garments were carefully peeled away, and assurances made about perfect fit and timely delivery. 

That evening, Methos was reading and nursing a brandy in the study, trying to ignore the vibrations emanating from Caroline's stereo system two stories above, while Andy was in his darkroom making prints.  The phone rang, and a moment later Mrs. Harrison coughed discreetly to get Methos' attention.  "It's Mr. MacLeod," she informed him.  "He wishes to speak to you," she added, as though slightly surprised and scandalized by the notion, and handed him the receiver. 

"Well," he answered.  "To what do I owe this honor?" 

"Were you aware that Caroline has asked me to escort her to her mother's wedding?  She said it was your suggestion.  She's just a child, Methos, and I don't want to mislead her about my intentions." 

"I thought you enjoyed dressing up and going to parties, MacLeod.  It is supposed to be the social event of the season, you know." 

"So I'm told.  Don't tell me you are going to this thing." 

"Okay." 

"Okay, what?"

"I won't tell you." 

"What is that supposed to mean?" 

"You really need to learn to pay attention to the conversation, Mac.  You said not to tell you I was going." 

"Does that mean you are going?" 

Methos heaved a gusty sigh.  "Well, make up your mind.  Do you want me to tell you or not?" 

"Methos!" 

Methos couldn't keep the grin off his face as he pictured MacLeod's dark brows all furrowed in frustration.  "What?" he asked innocently. 

"Are you going to the bloody wedding?!" 

"Wouldn't miss it," he answered lightly.  "It's the social event of the season." 

"You already said that." 

"Oh.  Right.  Anyway, it's important to Andy.  Caroline needed an escort, and her other choice was a young man in dreadlocks named Jed, who uses a skateboard as his primary means of transportation." 

"Ah, so rather than get stuck with Dreadlocked Jed, you suggested she call up the MacLeod Escort Service." 

"Something like that.  It seemed the preferable alternative, and I've heard you clean up well, your rates are reasonable, and you don't tend to embarrass your friends in public.  Well, there's the occasional headless corpse left lying around, and I would appreciate your not killing anyone during the festivities." 

"Is this about getting back at me for that business in the park?" 

"Good grief, that's old news, MacLeod.  I can't believe you even brought that up.  You must think me very petty." 

"I didn't mean..." 

"Because that's really rude, you know.  You could hurt a person's...." 

"You're overdoing it, Methos," MacLeod interrupted dryly. 

Methos cleared his throat.  "Anyway, it shouldn't be too painful, and there will be lots of good food.  You could wear your kilt and impress everyone with your shapely legs, and if you play your cards right, you might make a few new contacts among the elite for your antique valuation business.  There should be lots of them there - antiques I mean." 

"Hmm, aside from you and me?" Mac responded dubiously.  "Well, as long as you are going, and it isn't going to create any future problems with Caroline, I suppose I can make the effort." 

They exchanged details of time and place, and Methos ended the conversation, feeling quite pleased, both that everything was coming together so nicely, and because - he realized after a moment - MacLeod had agreed to come only once he knew that Methos was going to be there.  It was nice to feel wanted. 

Chapter Three

Andy and Methos stepped out of the limousine into the fading light of a late Spring day.  It was unusually fine weather for a wedding, with only a small threat of rain in the meandering, fluffy clouds high in an otherwise clear sky.  Methos had assiduously avoided MacLeod when he had arrived earlier by cab to take Caroline to do her part in the actual ceremony, which was even now taking place in the estate’s chapel.  Given the circumstances, Methos felt not the slightest twinge of guilt at maneuvering his Immortal friend into duty as Caroline’s less-than-enthusiastic escort to a less-than-enthusiastic bridesmaid.

“God, it’s going to be bloody hot,” Andrew complained, tugging at his collar.  “In an hour I’ll have sweated through this damned suit.”

“You were the one who insisted on coming,” Methos reminded him, but Andy just made a face at him, and strode up the wide marble steps to the massive front doors of the sprawling Manor House of the estate his ex-wife had rented for her ‘social event of the season.’  A butler in formal attire and white gloves greeted them at the entryway, and they were directed through the enormous foyer, where a flower arrangement the size of a small automobile overflowed the circular table sitting at the center of the inlaid parquet floor.  It was flanked by two curving staircases leading to the several stories above them, with marble statues of semi-clad nymphs gracing each newel post.  The whole house was bedecked with flowers, no doubt against the possibility that England’s unpredictable weather might force the reception indoors, but the mixture of so many floral scents made Methos’ nose twitch, and made Andrew sneeze.

Their heels echoed noisily on the parquet, but instantly muted to silence when they reached a deeply carpeted library that had books stacked in mahogany shelves reaching two stories high.  Methos paused, examining a few of the thousands of titles embossed on old leather.  It was such a waste, he mused.  Most of these estate libraries were for display only, with the books sealed behind glass and rarely taken down and used the way they were intended.

“Adam!” Andrew snapped.  “Come along.”

He reluctantly tore himself away, following his lover – my keeper – he reminded himself grumpily, out through an expansive conservatory larger than most London flats.  They finally exited through double glass doors to a large terrace.  To one side of the large half circle of black and white patterned marble was a small stage where a quartet of string musicians played a soothing Bach concerto. 

The side of the half-circle of terrace across from the stage was dotted with circular tables covered with damask linen tablecloths and chairs draped with matching coverings, set off with elaborate bows on each side.  There were more flowers arranged and attached and arrayed on every surface, and beyond the tables was an enormous tent, where the scent of the evening’s promised reception buffet wafted on the muggy breeze, making Methos’ stomach gurgle in anticipation.

As soon as they reached the outdoors, Methos and Andy were approached by a steady stream of well-wishers – strangers to Adam but not to Andrew, evidently.  Methos mechanically nodded and smiled as he was introduced to Lord This, Lady That, and the Hon. Whatever, while most of his attention was occupied with surveying the layout of the immediate area.  Threat assessment was something any Immortal past a hundred years did automatically.

A waiter stopped by with glasses of champagne on a tray, and Methos snatched one, downing half of it in one gulp.  Andy sneezed for the third time in five minutes, and Methos handed him a handkerchief with a small smile at his Lordship’s indignity of a persistent runny nose. 

“Stop sniggering at me,” Andy said grumpily, then loudly blew his nose.  “Personally, I think it should be a crime not to have a single allergy, or never even catch a cold.  And don’t get too smug, old chap.  I won’t soon forget that nosedive into the grass, you know.”

Methos recognized the phrasing, and could just picture Andrew and MacLeod privately chortling over his undignified tumble.  He managed a tight smile and took another sip of his champagne.  Now was as good a time as any to set things in motion for the evening’s entertainment. “Well, consider it a favor to you, Andrew.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that my “nosedive” introduced you to your new best friend.  You know, I think I’m going to have to get my gaydar adjusted.  Every chance MacLeod has had, he has asked about you – what your interests are, what you like, what you don’t like.”

Andrew cocked his head, looking puzzled – and insufferably pleased.  “You can’t be serious.  He’s not…”

“I must say, I initially didn’t think he was, but,” Methos leaned closed to whisper, “I think he fancies you.”

“Fancies me?” Andrew laughed nervously, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Nonsense.  He’s at least twenty years younger than I am.”  He paused and cleared his throat, throwing a nervous glance at Methos in recognition of his faux pas.  “Ah, there’s old Charlie Sedgwick,” he suddenly turned with a wave at someone on the other side of the terrace.  “I’d better go pay my respects.”  He slipped away, abandoning Methos to make inane conversation with people he hardly knew.

As Methos was straining to maintain a sympathetic smile while listening to an elderly woman tell him about her difficulties with arthritis, he almost welcomed the distraction of a wash of Immortal presence.  He turned, spying MacLeod’s and Caroline’s exit from the house, signaling the imminent arrival of the bride and groom.  One look, and Methos choked, almost spitting out a mouthful of champagne through his nose. 

MacLeod was in what passed in the 21st century for full Highland regalia, complete with knee socks, Fèileadh Mòr and fur sporran.  A short, black Prince Charlie jacket was worn over a creamy silk shirt complete with ruffled lace-edged cuffs and flowing jabot. The Ghillie brogues on his feet were topped with knee length white hose crisscrossed with leather garters that were tied so that their fringed tassels dangled at the top of each calf, providing a convenient place to store a decorative sheath that held what Methos assumed was not a purely decorative Sgian Dhub. The tartan, of course, was in the rich greens and blues of the MacLeods, but was not arranged in the sharply sewn pleats seen on most modern kilts.  The voluminous length of fabric was expertly draped in old-fashioned folds around his hips and in soft creases over his left shoulder, held in place with a silver Celtic brooch that was probably as old as the wearer.  The jacket emphasized an impressive set of shoulders, and the tartan folds – well, the outline of MacLeod’s muscular calves, and the occasional glimpse of bare thigh prompted Caroline’s naughty phrase, “sex on a stick” to pop, unbidden, into Methos’ head.  All the better, he firmly told himself.  Andrew could resist anything but temptation, and MacLeod was temptation personified.

