WARNING! THIS STORY IS R-Rated!

Warning: Pure, unadulterated sex ahead between men of the consenting
variety. Slash variety. That means men with men -- no women, understand? If
you are under 18, delete NOW. There is explicit homoerotic content herein,
so if you are underage, GO AWAY. Don't flame ME if you're stubborn enough
to go ahead and read it after I warned you, and then get offended by it.



Please do not re-post, reprint or otherwise distribute without the express
permission of the author. This story copyright 1998 by the author.
Highlander is a trademark of Rysher Entertainment, characters not used by
permission. All chapter titles come from songs by Queen.

NOTE:This story takes place before "Valkyrie." The Ranger station is the
one seen at the beginning of the 1st season episode "Mountain Men."



What a Man - or "Che Uomo"
by Dominique Modiano
Chapters I, II, and III

I. IS THIS A REAL LIFE? OR IS IT JUST FANTASY?

When Duncan MacLeod offered to take him fishing on his island Methos
halfheartedly agreed, privately hoping MacLeod would do the fishing. He
figured he could just kick back and contemplate his belly-button while
having more than a few beers on holy ground.

They left late in the afternoon on a rainy Saturday, and halfway up the
mountain the Thunderbird started sputtering and losing power. MacLeod
coaxed it for another mile, headlights fading, and then managed to stop at
the Ranger station at the top of the mountain. In the parking lot, MacLeod
told Methos to get in the driver's seat.

"What do you think's wrong?" said Methos.

"Bad coil, maybe."

"Serves you right for driving an antique," Methos smirked.

"*We* are antiques."

MacLeod got out, lifted the hood and pulled the spark plug wire off. He
stuck his little finger in it and yelled to Methos, "Turn it over." Methos
rolled his eyes as he watched MacLeod through the space between the hood
and the dash. He switched seats and rolled down the driver's side window.

"You're gonna kill yourself!"

"This is the oldest trick in the book," MacLeod yelled. "Turn i' over!"
Methos sighed, turned the key, and nothing happened. Nothing at all. No
noise. No shock. The car might as well have not had an engine under the
hood. MacLeod closed the hood and walked over to the driver's side of the
T-Bird. He rested his the sides of his hands on the door to avoid getting
oil on the leather, and bent down to Methos' eye level.

"Coil?" inquired Methos.

MacLeod sighed. "Yeah."

"Any idea how we are going to get off this mountain? It's starting to
pour." Methos couldn't help but notice MacLeod's hands. The fingertips were
covered in oil, and MacLeod was trying to keep his fingers off the
upholstery. **Nice fingers** Methos thought. **Well shaped, with a strong
muscle at the base of the thumb, and a solid, square palm.** His eyes
traveled up to MacLeod's thick wrists, and then flicked up to his nose.
**What is it they say about a man's...** Before a thought could form he met
MacLeod's brown eyes, and saw them narrow to Methos' comment.

"I noticed. I'm in it." MacLeod shot him a look that said **asshole**.
"Stay here. I'll call a truck in the Ranger station."

Methos nodded, and watched as MacLeod strode away. MacLeod was wearing a
gray, corded sweater and tight, well-washed blue jeans. **That ass is a
miracle of genetic engineering** he thought, and his imagination instantly
stripped MacLeod bare of his clothes. Snapshots of a dozen sensual and
obscene positions and actions leisurely segued from one to another through
his mind. Suddenly, his only recently acquired superego stepped in, **What
the hell is going on here?**

Methos met his own eyes in the rear view mirror.

His eyes were dilated to the point that barely any of the gray-green iris
could be seen. He could feel his heart pounding, and breath was quick and
shallow. **What ever started me lusting after Duncan MacLeod?** Thoughts
(and the experience) of making love to men were not new for Methos, but
thinking about *this* particular ass was certainly a recent phenomenon.
**Whoa, old man. MacLeod is about as butch as they make 'em. I could be
wrong, but...**

He was interrupted by movement. MacLeod was returning, and Methos watched
him through the rain. MacLeod's black mane was soaked, with tendrils
sticking to his face. The rest of him was none too dry, either. His sweater
was plastered to his chest, and the wetness of his tight blue jeans made
them look like they were spray-painted on, revealing the outline of his
cock. Methos took one last good look before MacLeod crossed the car in
front of the hood. **And he hangs to the left.** MacLeod got in the
passenger side of the T-Bird, visibly upset.

"We're stuck here. No tow trucks in th' area until early Monday morning. I
know the Ranger -- I helped him ...catch... someone in these mountains
once. We can stay until then, if you like."

Methos said nothing, with only a "hmmm" escaping his mouth.

"You think I should call Joe?" MacLeod looked at Methos hesitantly, taking
his response as a negative one.

Methos looked out the front window, trying to chase away his erotic
thoughts. **You're taking a hell of a chance, old man.** Again he looked
into his own eyes in the rear view mirror, and saw himself doing obscene
acts with a certain wet Highlander sitting next to him, innocently waiting
for a response. **Should I...? Could I...?**

The sudden absolute lust-filled impetus ruled out any possibility of
retreat. **Yes.**

"No." Methos tone was absolute. **Improvise. That's what you do best.**
"How far until your cabin?"

MacLeod sat back and looked out the window at the rain. "T'would take a day
of hard hiking just to get to the dam. I thought of tha' too."

Just then the storm struck for real. A lightning bolt hit a few miles away,
and the thunder was instantaneous, the power of it rocking the car with a
jolt of pressure.

"We need to get inside! Get your stuff!" MacLeod yelled.

Methos grabbed his coat and duffel, and MacLeod did the same. They raced to
the Ranger's station, barely making it inside before the next lightning
bolt hit a few miles over. The thunder muffled the slamming of the station
door. The ranger looked up from his packing.

"You guys can stay, if you like. Not much in terms of hospitality, but
there's a room downstairs. I hate to leave you here. I'd take you down to
the city myself, but I have an order to clear outa here immediately. I'll
be back -- I don't know when," chattered the Ranger. "This lightning
storm's made a hundred-acre fire in Delta county. I have to go -- now. Mac,
I know you'll look after the station. If you need to call, use the C.B."
With that, he bolted out the door.

**Perfect** Methos thought. **I couldn't have planned it better myself.**



II. I'M GOING SLIGHTLY MAD...OH, DEAR....

They investigated the abandoned station, finding office space on the first
floor, and a rough barracks down the back stairs. The station was built on
a hill, with the parking lot on the north side, and the rear of the hill to
the south. Thus, the barracks underneath the station had their own exit, a
door at the east end of several multi-paned windows facing south.

There was a side room that could barely be called a bathroom, with a sink,
toilet and shower. The main room held two single beds lit by one kerosene
lamp. At the far end of the main room was an ancient refrigerator
supporting a microwave oven. Next to it was a separate small freezer, a
sink, a propane stove, and a pool table.

The east end of the pool table had a 2' x 4' piece of plywood thrown across
it, turning it into a table, and two bar stools sat at that end. On the
north wall of the room, near the beds, was a huge stone fireplace.

"Well, we might as well settle in," growled MacLeod. He threw his duffel on
the east bed. Methos crossed in front of him and threw his duffel at the
foot of the west bed, and then slouched across the room and opened the
refrigerator. **Not much there. What are we going to eat for the next two
days?** He opened up the freezer. **Eureka!**

Inside were six one-liter bottles of Stolitchnya Vodka, perfectly chilled.
**To hell with eating. We'll drink!** He turned around to tell MacLeod of
his find, but found himself... speechless.

MacLeod's back was turned to him, and he was on his hands and knees, trying
to position the logs in the fireplace. The tight, wet denim outlined his
muscular ass and thighs, the back seam of the jeans dividing the perfect
half-globes of the cheeks of MacLeod's rear. Methos could see the muscles
in his ass and thighs contract as MacLeod maneuvered and pushed the logs in
place with his hands.

Methos swallowed and quickly licked his lips.

**Three hours ago I never would have noticed a thing like this. Now he's
the sexiest man I've ever seen.** He turned back to the open freezer,
thankful for the cold air on his face. **Have I been drugged? Or have I
always wanted him?** He was getting a hard-on. **I'll take that as a yes.**

He became intensely self-conscious. He could feel his resolve fading. **He
has no idea what I'm thinking, and I haven't given anything away. If I say
nothing, maybe it will pass.** He turned, barely, discreetly, and peeked at
MacLeod out of the corner of his eye. What he saw made him turn full face,
and close the freezer.

Duncan MacLeod was sitting on his haunches in front of the rising fire, his
back to Methos. As the scent of the evergreen logs drifted toward Methos,
MacLeod raised his arms and undid his hairtie, wrapping the tie around his
wrist, and then with both hands ruffled his glossy dark
shoulderblade-length hair. It was an unconscious gesture, meant to expose
the rain-dampened hair to heat of the fire. Slowly MacLeod spread his hair
around his shoulders, the ends curling with the damp.

His hands settled briefly on his thighs, and then slowly he crossed his
arms and pulled the gray sweater over his head. Underneath he was wearing a
white t-shirt, and when that came off as well, Methos found himself staring
at a powerful, tanned back framed by broad shoulders. It was the sort of
back that Methos could never have even if he lifted weights for a thousand
years: a thick slab of "lat" muscle under each shoulderblade, curving
deltoids that broadened the shoulders even wider, and tight obliques that
gave the torso an impossibly perfect "V" shape. Methos himself had more of
a swimmer's or dancer's body, lean, graceful, and elegant, a complete
contrast to the solid muscularity of MacLeod's frame.

Methos could feel his mouth water.

Suddenly, MacLeod turned and threw the sweater and shirt onto his bed, and
out of the corner of his eye caught Methos looking at him. Before their
eyes could meet, Methos quickly turned and opened the refrigerator. "You
gotta see this," he said. **You'd better bloody well get control of
yourself.**

MacLeod stood up and crossed the room to stand beside him. He saw nothing
in the compartments. "What did you find?"

Methos stepped to one side and opened up the freezer.

"Oh." Methos heard a deep hiss of inhaled air from MacLeod. "I'm not very
good with vodka. Isn't there anything t' eat?"

**Yes, but I don't think it's on the menu** mentally leered Methos.

He could feel a drop of sweat slip down his back just from MacLeod's
proximity. MacLeod reached in and pulled out a bottle of vodka, and then
grabbed for something underneath. He pulled out a frozen chicken pot-pie.
This was absurd. Methos finally had to say something.

