December posting 5: Depth of Field, HL Southern Comfort
Depth of Field is the next major Southern Comfort fic. There's one more fairly major story to go after this, then it's done except for random short things as I think of them. I'm pretty sure I know how it ends and yes, it will be finished; I just don't know when. Mostly because I'm tired and it's got a LOT of plot threads. It's not quite as bad as Sirocco, but it's at 33K and it's... maybe half done? A third seems more likely. This is still a WIP!!
So. Have 8500 words today. (Also here at the AO3.) There'll be about as much again once a week for the next three weeks. And then we're on a cliffhanger and I'm still writing. All that said, if you still want to read it, please DO. Then feel free to comment, ask questions, speculate, tell me about any typos, whatever. It all counts as encouragement to finish this, which I would really appreciate!
Summary: There's a serial killer operating up the coast, but Matthew McCormick's an ASAC now; that's not his job anymore. A student and apprentice of Xavier St. Cloud's is living in the Bay Area. Oh, and the man Duncan MacLeod was interested in has shown up unexpectedly. Then Joe Dawson vanishes.
It's a good question which part of this is the biggest problem.
Rated: NC-17 for m/m sex and for violence. Part 6 of the series "Southern Comfort. You don't have to have read the others, but this will make more sense if you have. Last, if m/m relationships bother you, this is not the right story for you.
Many thanks to Alyss, Devo, JiM, Killa, Mischief, Raine, Yena, and tarsh for cheerleading and/or beta efforts, to Merewyn for her cheerful assistance with razor choreography, and to Dragon for everything (as usual). All errors are, of course, my fault, and will happily be corrected as found. This series was started before HL: The Raven aired,and does not use canon from that, nor from any movie other the first.
Depth of Field
Southern Comfort, Pt. 6
San Francisco, Monday, June 21, 1999
To snark or not, that was the question. A vorpal sword would have settled the issue, granted, but he could do without a Boojum....
Methos studied the interior of the refrigerator thoughtfully, ignoring the cold air spilling out onto the tile floor -- renting out the other side or not, if MacLeod had a house this size to himself in San Francisco, he wasn't hiding much of his money -- and considered, again, whether it was worth twitting the man over the lifestyle changes. Hmm, he hasn't seen my place outside London yet, but maybe I'd better not.
The refrigerator contents were interesting, however. As usual, Duncan had fresh produce of varying kinds -- Methos wanted to taste whatever he was going to do with chard, beets, and fingerling potatoes -- and various savories to let him influence the results. Capers, three kinds of mustard, wine and beer, milk and three kinds of juice, cheeses, deli meats and breads: no surprise, in and of themselves, but Duncan didn't usually drink Harp or Sam Adams. He preferred Beck's and local microbreweries. For that matter, the mineral water was usual for him but the sports drinks weren't. Those were more Richie's style, but the boy had been dead two years and some now.
Methos moved his exploration along to the freezer and raised an eyebrow at that, too. Ice cream, coffee beans, soup stock, frozen vegetables and fruits, of course... but also sealed containers of various sizes, neatly labeled, and portioned for one. It almost looked as if MacLeod was expecting Amanda to come through, although Methos wasn't entirely sure she'd mastered a microwave either. Toast and tea were about Amanda's speed, or cheese and crackers, or takeaway. Reheating lasagna and green beans with lemon and almonds might be asking a bit much of her.
He, on the other hand, had adopted microwaves almost as soon as they had come out, for the speed, the ease, and the impending ubiquity. Penne puttanesca and Italian spinach ended up on his plate; he drained one Sam Adams while he was assembling and heating the food. Methos wandered into the living room, nosing around to see which items were new to him. He tossed his coat onto the coffee table and made it back to the kitchen in time for the scent from the microwave to confirm that the ping of 'done' actually meant 'ready'.