“Adam!” Caroline called, waving at him as she worked her way through the crowd in his direction, then went up on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek.  “Don’t you look good enough to eat,” she smiled, her eyes doing an uncomfortably close inventory of his formal attire.

“Caroline,” he nodded in acknowledgement, but his focus was entirely on MacLeod, whose sunglasses were an anachronistic addition to the whole 17th century Highland warrior look he had adopted for the day.  “MacLeod,” he nodded again, and Mac took off his glasses, revealing a warm, welcoming expression that conveyed more than just a simple greeting.  “Nice outfit.  Going to a Highland Fling after the reception?”

“Oh, this old thing?” he gestured to his clothes with a mischievous grin.  “Just something I had in the closet, and someone suggested they wanted to see me in a kilt.”

“Oh?  Who was that?”

“An old friend.  Someone whose opinion I value.”

Methos was considering his reply to that when a sudden flurry of activity on the terrace drew their attention, and the bride and groom emerged into the sunshine to the applause and cheers of the 300 or so assembled guests.  Methos and MacLeod stood away from the crowd as the couple was congratulated and well-wished, and an official reception line began to form.

“How was the ceremony?” Methos asked, more to make conversation than because he gave a rat’s behind.

Mac shrugged.  “Blessedly brief.”

“Did you get a chance to meet the bride and groom?”

“Not officially. I just sat in the back.  I suspect I won’t be staying long since Caroline isn’t exactly thrilled to be here.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Methos acknowledged dryly.  “I think she spent most of the night on the phone with Jed, bemoaning the fashion deficiencies of her bridesmaid dress.”

“Yes, well she certainly seemed not in the best of moods.  I was afraid I had done something to piss her off.  Methos,” Mac added softly, “You think we might get a chance to talk anytime soon?  I’m getting a little tired of…”

“Duncan!” Andy interrupted, coming up behind him and slapping MacLeod heartily on the shoulder, then letting his hand linger there. “I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone carry off wearing a kilt quite so well.  You look like you were born and bred to it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Mac responded.

“It was certainly intended as one,” Andrew added, reaching for Mac’s hand and giving it a slow, two-handed shake.  “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your being Caroline’s escort today.  I know she is a little young and immature for a sophisticated man such as yourself, but you have done me an enormous service.  Any time I can return the favor,” Andy let the end of the sentence and the handshake linger, and Methos recognized the acquisitive look in Andy’s eyes.  He’d seen it many times, and even though he had set up the situation himself for MacLeod’s deliberate embarrassment, and he had long ago reconciled himself to Andy’s wandering eye, he felt an unexpected stab of unease at watching his Lordship trying to work his charm on Duncan MacLeod.

“I assure you I was happy to do it,” Mac said, his eyes narrowing just slightly at Andrew’s surprising effusiveness, and Methos was careful to look away as he sensed Mac’s curious gaze traveling in his direction.

“Nonetheless, I am in your debt,” Andy insisted.  “At least let me get you some champagne.” He snagged three fresh glasses from a waiter, passing them around, then drank deeply from his own glass.  “My ex-wife buys nothing but the best, but at least this event marks the end of that particular financial burden, and that is reason enough to celebrate.  You know, Duncan, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the antiques trade.…” Andrew gulped down the rest of his champagne, put his arm companionably around MacLeod’s shoulders and walked him off towards the food tent.  Mac glanced back over his shoulder, his head cocked in question, but Methos just smiled blandly back.

Methos wandered away from the crowd, onto a path leading away from the house and into the elaborate, formal gardens, wanting to make sure Mac didn’t have any easy way to find him and escape Andrew’s clutches.  He discovered a nearby hedge maze, and was pleased at the sudden quiet and solitude it offered.  Every few turns there would be a small surprise, an interesting statue, an odd configuration of topiary, or even a nice bench to sit and enjoy the fine Spring evening.  Finding the center wasn’t terribly difficult, as there were several different entrances and ways to reach it.  It, too, held a little surprise – a fountain, and at its center, a replica of the famous Mannekin Pis, the bronze Brussels’ Peeing Cherub statue.  Someone had evidently added some concoction to the water, thinking it a festive wedding addition, and the fountain was gradually filling with large, soapy bubbles.

He was contemplating the fountain and finishing off the last of his champagne when the string quartet’s drifting strains were abruptly replaced by the bass thrum of what sounded like rock music.  His stomach chose that moment to protest its neglect, and he turned back, deciding if he had to attend this function, the least he could do was get a decent meal out of it.  And besides, he had to be close enough to see MacLeod in order to enjoy his discomfort.

He emerged from the maze to find that a ten-piece dance band now occupied the stage, and that the decibel levels from the music and the conversations had risen with the level of alcohol consumption.  There was now dancing going on to some perfectly appalling seventies pop tunes, by Abba, if he wasn’t mistaken, and various lights strung around the garden were drawing buzzing insects to their irresistible brightness as dusk faded to night.

“Well, Adam, I’m certainly glad to see that you dressed appropriately for the occasion, even if you weren’t invited.” 

Methos turned to see Andrew’s attractive ex-wife, beautifully attired in flowing, cream-colored silk, her auburn hair arranged in an artful tangle of curls around her face.  “Nice to see you, too, Sharon,” Methos replied.  One of the ubiquitous waiters drifted by, and Methos gratefully fortified himself with another flute of champagne.  “Congratulations.  Or should I say best wishes?  I suppose one is only supposed to congratulate the groom.”

Sharon shrugged, then her expression softened at little.  “I really don’t mind you and Andrew, you know.  And I’m sorry I was such a bitch about it.  I was just so worried about this whole thing.”  She waved her arm, her gesture encompassing the entire gathering.  “Andy always said I was too concerned about appearances.”  She laughed, more of a giggle really, then sipped some more champagne.  “Or maybe that was Caroline.  Whatever.  Samuel has been trying to teach me to loosen up, and we’ve done all kinds of…, well, all kinds of things I never thought I’d do.”  Her face went bright pink and she waved her arm again, spilling a little of her drink.  “Anyway, I wanted to thank you.  Andrew says you were the one who found that wonderful Duncan MacLeod for Caroline. And that kilt?  My, my, my.  And me an old married lady, now.”  She flapped her hand as though to cool her overheated face.

“Almost too good to be true, eh?” Methos asked, smiling at another excellent opportunity to add to his friend’s discomfort.  He leaned over, added in his best gossipy-queen voice.  “I’m sure he would love to be introduced to all these marvelously important people.”

“You think so?” Sharon got a hard, acquisitive look in her eye.

“Who wouldn’t?” Methos smiled, wide-eyed with sincerity.  He watched in amused satisfaction as she bustled off to find “that wonderful Duncan MacLeod,” then headed to the food tent to find something to eat.

He was nibbling on a delicious toastpoint topped with caviar and sour cream when he spotted MacLeod in the corner of the food tent with Andrew practically draped on his arm.  Mac’s smile looked decided strained as his eyes scanned the crowd.  His expression brightened when he spotted Methos, and Mac immediately stepped around Andrew, making his excuses and moving in Methos’ direction.  Timing is everything, Methos thought, and quickly found his way onto the dance floor, working his way through the writhing bodies towards a cluster of tables close to the house.  He looked back, peering through the crowd, delighted to see that Sharon had intercepted Mac.  She was hanging on his arm, chattering gaily even as Mac craned his neck to try to spot Methos in the crowd.

Methos was chuckling to himself, backing into the house to avoid MacLeod’s desperate search for someone to rescue him from Andrew’s flirtations and Sharon’s machinations, when he bumped into something solid.  A firm hand grabbed his bicep to steady him.

“Watch your step!” 

Methos turned and found himself looking up into the face of the groom, a man in his mid-to-late fifties.  He was eyeing Methos with interest, cocking an immaculately coifed head of distinguished-looking silver hair.  He was dressed in the suit of the day – a formal morning coat of solid black, with a white rosebud framed in baby’s breath pinned on his lapel. 

“A little bubbly can play havoc with the old coordination, eh?” the man said jovially, betraying a distinctively American accent.

“Mmm.  I suppose it can.  I only wish I’d had enough to do the trick,” Methos commented wryly, putting out his hand.  “Haven’t had the pleasure.  The name is Pierson.  Adam Pierson.” 

“Ah, yes.  Samuel Considine, at your service.  And you’re Andrew’s companion?  Sharon has told me a lot about you.”  Considine grasped Methos’ hand in a hearty shake. A waiter paused in the doorway, and the groom plucked Methos’ now-empty glass from his hand and acquired replacements, handing one to Methos.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Methos murmured into his glass, but that only made Considine laugh.

“Oh, you shouldn’t let her little obsessions about appearances fool you.  Sharon can be quite the wild child, given half a chance.”  The groom nudged him with an elbow and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “And I think she was just secretly jealous of her ex having found such a young, sexy lover.”