"At least we won't starve."

Methos took the pie, unwrapped it, and shoved it in the microwave. MacLeod
returned to the fire, taking off his boots and socks, and Methos crossed
the room to do the same.

"Why aren't you good with vodka?"

MacLeod paused, reflecting. "I don' prefer it."

"What's not to prefer? It doesn't have a taste."

"I know, but the first time I drank it -- let's just say it didna' agree
with me."

"Too strong?"

"No, just different. Like tequila. I just prefer scotch."

"I see." **Old man, he will never prefer *you,* so give it up** Methos
mused. **Unless you reorient his tastes, you'll have to resign yourself to
a platonic passion.**

But from beside the bed MacLeod produced the bottle of vodka that he had
lifted out of the freezer. He undid the cap, and drank a good slug out of
the bottle, and then passed it to Methos. Methos, surprised, caught the
bottle, and then looked MacLeod in the eyes.

"I thought you didn't like it?"

MacLeod smiled. "I didna' say I didna' like it. I said I don' prefer it."

"Ah." Methos took a swig. **Make up your mind! If you make a pass at him,
he'll forgive you. It's in his nature. But if you never make a pass, you'll
have to add it to your thousand regrets. Make up your mind!**

MacLeod smiled a boyish smile at him as he took back the bottle. Methos
examined the profile before him in the light of the fire. He had been an
artist once, and his painter's eyes dismantled MacLeod's face, examined the
parts, and put them together again, deciding that no one could make any
improvements. The expressive, dark sweeping brows and the wide-set,
heavy-lidded chestnut eyes could keep him absorbed all evening. The
marvelously full curves of his generous mouth required separate study.
Methos had tried to teach himself to be wary of appearances, but there was
so much about MacLeod that pleased the eye that he couldn't help being
prejudiced in his favor.

**I could stand at the bottom of the sea with him and not notice I was
drowning** Methos realized. **Damn it all** he shouted silently, **I *will*
*have* him.**



III. TO BE HONEST, YOU HAVEN'T GOT A CLUE

One of the disciplines MacLeod had imposed on himself in the last few
decades was to avoid getting drunk. He enjoyed that heady alcoholic
pleasure all too well, but he knew that it often got him in trouble. The
liquor had a way of lowering his fighting defenses as well as his emotional
ones. He always managed to compensate, yet it took almost losing his head a
few times to realize his weakness.

Tonight, however, Methos' presence somehow encouraged his appetite for
drink, and it was certainly lowering his psychological walls. He knew that
Methos had been acting strangely earlier in the evening, and he had caught
him looking at him with a peculiar expression several times earlier.
Previously in the car Methos looked like he was going to ask him a
question, or at least puzzlement was written all over his face. And then,
when he was starting the fire, he turned and caught another look, full of
curiosity and desire. Desire for what?

Methos had turned around so quickly that MacLeod wrote it off as a
flashback of an old memory. **God knows I visit the past often enough. I
wonder what my face looks like when I do that?** he chuckled. Later, when
he first opened the bottle of vodka, he could feel Methos' eyes on his
face, examining him. He remained still, looking at the fire, allowing the
examination. **After 5000 years, I probably remind him of someone else.
Probably several someones** he mused.

"Do I remind you of someone?" MacLeod couldn't resist asking.

Methos smiled in delight. "Yes."

"Who?"

Methos licked his lips, a naughty twinkle in his eye, and answered "A
Centurion I once knew."

"In Rome?"

Methos smiled.

"Tell me about it."

Methos' face split into a Cheshire cat grin.

"So who was this Centurion o' yours?" MacLeod expected a masculine tale of
comrade-in arms, or of a bit of Gallic history, but the answer was not what
he expected. Methos leaned forward to whisper in MacLeod's ear:

"Lucius was somebody whom I only had to touch to get a hard on."

**What?** MacLeod jerked back, feeling his breathing scream to a halt, and
his mouth drop open. He could feel the vodka burn in his stomach.

Methos's eyes twinkled mischeviously, and he lay to one side of the fire
with his arms crossed under his head and one leg bent at the knee. MacLeod
tried not to stare at the muscular, fine-shaped length of his body as he
lay there watching him with a total lack of modesty. The leaping,
flickering flames lent even Methos' fair skin a tawny, golden glow.

MacLeod turned away to look at the fire, embarrassed. He was still
shirtless, and he could feel the comforting caress of warmth on his skin.
There was a silence that deepened between them. At this revelation MacLeod
found himself ...curious. He had expected to be repulsed, and instead he
was fascinated. "What did he look like?"

"He was beautiful, both obviously and subtly. He was tall and blonde and
extremely muscular. He must have had a Germanic mother, and next to all the
dark Romans he looked like an angel. He had a classic square-jaw and high
cheekbones and eyes the color of the Aegean sea, eyes that were knowing and
calm." Methos paused, a small smile creeping in. "I remember him having a
wide smile filled with curious innocence."

"But I don' look like that." said MacLeod, puzzled. But his mind
registered, for the first time, Methos' lyrical deep voice, the sort of
voice for which poetry cries out.

"He was beautiful," repeated Methos, "And that's what I remember. The
knowing eyes and the innocent smile. Except that..." Methos slowly reached
forward and turned MacLeod's face with a finger, looking deep into his
eyes. "Except that your eyes are innocent, usually, and your mouth..."
Methos traced his thumb across MacLeod's full lower lip. "Your mouth is
rarely so."

MacLeod held the look, eyes glittering, but backed away slightly out of
Methos's grasp. **What is he doing? Why did he touch me like that?**
Methos' hand was left in the air for a moment, and then with a shrug he
reached for the vodka, taking a gulp. MacLeod followed with several gulps
of his own.

MacLeod self-consciously murmured, "I guess I don't know a lot about you,
Methos."

"Perhaps," Methos said. "I'm what you see in front of you, although with a
great deal more history than the average man." MacLeod saw a brief look of
hesitation peek through the normally calm features. Then -- Methos
whispered, "But there is a great deal I would like to find out about you."

MacLeod swallowed, suddenly nervous, and then quickly gulped a shot of
vodka while Methos paused. MacLeod rolled from his side to lay on his
stomach.

"Like what?"

"Well, for instance...do you enjoy being massaged? Your back looks suddenly
very rigid and tense, even from here, and that's not good."

"I don't really..." MacLeod began.

"Lie still." Methos cut him off. Without waiting for a response he had
already begun to massage MacLeod's neck and shoulders with a lightness that
surprised the younger man. "Don't worry," he said mockingly from somewhere
above MacLeod. "I'm not trying to arouse you. Only to make you feel warmer
and more relaxed."

"Oh, sure," thought Macleod, but the pressure of Methos' fingers was not
anything more than impersonal, moving from the damp nape of his neck to his
shoulders and farther down, where he seemed to find all the tense spots and
relieve them. As long as he stayed above the base of his spine...

"Am I hurting you or does it feel good?" Methos asked.

At those words MacLeod reacted with renewed tension.

"Now you're stiffening up again -- haven't you ever learned how to relax?"
said the master of the infinite sprawl.

"I suppose I'd find it a lot easier if your sudden show of *niceness*
didn't make me suspicious."

"What a cynic you are! I'm only trying to do something *nice* for you. Why
don't you -- why can't you -- just lie back and enjoy?"

Abruptly, Methos' attentions moved to Macleod's feet, startling him. First
the soles of his feet, one by one, and then his calves. It was awkward
feeling Methos' hands through the soft denim, but there was an comforting
warmth and strength to his touch. It was only when he felt Methos' touch
move upward to his thighs that he protested sharply. "Methos..."

"Have I told you lately that I don't *like* you?" MacLeod turned over into
the Methos' mocking gaze.

MacLeod smiled. **Stop being so paranoid.** He closed his eyes and lay down
on his back, his head on his arms. Methos continued, taking him by the
shoulders, and massaging with deceptive gentleness there and along his
collarbone until he himself could feel the almost imperceptible softening
of his own muscles. And then from there Methos' hands moved lower, feeling
MacLeod tense all over again and deliberately avoiding any contact with his
nipples. Very gently here, a lightly stroked curve there. Touch as light a
brushstroke until Methos reached his firm, muscled belly. In spite of his
studied pretense of control he felt himself slightly tremble under Methos'
touch.

**Why am I letting him do this?** If Methos' touch had turned sexual, or in
some sly way erotic, then he would have stopped him. But he wasn't ...
wasn't doing anything he could protest against, just massaging him as he
had promised. Or was Methos being quite that impersonal? He was sure he
hadn't imagined the feather-light touch of his fingers against his thigh a
moment ago.

The more he thought about his own sensations, the more he realized he was
getting aroused. He could imagine Methos' hands sending erotic messages,
innocent and yet erotic messages. His skin became sensitive to a single
touch, a brush of a fingertip, and he gradually began to feel a heady sense
of desire. It was the strangest feeling, almost of wonder at himself for
doing what he was doing and actually enjoying it in an unexplainable
fashion. Methos' hands became familiar territory as he felt the heat of
palms along the hard contours of his chest. Images flashed behind his
closed eyes: images of Methos' long-limbed body squirming beneath him.

Sanity returned, and MacLeod looked up, into Methos' eyes. Methos' hands
stopped, and with that, so did Time, rushing away in undulating waves of
light, and color, and heat. The gold-green eyes were heavy-lidded and
burned into MacLeod's, revealing a smouldering flame gradually becoming
unhidden, making him feel suddenly ...very ...naked.

"Methos."

Methos went silent, his eyes opening wider and his mouth pursing in a small
"O", waiting for MacLeod's next words. They looked at each other in
voiceless appraisal. Duncan tried to speak. He felt the hard ache of his
extreme physical arousal.

Methos reached out and put his warm long-fingered hand on MacLeod's thigh
in an invitation.

"Stop." rasped MacLeod.

He suddenly knew the depths of his erotic reaction and his emotional
shields went up -- or the shields at least tried to. The vodka got in the
way. He decided to move from the floor to the bed in an effort to distance
himself from Methos, but realized that his effort would only expose the
fact of his stiffening cock. **Let him see it** the vodka said. **It's a
compliment to his prowess.**

He got up unsteadily, watching Methos' face, and sat on the bed. As he
moved, Methos' mouth opened slightly more, and MacLeod could tell Methos
was holding his breath. Warning bells went off in his head: **It's not just
me...Methos has been coming on to me.** Suddenly, all the looks, all the
stories, all the physicality made sense.