Plate in one hand and a second bottle of beer in the other, he strolled back in and propped his feet up, settling into the couch with the comfort of long familiarity. This one might be tawny corduroy rather than the green leather he'd gotten used to in Seacouver, but it was every bit as long and gloriously overstuffed. Sleeping on it would be perfectly comfortable if it turned out that MacLeod didn't have a guest room. He'd have to explore after he ate.
The Italian spinach was definitely up to Duncan's standards. The puttanesca tasted different from the last batch Duncan had cooked for him in Paris, less traditional and much spicier. A very pleasant change. It needed the beer to cut it, and left Methos wishing he had some garlic bread to sop up the last of the sauce. The final swallow of beer had vanished and he was debating coffee -- which would require getting up, finding the grinder, and a few other steps -- when he felt another immortal and then heard steps in the hallway.
Methos looked up, already starting to tease Duncan into doing the hard work on the coffee. "The pasta's up to--"
He cut the sentence off while he hastily reconsidered the situation. That wasn't Duncan, and the pistol aimed at him meant he'd probably have to get the coffee himself. Damn.
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A moment ago, Matthew McCormick had been bone-tired. The adrenaline jolt of an unexpected immortal sitting on Duncan's couch had wiped that away, although the bill would come due soon enough and viciously enough. Worse still, he knew the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued bastard lounging on the couch. No, not just sprawling there. The man was wriggling farther back into the cushions... trying to seduce him again? Hardly as if that had worked last time. Or any of the times before, for that matter.
"William Samuels. Breaking and entering instead of smuggling? Or in addition to it?"
Samuels, or whatever his name might be now, only smiled slowly in greeting. It was almost enough to make a man want to shoot him on general principle.
"Matthew Radclyffe. Still upholding the status quo for the local authorities?" Samuels folded his arms behind his head, leaning back and leaving his neck exposed for a moment. Familiar trick, that. "And what makes you think I'm not a welcome guest?"
"I never said you weren't welcome here, since I don't know one way or the other," Matthew said softly. He held the gun steady on Samuels' chest both for the larger target and because it would make less mess to clean up than a head shot. "I said you don't have keys."
"I didn't have keys in Paris or Seacouver either," Samuels commented casually. "Duncan's never minded me dropping in. You're not going to shoot me, Radclyffe. You'd have to get the blood off the floor, and this carpet's almost as old as MacLeod is. He's fond of it."
Matthew just studied Samuels, feeling far too cold and too calm for his own liking. "Most of it would get on the couch and I assure you, that's more easily cleaned up." The man was still abominably relaxed... and he'd been too relaxed when another immortal came in. Damnation. He really is a friend of Duncan's. Matthew holstered his gun reluctantly. "I see you ate my dinner."
"Duncan's cooking is always worth eating and I was hungry. There's plenty left. There's even more of the pasta, and your Sam Adams." Samuels smirked at him. Definitely a smirk, not a smile.
And making the point that he knows what's in Duncan's refrigerator, and what should be there. One century, this motherless son is going to show up when I've gotten sleep in the last twenty-four hours. Hell will freeze over first, more likely. No. That's giving him far too much credit.
"You never did have any sense," Matthew finally said, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Do remember I'm the one with the pistol. Come along where I can keep an eye on you. And so that you can't say you weren't warned -- if you put that coat back on, I will shoot you."
Samuels smiled at him, smug as ever, and waved an arm towards the kitchen. "I'd say after you, but that might not go over well. I'll make the coffee. You'd forget to use decaf."
Matthew backed up to watch him. "You can go first, by all means, but I don't believe I'll be drinking anything you've made. You do seem the type to hold a grudge."
Samuels stood up and collected his mess, then sauntered past him with a sway of hips and ass meant to tantalize. "Why would I poison you? You only had me hanged," he said, sardonic as ever. "It could have been worse."
"Cutting your hands off, say? It was suggested." Matthew watched him, thinking that a desire to horsewhip the man probably wasn't the reaction Samuels had intended to elicit. "And I'm not the damn fool who got caught red-handed in public."
"The tea tax was a fool’s move."