Methos used his thousands of years of experience to maintain a bland smile, but he knew he at least blinked in surprise a couple of times as Considine continued without pause.

“I’ve been trying to teach her to be more flexible about such things and she seems to have taken to it like a duck to water.”  Methos struggled to keep from uttering any one of several witty – but probably inappropriate and undoubtedly rude – rejoinders that came to mind.  “Sharon says you’re a travel writer?”

“Not exactly,” Methos replied.  “More of a social historian.  I work with Andrew on his photographic studies of various ancient cultures.”

“Fascinating,” Considine commented, sounding anything but fascinated.

“And your line of work?” Methos asked automatically.

“Investment banking.  I’m with the London office of Goldman Sachs.”  Considine took a card out of his pocket and handed it over in a practiced gesture, and Methos felt certain the man had spent a good portion of his wedding reception making certain all the guests had his business card.

“Fascinating,” Methos murmured as he tucked the card in his pocket.

“Adam!” a familiar voice called behind him, and Methos turned to find MacLeod bearing down on him.

“Ah, Samuel Considine, I’d like to introduce you to Caroline’s young man, Duncan MacLeod,” Methos immediately inserted.

“Delighted,” Mac automatically shook Considine’s hand.  “Congratulations, by the way.  I hope you’ll be very happy. Adam, I need to speak to…”

“Impressive outfit,” Considine observed, indicating MacLeod’s clothing.  “Not many guys could carry it off as well.  Are you a Scot, then?”

Mac let a beat of silence go by before he forced a small, patient smile.  “Yes,” he answered at last.  “And I’m not actually Caroline’s young man, as Adam put it,” he added with a glower in Methos’ direction.  “Just an escort for the evening.”

“Oh.”  Considine’s eyes widened a little.  “You mean…”

“Ah, yes,” Methos inserted, eyeing MacLeod with a grin.  “What do you call your…escort service?  You mentioned it to me on the phone the other day when we discussed your rates.”

“There you are, you naughty boy!” Sharon came up grabbed Duncan’s arm, her eyes bright and slightly unfocused.  “Isn’t he lovely, Samuel?  Adam found him, but I think I’ll keep him, or at least rent him for the night.” Sharon laughed at her little joke and cuddled up close to MacLeod, who backed slightly in Methos’ direction.  “Where is Caroline, anyway?  I’ve hardly seen her all…oh, there she is on the dance floor.  Oh, my.  Who on earth is that?”

Methos glanced where she was pointing, then did a double-take.  Caro was, indeed, on the dance floor, plastered provocatively up against a vaguely familiar looking young man with spiky bleached blond hair, numerous facial piercings, and wearing a dark ill-fitting suit. 

“Oh, you should be dancing with her, Duncan.  I’d love to see you dance, especially in that kilt,” Sharon observed seductively, one hand disappearing towards Mac’s backside. Duncan lurched an ungraceful step towards the dance floor, looking back once at Methos with a murderous expression. 

Methos was barely controlling an urge to snicker, certain that the bride had just succeeded in groping MacLeod’s arse.  An entire event devoted to publicly embarrassing MacLeod had made the evening well worth the trip.  He was on a roll, and finally a small snort of glee did escape as he watched Mac attempt to break in on the dancing pair.  The young man could only be Dreadlocked Jed, sans dreadlocks, shorn in evident demonstration of his devotion to Caroline. 

MacLeod was blissfully unaware of the youngster’s identity, and of Caroline’s newly planted suspicions about Mac’s desire to ‘steal’ Andrew’s affections.  Mac looked quite taken aback when Caroline snapped at him, refusing his smiling request to cut in.  Caroline glanced meaningfully over in Methos’ direction, and Methos managed to summon an appropriately forlorn look in return.  MacLeod was left standing alone on the dance floor for all of about three seconds before a stout young matron claimed him, sweeping him off to disappear in the crowd of dancers.

“Where ever did you find him?” a smooth voice whispered in his ear, and Methos realized Considine was standing so close behind him, he could feel his breath on the back of his neck.  “He’s delicious, and I think Sharon is quite…intrigued.”

“Uh…” Methos was momentarily at a loss, but then felt another card slipped into his hand.

“This is my private number, Adam.  I’d love to know more about your friend and how to acquire his services.  He might be a lovely wedding present for Sharon, or even for me?”

For the second time that night, Methos almost choked on his champagne.

“Or you could let me know if you might be…”

“No, I don’t think so,” Methos interrupted harshly.  Andrew’s innuendoes about Sharon and her new husband all came into sudden focus, and the unbidden picture of a threesome involving a naked Sharon and her new husband made him shudder.  He quickly smoothed his features and turned, ostentatiously slipping the new card into his pocket as a whole host of new possibilities for mischief danced in his head.  “But I’m sure MacLeod would be very intrigued at the possibility.  As a matter of fact, you’re just his type, you know.”  He lightened his voice a little and batted his eyes and was rewarded by a small flush of pleasure on Considine’s face.  Oh, this was getting better and better.  “I’ll talk to him and see whether he’s available later this evening.”

Considine’s eyes were bright with anticipation.  “Oh, my,” he said, rubbing his hands together.  “This could be a wedding night to remember.”

“Oh, yes,” Methos assured him.  “Indeed it will.”

It took some quick-footed maneuvering, but Methos carefully avoided MacLeod for the next half hour.  The effort cost him a dance with Sharon, whose formerly tight-laced demeanor had melted away under the force of several glasses of champagne, as well as of a new husband who had somehow managed to free her inner child, or inner slut…or something.  The evening was getting rather confusing, even for Methos, and the muggy warmth made his clothes cling uncomfortably as he kept his eye on MacLeod, now dancing with one of the other bridesmaids, who was letting her hands wander a little further south than was exactly proper.  Evidently, the rumors of MacLeod’s rental availability were spreading quickly.

“Oh, dear,” Sharon breathed into his shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Andrew and Samuel.”  She turned them on the dance floor so Methos could see that they were together, standing close, Andy’s hand on Considine’s shoulder, with Andy saying something into Considine’s ear that made him smile, then throw back his head and laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Adam reassured her.  “You know Andy.  He loves to tell stories of his adventures.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.  I know the nature of some of Andy’s adventures, and Samuel just loves.…” Sharon blushed.  “Well, I just hope Andy’s not telling him about all those years when I wouldn’t even…” she blushed even further, and waved her hand.  “Never mind.  I’ve got to get over that.”

“Sharon, Andrew may have his faults, but he’s not a vindictive man, and you were his wife for almost fifteen years.  Even if you eventually grew apart, I know he loved you.  He just likes…variety.  Evidently, so does Samuel, so something about that must appeal to you, too,” Methos suggested carefully.

Sharon blushed again, ducking her head.  “That’s what Sam says.  I think I wasn’t ready to face that, before, but Samuel has opened up a whole new world to me,” she said brightly, even though her face was bright red.  “I suppose I can tell you that, of all people.  I’m really having fun, I think for the first time in my life.”

Methos was learning far more about Sharon, about Andrew’s marriage, and about Samuel Considine than he ever had any desire to know, but gave Sharon a small squeeze as the latest dance number came to an end.  “I’m very happy for you.”

“Oh, Duncan!” Sharon greeted MacLeod as he worked his way towards them through the crowd with a look of determination on his face.  “Are you having a good time?  Have you met everyone yet?  You know, I don’t think I introduced you to Charles Segwick and his wife.  You know he is a senior advisor to the Chancellor of the Exchequer?”

“Yes, well, I’m sure that would be lovely, but I really need to speak to Adam,” MacLeod insisted.

“Oh, I’ll be here for while, MacLeod, don’t worry.  I’m having a wonderful time,” Methos assured him with a smile.  “I’m sure it is important that you meet Mr. Sedgwick.”

“Adam!” MacLeod growled softly, but Methos blithely ignored him.

Sharon stood on tiptoe and looking around the crowd.  “Oh, there they are!”  She grabbed Mac’s elbow, pulling him back towards the house.  Mac glanced back pleadingly towards Methos a couple of times, and finally, as he passed a table he grabbed a napkin, pulling a pen from his pocket to write on it, then gave it to a passing waiter and pointed towards Methos as Sharon continued to tug at him.

Methos waited patiently and, sure enough, a moment later the waiter handed him the napkin, on which was scrawled:

“The maze.  9:30.  D.”

Oh, my.  Couldn’t have been better if he had written it himself.

“Hey, Adam,” a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Caroline,” he acknowledged.  She was hanging possessively on Jed’s arm, and both were looking slightly flushed, and a little bruised and swollen around the lips, and Methos speculated whether kissing someone with so many facial piercings added or detracted from the experience.

“Have you caught Duncan in the act, yet?” she asked.