To avoid the next thought, MacLeod quickly excused himself, went to the
bathroom and shut the door. His erection was gone. He looked at himself in
the mirror as he took a piss: **I'm not homophobic, but this is not
something I'm comfortable with, either with him or with myself.** Years of
warrior training allowed him to accept men as his closest friends, without
physical barriers. But as bedmates... **That's not an option... Methos
knows I only sleep with women. It's got to be the alcohol.** He decided to
call it a night.

As he reached for the doorknob of the bathroom he noticed his own hands.
**Methos was looking at my hands earlier today.** He stopped, and went
step-by-step back over the events of the last seven hours. The conclusion
was disturbing: **I'm a tease!**

For a few seconds he couldn't think at all. **Do I want to tease Methos? Do
I want him to want me?** He expected revulsion at the thought, but what
came through his surprise was ...curiosity. Again.

He had always gone out of his way to attract and be attracted by women, but
it had never occurred to him that that behavior would attract men. He had
had men flirt with him unabashedly, but he had dismissed it as behavior
initiated by those men, and not by himself. **What if he is attracted to
me? What if I am attracted to him? What then?** No conclusions came to
mind.

Then at the next thought, MacLeod suppressed an involuntary giggle: **If
Methos were a woman, I'd probably have slept with him already. Or be trying
to. He does have that athletic angularity that I like in women.** As he
opened up the door, an image of Methos sprawled naked on the green sheets
of his bed in the loft sprang to mind. For a second his blood pressure
soared, and then the thought was quickly repressed. **That's enough vodka
for tonight!** he chided.

When he returned, Methos was sitting on his own bed, taking off the rest of
his clothes by firelight. He stood and turned his back to MacLeod as he
stripped nude. **That's what I'd call a tight, strong, fine-tuned body**
MacLeod thought. Methos back was hard and muscled, not lush like MacLeod's,
but sleek and athletic. What caught his attention was Methos' solid, firm
lightly haired legs that led up to... **the hardest, sexiest track-star ass
I've ever seen...**. Repression shut down the rest of the thought, and
MacLeod's superego spin-doctor added instead **...on a man.**

Methos got into the bed without looking at MacLeod, and MacLeod did the
same on his own side, removing his jeans but keeping his thigh-length
briefs. Methos bid him goodnight, and MacLeod returned it. Except for the
fire, there was silence in the room.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
E-mail me at tiemando@pilot.msu.edu






What a Man - or "Che Uomo" Chapters IV, V, VI
For Disclaimers, see Introduction

IV. ONE SENTIMENTAL MOMENT IN YOUR ARMS...

MacLeod closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his drunken state and talk
of sex and the intimate realization of Methos' sexuality had him strangely
wired. He turned his back to the fire, and thought: **I should just pretend
that this never happened. Tomorrow we'll try to fish -- there's a lake
about a mile from here. Methos should be back to his usual sardonic self by
the morning, and this will pass.**

That comforted him a bit. **It's just like the time I caught Richie jacking
off in his room in the Antique shop. If I pretend I never saw anything,
he'll be too embarrassed to mention it, and the event will be forgotten.**
He rolled over onto his stomach, punched up the pillow, and tried to sleep.

He tried to keep his eyes closed, but his thoughts and were heart racing:
**God! What am I going to do? Where do we go from here?** He could still
feel Methos' hand on his leg, the sound of his baritone voice, and
remembered the heat of his breath an inch from his ear. MacLeod's own
breath caught in his throat as his cock began to stiffen to the point of no
return. Two unsatisfied erections in less than an hour were proving to be
too much for even his constitution.

He suddenly felt claustrophobic, and he needed some air -- and to be alone.
He turned and sat up, grabbed his jeans and put them on, and stuffed his
feet in his boots. The downstairs door looked like the most immediate exit,
and he dove for it, unlocking the deadbolt and escaping outside.

The storm had passed and a misty rain was falling. MacLeod stopped at a
ledge about twenty feet from the station. The air was cool and sweet from
the lightning, and the soft breeze smelled like pine and earth. The only
light came from a floodlight at the front of the station, filtered through
the mist, giving the area a surreal fairyland appearance of undefined black
trees and swirling fog. He gulped in the air, feeling his nipples harden
and goosebumps appear on his skin in the chill. The cool air felt good,
lessening the effects of the vodka, and the growing dampness of his hair
was clearing his head. Yet his cock persisted in its hardness.

**Where do I go from here?** he wondered. **I refuse to agonize over this.
Methos is just going to have to deal with it.** One drawback to immortality
was that you couldn't avoid people. Mortals could -- time just ran out
after a while. But immortals could run into the same people for centuries
or millennia.

His rational mind finally cleared away the effects of the vodka enough to
make itself heard: **Fool! Look at yourself! You are out here, in the rain,
half clothed, just because a man with a very different moral system wanted
to fuck... No. Not Methos. Not what you know of the man. He would want to
make love. Killing you -- now that would have been a good reason to run.
But love? You have to flee that too?** Even an immortal, who had lifetimes
in which to experience love, knew just how precious it was -- how rare. He
was always impressed at how easily mortals fell in love, how quickly. Like
they knew they would never have enough time.

**What if he *is* in love with me?** said one voice. **Don't flatter
yourself** said another.

Two paths opened in front of him: one that led to lust, the other to love.
**If it's just lust, I can get that anywhere. Methos will have to deal with
his libido on his own. But if it's love...** The thought stopped him. Then,
a decision: **I will have to see, to know. Love is delicate, and I will
have to be careful with him, his feelings. His actions tomorrow will tell
me what to do.** The decision satisfied him, and he could feel his tension
lifting. But there was one last thing to deal with. He was a hard as steel.

He turned his head around and looked at the station. All the windows were
dark, and Methos' signature had a muted sensation to it. **He must be
asleep.** His jeans were straining under the pressure, and he turned his
back to the building. He ran his hand down his chest, feeling the mist that
had collected on his chest hair. **This is as good a place as any.** He
couldn't count the times he had cum in the outdoors. In the Highlands the
forest was the only place he could have privacy. He undid the button on his
jeans, and then slowly unzipped.

As his jeans opened, his fingers stole inside to wrap themselves around his
cock and grip it firmly. His hand felt cool against the heat of his
hardness, enhancing the sensation. He thought of the Highlands, of the
first time he felt a hand other than his own on his cock, and the woman the
hand belonged to. But this time he did not want to reminisce, he wanted to
cum. Calling up images of women he had fucked, he stroked the length of it
slowly, building up momentum, shivering with pleasure.

After a number of strokes, he took a deep breath and paused, reaching lower
and running his fingers over his tight balls, lightly at first, and then
with greater pleasure. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he seized his
cock tightly in his hand, then relaxed his grip slowly. He did this again,
making his erection even harder. A moan of sheer pleasure whispered past
his lips, and he bit his bottom lip from the intensity of the pressure.

With deliberate slowness, he ran his thumb over and around the sensitive
head of his cock, spreading precum, searching out sensitive nerve endings
and stimulating them until he could stand it no longer. MacLeod then
breathed deeply and started stroking his cock, head to base and back again.
And again. And again.

He could feel his cock throb with a strong and steady pulse, and images of
women flashed through his mind, some that he had fucked, but mostly of
women who had sucked his cock. Pictures of damp cheeks and eyelashes, ruby
lips around his cock, and the feeling of tongues teasing his cockhead. The
way their mouth hollowed out as they sucked, the feeling of his cock
against the back of their throats, and the sensation of vibrating tongues.

He picked up the pace, stroking harder and harder, feeling his climax
approaching. MacLeod's hips were now flexing involuntarily, pumping his
cock into his hand. He felt the muscles in his lower back and ass clenching
tightly and with increasing frequency. He was close. He started to groan as
he reached his peak, and a final sensation flung itself into his mind:
**Methos-hot-breath....cock...cum!**

Then the explosion hit: he felt his cock shoot a blast of cum into the
forest as a momentary wave of heat washed over his body from head to toe.
He saw only an expanse of bright light while as his eyes clenched shut and
he shouted hoarsely in orgasm. Time crawled as he delivered shot after shot
of glistening cum several feet out onto the dark forest floor.

He opened his eyes just as his knees gave way, and he collapsed kneeling
onto the ground, shivering with the intensity. As the feelings began to
fade gradually, subsiding over the course of several minutes, he began to
slow his breathing.

**There's no accounting for one's libido** he rationalized.

Then a sweet faint immortal song hit him, and he turned back to look at the
building. There, in the window, were two twinkling eyes watching him.
**Methos.**



V. ANY WAY THE WIND GOES...

As Methos sat up and watched him flee, he didn't know whether to be hurt or
complimented.

But the man standing in the shadows of the woods didn't seem to be angry.
He was standing still, arms crossed, breathing out mist in the wetness of
the night. Methos could see the twinkles of water droplets gather in the
black hair, and an ever-so-slight steam rising from the bare tan shoulders.
**He is thinking, deciding what to do next** Methos gathered, viewing him
through the window.

His pass at MacLeod was subtle, and obviously effective. He knew MacLeod
had been fully aroused by his touch, and he could feel desire radiate from
him during that one look where their gaze locked. But... it was not enough
to prevent Duncan from rejecting him, fleeing the room and ultimately the
station. **I could have done better. I *know* how to do it better!** he
chided. Was it the drink, or desire, or knowledge that he would fail that
made him construct such an impossible situation? **Face it, old man. He
will never prefer you.**

The thought tightened around his heart with an icy touch, and a deep
sadness crept into his veins. **I could offer him so much! I have already
handed him my life for the taking. There's so much I could show, teach him.
Sensual practices two thousand years forgotten, sensations only immortals
can feel...** He gazed outward at the figure in the mist.

And then the miracle occurred: MacLeod turned toward the building, looking
directly at Methos, and then back again at the forest. Methos could see his
right hand moving in front of his pants, and then a rhythmic motion
beginning. **Gods!**

Methos watched with a growing hunger, and a growing hard-on. To just see
MacLeod jack off in this situation was almost impossible for him. He wanted
to run to the man, and he dared not move. He wanted to scream out his
desire, and he dared not make a noise. He could only watch, and try to
breathe.