"It was," Matthew agreed calmly. "Of course, so was bringing a wagon-load of contraband tea past the customs office, much less driving it by another immortal."
"The clerks had been paid to let me by," Samuels said coldly and moved to the sink to drop his plates in and fill the coffeepot. "And that tax wasn't in place when the ship left for that tea."
Matthew rooted through the freezer and chewed on that new data, most of his attention still on the noises from the other immortal. I did wonder how much of a coincidence it was that those clerks died that winter. No coincidence at all, I daresay. So Samuels is more dangerous than he lets on. No surprise from one of us, but worth remembering.
Matthew pulled out the first thing that came to hand in the freezer, saw it was gumbo, and decided his luck was finally looking up again. After forty hours on duty, that was a pleasant surprise. He dumped the gumbo into one pot, measured hot water into a second pot, salted it, turned both burners on, and pulled the rice canister forward. Beer was only briefly a consideration, unfortunately. He was too tired to risk alcohol around Samuels.
Matthew reached into the freezer and pulled out a bag of ground coffee he kept there just for nights like this. Setting up an espresso maker with half the coffee and a full measure of water would give him a perfectly good single cup of coffee that Samuels wouldn't have touched.
"Not drinking my coffee? Paranoid of you." Samuels eyed him up and down, gaze lingering just a moment too long below the belt. "Living here or just stopping in regularly?"
"I daresay that's none of your business. If it was, you'd know the answer already." Matthew pushed the gumbo around with a spoon, watching it thaw and wishing it would heat faster. He wanted his dinner and some caffeine, and he'd been hoping to spend the night here rather than go back to Oakland; he had to be up in time for an eight AM court appearance in San Francisco. The water finally boiled and Matthew resisted thoughts about watched pots as he dumped the rice in.
"Oh, I don't know." Samuels lounged against the counter, eyes bright and interested and his smile was both too knowing and too presumptuous. "It might be my business. Or you might want to ask me a few questions about MacLeod, and I'd want quid pro quo. He's an old friend, but not precisely legal in everything."
The espresso maker was still gurgling its way through the death throes of that particular batch of water, which meant he couldn't throw the coffee in Samuels' eyes. Besides, Matthew had been promising himself proper coffee for easily twelve hours now.... He needed the food, too, which left out the rice and the gumbo. A gun would make too much damn noise, and he didn't want to fill out more paperwork. Not after ten straight hours of paperwork, depositions and court appearances. And Duncan would never quite forget it if Matthew used one of his cooking knives to fillet the bastard.
Matthew finally shrugged and decided to make it clear that he knew where the weapons were, if not the precise particulars of Samuels' most vulnerable points. It was also the simplest attack he could think of just now that might shut Samuels up long enough for Matthew to get dinner.
"I'm well aware of parts of Duncan's history. I also know the source of some of those habits, and I have the gentleman's number on speed dial. Kindly shut up or I'll call and offer to reimburse his flight out here. I imagine he'd have a few words to say about 'quid pro quo' from someone who claims to be a friend."
Samuels paused to decide who, exactly, Matthew meant -- then his eyes narrowed. "Did you just threaten me with Connor MacLeod?"
Matthew glanced up at him, baring his teeth in something slow and not at all a smile. "I might stop at shooting you. Connor's far less generous, particularly where clan's concerned."
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The unseasonable rain had started just as Duncan got off of BART, although he'd been able to smell it coming for more than an hour. The sunset had been spectacularly red as the front rolled in, and the wind had picked up steadily, driving fog in from the warmer ocean to the rapidly-cooling land. Now the sky was falling in, the sheets of rain driving gaps into the fog that refilled every time the gusts let up. Any plans Duncan had had for a walk were gone now. Instead, his choices for the evening looked like a toss-up between practicing katas or browsing The Mad Hatter for a new book and winding up at Chicago Blues for a drink and some of Joe's music. Either one was going to have to wait until he got some dinner at home first, too, and let the storm abate.