It was another opportunity too good to miss.  “No, but I just intercepted this note he was going to pass to Andrew, ” and he showed Caroline the napkin.

“That bastard!” she hissed.  “I just knew it!”

“Well, it’s not as though Andrew isn’t willing, now is it?” Methos heard himself snap. Now where had that ugly thought come from?  Of course, it was true.  It wasn’t actually Duncan who was prepared to publicly flaunt his infidelity, was it?  While MacLeod’s chronicles were legendary for their sexual exploits, once the man had made a commitment, he was intensely loyal and completely monogamous.

Caroline just frowned.  Methos realized she had probably borne the brunt of the emotional fallout from her parents’ breakup, and certainly wouldn’t want to see her father as the bad guy.  “Duncan’s even got Mother eating out of his hand,” she said glumly, ignoring Methos’ comment about her father.  “It’s guys like him who were responsible for Dad leaving my mother in the first place, and he needs to realize that the man is a first-class jerk.”

The tiniest jolt of guilt stabbed Methos somewhere mid-chest, but he firmly squelched it, using the memory of that cold, wet icepack on his bum as a motivator.  “Well then, I guess I better make sure Andrew gets MacLeod’s message, hadn’t I?” Methos smiled and headed off towards the food tent.  Andrew could usually be found in the biggest crowd, and that was usually wherever there was food or drink.

He discovered that Andrew was occupied on the dance floor with Sharon at the moment, The two of them certainly seemed to be having a good time, flailing around to the strong bass rhythm of “YMCA” like over-age hippies.  Methos took the opportunity to snag another full glass of champagne, even though he was beginning to feel a little lightheaded, but he was intercepted by Samuel Considine. 

“Well?” Considine asked brightly.

“Well, what?”

“What did your Mr. MacLeod say to my proposal?”

My Mr. MacLeod?  That was a new one. “He gave me this.”  Methos showed him the note before slipping it back into his pocket, and as Considine read it a smile spread over his face.

“Well, that was quick.  MacLeod is a man after my own heart, eh?” Considine nudged Methos meaningfully.

“Well, he certainly seems to be a man after something,” Methos commented wryly.

Considine looked at his watch, then at the dance floor to see if his bride was still boogying with her ex-husband.  “Sharon and I have a suite here for the night,” Considine confided.  “The fireworks are at 10 o’clock, and that will be our signal to retire, so I think I should go make sure we have all the necessary, uh, accessories for the evening, if you know what I mean.”  Considine nudged him again, and Methos had the sudden urge to nudge back just enough to land the groom in the chocolate fondue pot bubbling behind him.

Methos checked his own watch.  It was just after nine o’clock and the party was now in full swing, loud and raucous, with the band insisting on playing truly dreadful disco songs from the 70’s.  The latest song finally finished and Andy and Sharon staggered off the floor, laughing and hanging onto one another.  “Oh, Andy, you always were such a terrible dancer,” Sharon gasped, reaching for a glass of champagne. 

“Yes, but I make up for it in enthusiasm,” Andy grinned at both of them as he downed an entire glass of wine in two gulps.  “And how’re you doing, old chap?” Andy slapped Methos on the shoulder, then gave him a quick, one-armed hug.  “Having a good time?  Where’s MacLeod got off to, eh?”

MacLeod had undoubtedly sought a quiet retreat, away from the groping hands of the several people pursuing him that night, and from a ‘date’ who had inexplicably turned hostile towards him.  Fortunately, the grounds were arranged so that the two Immortals were never out of range of each other’s Presence, and Methos knew the man had not gone far. “Oh, I think I saw him wandering off towards the maze,” Methos replied.  “Said it was a nice place to find some privacy.  Asked me to give this to you, though,” Methos added casually, handing Andrew the folded note from Duncan. 

“Really,” Andy’s eyes studied the note with a secret smile, then slipped it into his pocket.  He ostentatiously flapped the front of his suit coat a few times, announced he could use a little fresh air himself, then grabbed two glasses of champagne and headed off into the dark beyond the edge of the terrace.

And the game’s afoot, Methos smiled to himself, slowly following after.
 
 

Chapter 4

Methos stepped into the first turn of the maze, and was enveloped in comforting darkness as the high hedges effectively blotted out the light from the party.  Even so, he easily followed Andrew at a discrete distance by the sound of his cheerily off-key whistling of “YMCA”.  Methos was also keeping a wary watch for Samuel Considine, whom he expected to soon become a cast member in his little comedy.  He moved quietly, staying in the deeper shadows where even the dim light from a quarter moon couldn’t reach.  He did not want to risk discovery since the evening’s entertainment was about to reach its peak, and he wanted to see for himself what MacLeod would do with a slightly drunken, amorous pass made by a friend’s lover.  A frisson of unease almost brought him to a halt, as a disturbing vision of Duncan MacLeod effortlessly snapping Andrew’s neck suddenly formed in his mind, but on second thought, he shrugged it off.  MacLeod’s hands and feet might be deadly weapons, but the man was ridiculously scrupulous about harming any mortal who didn’t present an immediate threat to life and limb.

He paused at the last turn before reaching the center of the maze.  He could hear the gentle burble of the fountain as the verdegris cherub’s tiny penis shot out a stream of water into what must now be a substantial accumulation of soapy bubbles.  He knelt, folding himself into the protection of a dark corner, and parted the screen of hedge at a convenient thin spot, just as he heard a call.

“Duncan!  There you are, old chap!  I brought you some refreshment.”  Andy came into view, and the small spotlights illuminating the fountain revealed a broad-shouldered shadow, rising from a stone bench placed to provide rest for those who found the center. 

“Andrew?  Is that you?  What are you….?”

“Of course, it’s me.  Who’d you expect?  Lord Byron?” Andrew’s voice was low and seductive as he leaned close to hand Mac a glass of champagne.  “Nice place for a little private rendezvous after all that noise, eh?  Come here, Duncan, sit.  Relax.”  Andy sat on the stone bench and motioned to the place beside him, but MacLeod stood rigidly in place.

“Where’s Adam?” Mac asked.  The light was behind MacLeod, unfortunately, so all he could see was a bulky outline, but Mac appeared to be peering toward the various entrances to the clearing, probably hoping for rescue.

Andrew chuckled.  “You shouldn’t worry about Adam.  You and I are men of the world, Duncan, and Adam is…,” Andy shrugged.  “He is sweet, but….” Andy stood, moving closer to MacLeod.  Methos tightened his mouth to stifle a snort of laughter as Mac moved a step away, and Andy moved closer, and Mac moved a step away again until he ran into the lip of the fountain.  “He’s young and inexperienced, and sometimes a man has…other needs.  And you must know how you look in that kilt, like some 17th-century barbarian ready to kill or to fuck anything that got in your way,” Andy murmured seductively.

“Uh, Andrew, I think you’ve….”

“Don’t go all coy on me now, old chap.  Adam showed me your note, after all, and it isn’t like I haven’t made my interest clear, now is it?”  Andrew leaned close, and Mac leaned back, putting his hand on Andrew’s chest to stop him.

“Uh, Andrew.  I don’t know where you got the idea that I….”

“Adam told me.  Surprised?  Well, he knows which side his bread is buttered on.  He said you’d been asking all kinds of questions.  You should have just asked me, instead,” Andrew murmured as he fingered Mac’s silk jacket. “I’d be happy to tell you anything you’d like to know.” A hand wandered up to touch MacLeod’s lapel and Methos found his own fingers curling in as though he could feel the fabric himself, could imagine the heat rising off of Mac’s body in the summer stillness, and leaned closer so he wouldn’t miss a word.

Mac captured Andy’s wrist in his large hand, stopping any further explorations.  “Exactly what did Adam tell you?” Mac asked sharply.  “That I was attracted to you?” Methos could see Andy wince slightly as Mac’s fingers tightened on his wrist.

“Oh, you like it rough, do you?” Andrew growled, moving even closer.  “All the better,” and Andy used Mac’s grip to pull their two bodies together, and used his other hand to grab MacLeod’s neck and pull him in for a bruising kiss.

MacLeod was yanking away when a blur of light blue streaked across Methos’ small field of vision.  He heard a yell that sounded something like, “You fucking, pervert bastard!” and suddenly, with a yelp of surprise and a muted splash, MacLeod was over the lip of the fountain, disappearing into a large cloud of soap bubbles that washed over the edge and onto the flagstones.  And there was Caroline, standing in the clearing, hands at her waist, breathing hard and staring at her father with murder in her eye.

The bubbles surged and moved like they had a life of their own, and one hand appeared, then disappeared again as water and bubbles continued to slosh over the edge.  Many of the iridescent globes had now floated free and were gaily drifting in the still air of the hot summer night.

“Caroline, what the hell are you doing here?” Andy snapped.

“The question is what are you doing here with, with him!” she pointed accusingly at the continuously roiling blob in the fountain.

Methos was grateful they were yelling at each other because it covered the noise of his collapse into the bushes, as he used both hands over his mouth to keep quiet.