He didn't dare touch himself, but when he saw MacLeod climax, Methos felt
his body responding in erotic sympathy.

Then MacLeod turned and looked at him.

Methos could not see his face -- only a glint from the eyes. But the
position of those expressive eyebrows was unmistakable: **He didn't know I
was watching?** MacLeod turned back towards the forest, and Methos could
not bear to look any longer. He quickly cleaned his chest and sheets with
his shirt, and dug himself under the covers.

**If he didn't know I was watching, then it was not an exhibition. It was
just sweet horniness. I *did* turn him on after all.** The thought pleased
him, and he snuggled under the covers even more. He heard the click of the
door opening, and soft steps crossing the room. There was a pause in the
steps at the end of his bed, just a second's worth, and then he heard
MacLeod take off his clothes and slide into the far bed. There was some
rustling as he settled himself, and then silence.

Methos' mind was racing, looking for an answer to the puzzle that was
Duncan MacLeod. He forced his thoughts to slow down, to think logically so
that he could arrive at a conclusion. MacLeod's age, medieval background,
and his lack of variety in sexual situations added up to a cement-like
heterosexuality.

But there was something else...something far to sexy in MacLeod's behavior
to leave it at that. **He has survived this far by being a damned good
warrior, and by playing on his good looks. And that has made him a lethal
weapon, as well as an incredible tease. One is as instinctive as the
other.** This fact came to Methos with great ease.

But then appeared a difficult question: what do I want from him?
**Buggering him senseless** zipped in as an answer, and Methos slapped at
the thought. **Do I want to seduce him?** remained in his play of thoughts.
**Yes!** The passion of the response overwhelmed him. It was a desire that
he had not felt in a long time, one that bordered on violence. Images of
bodies intertwined tumbled into his mind, fading and focusing and fading.

One image slowly made itself prominent: kissing that mouth. Capturing that
mouth. Possessing that mouth.

**....then how?** Already Methos could feel a plan forming. What was it he
always told Kronos? "Start small and build." Jumping on MacLeod, despite
the vodka, was a good beginning, but it had led to an impasse, and Methos
acknowledged that failure. **What next?**

**I doubt that getting under his clothes is how to seduce MacLeod**. It had
worked with other men, taking the first step in touching them and then
letting the call of biology and desire take over. But MacLeod was
different, more inhibited...

**No, he can't be more inhibited. He sported a raging hard-on in front of
me, flirted with me, and then openly tossed off in a place where I could
see him. No. He is not inhibited.** Inhibition, Methos knew, was the result
of self-doubt, and MacLeod was one of the least shy men he had ever met.
**If not inhibition, then... inexperience.**

Methos could hardly believe that a stud like MacLeod had never been seduced
by a man, but then he was only a little over 400. **So what turned MacLeod
on? What led to his arousal without lowering the barriers? I know I turn
him on, but how do I lower the barriers?**

Methos ran back over the events of the evening. **I told him about the
centurion...and then... his reaction! My revelation got him thinking, made
him curious. That's it, old man. You don't need to get under his clothes --
just get under his skin, into his mind. That's what turns him on!** Methos
mentally leered.

**I could use the old "Gawd I was drunk last night" routine to set him at
ease and make up for that rejected pass. And then what?** The plan was
forming slowly and carefully. A mistake would cost him dearly. **When I
want something from someone, I take it** Methos plotted. **But this time,
what I want...** Methos had to think carefully here, **...is for him to
take something from me. I need to build the arc between curiosity and
desire.**

This was much more difficult. Methos needed MacLeod to realize his desire
-- not just desire of the body, but desire of the spirit. Genderless
desire. He couldn't use lust to impress him, as that approach was clearly
rejected. And he wouldn't use love... or could he? **If he thinks I'm in
love with him... that might work. It will flatter his intellect, and push
all his damn chivalry buttons. But then... if he finds he is being used,
his wrath will be unspeakable. Better stick to lust.**

But isn't there something in between? Something more than just bodily
desire, and less than eternal commitment? But the idea of love... **Forget
it. I'm not in love with him.** Methos smiled to himself at such a
ludicrous thought.

Methos knew the steps to his plan, but not the solution. He was always sure
of the end result of any effort, and firmly believed that the ends
justified the means. Knowing that he didn't exactly care how it turned out
gave a new thrill to the attempt. How will this end? For the first time in
a millenia, he didn't know the answer.



VI. WAITIN' FOR THE HAMMER TO FALL

"I know you're awake."

Methos squinted at MacLeod through his lashes.

The Scot, dressed in clean clothes, was standing over him with a steaming
cup of coffee and looking at him with razor-sharp eyes. **He's been
watching me sleep. Look at those eyes...coffee?** No longer feigning sleep,
Methos sat up and accepted the cup. MacLeod's eyes became deliberately
neutral, the face controlled.

The moment he saw the artificial control set in, he activated his plan.
**Right on time.** "Let's see. I believe the expression is 'We need to
talk.'" Methos drawled.

MacLeod sighed, and sat down on the bed across from Methos. "I don' want
you to think I'm heartless..."

"No." Methos interrupted. "You've done too many foolish things -- even
since I've met you -- to give yourself that name, Mac." Methos smiled
sweetly at the nickname.

MacLeod, embarrassed, looked at the floor.

There was a silence, and Methos looked around the room. The day had dawned
overcast and drizzling. Another storm front was moving in. It was not a day
to travel, and Methos was glad of it. It would give him a chance to work
out his problem. **Every problem is also an opportunity. Time to begin.**
He was in a wonderful mood.

He put the cup down and stood up and stretched his long naked body,
wiggling his fingers towards the ceiling, contracting the muscles of his
rear end. MacLeod looked carefully away.

Methos padded naked to the bathroom, his first step crushing the t-shirt he
used to clean himself last night. **Let him find it.** He took a shower,
humming an aria from La Boheme "Quando m'en vo'soletta." He brushed his
teeth and shaved carefully, stealing from MacLeod's toiletry kit. He
switched to Queen's "Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?" from
Bohemian Rhapsody. **I can't believe I know all the lyrics.** He had just
reached "Beelzebub has a devil put aside for meee..." when he jerked open
the bathroom door -- and froze.

MacLeod, startled, dropped the t-shirt he had been examining.

Methos put on his best poker face, avoiding MacLeod's eyes, and crossed the
room to his bag, digging through it for clean clothes. **Were you
surprised, MacLeod? Curious? Good.** Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
MacLeod pick up the shirt again, and then disappear. Laundry machine noises
began from the space under the stairs. **That has gotten him thinking about
last night. Good. I want it to stay on his mind.**

Kronos was the one who was the expert in driving his victims mad, but
Methos had picked up a few ideas of his own. **Nice to know those skills
come in handy.** Dressed in his ubiquitous black jeans, he reached for his
brown sweater, and then paused, **Not today. I want him to see *me.***
Instead he put on a tight black t-shirt, one that he usually reserved for
wearing under his sweaters. **This is going to be a marvelous experience.**
Forsaking shoes, he picked up the cold cup of coffee and strolled into the
kitchen area.

MacLeod joined him a moment later. Methos had thrown another chicken pot
pie into the microwave, and was pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Methos..."

"MacLeod," Methos interrupted, knowing just how much that would irritate
the man. "I refuse to deal with your moral dilemma, if that's what you're
going through."

"It's not that..."

"Good. Then we don't have to talk about it."

This put MacLeod back a step. **I just activated the guilt button. How many
more buttons can I push?** Methos crossed the room and looked out the
expanse of window facing the trees, carefully placing his back to MacLeod.
**Old man, you jumped on him, and now he's apologizing for being straight.
Well done!** he silently congratulated himself.

"Methos, I want to apologize..." MacLeod began, hesitantly. **For being an
uptight, stiff, closed-minded, sanctimonious...** Methos mentally started
to finish.

"...For bein' a flirt."

**What?**

Methos turned around to look at the man, unable to control his surprised
expression. **He knows? This is getting more interesting by the minute.**
He tried to control his face, but it was very difficult. Normally other
people's emotions were much more fascinating than his own, but he could
feel his own passions starting to rise. He forced them down, **Control!
Without control there is not influence! Control!**

But this was difficult with the apologetic puppy-dog look MacLeod was
giving him. **So handsome.** Yes, he was certainly handsome, with his
curved full mouth, his frank brown eyes, and glossy dark hair. There was
something in his face that made one trust him. **I can see why Richie
worships him.** He had all the fairness of youth, as well as youth's
passion. For all his experience, compared to Methos he was unspotted by the
world. **Not after today. Today I will show him desires he never
imagined.**

Methos smiled. "You're just being charming." **Lure him in, draw him in,
pull the strings...**

"No, I was rude. I gave you...mixed messages" MacLeod confessed.

"What do you mean?" whispered Methos.

MacLeod swallowed. Methos looked into MacLeod's eyes. Those beautiful
cinnamon eyes that expressed every thought and nuance of his mind told
Methos that... every cell in him wanted to run away. He realized that
MacLeod had been thinking all night about what he was going to say to
Methos, and Methos had just destroyed Mac's beautiful speech. **Ah, well.
I'll give him a running start** smirked Methos mentally.

MacLeod took a deep breath "I was flattered by your...attention." The words
were being drawn out as if each cost him a pound of his soul. "Your
massage....turned me on."

**Those words had to hurt.** Another mental smirk.

MacLeod continued. "Part of me wanted to know...well, to tell you tha' I
liked it. Th' massage, I mean." MacLeod stopped speaking, and looked away.

**He has to bring the truth to himself.**

MacLeod exhaled. "Unlike you, I like to sometimes show off. My
swordsmanship...sometimes my body. I'm used...I need th' attention it gives
me."

**There it is.** "I know." Methos nodded.

"You do?"

"I read your files." The microwave chimed, and Methos went to retrieve his
breakfast, turning his back on MacLeod. "You were rejected by your clan,
and you've been making up for it ever since. You were trained to be your
clan leader, and that makes you a 400-year old boyscout, protecting the
young and vulnerable. Like Richie. But your clan's rejection makes you
desperately need support and reassurance, and ultimately causes
attention-getting activities. Like Amanda." Methos turned back around and
looked into MacLeod's face. The younger man had gone slightly pale.

"Is it that obvious?" MacLeod whispered.

"No." Methos lied. "But it is quite true, isn't it?"