The adrenaline spike of another immortal's presence nearby told Duncan that his plans might be changing yet again.
Matthew had called Sunday afternoon, canceling coffee plans with a regretful murmur about 'The Bureau never sleeps, unfortunately, and thinks we don't either.' Amanda and Cory had vanished together a month before, squabbling about who had the better accent in modern Polish and discussing a perennially under-funded orphanage. Marcus Constantine was coming for a antiquities conference, but that wasn't taking place for another six weeks.
Duncan moved towards the kitchen with his katana cocked behind his back -- just in case.
I might need it, he realized. Matthew was leaning hipshot against the range, shirt collar undone, jacket more rumpled even than usual, and looking as if he hadn't seen a bed for sleep in-- Duncan resisted the urge to tally the time precisely, although he suspected he could. The snap on Matthew's pistol holster was unfastened and he looked as though he would gladly pull the gun on Methos. The kitchen smelled of garlic, lemon and spices, but Matthew was still heating something on the stove. Which meant Methos had been here first, made himself dinner, and had probably broken in, for that matter.
Methos slouched against the counter opposite Matthew, mouth set in a mocking angle that belied the intensity of his gaze. He was still in well-worn pants, although he'd switched from jeans to cords, and his outsized sweater was better quality than usual. From the looks of it, he was still playing the perennial grad student, if one a little better off financially. He was also flirting blatantly and pretending he was harmless.
Matthew didn't seem to believe either implication. The tension between the two of them strangled Duncan's greetings in his throat, and gave him a moment to debate whether he was still angry that Methos had finally reappeared, after more than a year this time.
No. We'll talk about that later. Duncan sheathed his sword and walked in, smiling at Matthew rather than kissing him hello. As tense and tired as Matthew looked, it would be better to let him decide how much he wanted to reveal about their relationship -- certainly until Duncan had a better idea of where things stood between him and Methos. "Finally got away from work, then?"
Matthew nodded and returned the smile with interest. He didn't move to steal a kiss, however, and he sounded far too taut as he said, "Barely, if you call needing to be in court by eight tomorrow an escape."
"Not really, but I'm not sure there is any escape from bureaucracies short of quitting and moving, and maybe not then." Duncan crossed the kitchen to hang his coat up to drip. He gave Methos a second quick glance, taking in the slightly longer hair, the way it made Adam look even younger than usual, and the relaxed set to his shoulders. Mostly, Duncan was fixing the correct name firmly in his mind. "Do we blame the Chinese for those?"
Adam chuckled and pulled down a second mug for the coffee. The pot was full, Duncan realized, and his eyes flicked to Matthew's own mug, wondering if he'd made tea or had some reason not to want to drink any coffee Adam had made.
"Of course not, Duncan. The West has managed to develop civil services every bit as annoying, and much less amenable to bribes."
The rare use of his first name caught Duncan's attention as Adam added cream to the coffee and managed to caress Duncan's wrist as he handed the mug over. Worse, Duncan couldn't have ignored either incongruity if he'd tried. Focused on both men, trying to keep the peace between them, Duncan never had a chance of missing the warmth and strength of Adam's fingers; he might as well have trailed streaks of heat along Duncan's skin. His quickening would have healed those. The sudden tightening of his belly made Duncan uneasily aware that other burns might not heal nearly as swiftly.
He moved to take over the stove, as much to cover his sudden flush as because he enjoyed feeding anyone under his roof. He considered cooking, then decided something quick and easy might be a better idea just now. The cold air of the refrigerator was a welcome distraction, but the hum of the compressor kicking on made it suddenly clear that neither Matthew nor Adam had filled the silence behind him. Duncan turned around, hands full of sandwich makings, and promptly put his foot in it. "I take it you two know each other?"
"Not this century," Matthew drawled, and the deliberately lazy tone reminded Duncan uncomfortably of their first meeting when Matthew had considered arresting him to get to Carl. Matthew was studying the kitchen furnishings from the same lidded glance that had studied a Slinky; he looked just as ready to start mayhem now.