“That is none of your business, young lady.  Now you apologize to Duncan, or….”

“Apologize?!  Apologize to man who is trying to seduce you right out from under Adam’s nose?  Just like that other guy, what was his name?  Carlisle?  Seduced you away from Mother?  When will you learn that these, these…tarted-up gigolos,” Caroline gestured towards the fountain in disdain, “just want you for your money and your social contacts.  They don’t love you!  Not like Mum did.”

Finally, two hands could be seen grasping the edge of the fountain, and MacLeod’s head appeared, crowned with white foam that slowly slid down one side of his face and plopped back into the water. 

“Oh, Caroline,” Andy sighed.  “I wasn’t seduced away from your mother.  She just got tired of looking the other way whenever my interests…wandered.”  Andrew took his daughter by the shoulders, then tipped her tear-streaked face up with one hand.  “It was all my fault, Caroline.  Not hers, and not any boyfriend I had at the time, or have now, for that matter.  I always loved your mother, Caro. I still do. I’m just…weak.”

“But, but he…,” she pointed to MacLeod, who was now struggling to find enough purchase on the soap-slicked marble to pull himself out of the fountain.  “He was going to break up you and Adam, just when I’d finally got used to having him around.”

Mac managed to swing one leg over the lip of the fountain, but his other foot slipped out from underneath him, and he splashed back once more, this time with one leg still sticking up above the bubbles, hooked over the edge of the fountain. 

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Andrew huffed, and reached over, groping around amidst the concealing screen of foam to try to find a hand to grab to help MacLeod out of the water.  At last the Highland warrior, dripping plaid and all, managed to stand, looking like some kind of bizarre soap ad.  The old American “Irish Spring” soap jingle started playing itself over and over in Methos’ head, and despite his best efforts, a snort of laughter finally escaped.

“Me…Pierson!” Mac bellowed.  “I know you’re there!  I’m going to kill you for this, you know!”

“Now, Duncan, this is hardly Adam’s fault!” Andrew said soothingly, holding out a hand so Mac could steady himself as he gingerly stepped out of the pool.  Unfortunately, the soap-covered flagstones gave neither of them steady footing, and both of them slipped.  Andrew instinctively grabbed Mac, and, with his usual heroic instincts, Mac managed to turn both their bodies as they went down so he took the brunt of the fall, and both men sprawled on the ground with a grunt of expelled breath.

Methos was sure he was going to hurt himself if he had to keep silent much longer, and rolled onto the grass, holding his sides.

“Well, well, well, starting without me?” a new voice asked, and Methos forced himself upright again to peer into the clearing, to see Samuel Considine step into view.

Methos could hear Mac muttering darkly in Gaelic, and Andrew looked up from his position lying atop MacLeod’s body with a rueful smile.  “Ah, if it isn’t the groom,” he said jovially.  “I’ve heard you like to watch.”  He rolled off until he was sitting beside Mac’s prone figure, and casually swiped the clinging bits of foam off his suit.

Considine laughed out loud.  “It seems you and Sharon have been talking about more than the good old days,” he said, and extended a hand down to Andrew.

Andrew looked up speculatively.  “Oh, I’ve heard many rumors, Samuel.  I’ve always wondered if they were true.”

Caroline looked absolutely mortified.  “Oh, Daddy!” Caroline wailed, and quickly escaped, speeding right past Methos’ hiding place.  If he hadn’t manage to pull his legs in, she would have tripped over his feet, since he was now sitting on the ground, too overcome to even kneel anymore.  As a matter of fact, Methos was sure he had strained a muscle in his stomach, and he was in danger of losing bladder control. 

Methos returned his concentration to the scene by the fountain, where Considine had helped Andrew to his feet.  MacLeod, in the meantime, had rolled over to his knees, then struggled to pull his plaid into place as its soggy folds stuck together, exposing a long, thickly muscled bare thigh, and a brief glimpse of even more intimate flesh.  It seemed that MacLeod was ever the true Scot, and wore his plaid accordingly.

Considine and Andrew stood closely together, Considine’s hand still on Andrew’s arm.  Both were being noticeably unhelpful as Mac struggled to his feet, evidently preferring to enjoy the view, instead.   “You know, my friend,” Considine leaned close, speaking in an aside to Andrew as they stared at MacLeod, “Sharon and I are perfectly willing to share.”

“Share?” Andrew sounded slightly taken aback, but Methos could see an intrigued smile on his face.  “You and Sharon?  My, my what have you two been up to?”

“Share what, exactly?” MacLeod snarled, yanking down his stubbornly clinging plaid, and shaking foam and water off his hands. 

“Oh, Duncan, dear, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Andrew said soothingly.  He reached out to put a possessive arm around Mac, but Mac quickly backed away, his feet slipping slightly on the soapy flagstones before he regained his balance.

“If you are talking about sharing me,” Mac insisted in a tightly controlled voice, “then you will find you have been seriously misled.  And I suspect I know the source of the misinformation,” he added loudly, his head swiveling suspiciously to look into the shadows.  “Come out here, Pierson.  I know you’re there.”

Decisions, decisions, Methos mused.  Should he make an appearance?  It certainly might be safer in a group, since Mac wouldn’t do him any serious damage in front of mortals.  But then, there was still so much potential for mischief if he just let events play themselves out.

“Now, Duncan, the more the merrier, I always say.” Considine was now on the prowl, moving ever closer to MacLeod.  “And if it’s a matter of compensation, I’ll personally make sure you get whatever you desire.”  He circled around, stepping directly into Mac’s space until Mac moved back, only to bump into Andrew.  “And I’m very interested in knowing your most secret desires.”

A MacLeod sandwich, Methos thought.  If it had been a battle, Samuel and Andrew would both be unconscious on the ground by now, but these were both mortals, both slightly drunk, and neither wished MacLeod any harm.  Quite the contrary.  But then Andrew used MacLeod’s step back as an opportunity to put his arm around the Scot’s waist, pulling him close so his groin rubbed provocatively into Mac’s ass.

“PIERSON!”

Methos didn’t think he had ever quite heard that particular tone from Mac before.  It was an odd mix of the roar of an angered bull elephant and the panicked yelp of a trapped terrier.  Well, perhaps it was time to make an appearance before finding out whether MacLeod was really that reluctant to do any damage to Andrew or the groom.

“What have we here?” he strolled nonchalantly into the clearing, after discreetly brushing a few tell-tale stray leaves of hedge and grass from his trousers.  “Why Duncan, darling,” he drawled, “stretching yourself a little thin, aren’t you?”

MacLeod enveloped Considine’s shoulders in his large hands and practically picked the man up to move him aside. “What the hell did you tell these people?” Mac demanded, advancing on him slowly.  It took a considerable act of will for Methos to stand nonchalantly, his hands tucked unthreateningly in his pockets.  “Caroline thinks I’m some kind of gigolo, for God’s sake.  And just look at this,” MacLeod gestured to his ruined, dripping clothes.  His kilt still clung tightly to his thighs, and the little tassels at the top of his knee-high hose were dripping a melodic rhythm onto the flagstones.

“Oh, everyone is looking, Duncan,” Methos circled around him with a provocatively appraising gaze. 

Mac stepped close and lifted a thick digit to Methos’ nose, the rest of his hand closed in a tight fist.  MacLeod’s face was an interesting shade of mauve, and there was a little muscle in his jaw that was twitching rhythmically.  Mac started to say something, stopped, then turned away, his fists jammed into his waist. 

“Any of you dudes need one of these?” a young voice asked, and Methos turned to discover Jed standing at an entrance to the clearing, holding several towels.  “Caroline sent me.  Boy, you guys really rattled her cage.”

Methos’ lips, already struggling to stay still, quivered a little at the corners as the two men hovering so close to MacLeod quickly stepped away with a lot of throat clearing and sidelong glances.  Mac strode over to the young man and yanked a towel out of his arms, first blotting his flushed face, then drying his hair, leaving it quaintly tousled.  He had been letting it grow long again, and unruly curls fell onto his forehead, softening the otherwise dangerous expression glittering in MacLeod’s dark eyes.

“Thank you, Mr…?" MacLeod asked.  Somehow, Mac’s suddenly calm, polite demeanor was anything but reassuring, especially as it was accompanied by a hard, almost feral smile.

“Parsons.  Jedidiah Parsons from Atlanta, Georgia, at your service, sir,” the young man said with a slight incline of his head.

“And you’re a friend of Caroline’s?” Mac asked gently, deliberately ignoring the other men.

Jed glanced nervously at Andrew, then raised his chin defiantly, the silver piercings in his ears and lips catching the light.  “Yeah, man.  As a matter of fact, I’m in love with her.  You got a problem with that?”

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod seemed to reach a decision.  He squared his shoulders and turned to face the other two men, exuding a dark power that made the hairs on the back of Methos’ neck rise.  “Not for me.  Is that a problem for you, Andrew?”