MacLeod frowned at the floor, thinking.

Methos smiled, **Here's my chance.** "Don't do that."

"Wha'?"

"Don't think."

"Why?"

"It gives your face expression."

MacLeod's expression changed to puzzlement.

"That's better. Your beauty ends when you have an intellectual expression
on your face. When you are just feeling -- that's when you are the most
beautiful, I think." Methos didn't even wait to see the response that
statement would create, but sailed past the confused man to the pool table,
sliding himself onto the stool nearest the fireplace and placing his
breakfast on the plyboard. He looked up at MacLeod, who had followed,
leaning against the pool table. "You were saying something about...um,
attention. You liked my massage. Do you like my attention?"

Their eyes met. Methos carefully arranged his face into a nonthreatening
but quizzical look, complete with one lifted eyebrow. MacLeod's face was
much less sure, bordering between startled and penitent. It was an
interesting mixture, and the expressions passed back and forth quickly.
**Will I hear the truth, or will he run from himself?**

MacLeod gave him neither, settling on a stony mask. Methos could
practically hear the shields going up. **None of that!**

Methos stood up, keeping eye contact, and quickly moved into MacLeod's
personal space, almost but not quite leaning against the younger man's
body, his fingertips resting on the pool table on either side of MacLeod's
hips. Their faces were suddenly centimeters apart. MacLeod froze, eyes
dilating. Methos examined the face before him quite closely, noticing a
crescent-shaped scar at the corner of the right eye under the eyebrow. He
could feel MacLeod's breath on his face.

"Did you like my attention?" Methos whispered. He slowly moved his face
closer -- any more and their lips would touch. Methos breathed, "Did I turn
you on?"

The only warning Methos had was the contraction of MacLeod's golden brown
pupils. He felt himself flying across the room, and the hard contact of the
fireplace halting his flight in mid-air. The back of his head hit the
brick, and a starry nighttime sky erupted as the floor rose to meet him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
E-mail me at tiemando@pilot.msu.edu





What a Man - or "Che Uomo" Chapters VII, VIII, and IX
For Disclaimers, see Introduction

VII. I'M SIMPLY NOT INTO PINK, MY DEAR

When Methos came to consciousness, MacLeod was nowhere in sight. He
carefully felt the back of his head, noting that there wasn't any blood in
his hair, and slowly got to his feet. **That was unexpected.** He knew
MacLeod was bound to be feeling anger and guilt for his violence. **I'll
have to keep pushing. It will be painful, but he is either going to kiss
me, or kill me.** He hoped it would be the former. Then again the latter,
of the temporary sort, might be effective as well for his goal.

He sensed MacLeod upstairs, and followed. The Ranger's main room was
official-feeling and spartan. Chairs lined the wall next to the top level
of the fireplace, and facing the fireplace was an ancient plaid overstuffed
sofa. A row of filing cabinets and two desks filled the rest of the space.
The south wall, like the barracks below, was made of windows, and facing
the windows was a large map table. The floor, unlike the basement's
concrete, was made of burnished pine.

Methos came up the stairs slowly. MacLeod was at the map table, his back
turned, and Methos saw that MacLeod's knuckles were white from gripping the
edge of the table. **Anger. Good. Anger is a potent beginning.** Methos
stopped at the head of the stairs.

"Methos. Keep your hands off of me." MacLeod's voice had a grit to it.

"I never knew you'd be afraid of anything. You're acting like a kidnapped
virgin defending her honor to the death." Methos tried to keep his voice
low.

MacLeod turned his head in an expression of annoyance. "Don't try that on
me."

"Believe me, I'm not trying. I'm succeeding."

MacLeod turned and looked at him with such an expression of loathing that
Methos was taken back. For a moment he almost appeared as if he might enjoy
breaking Methos' neck. MacLeod quickly snapped the look towards the trees
outside, and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I hit you. That was uncalled
for."

"Apology accepted. But...do you think I deserved it?" Methos deliberately
kept his voice soft and musical. **Anger, and then guilt. A medieval recipe
for passion.**

MacLeod kept looking out the window. Methos could see him swallow again and
again as he looked for words to express his strong emotions.

"You want to say 'no, you didn't' but that's a lie," Methos began his
carefully planned influence. "The warrior in you believes I did deserve
being hit for assaulting your masculinity, your pride, and your honor. But
the civilized part of you, the part that sees words as words, and life in
shades of grey, knows I did not deserve it. Is that true?"

MacLeod nodded at the trees.

Methos crossed the room to stand behind the Scot, and closed his hand
around the younger man's left forearm. "MacLeod, look at me."

Methos was rewarded with a sideways glance. It was enough. **The loathing
is for himself. He is angry with himself for what he has done, and feels
guilt as a result of his actions. Time to turn it into passion.** He pulled
on the arm firmly. "MacLeod, be brave, and look at me."

MacLeod turned his head, diverting his gaze onto Methos as if he were
meeting the eyes of a basilisk. MacLeod's lips were compressed into a
straight line, and his olive-skinned cheeks were flushed. But the eyes were
cold and hard. Methos put his most generous and open face on. **I hope to
the gods that this works.**

Methos spoke slowly, deliberately, making sure every word was clear and
weighted with meaning, modulating the tones of his voice into their most
persuasive.

"I could say to you that... to remind you that the Gathering is here, and
tomorrow may be your last day." MacLeod's mouth tightened minutely at the
cliche. "But you know that. 'Living for today ' is a part of life that you
have mastered, and grown away from. The prize may not be important to you,
but the future is important, and you will not take chances with that."
MacLeod nodded imperceptibly.

"I could remind you not to be afraid of new experiences, that the bravest
man is never afraid of himself. I believe that you *are* open for new
experiences, as long as they are vital and important to your future."
MacLeod was listening, digesting the words.

**He wants to hear this. No-- he *needs* to. As much as I need him.**

"But what I want to remind you of is your passion, that wonderful passion
that you hold within yourself. It's passion, the ability to feel, that I'd
lost until I met you." Methos paused, as much as for effect as to catch his
breath. **Truthtelling, even dramatic truthtelling... hurts.** MacLeod was
now mesmerized.

"I told you about passion in Paris, and I meant it. And now..."

MacLeod interrupted, his eyes bright. "And now something has changed." The
tone was aggressive, commanding. It demanded an answer.

"Yes." **Something *has* changed.** He hissed in his mind, becoming
frighteningly aware that MacLeod knew moves that Methos didn't. The plan
began unraveling. He was expecting passivity, not aggression. All his
smooth words of seduction were lost. **Am I being caught by the very thing
I hunt?** He had one last ploy...complete truth.

"That passion... I felt it within you." Methos put his hand on MacLeod's
chest near his heart. "Now I feel it *for* you. Irresistibly."

"I see." MacLeod clipped the words angrily. "Methos, I'm not stupid nor
naive. Did you really think last night would work as some sort of
seduction? That I would be interested in your dirty ...lust?"

Methos said nothing. His words had created a situation that was the exact
opposite of his intentions. His thoughts were suddenly flying in a million
directions, and none of them coherent in shape or form. He realized how
overt his actions were, and how he underestimated MacLeod's nature. **He is
ahead of me!** His plan was not only transparent, it was juvenile. Worst of
all, it was unworthy. Unworthy of Methos, and certainly unworthy of being
plotted against Duncan MacLeod.

He could see MacLeod watching his face, and tried to control his shame. He
clenched his jaw in his effort to keep his face straight and neutral, and
with that action he could feel himself holding his breath. MacLeod's
expression had an intensity to it that Methos had only seen once before in
combat -- with an opponent that MacLeod enjoyed playing with prior to
beating. And beheading. His thoughts flew...to Kronos. Parts of MacLeod
reminded him of Kronos -- his confidence, leadership, aggression,
sensuality -- and how Kronos would, for a poor plan... kill him. Punishment
without mercy. A plan, no matter how remedial, that lead to failure lead to
death. It was a terrifying memory.

**I've lost.** He took his hand away from MacLeod's heart, struggling with
the memories overwhelming his facial control.

MacLeod turned, subtly shifting his body towards him, keeping eye contact
to an intense degree. Methos watched the brown eyes glitter as the younger
man slowly placed his hands on both sides of Methos shoulders, squeezing
muscle and bone to the edge of pain. Methos was paralyzed, his mental
activity without control, and his body starting to tremble with the strain
of prolonged restraint.

MacLeod's baritone rumbled softly, "The only thing you've won here is to
make me lose control. Is that what you wanted?"

Methos wanted to answer, and broke eye contact, looking down. His eyes
fastened on MacLeod's celtic belt, and any answer he might have made was
swept away at the sight of the emblem. **That belt is Duncan MacLeod.
Strong and true as silver, and yet intricate as the Celtic myth it
represents. Strange thing to think of in a time like this.**

It was startling to lose control of his thoughts, and when Methos looked up
again into MacLeod's coffee-colored eyes, he forgot to put a mask on.

**I want you.**

The olive-skinned jaw relaxed as MacLeod exhaled. MacLeod's eyes, still
fierce, grew heavy-lidded as he slowly moved his face closer. Husky with
disdain he rumbled, "Shall I give you what you want?"

**Yes** and **No** screamed in Methos mind. **Don't do this! Not if you
don't want to! Not this way! Not in anger! Passion! Not anger! Stop him!**
"Don't play games with me!" Methos hissed back.

"Why not? You've been playing games with me!"

Methos broke the contact, stepping under MacLeod's arms, turning his back
to him. That was a mistake.

MacLeod kicked out, catching Methos in the ankle and dropping him to the
hardwood floor. He was on top of Methos in an instant, flipping him over,
pinning him to the ground, holding his arms at his sides. Methos tried to
escape, but MacLeod outweighed him, and outmaneuvered him. **Trapped!**

"Mac, I'm sorry," Methos gasped.

"Sorry? Sorry! You've been playing with me ever since we got here. It seems
like the moment we walked into this place you've been after me. You come
onto me when I'm drunk. When I say no, you taunt me, make me lose my
temper. And then you try to sweet-talk me, thinking that would seduce me."
He snorted in disgust.

"If you think you're in love with me, or e'en if you just want to bugger
me, whatever you're doing is wrong. You should know better." MacLeod tossed
his head in a quick nod. "Don't you have any pride? Doesn't it make any
difference to you that I don't want you?" He looked away angrily, and then
took control, looking quickly back again, his expression softened. "Okay, I
admitted I enjoy the attention, I canna help it. But you canna push my
....boundaries... like that."