"Yes, well, hanging me was such a memorable first meeting, we've had to work to keep topping it," Adam said casually -- too casually, the last words barely weighted.
"Oh, your capacity to be a damn fool has rarely been topped," Matthew said softly, and he was watching Adam closely now. "Daresay you've come close once or twice though."
"Not really. But bottoming can be fun." Adam smiled slowly and added, "Duncan, that's not enough meat for you."
Duncan looked down at the sandwich he'd been assembling: honey mustard, brie, a pear that would have gone bad in another day or two, some sun-dried tomatoes that were open.... "It's not intended to have meat." He looked up and shrugged. "Business lunch earlier."
"Can't have you getting off-balance. In your training, that is," Adam said and tilted his beer up. Wrapping his lips around the neck seemed to take longer than usual; a single drop trickled out.
Duncan looked away, wondering when Methos had started flirting with him -- or if he'd only now started noticing. Right now, however, he had one friend -- And potential lover? he wondered -- in town unexpectedly. He also had one lover -- And how do you stay friends if you want Methos? that same little voice wondered -- in need of food, and reassurance, and sleep.
Well. It wouldn't be the first time he'd balanced something like this. A sudden, too vivid memory of Tessa's reaction to Amanda made Duncan wince. Come to think of it, that hadn't gone well.
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"And here I thought you specialized in keeping people off-balance?" Matthew aimed the jibe at Samuels, but he was more interested in whether he needed to stir the gumbo. He was also trying to sort out whether he cared more about food than about trying to piece together Duncan's reactions to Samuels' blatant pass. The startled flush looked a little too familiar from last year in D.C. For that matter, Duncan had kept losing track of that conversation, too. Surely this isn't the first pass Samuels has made at him? Duncan's a skilled fighter and Samuels would rather fuck than fight, so far as I can tell. Or perhaps not. The deaths of those clerks do change the picture.
Matthew gathered his wits back from their scattered directions when he noticed a plate in front of him; it held about a third of Duncan's sandwich, which smelled delicious.
"Did they give you time to eat, or have you been living on coffee again?" Duncan asked, his voice gone gentle as it did when he fussed that Joe had been on his feet too much. Duncan smelled of fresh-cut wood, wood stain, and new rain, although the storm had only just started and showed signs of pouring all night. In combination, it was enough to tell Matthew he'd probably worked late at the antiques store he was opening.
Matthew took the sandwich and managed a smile in apology for his temper; he also tried to keep his eyes from giving away his worries. "There was a sandwich somewhere in there, and someone brought in doughnuts mid-afternoon. Dreadful sense of humor on the woman, but it's rare enough to have a new agent who still admits she has one." He shrugged and sipped his coffee, grateful for caffeine that hadn't scorched all afternoon.
"So you've had caffeine, lunch, and a sugar rush? And they want you back by eight." Duncan reached past him to stir the gumbo, let his hand rest on Matthew's shoulder for a brief, warm moment on the withdrawal. "Eat the sandwich, why don't you? The gumbo's almost ready. Adam, have you got someplace to stay or were you planning on taking over my couch again?"
"If it's not too much trouble...?" Samuels/Adam smiled at Duncan's question -- a small smile, private and knowing. "God forbid the clan chieftain's hospitality be impugned."
Matthew bit into the sandwich while he watched them talk, trying to decide why he was bothered by Samuels' flirting with Duncan. God knew Samuels made passes at him every time they ran into each other. For that matter, he'd made passes at Constantine, Ceirdwyn, and Kastagir, that Matthew knew of.
Of course, Matthew ignored his offers. Duncan… was noticing them, at the least, which might be part of what Matthew was worrying at. Unfortunately he didn't think that was all of it; he just couldn't quite put a mental finger on the rest.