“Uh, why, why no.  Not at all.”

Mac turned to Considine.  “How about you, Samuel.  That isn’t a problem for you, is it?”

“Me?” Considine asked in a high voice, backing a few steps away.  “Why no.  No problem.  Certainly not.  No problem at all,” he finished weakly.

“Well, then, I’m glad we have that settled,” Mac stated flatly, then advanced on the two men, examining them with a baleful eye as he slowly crossed his arms over his chest.  “Now, let’s settle something else.”  He began to walk, circling the two mortals as they pivoted to keep their eyes on him.  “I am not now, nor in this life have ever been, a gigolo.  Adam told you that because he wants me, and was just jealous when I wasn’t paying any attention to him.”

“I what!?” Methos said, his jaw dropping.

“Adam, is this true?” Andrew asked.

“Did you really expect Adam to remain faithful to a lover who leaves him for months at a time, and is prepared to seduce another man practically under his nose?” Mac inserted before Methos had a chance to formulate an answer.

“Adam, I’m so sorry,” Andrew said, reaching out to Methos, but Methos backed away, realizing he had been tired of Andrew’s games for quite a while now.

“I know, Andy.  Don’t worry about it.  It was probably time for both of us to move on.”  Methos smiled, nodding at Considine.  “Perhaps, you have an opportunity to rekindle an old love in a new way.”  Andy reached out again, and this time Methos let him pull them together for a brief, chaste kiss and another apology.  “It’s okay, Andrew.  Really.” Methos whispered.

Considine laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder, with a nervous glance back at the hostile, hovering Highlander.  “Come on, my friend.  Let’s find Sharon.  I think we’ve got some interesting possibilities to discuss.”

Andy turned, smiling warmly into the other man’s eyes.  Samuel slipped his arm around Andrew’s shoulders and the two men disappeared into the shadows of the exit, talking together quietly.

“Wow,” Jed murmured, watching the proceedings with wide, wondering eyes.  “You Brits don’t even need drugs to enter an alternate reality, do you?”

Mac took the rest of the towels out of Jed’s hands, and turned him around toward the exit, and gave a little shove.  “Go, lad.  Caroline is waiting for you.”

Methos watched Jed leave, then turned, suddenly aware that he and MacLeod were alone at last.  He tensed, preparing for an attack, but Mac just stood and looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, then he casually dropped the towels onto the stone bench, sat and took a section of his plaid in hand, twisting the fabric until water ran in rivulets.  “Are you happy?” he asked at last in a surprisingly even tone.  “You got your revenge.”

Methos crossed his arms and studied the ground for a moment, using his foot to trace a pattern of the soapy water into a dry area of flagstones.  The chuckles he had been smothering for so long broke free at last, and he nodded.  “Yes, I guess I did. Sorry about the thing with the fountain, though.  I hadn’t expected that.”  The last few words were a little choked, and he snorted, unable to keep from laughing aloud at the memory of MacLeod’s backward flip into the soap suds.

“Ha.  Ha,” Mac responded in a rather desultory fashion.  “I’ll send you the dry cleaning bill.”

“And I’ll send you my moving bill,” Methos responded.  “It really wasn’t up to you to decide for me that it was time to break up with Andrew, you know.”

“Humph,” Mac grumped.  “I knew you two were doomed that first night, just from the look you gave him when he tucked you into bed and patted you on the head.”  He gathered up another section of fabric and twisted it, and more water dripped onto the flagstones.

“And that bit about me setting this up because I was jealous?  Boy, do you have delusions of grandeur.”

“Do I?”

“Oh, yes.  With you it’s a chronic condition.  You’re the Great Grand Master of the League of Brooding Heroes.  Slayer of Dragons, Protector of the Weak and Innocent.”  Methos strolled over and picked up a towel, wiping a few remaining clumps of suds off Mac’s back and shoulders.  Mac turned and smiled up at him.  It was one of those incredibly sweet, patented MacLeod smiles that made you wonder how a 400-year-old man could look so innocent and childlike.

Shit.  Methos jerked back, but he was too late.  A burly arm was around his waist, and his feet were off the ground.

“Oh, no you don’t, MacLeod.  Don’t you dare!” Methos yelled, but they were across the clearing in two long steps, and he was flying through the air, then suddenly enveloped in water that was more than wet.  It was cold, it was squishy and slick, and when he came up for air, all he got was a mouthful of bubbles that made him cough and choke.

There was a brief moment of near panic until he felt a stream of clean, moving water and stuck his head under it to clear his face of bubbles, gasping and hacking and spitting out the nasty tasting liquid.  He blinked, his vision clearing with a final, whole-body sneeze, only to behold MacLeod sitting again on the bench, holding his sides, laughing so hard he was bent over double.  Methos turned and realized the stream of water dribbling onto his head was pouring steadily from the quaint little cherub’s quaint little cock.

He slowly, deliberately, while keeping his head under the delicate arc of water, turned to look at Mac, cocking his head dubiously and raising an eyebrow.  It had the desired effect as MacLeod’s loud chortles dissolved into uncontrolled giggles and hiccups, and Mac fell off the bench with a satisfying thump.  Methos decided then and there that the whole ridiculous episode, including the absurd events in the park, were worth it just to hear that ridiculous noise coming from Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

A hand grasped the marble ledge in front of him, and Mac dragged himself up from the ground, peering over the edge of the pile of soap bubbles. Mac opened his mouth to make a comment, but sputtered again and slid out of sight, overcome with laughter when Methos solemnly pushed himself up to a sitting position, draping his foam-covered arms over his foam-covered knees as though he were comfortably ensconced on some desert sheik’s pillow throne.  Methos felt clusters of bubbles slide off his shoulders, joining the rest of their brethren in the shallow pool of water. 

Once again, MacLeod pushed himself up, gasping all the way, wiping his streaming eyes, this time making it to his feet, and offering Methos a hand.  His face was split with the widest grin Methos had ever seen him wear, and finally Methos gave in to the inevitable, and grinned back, taking the proffered help and slowly, with several precarious slips for both of them, climbed out of the fountain.  He stood for a moment, shaking suds off his hands and wiping them from his suit.  He tugged at his wrinkled, sagging lapels, rearranged a drooping rosebud boutonnière – to no particular benefit – trying to recapture some small shred of dignity, especially in the face of MacLeod’s dancing, laughing eyes, though the man appeared to be making a Herculean effort not to laugh out loud as he retrieved a towel from the bench.

“Well, that was refreshing,” he finally managed to solemnly declare, taking the proffered towel, and wiping his face.

”Was it?” MacLeod was still grinning like a fool.  “Want to do it again?”  He ducked, faking a move to grab Methos again.  Methos instinctively stepped back, losing his already precarious footing on the sudsy flagstones, flailed, and Mac caught his arm and yanked him close, barely saving him from a fall.

“You can let go now,” Methos murmured after a second of being held in a crushing embrace, his words muffled against Mac’s shoulder.

“I’m not so sure,” MacLeod replied softly, not loosening his grip in the slightest.  “You seem to be a pretty slippery character.  I’ve been trying to get you alone for weeks.”

Methos pushed slightly on Mac’s chest, managing to get far enough away to look into Mac’s face, where he was puzzled by an unexpected expression of warm, amused affection.  It took a few seconds of silence for him to realize they were still clutching each other, and he gently stepped away, somehow reluctant to break the odd, but quite comfortable intimacy of the moment. 

“Sending my lover off for a threesome with his ex-wife and her new husband, then throwing me into a fountain seems a little extreme, MacLeod.  You could have just asked.”  Methos used the towel Mac handed him to wipe down the front of his coat.  His pants were a loss, and his shoes squished when he walked, so he sat down on the bench and took them off, then removed his socks so he could wring them out.

“If I had done that, you would have made some joke about it, and avoided it like the plague, assuming it would be about some dire moral dilemma.”

“You mean it isn’t about some dire moral dilemma?”  Methos made a show of patting his pockets.  “Excuse me, while I make a note on my calendar.  This is a first.”

“Very funny.  No, Methos.  No dire moral dilemmas.  Just…conversation.”

An enormous explosion of sound and light blossomed right over their heads, and both seasoned warriors instinctively dove for the ground, only Methos found he was protectively covered by a large, wet Highlander.  Another brilliant flash of light went off above them, and both men turned their heads, looking up into a night sky filled with exploding stars of gold and white and red, and Methos heard a soft chuckle.  “I do pick my moments, don’t I?” Mac said softly.

Methos looked up into Mac’s face, examining that strong profile in the flashing, changing colors and patterns of the fireworks signaling the official end of the wedding reception.  MacLeod’s dark good looks were legendary.  It was a fact noted in his Chronicles over and over again, and had struck him like a blow to the gut the first time he had seen the man.  Since that first meeting, though, he had ignored it as part of the landscape, being far more interested in Mac’s passion for life, and in his sometimes misguided efforts to make the world a better place.  Only occasionally did he observe a movement, a moment of stillness, a striking shadow across the man’s face, that stirred his awareness of just how powerful Mac’s body was, how classically beautiful his face and form. 