Methos nodded, "Okay."

"Okay?" Having his say, MacLeod relaxed.

"Yes, okay. I'm sorry." Suddenly, the plan snapped back into focus, and
Methos tried to look as contrite as possible. Being trapped by MacLeod gave
him ideas with endless possibilities. Methos relaxed physically, and
MacLeod let his arms free.

MacLeod looked sternly at him. "Please don't try it again." Then, that
Boy-Scout look, "Promise?" MacLeod moved off Methos, shifting to a sitting
position.

"I promise." Methos got to his knees.

"I didna' hurt you, did I?"

"No...not yet..." Abruptly Methos flung himself at MacLeod, knocking him on
his back. He sunk his fingers into the dark mane, and held MacLeod's head
to the floor as he straddled the massive body, praying he had enough weight
to hold him in place. MacLeod grabbed hold of Methos upper arms. Nose to
nose, Methos looked deeply into MacLeod's eyes, green-gold holding onto
cinnamon-brown.

"You promised..." MacLeod whispered.

"I lied." Methos smiled. "I'm Methos."

The kiss started unnaturally, with one set of lips pressing into the other
without response. Methos closed his eyes, tasting the morning's coffee in
the wetness of MacLeod's lips, and breathing in the younger man's
sandalwood-and-leather scent. He turned MacLeod's face so that the kiss
could come more naturally and deepened it, delighting in pressing his mouth
against the pillowy softness of the Scot's fuller lips. He could sense
MacLeod's heart pounding beneath him, and MacLeod's hands held and
tightened on Methos arms. **He doesn't want to hurt me.** MacLeod's
resistance in his mouth grew stronger, tighter, trying to arc away,
avoiding his touch.

Methos stopped the kiss, and raised his head to look at MacLeod. MacLeod's
eyes were open and dilated to black with anxiety. Methos said the only
words he could think of.

"Close your eyes."

"Get off of me." The voice was stressed, with a tremor. There was fear in
it as well. "Whatever you do, you can never make me want you." MacLeod's
eyes glared into Methos. "Because -- even if you did take me, even if you
did manage to excite my body I would have to close my eyes while I
fantasized about somebody else -- anybody else! Do you understand? I choose
my own lovers -- and you just don't happen to be my type. Have I made
myself clear?"



VIII. I'M FALLING APART ALL AROUND YOU

Methos opened his mouth to speak when both of them heard the crunch of the
Ranger's truck pulling up to the station. One second Methos was straddling
MacLeod's body, and the next he was sailing across the room, cartwheeling
over the sofa and landing in a heap next to the fireplace.

MacLeod was halfway down the stairs before Methos could re-orient himself.

"Shit!"

He heard the Ranger's footsteps cross the drive, and managed to get himself
on his feet before the Ranger made it to the porch. He ran his fingers
through his hair, took a deep breath and crossed the room, opening the
door.

"Hey!" The Ranger was pink-cheeked and cheerful, and covered in smoky ash.
"Did you get your car started?"

"No. We're going to have to wait for the tow truck." **Everything's normal
here** said Methos' tone of voice. "How's the fire?"

"We're waiting for reinforcements. The rain helped, but it's crossing the
ridges too quickly for airdrop. You guys ok?" He seemed genuinely
concerned.

"Oh yeah. We're fine." **I'm trying to fuck him and he's trying to kill me.
We're one big happy family.** Methos couldn't stop the corners of his mouth
from turning up at the sarcasm of his thoughts.

"Good. I'm only going to be here for a few minutes." He turned to go
downstairs.

What was MacLeod doing? Methos had to stop the Ranger. "Um, wait! That's
not a good idea."

The Ranger looked at him, puzzled. "I'm only going to take a piss."

"Oh." Methos nodded. "Okay."

"That's good," the Ranger nodded his head. "Because it's my station." He
clumped down the stairs in his heavy fireboots. Methos raced after him.

MacLeod was silent while Methos made small talk until the Ranger left. When
he discovered they'd been using his supplies, Methos gave him a hundred
dollars for the food and vodka. A few moments later, just as he was about
to walk out the door, the Ranger looked at Methos with a curious grin.
"What's wrong with MacLeod? He hasn't said a word."

Methos thought quickly. "He has a hangover. Vodka and him don't mix." He
made tsk-tsking noises.

The Ranger scrinched up his face in understanding. "Yeah, that's my
partner's poison. The scotch is in the filing cabinets under 'S'." He
laughed.

Methos smiled, his eyes glittering **Gotcha, Mac.** "I'm sure he'll
compensate you generously." Methos pulled another hundred out of his wallet
and handed it to the Ranger.

With a grin, the Ranger said "That's flammable where I'm going." He tucked
the bill into a crack in the interior paneling next to the door. "I expect
to see that when I return."

"You will. I promise."

"See ya!" Smiling, the Ranger clumped down the porch to his truck. Methos
shut the door.

He turned, and MacLeod was suddenly behind him. Startled, Methos gasped.
Looking fiercely at Methos, MacLeod plucked the bill from the paneling, and
flicked it across the room into the unlit fireplace.

"So much for *your* promises." MacLeod left the dumbfounded Methos standing
in surprise as he turned and went back downstairs. **Ouch.** Methos was
frozen in place until he heard the downstairs door slam shut.

Racing down the stairs, he reached the bottom when he remembered the
scotch. He ran back up, grabbed the bottle, and almost broke an ankle
flying down the stairs again. MacLeod was nowhere to be seen. **He must
have gone for a walk.** He grabbed the door handle... and forced himself to
stop.

**You've pushed him too far today. He needs to be alone to think. To
regroup. Leave him alone, Old Man. Leave him alone.** And so Methos did
leave MacLeod alone.

He cleaned the room.

Played pool.

Discovered the Ranger's CD-player and ran to the car to grab his music.

Cleaned the bathroom.

Played more pool. **Dammit, MacLeod, where are you?**

Folded his and MacLeod's now clean clothes and put them in their respective
bags.

Made another chicken pie and ate it.

Played more pool. **Macleod?**

Cleaned the fireplace, restocked the logs, and started a fire.

Danced with the pool cuestick around the room to one of his favorite dance
songs.

Swept out the room.

Played more pool. **Mac, I'm really getting worried.**

Five hours later...Methos finally felt the signature presence of MacLeod
approaching. And then it faded away.

It was after sunset when he decided to have a drink. **With you or without
you, Mac.** He almost opened the bottle of scotch when he decided to save
it for his Highlander.

He had gone through all his CD's twice when MacLeod's signature reappeared.
Methos was in the middle of a particularly interesting game of pool in
which he had decided to play all the rules backwards, and so every shot he
made he had to add a ball to the table. **The things we do when we're
bored...** Methos certainly had enough practice in entertaining himself
after 5000 years.

Methos could feel MacLeod's presence just outside the building. **He is out
there in the cold and wet, and is afraid to come in because of lil' ol' me.
This is ridiculous.** He walked to the door and opened it, taking a few
steps out into the yard.

"MacLeod! Come in here!" he shouted.

A dark shadow detached itself from one of the trees and came his way. As
the Highlander got closer, Methos could see that the man was drenched.
**Awww. He looks like a wet kitten. A big goddamn wet kitten.** MacLeod
certainly was soaked, but his movements were not like the evening before,
proud and comfortable. He fairly slinked through the door and stopped in
front of the fireplace, glowering at it, dripping where he stood. **He's
angry.** Methos shut the door and watched him for a minute.

**This isn't good. But then, comeuppance rarely is.** He crossed the room
and grabbed the bottle of scotch. Then, slowly, he stepped quietly within
MacLeod's arm range and offered the bottle.

MacLeod stared at the fire for a moment, and then looked at Methos's
outstretched hand containing the bottle. Slowly, deliberately, he took the
bottle without looking at Methos. He undid the top and drank four large
gulps of the liquor. Methos stepped behind him and tugged at the collar of
the coat, indicating that he would help take the coat off, and MacLeod
shrugged himself out of the wet heavy fabric. Methos put the coat (feeling
the weight of it's hidden sword) on a coatrack near the fire. MacLeod then
knelt on the floor and took off his boots and his soaking wet sweater. He
kept his t-shirt and jeans on. It was a repeat of the previous evening, but
Methos felt... different. Protective. Considerate.

MacLeod would not look at him no matter what. He avoided even seeing Methos
in his peripheral vision. And that hurt. **And I've hurt him. I've betrayed
his trust, crossed his boundaries, and lied to him, just to get something I
thought I wanted.**

Just so that he would still be doing something, Methos prepared a chicken
pie for the man, hoping at least he would eat. MacLeod inhaled the pie, and
while he was scraping the microwave bowl, exhaled a soft, curt "Thanks."

Methos was so anxious for a response from MacLeod that the single word
sounded like a blessing.

"Want another?"

"Sure."

Methos made another pie, and MacLeod ate it more slowly this time.
Afterwards, Methos put the bowl in the sink and went to sit by the fire.
MacLeod was sitting on his bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging
loosely in the air, looking at the fire. As his clothes dried on his body,
Methos could smell his scent of perspiration and soap and that indefinable
other that made MacLeod an individual. **Pheromones, probably.** Methos
laid on his bed and looked at the ceiling. Silence reigned again, broken by
the cracklings of the fire and the hum of the freezer.

After an hour or so, MacLeod sighed. A deep breath, and then another sigh.
"You wan't me to say something." MacLeod spoke softly.

"If you want, yes." **He speaks!** Methos raised his head to look at him.

"I don' know what t' say."

"I should be the one talking," began Methos. "I should apologize." **Where
the hell'd that come from?**

"No. Let me say one thing first." MacLeod paused, gathering his thoughts.
"I accused you this morning of pushing my boundaries. This afternoon I was
thinking...just exactly what boundaries did I have... that you'd been
pushing." MacLeod stopped and turned his head, looking at Methos for the
first time in the two hours since he had entered the room. Methos sat up,
all his senses completely at attention.

"I have boundaries for survival. What I can and can't do and still stay in
one piece. You cross them, and I react. I have to. Without that I can't
survive as an immortal."

"Yes," Methos breathed.