Duncan pulled out a beer, opened it, and passed it over to go with the sandwich. "Here, Matthew. That'll be dry if you've been drinking coffee all day." He glanced in the fridge and asked, "Adam, did you have to drink half of his beer? And of course it's not too much trouble to put you up, but you can help make your bed. Telephones have been around more than a hundred years now, you know. You could try calling occasionally before you show up."
"And ruin the surprise?" Samuels glanced at Matthew, amused and secretive as ever. "It made life more interesting."
"S'pose it did at that," Matthew said, alternating between the beer and the sandwich, grateful as always that Duncan still enjoyed cooking and was so good at it. After days like this, scrambling eggs and making toast was as much bother as Matthew had energy for. Fortunately, Duncan didn't mind leaving leftovers in the freezer for him.
Matthew finished the sandwich and checked the rice, saying over his shoulder, "And it's Matthew McCormick this century."
"And here Radcliffe suited you so well. Oh, well, McCormick's better than Graham or Campbell, I suppose. When are you going back to an English surname, anyway?" That knowing gleam was back in Adam's eyes. "Did you have to go with Buchanan, or was that just for propriety?"
Rage surged through Matthew, focusing his attention and leaving his voice as cold as the beer he'd been drinking. He let the drawl go slow and dangerous as he said, "My names are none of your business, Samuels. Even more so, my students are none of your business. You've had your two warnings. Next time you go for blood, one of us is going to draw it."
Duncan moved to stand between them, but he was glaring at Adam as he said, "Matthew, Adam's a friend, and I'd rather you didn't put his blood on my floor." Duncan added grimly, "But, Adam? You and I are overdue for a talk about pushing buttons. Starting with mine, about sixteen months ago."
Samuels' chin came up, and Matthew swallowed his rage back down when he realized that Duncan had broken the bastard's imperturbable calm.
Duncan added, "Matthew's a friend of mine, too, so quit goading him. And don't point out that you don't have a blade out, Adam."
Samuels drew a breath, eyeing Matthew warily. He clearly hadn't expected the rage, or that Matthew would keep a hand resting on the rack of knives. Good. God forbid I be the only one off-balance.
With the faintest quirk of mouth and tilt of head, Samuels changed the topic. "There were a few people looking for Adam Pierson. It's Ben Dawson these days."
The gumbo was bubbling and the rice a hair's breadth from scorching, so Matthew deliberately turned his back and poured his dinner into a bowl while it was still edible. It took a long moment to make himself do so; his hand kept wanting to curl around gun butt or blade handle. Samuels moved restlessly behind him, and Duncan's feet shifted at the same moment. Matthew resisted the urge to look back.
"I mean it, Adam. Ben. Damn. That'll take a little while to get used to. If you push your luck again, I'm going to stay out of Matthew's way while he tries to break your neck, and you're both going to clean up any mess." Duncan paused -- probably giving the reprobate his most old-fashioned look. "And speaking of broken necks, does Joe know about your new name?"
Matthew moved to the kitchen table, trying not to let a comfortable chair and hot food and cold beer convince him he could sleep now. Not when he didn't know yet if he needed to catch BART to Oakland.
Samuels shrugged off Duncan's comment and moved to refill both their mugs. He poured cream into Duncan's without asking, and Matthew found himself wondering if that was normal between them, another attempt to goad him with the assumption of familiarity, or a chance to flirt with Duncan? The last two at once seemed likely, come to that.
"Joe won't know about my new name until I tell him or I have to change identities again and he gets an inheritance he doesn't expect."
"He's more likely to get a gun. Or tell you to get some sense," Duncan pointed out. He reached past Matthew for a napkin only to pause, a concerned frown on his face. He said very softly, "Matthew. You need a hot meal and sleep. I'll handle this." His hand lay warm against Matthew's cheek, sword calluses catching on the day's stubble. "Stay. Please."
Matthew drew a breath and released it again before he nodded, resisting the urge to lean into Duncan's warmth. Leaving would grant Samuels the battle and the victory, I suppose. Bad enough I lost my temper. One point to him. "The guest room upstairs, then?"