Perhaps it was the champagne.  Perhaps it was the setting.  Perhaps it was just the novelty of seeing such a warm, contented look on Mac’s face, but the man’s lips had never looked quite so soft, so pliable, so eminently touchable.

He reached up with a finger and traced that mouth from corner to corner, and the surprising thing was that Mac had just looked at him as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do.  Methos’ index finger felt the corner of Mac’s mouth curve up.

“So do you,” Mac whispered.

“So do I, what?”

“Pick your moments.”

The display overhead grew and spread, filling the air with percussive noise and blazing chrysanthemums of sparkling light, then died out.  Methos could hear distant applause and shouts of appreciation from the party crowd, but the sudden cessation of the fireworks made the summer night seem all that much more silent and dark.  A breeze stirred the leaves, picking up a few stray bubbles and sending them dancing into the air, and Methos shivered at the chill of his wet clothes.

Mac’s low chuckle generated another wash of gooseflesh, and the big man rolled off of him and rose easily to his feet, holding out his hand to help Methos pull himself up.  “Come on.  Let’s get out of these wet clothes.”

“Hmm.  If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were trying to seduce me,” Methos commented with a flippant smile, as he attempted to brush dirt and debris from his damp, sticky formal attire.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Methos equivocated even as his mind seemed to jump its train of thought as it absorbed Mac’s words.  “Perhaps because you’ve never shown the slightest sexual interest in the male of the species.”

Mac didn’t answer that implied question, only gathered up the towels and moved toward the exit, then turned and waited expectantly.  Methos followed him silently through the twists and turns until they were suddenly back in the midst of people gathering their purses and wraps and making their goodnights.

Jed and Caroline were alone on the dance floor, swaying gently in each other’s arms even though the band had stopped playing.  “You know,” Methos said quietly, “They make a nice couple.  I hope she eventually learns that you were the one who got her parents off her back about it.”

Mac turned and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, looking dubious.

“No, really.  You handled that nicely.  A little heavy-handed, but it got the job done.”

“Excuse me while I mark my calendar,” Mac said, using a free hand to pat his pockets in imitation of Methos’ earlier tease.  “Methos said something nice about Duncan MacLeod.”

“You shouldn’t be so surprised.  I am perfectly capable of saying nice things.”

“Really.”  Mac dropped the towels on a table as they waited for the crowd to clear out a little so their dishabille wouldn’t be quite so obvious.

By the time they made it outside, all but one of the limousines had gone, and Methos spotted the familiar figure of Carl leaning against the remaining long, dark automobile. Carl didn’t even raise an eyebrow at their soggy appearance.   Without a word, he took out his keys, and with a press of a button popped the boot.  He pulled out a blanket, opened the back passenger door and spread the covering over the soft leather, then stepped back, motioning them to enter.

“Aren’t we going to wait for Andrew?” Methos asked.

Carl took the dripping shoes while Methos climbed into the back, holding them at a discrete distance from his body before he placed them on the floor of the car.  “His Lordship informed me that he will be staying here tonight as a guest of the bride and groom,” Carl answered evenly.  “Miss Caroline said she would find her own way home, and Lord Montesque instructed me to take you and Mr. MacLeod wherever you might wish to go.”

“I think my hotel might be best,” MacLeod said, and Methos nodded his acquiescence.

They rode for a few moments in silence, except for the occasional plop of water from a sleeve or cuff.

“So, you’ve been trying to get me alone, have you?” Methos finally spoke.  His curiosity had been nagging at him ever since Mac had made the earlier comment.  “What’s the problem?  Anything wrong with Joe?  Amanda in trouble again?  Someone we need to rescue from the evil clutches of your numerous enemies?”

“No.  Nothing like that.”

“Well, what then?  Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Mac turned to him with a smile.  “You don’t like it when you can’t predict what I’m going to do, do you?”

“You’ve never yet managed it, so how would I know?”

“Oh, I see.  You were actually expecting me to throw you in the fountain, and all that sputtering and shouting was just for show.”

Methos felt his face stretch into a smile.  “It was worth it just to hear you giggle.”

“I do not giggle!”

“Riiight.  The great Highland warrior does not giggle, or fall off benches from laughing so hard.  And he has never been a gigolo.  Oh, no.”

“Never, in this lifetime,” Mac corrected him, his mouth twitching.

“Never?” Methos insisted.

“Well, hardly ever,” Mac gave the expected response with a grin, and Methos was warmed all over again at the sight of MacLeod’s freshly revealed capacity for fun and laughter.  Although MacLeod’s Chronicles were full of the madcap adventures of a man who lived life to its fullest, it was a side of the man he had rarely seen.

“Nice,” Methos commented as he stepped into Mac’s suite of rooms, virtually an entire floor of the small inn.

“This place belonged to Connor, and he always kept these rooms available for me whenever I was in London,” Mac explained as he unpinned the silver brooch at his shoulder, loosening the shawl of tartan.  Methos watched, half expecting the plaid Mac was wearing to unravel and pool around his ankles.  He felt a small stab of disappointment when all that happened was that Mac draped the extra cloth over an arm while peeling off his damp jacket.

“I’ll get you something to change into, and you can take a quick shower to get that soap off and warm up a little,” Mac offered.

Methos showered in the bathroom, luxuriating in the warm water.  He dried off and donned the slightly large, but wearable soft sweat suit Mac had put out for him.  He padded barefoot into the small living room area to find MacLeod looking freshly washed and comfortable in a silk paisley robe of rich bronze colors, pouring drinks for them both.

“This place has two bathrooms?” he asked, accepting a large snifter of warmed brandy.

“No, but there is a hall bathroom on another floor.  Thought I’d save the time.”

And give me the more private space, Methos thought.  How typical.

Both men sat on the small couch, breathed in the odor of the brandy, and sipped, exhaling an “ah” in almost perfection unison as the warmth spread in their throats.

“Are you ever going to tell me what this is all about, MacLeod?”

“Hmm?”

“Getting me alone, to have this ominous sounding conversation you’ve been alluding to.”

“Ah, yes.  The conversation.”

Methos waited a moment, watching Mac sip appreciatively at his brandy again.  “Well?”

Mac chuckled, and the sound was dark and rich and pleasing, as were the small creases around MacLeod’s eyes when he smiled.  “Are you in such a hurry, Methos?  I’m just enjoying the moment.  It’s a new skill I’ve cultivated over the past year or so.”

“I’ve noticed,” Methos observed.  And it was true.  For weeks, Mac had been in and out of his life, at a dinner, a concert, or just conversations in Andrew’s study, but always with a sense of engagement in the present, of an appreciation for the good things in life.  Not that Mac had not always appreciated the good things in life, just that his world was so weighed down with ominous portents and looming disaster, real happiness had not seemed possible.

Mac turned to him at last, laying an arm across the back of the couch, studying him closely until Methos felt vaguely uncomfortable and hid behind another sip of his brandy. 

“This past year and a half has been…interesting,” MacLeod finally began.

Methos settled back into the couch, turning his body towards his friend, ready to hear whatever confession of the soul MacLeod was prepared to offer.

“You know Scotland is a land of hiking trails, don’t you?  There are hundreds and hundreds of them, even in the most remote areas, most with bothies available for overnight stays.  Some of them are just huts to get out of the rain, but many of them have cots built into the walls where you could put your sleeping bags, and small fire pits for heating food.  I walked the land of my birth, Methos.  For over a year, I just walked.  Much of the time I was alone, but many times I found fellow travelers who would share the road with me for a while.  I walked through my anger, my grief, my tears, my guilt.  Maybe I thought if I walked Scotland long enough I might someday find that young, innocent man who believed that good could always triumph over evil.”

Mac took another sip of his brandy, his face calm, but thoughtful.  “It was the opposite of what I did after Richie died, when I cleansed myself of all connections to anyone, trying to find that core of myself and see it for what it was, so that I would know the evil that I faced, and how much of it was in me, and how much of it was Ahriman,” Mac said, with a wry twist of his mouth.  “But after Connor died, after he and I killed Kell together, I needed something else entirely, it just took me a while to summon the courage come to grips with it, and all it means.”  He leaned forward, holding his glass in both hands, bracing his forearms on his knees.  He was silent for a long time, just staring into the golden liquid.

“What did you need, Mac?” Methos asked softly.

Mac turned his head and looked at him with the strangest smile.  “This time, I found I didn’t want to shed all those connections, Methos, because connections are what define us.  In my heart, that’s something I’ve always believed, and I tried to tell Connor that the night he died.  It was even something he taught me, that no matter how painful it is, especially for Immortals, what is important in our lives are the bonds we form with others.  Nothing else really matters.  To deny that, to try to live without those connections, is to deny who I am.”