"And I have boundaries for right and wrong, good and evil. My honor, my
ethics, my moral code are wrapped up in those boundaries. Without that I'm
not who I am today. I can't change them -- at least not quickly and without
great stress. It is a boundary that allows me to know what I need to do --
or who I should fight -- or who I should leave alone."

"Yes."

"These boundaries help me maintain control in a world that has put me
into...that has placed me as a pawn in a game I didn't choose to be in."

"Yes."

"You crossed those boundaries."

"No."

"Yes, you did. You threatened me. You threatened who I was...physically and
psychologically and emotionally...who I saw myself as a person."

"Mac, your sexual boundaries have nothing to do with your survival. If it
did, you'd be dead by now." That wasn't exactly the right thing to say, but
it was true, and MacLeod didn't dispute it. "But I didn't mean to threaten
you. I just wanted..." Methos began.

"You admit that you threatened me?" interrupted MacLeod.

"Yes, but..." Methos' voice trailed off as his throat closed over the next
words.

"Methos, you proved that there's a certain physical chemistry between us.
Why didn't you just ask?

"You would have said no."

MacLeod's voice was gentle for the first time in the conversation. "You
don't know that."

Methos shut his mouth. This was a good thing, because his brain had just
shut off in shock and surprise. He sat and blinked, and blinked and sat.



IX. ALL I CAN DO IS SURRENDER...

When he finished blinking, and his brain returned to something more
intelligent than the synaptic version of a C:>-prompt, the first thought
that arrived on his mental screen was, **Boy, am I getting a taste of my
own medicine.**

"So if I'd asked...what sort of answer would I have received?

"That depends on the question," MacLeod's mouth curved one side in a
half-smile.

"Ah." **I know this game. Mac, you are a fuckin' tease.**

"Stop that." There was a deceptive softness to that command.

"What?"

"You're plotting again," MacLeod frowned at him. "That's what got you in
trouble earlier."

The C:>-prompt threatened to return. MacLeod leaned forward earnestly.
"Look, Methos. What I was thinking when I was out there was... that I
really didn't have a boundary for *you.* Only your actions -- your
sexual... um...inclination." He paused to explain, slowly. "I can't do what
you want me to do. If you desire me... tha' you desire me... I'm flattered.
What I said before -- about not being my type, wasn't true. I love your
company. It...you make me feel wonderful. But I really can't do anything
about it. I can't act on it. I just can't..."

"Cross that boundary?" interrupted Methos. **Methinks he doth protest too
much.**

"No. I can't."

At those words Methos closed his eyes, and the plotting supercomputer that
was his wicked brain suddenly jumped into overdrive. **That's it...I was
wrong. I thought I had to make him curious, to build the arc between
curiosity and desire. I don't. He already is curious about making love to
me. He just doesn't know what or how to do anything about it.** Methos
opened his eyes and looked into MacLeod's brown ones. **Start small. Ask
him to take something from me.**

"It's easy. Give me your hand." Methos held out his left hand.

MacLeod trustingly gave him his right hand, and Methos grasped it. "See?
That was easy."

MacLeod, realizing what he had done, jerked his hand back.

Methos frowned at him. "*Give* me your hand." **This is the moment.**

MacLeod looked deeply into Methos' green-gold eyes, and then down at his
hand, at the front and then turning to the back, with a curious wonder.
Then slowly....

.....with infinite softness...
...............MacLeod reached out...
..........................and grasped Methos' hand.
They looked at each other, right hand in left.

Methos smiled at him, dimples ablaze. "You crossed it. Welcome." **Che
uomo!** MacLeod's eyes lit up, and a slow smile that would have ignited
heaven itself blossomed on his face. **Approval really does still matter to
him. I shall have to be careful not to ever disapprove when it comes to his
emotions.** That feeling of protectiveness surged over him, cleaning all
falseness and deceit. It was strange, feeling this way. **Love?** A wave of
longing shook him. **It can't be love.** And yet a sudden, strange yearning
wrapped itself around his heart.

Methos, holding MacLeod's hand, slipped from his bed and knelt in front of
the man. **Honesty.** "Mac...Duncan. I don't want to hurt you. But before
we go any further I want you to know this is ...sex." He almost said
something different.

MacLeod's smile faded a bit. Methos amended -- the words he almost said --
into, "I want to make love to you. But I'm not asking for a lifetime
commitment."

"Lust."

"More than that. We're friends. We could be lovers. But I don't...I'm not
asking...I would never expect you to..."

"Be your partner? Give up women?" MacLeod's eyes twinkled.

"Yes."

"You're basically telling me you just spent the last 24 hours talking me
into having sex with you, and now that I've agreed to try it with you,
you're promising to ... 'respect my straightness in th' morning.'"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

MacLeod laughed. For the first time in two days, he laughed. Genuinely and
without reservation. Methos closed his eyes and touched his forehead to
MacLeod's chest as the baritone chortles echoed through the room. **Gods,
that's a beautiful sound.** He raised his head and laid a kiss on MacLeod's
neck, under the curve of his jaw. **I want you.**

MacLeod stopped laughing -- practically stopped breathing. He froze, eyes
widening in surprise.

Methos then kissed MacLeod's cheek near his mouth and ran his tongue along
MacLeod's stubbled jaw. **That mouth, that beautiful mouth...** He leaned
in for the kiss...

"Don't. Don't kiss me." The voice was full of warning.

Methos froze, looking up into the depths of MacLeod's eyes. **Touching -
yes. Check. Kissing - no. Check.** "Too personal, hm?"

"Um hmm."

"I understand." Methos couldn't help the disappointment in his tone. "Do
you want to touch me? Or shall I only touch you?" **That shyness....turns
me on.**

"Uh huh."

"Then lie down." Methos pulled down the bedcovers, and took off MacLeod's
t-shirt. MacLeod gave him one last look, puzzled, curious, and passively
laid chest down on the bed. **That passivity won't last** bet Methos with
himself.

Methos started with his hands on MacLeod's shoulders, massaging his back.
Touching MacLeod's bare bronzed back gave Methos a surprisingly pleasant
fluttering in his groin -- it was like touching a work of art. Perfection
itself. His hands moved from the shoulders to the lats, feeling the ripple
of animal muscles under his fingers. He moved in the patterns that he
thought should be familiar to MacLeod from last night, pulling and working
the muscles.

"Methos?"

"Hmm?"

"Wha' are you doing?"

"What does it feel like?"

"Get on with it."

If he thought MacLeod was uncertain before, with these words there ceased
to be any doubt. Methos reached under MacLeod and undid his Celtic belt
buckle. MacLeod shifted to one side so that his jeans could be unzipped,
and then laid down flat on his stomach again. Methos started to work the
pants off MacLeod's thighs, and then came to a halt because of the
difficulty.

"Do you want me to stop?" whispered the older man.

"No," came the muffled voice.

"Then you're going to have to help me."

MacLeod turned and looked at Methos with a look of uncertainty. Then --
that grin. "I guess I *will* have to help you." He rolled over and took off
his jeans, and then with a brief pause, his underwear.

Methos' eyes had been staring at MacLeod's handsome face, thinking **I
don't dare look down. Don't dare... don't dare...** and then he found
himself staring at a magnificent semi-erect uncut cock. The hair was black,
the balls heavy, and the foreskin partially retracted -- it seemed that the
thick masterpiece grew as he looked at it. MacLeod looked down at himself
as well, and sighed.

"It has a life of its own, eh?"

Methos couldn't stop. He slid his hand across MacLeod's thigh, and then
gently, softly grasped the cock before him, moving the foreskin back and
exposing the pinkish head with a large slit. He started caressing the
member, moving his hand back and forth, rapidly stroking it several times
to complete the stiffening erection.

"Methos."

"Don't be afraid." Methos whispered, and clenched his fist around the now
rock-hard cock. An involuntary gasp escaped MacLeod, and Methos, like
lightning, leaned over to put MacLeod's cock in his mouth.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
7-1-98                           E-mail me at tiemando@pilot.msu.edu







For Disclaimers, see Introduction

What a Man - or "Che Uomo" Chapters 10 and Epilogue

X.ONE SWEET MOMENT SET ASIDE FOR US...

Methos' mouth silenced Macleod effectively, dwelling over his cock in what
seemed to be an endless variety of kisses that blended into each other and
went from savagely impatient and hurtful to become a slow and deliberate
exploration of the shape and texture of his cock and his balls.

He was harsh, then gentle, then harsh again while his strong pale fingers
continued to do what they pleased, touching MacLeod in areas no one else
had ever touched. When MacLeod's arousal was rock-hard, Methos broke his
contact and traveled with his tongue over MacLeod's belly to his chest in a
teasingly slow manner, playing with the sensitive peaks of his nipples
until MacLeod was gasping for breath under that predatory mouth.

He felt almost mindless, torn between wanting and not wanting -- between
letting go to feeling primitive fear.

Now there was no sound between them except their breathing and the moans
that caught in MacLeod's throat. **My God!** MacLeod thought dazedly, **I
can't believe this is happening to me and I'm actually starting to want it
to happen...**

What he didn't want was to think about anything at all, while he let his
senses take over -- taken over by a man for the first time in his life. It
was like falling slowly from a great height, spinning in gigantic
slow-motion circles, or being sucked into a center of a whirlpool of a
being named Methos. Every inch of skin was being caressed and taken hold of
by hands that were hard and masculine. **I't's new, and strange, and
...good!**

Methos touched MacLeod where the Scot wanted to be touched, and took
control of his body so that all his conscious volition was surrendered.
Methos reached nerve endings and created sensations MacLeod never knew
existed.

He let Methos do whatever he wanted, put his mouth wherever he wanted.
Without a protest he felt the slight roughness of beard stubble rasping
against his most sensitive point of all, and the stabbing of a strange
tongue inside him. He felt a warm wet finger penetrate that most private
area, and then twist, and press, and the newfound feeling made him whirl in
a vortex of pleasure. When the finger was gently removed, he couldn't help
himself from making animal sounds that were almost overwhelmed by the
pounding drumbeat of his pulse.

More...and more ... and, incredibly, even more. He looked up into the
gold-green wells of Methos' eyes, and saw an infinite depth of passion and
love. **Love?** Yes, like nothing he ever could have imagined. In an
instant he understood that 5000 years had taught Methos there was an
infinite amount of love one can give, and he could feel it pouring out
through those hazel eyes, those elegant hands, and that ancient heart. As
their eyes and souls gazed upon each other, MacLeod saw the beginnings of
moisture darkening Methos lashes, and the noble mouth starting to quiver.