“And you have been waiting weeks to tell me this?” Methos asked, with a chuckle of his own.  “That you are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, clan chieftain and protector and defender of all who come within his purview?  I could have told you that and saved you some serious shoe leather.”

Mac put his glass on the coffee table and leaned back.  “No, Methos.  I wanted to tell you that, in all my walking, I realized just how many people I love, mortal and Immortal.  But there is one bond in my life that means more to me than any other, and has since the moment it was formed.  I just hadn’t allowed myself to see it or feel the strength of it before.”

Methos cocked his head, waiting for more explanation.

Mac looked at him and smiled.  “You should see the look on your face.”

Methos raised an eyebrow in mock irritation.  “Is this some guessing game?  Am I supposed to do Twenty Questions?  Is this person living or dead?  Male or female?  Mortal or Immortal?”

“Living.  Male.  Immortal.  Very, very, very old.”

A chill swept across Methos’ shoulders and he held himself very still.  “Mac…I…”

There was that warm, rumbling chuckle again, and Mac patted him on the knee.  “There.  I said it, and now I’m done.  Want some more brandy?”

Methos looked into his glass, realizing it was empty, and put it down.  “No.”  The word came out dark and hoarse.

Mac had risen to refill his glass, and Methos found himself on his feet, as well.

“You meant that, didn’t you?” he asked, the words out of his mouth before he really had time to think about them.

Mac turned, frowning slightly.  “Of course, I meant it.”

“No, not about the bonds.  I mean what you said earlier.”

Mac sighed and shook his head, looking a little bemused.  “You’ll have to be more specific, Methos.  I’m not a mind reader.”

“Tonight, in the maze.  I said if I didn’t know you better, I would think you were seducing me, and you said something like, ‘what makes you think I’m not.’”

“Ah, you caught that, did you?” Mac poured a little more brandy in his glass.

“Well, were you?  I mean, did you?  Mean it, I mean?” Methos was appalled at the gracelessness of how he was handling this, but the whole evening was beginning to seem like some kind of hallucinatory experience harking back to the 1960’s.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Mac didn’t answer, just looked at him.  But oh, what a look. 

Methos stepped a little closer, invading Mac’s space, but MacLeod didn’t budge.  “Let me guess,” Methos offered.  “On this?”  He reached up, cupping the side of Mac’s neck, feeling the soft curls at the back of his neck, still damp from his shower.  When there was no resistance, he let his other hand drift to MacLeod’s waist, and leaned in.  Mac’s lips did that marvelous curvy thing they did so well, and his head cocked slightly to one side, so Methos cocked his head slightly in the other direction, and their mouths came together with sweet, gentle inevitability.

They simultaneously opened their lips, and the soft texture of Mac’s tongue rubbed against his own, tasting deliciously of fine brandy.  Methos could feel his burgeoning cock bump gently against the soft fabric of the loose sweatpants, and Mac pressed slightly closer so that Methos had no doubts about the other man’s arousal.

They separated with a mutual sigh, and Methos spotted those wonderful crinkly lines around Mac’s eyes again, wondering why he was suddenly obsessed with them.

“Are you sure about this?” Methos felt compelled to ask.  Mac had lost so many.  Perhaps this was just a desperate wish to find something, someone to cling to.

Mac threw back his head and laughed out loud, then put down his glass and pulled Methos in for a crushing hug.  “You are the funniest, most exasperating man I have ever known,” he said roughly into his neck.  “And if we don’t get naked and sweaty in the next half an hour, I think I’m going to die of frustration.”

Methos pushed away from the smothering embrace, clearing his throat and tugging on his sweatshirt to recapture a little sense of dignity.  “I’ve been alive for over 5,000 years, MacLeod, and I’ve never known anyone to die of…” The last part of the sentence was an incomprehensible yelp when Mac picked him up and threw him over his shoulder, marching into the bedroom and tossing him unceremoniously on the bed.

Mac playfully leapt on top of him, squashing all the air out of his lungs.  “Well, I certainly don’t want to be the first!” Mac announced.

“MacLeod,” Methos squawked, trying to get enough air to form a sentence.  “If picking me up and tossing me around is part of your seduction technique, it really needs some work.”

“Really?  I think it’s a great sport.  Maybe we could start a competition.  Methos Tossing.  It could be an Olympic event, like the javelin or shot put,” Mac teased.

Methos hooked his legs around Mac and rolled them both until he was on top, expecting to have to struggle for dominance with the bigger man, but Mac lay quietly, smiling up at him, his dark hair a tousled halo on the bed cover.  “I don’t know if I can stand this,” Methos said wonderingly, pushing an errant curl off Mac’s forehead.

That made a small line form between Mac’s brows.  “Stand what?”

“You really are obnoxious when you’re happy, you know.”

A grin widened Mac’s face.  “I know.  I tell terrible jokes, make bad puns, am an awful tease, and tend to occasionally…giggle.”

“Shocking.  Absolutely shocking.  Think what the League of Brooding Heroes will say.  They’ll drum you right out of the corps.”

“They can survive without me, at least for a while,” Mac replied softly.

“A good, long while, if I have anything to say about it,” Methos assured him, and let his fingers find the sash to Mac’s robe, tugging it loose to expose an expanse of golden skin that took his breath away.   A deep hum of need rumbled in his throat as his hands swept lightly over a torso that cried out to be touched and felt and tasted.  He bent down to do just that, breathing in the heady scents of soap and salt and sex.  He lipped a soft, brown nipple and delighted in watching it pucker up until it stood tight and tall.  He looked up and found Mac watching him. 

“I think in order to do what I had planned, you’ll have to take off your clothes, as well,” he said with a smile.

“And what exactly did you have planned?”

Mac reached for the bottom of Methos’ sweatshirt, and pulled it up and off, tossing it to the floor.  “Oh, I don’t know,” he grinned.  “Something involving an exchange of body fluids, perhaps?”

“You want to use my toothbrush?!” Methos asked in mock horror.

“Yes!” Mac shouted, and with a twist, he was on top, shrugging out of his robe.  “It’s something I’ve always fantasized about.  Methos, I must have your toothbrush!  You can’t deny me this!” he announced dramatically, then pulled his weight off Methos long enough to yank Methos’ sweatpants down, flinging them away over his shoulder where they hit a lamp and almost knocked it over.  “Oops,” he cringed.

Methos cocked his head at his grinning bedmate.  “You are completely insane.  You know that, don’t you?” he asked calmly.

Mac’s smile faded, and for a moment Methos was afraid he had broken the light-hearted mood.  After all, there had been periods in the past few years where Mac’s sanity was genuinely in doubt. 

“No, Methos,” Mac finally answered gently.  “I think I am more sane at this moment than I’ve been in a long, long time.” 

Methos felt his chest expand in a long, involuntary breath.  This, then, was more than a lark, more than a casual sexual romp.  The thought was both thrilling and frightening at the same time.

Then all cogent mental activity ceased as Mac crept down Methos body, never losing eye contact, until he was level with Methos’ bobbing cock, which he slowly circled in one hand, then licked the tip as though it were an ice cream cone on a hot summer day.  In an instant, Methos balls drew up tight and hard and his breath was coming in shallow gasps.  Then Mac slowly sucked Methos’ cock deep into his mouth, and Methos could feel a tongue and throat encapsulate his sex in warm, wet, undulating tightness, but it was watching Mac’s face, holding his dark eyes made black with arousal, that spiked an intense need.

Methos couldn’t help himself.  He had to move.  He came up on his elbows and pushed his hips further into that wet cave, succumbing to an overwhelming urge to establish a firm, hard rhythm.  Astonishingly, Mac sucked harder, took him deeper, and Methos felt a hand slip under his ass, delicately holding his ever-tightening balls.  Methos opened his mouth to say…something, but nothing came out but a strangled groan and several hard pants of air.  Then a finger gently circled his anus, and that searching finger finally pressed in.

It all happened at once, and Methos was just along for the ride as his body spasmed so hard his back bowed until his head hit the mattress, and bright lights sparked behind his eyelids.  He finally let his body collapse, gasping for air, and he felt Mac crawl up the bed.  It was a minute before he could bring himself to open his eyes, but when he did, Mac was watching him with a look of pleased achievement on his flushed face.

“You…you do that rather well,” Methos finally managed to say.

Mac grinned.  “Do I, now?”

Methos barely had the strength to reach around and give the man a loud slap on his bum.  “Don’t get cocky.”

Mac rolled halfway over, stared down at his hard, straining penis and looked back up again.  “Too late for that,” he announced solemnly.

That was it.  The man was insufferable!  Methos jumped him, digging his fingers into sensitive places under armpits and in between ribs, and Mac shouted, but didn’t try very hard to fight him off – and there was that ridiculous happy noise again. 

Methos decided right then and there that, with all his centuries of experience, surely he could find an almost infinite number of ways to make Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod…giggle.

And set out to do just that.