"Oh...." Methos clutched at him harder.

Methos' hands moved slowly up and caressed MacLeod's cheekbones, and
MacLeod involuntarily looked down to see the contrast of the pale body
against his own browner skin. He took Methos' hand in his own, and kissed
it again and again with all the sensuousness and desire he could put into
that gesture, burying his face in the palm.

"Touch me, Duncan, please." Methos' voice was rough and urgent, but it was
the "please" that put MacLeod over the edge. He reached out blindly and did
as he was asked to -- encountering -- touching -- holding -- feeling. This
was Methos, showing his need for him. And this is what Duncan discovered
gave him the most intense pleasure.

He acted on instinct, holding Methos in his hand and then in his mouth,
using his tongue to caress every inch of the ancient's cock. He moved on
him until he heard Methos' indrawn breath and a whispered blasphemy, and
then Methos pulled him against his body almost savagely, holding him on his
side.

Positioning both of them like spoons, Duncan felt the caresses moving from
his front to his back, a mouth nibbling at his ear, a hand grasping with
sensous pressure his cock. He felt his leg raised towards his chest, and
himself opened and then caressed with fingers from the inside, and the
pleasure of it made himself arch up against Methos fiercely. The pleasure
was so intense that moments later he almost welcomed the sharp stab of pain
that gave way in seconds to another kind of pain, that was not really pain
at all.

After a while there was nothing that mattered except the movement of their
bodies in a fierce tide of desire. It was like nothing he had ever
imagined, nothing he had dreamed, nothing he could describe. All he was
aware of was the motion of Methos' body beside him, and the feel of him
inside his body, filling emptiness with a hot fluid and taking him to the
furthest reaches of pleasure. He felt his orgasm rise and explode, and he
screamed with the agony and ecstasy and primitive fulfillment of male sex,
feeling the liquid warmth spurt onto his chest, with spasm after spasm like
aftershocks following an earthquake.

Making love to Methos was like awakening from a kind of trance in which he
had not been himself at all. He now knew what it meant to love and be loved
by a passionate, sensual creature who could give himself unreservedly to
desire. He destroyed the jeering voices that said **Animal! Deviant!
Sodomite! Sinner!** That Methos was a man made no difference any longer to
him.

Suddenly, MacLeod felt an ancient, primeval instinct that made him want to
touch Methos. Hold him with himself, inside himself. Learn the texture of
his black hair, and silklike skin. Discover if he could make him feel the
same fierce rise of passion again and the same fulfillment. MacLeod's hands
slipped down Methos' side, exploring the length of his hard body as far as
he could reach, and finding, almost by instinct, the place where their
bodies were joined. The intake of Methos breath was harsh and sudden.

"Again?"

"Yes."

Methos separated himself from MacLeod, allowing MacLeod to roll from his
side to his back. MacLeod felt Methos' hands catch up in the thickness of
his hair and pull his face up into savage kisses -- kisses that never
touched his mouth.

MacLeod thought he would go mad if he didn't kiss that mouth -- but Methos
was holding him to the letter of their agreement. Every kiss fell short of
its destination. Why? **I *want* to kiss him! Why fight a perfectly normal,
natural urge?** After a few hundred tries, MacLeod gave up and decided to
devour the rest of Methos' body. Triumphantly, joyfully, he found out he
could give as well as take, and made sure that Methos, too, was delirious
with pleasure.

He realized that his orgasm the night before was the epitome of
self-absorption, a physical and souless act of artificial intimacy. Tonight
he wanted to be absorbed into Methos, body and soul, and he felt no
lingering vestiges of shame in this desire. Methos *needed* his passion,
and so he gave without restraint. Soon the bed was too small, and the rest
of the room became their pleasure palace. He gave Methos pleasure, taking
him while Methos' body arched and convulsed in shudders that didn't seem to
stop. "Dio!" he heard again and again. "Dio!....Che Uomo!"



Epilogue. IT'S A KIND OF MAGIC...

The tow truck arrived at eight a.m., fixed the coil with a old but working
spare, and at ten o'clock the two immortals headed back to Seacouver. It
was a beautiful day after the storm, and MacLeod suggested that they drive
with the Thunderbird's top down. Methos agreed, too happy to think of being
contrary.

Happiness indeed. Bliss was more like it. This morning there was no
awkwardness, no confrontation, no "gawd what did I do?" MacLeod did not act
like their lovemaking didn't happen -- in fact, the first thing he did in
the morning was wrap his arms around sleeping Methos and somberly crush him
in a huge hug. And then he was up, making coffee, and then into the shower.

It was clear to Methos that they were still friends. They had made love,
but were not lovers. Duncan's wholly unromantic mood this morning made that
distinction for Methos. **Isn't this what I wanted?** Methos asked himself.
He intuitively agreed, but there was a sense of absence, of loss. Yet the
feeling of happiness prevailed.

Before they walked out the door, MacLeod paused and looked at Methos with
an indecipherable look. He then backtracked and rescued the hundred-dollar
bill from the soot of the fireplace and replaced it in the paneling. "From
now on, I expect you t' keep your promises," he said sternly.

"I'll do my best." **Any other answer would be a lie** thought Methos.

Then they were in the car and cruising down a beautiful forested highway.
MacLeod had been mostly silent all morning, not angry but contemplative.
Methos had thought to bring a thermos of coffee and they were sipping it as
they flew down the road.

Methos wanted to shout and sing. MacLeod brooded. After minutes that seemed
like hours, Methos exploded. **What is he thinking?**

"Mac."

"Yes."

"Say something. You're not usually quiet like this. You're making me
worried."

"What to say? I'm just thinking."

"About..."

"Last night. Yes." The response was somber and grim.

**And that, old man, is the death-toll of regret.** Methos slunched into
the upholstery. His happiness evaporated. **Why couldn't MacLeod just
experiment like other men? What the hell was so important about maintaining
the heterosexual cover?** For the life of him, Methos couldn't understand
why this century, was so homophobic. **It never was like this before. Well,
at least in this century men can talk about it, but the awareness was so
limited. Standards had changed so much...hell, in Sparta they encouraged,
nay, legislated male pair bonding. Now it would get you killed for even
insinuating that a guy was gay. It was just sex. Birds and bees. No big
deal. Unless...** The upholstery felt suddenly cold in the hot sun.
**...unless MacLeod didn't like it. Impossible! Judging from the sounds
(including those little purring noises), and... when he turned the tables
on Methos... and then the pool table...not to mention the stairs...and oh,
what he could do with his tongue.... Impossible. Still... ask him.**

"Did you like it?" Methos couldn't help the plaintive sound in his voice.

"No." The tone was absolute.

**Complete rejection. Impossible, but complete.** Methos turned his head
away, feeling a sudden rush of that quavering, delicate feeling in his
throat that foreboded tears. He covered his eyes with his hand. **If I just
wanted sex (and that's what *you* told *him,* you idiot) then why do you
feel so...bruised? You got what you wanted -- be happy.** Happiness was not
forthcoming. Depression was forthcoming. Tears were imminent.
**Goddamn-mutherfucking-cocksuckin' (yeah, well Mac was good at that)
-paillasson-merdeux-miche-astringit-usikan-gangguan-mengusik-puta...**

Methos felt MacLeod pull the car over. He didn't look up.

"Methos."

Methos, still hiding his eyes, didn't move. **Go away.**

Slowly and gently MacLeod pulled Methos' hand away from his eyes. The hand
dropped, and Methos turned his face even farther away.

MacLeod cupped the far cheek and turned the face towards him. Methos'
gold-green eyes were damp but not teary-- yet.

"I didn't like it. I loved it. I loved you. All of you."

MacLeod leaned forward, closed his eyes, and kissed Methos' mouth tenderly.
The C:>-prompt was back. If it hadn't been for his body's autonomic
responses he would have forgotten to breathe and make his heart beat.

Shocked, it took MacLeod kissing him again and again, and slowly deepening
the kiss before he could bear to close his eyes. His stunned resistance
held for the briefest of moments, and then broke. He opened his mouth,
accepting the kiss, and Methos felt the tentative touch of MacLeod's
tongue. This kiss did not give, it took, and took, and took. Methos could
feel his mind spinning, swirling spirals that took him away from himself
while his body seemed to melt and was incapable of resistance.

Methos felt strong arms go around his back, felt the body beside him
respond to his own. Fingers warmly caressed the back of his neck and moved
alongside his face to tilt it up to his. He grasped the mane of hair, and
caressed MacLeod face while the younger man responded in opposite, sinking
his fingers into Methos' short locks and clasping his head in place.
**"Coffee-flavored kisses..."** went the old song. And all the while
MacLeod held his mouth captive, first harshly ravaging, forcing his lips to
part for him, and then, as if he had sensed Methos' surrender, kissing the
corner of his trembling mouth, going back to cover his lips possessively.

As Methos shifted his weight against MacLeod's body, his right hand fell to
MacLeod's lap, discovering and then rubbing the erection straining against
MacLeod's thigh. At his touch, MacLeod's mouth responded, overwhelming him,
giving him the sensation that his mouth was being devoured, that his tongue
was his cock. Sensing the telegraphing of MacLeod's desire, he subtly
changed the kissing, sucking on MacLeod's tongue as if it were MacLeod's
cock in turn. **I could kiss him forever!**

MacLeod broke the kiss and looked into Methos eyes. MacLeod's eyes wrote
volumes about acceptance, and desire. Friendship and lust. Methos looked
back with relief and passion. Friendship and ...love? They didn't speak,
but only breathed in each other's air, trying to calm themselves against
the passion of their bodies.

MacLeod was the first to look away, and silently he pulled the Thunderbird
back onto the road. Methos cleared his throat, and adjusted his pants to
accommodate his erection. "Good beginning is half done," Methos remembered
Aristotle saying. **Then this is an excellent beginning.**

"Methos," MacLeod spoke softly to the road.

"Yeah?"

"Just don't expect me to send you roses," MacLeod said with
mock-brusqueness.

Methos smiled. **I never did. Che Uomo! What A Man!**

**********************************************************************
Fin. 2/4/98

For comments (and I desperately would love to hear from you) 
please e-mail me   ----  tiemando@pilot.msu.edu