Duncan nodded. "I need to find clean sheets and show Ad-- Ben where everything is." He smiled abruptly, transformed from handsome to beautiful. "And none of that's your problem, Matthew. You look like you've been tense all day. Finish that and get a shower. I'll be there in time to get your back."
"Are we a problem?" Matthew murmured, still watching Duncan.
That drew a puzzled frown that slowly shaded to worry. "No. We're not. Who did you think I was making up the guest room for?"
Matthew shook his head and finally said ruefully, "A long day, Duncan, and I'm not thinking so straight as I could be." The gumbo was too good to let go to waste, and Matthew knew full well that hot food would help as much as coffee just now. "Go on. Get," he paused, reaching for something neutral, and settled on, "your friend settled."
Duncan paused, frowning as he debated something, but he finally nodded. "I'll be back down, Matthew."
It didn't sound as reassuring as Duncan had undoubtedly intended.
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Methos followed Duncan upstairs and went straight to the cedar armoire without even having to ask where spare linens were kept. Duncan had stored them here in Seacouver, too; the doors on either side of the armoire stood open, exposing a bathroom and bedroom to view, as he'd expected. "Getting predictable, Duncan?"
Duncan threw a down comforter to him. Fabric puffed out around Methos' hands as an edge slipped away from him to trail to the ground. Methos gathered up the amber cloud rather than trip over it.
"Since when am I Duncan? And what's your problem with Matthew?"
"Who said we have a problem?" Methos followed him down the hallway, trailing linens behind him as he looked around at the carefully refinished and repainted rooms. He didn't recognize quite a bit of the art. Either Duncan had been laying out a great deal of money in the last couple years or he'd raided a previously sacrosanct stash.
Duncan pointed to the last door on the left. "The bathroom's through here. Towels in that cabinet and toiletries in the other one. I'm assuming you didn't bring any, anyway." Duncan came back around to his prior topic. "And you and Matthew do have a problem. He wasn't that angry the last time I saw him pull a sword on someone."
"Oh, that." Methos shrugged and dumped the sheets onto a chair. He let an aggrieved note into his voice to see what Duncan would say. "He's the one who always costs me identities." He stripped the blanket and pillows from the bed to start making it.
Duncan tugged the blinds closed, head momentarily cocked to the left as he listened to the rain pounding outside. "I'd better check the supply of candles and bottled water. Odd. It doesn't usually do this in June...." He shifted back to the previous subject remorselessly. " 'He started it?' According to you, I cost you your identity with the Watchers. Are these ever your fault? And where's your bag?"
"Of course they're never my fault. My bag's downstairs by the couch. I don't suppose you'd make more coffee? Yours always comes out better."
Duncan came to help with the bed. "Not until I get Matthew settled, no. After, maybe, if you want to stay up and talk. Although I'd say you need less caffeine right now, not more."
They worked together with the quick precision of practice, and Methos commented casually, "This always goes faster with two." He pulled the comforter up over the sheets and smiled. "Of course, any number of things go better with two."
"Dancing?" Duncan asked. "Arguments? Bicycles built for?" Confusion slowed his words down towards the end of the list and Duncan stopped his restless straightening of the blanket to watch Methos.
The pillow was being stubborn about going into the pillowcase, and Methos reached in to shift the corner into place. "So is he Connor's lover or yours? Didn't you two fight over Carl Robinson?"
Duncan looked thoroughly startled by that idea and sounded even more incredulous. "Not like that, no. Matthew? Connor's lover? Have you ever heard them argue?"
Methos smiled slowly and took his time looking Duncan up and down, pausing appreciatively over the extra muscle displayed by the fit of his slacks and the still damp curls exposing his nape to the air... and teeth. "Your hair looks good short. I've heard a lot of people argue, Duncan. What is Matthew of Salisbury doing with a key to your house?"
"Are you asking me why he has a key, Me-- Ben, or why you don't?" Duncan frowned at him. "You're the one who vanished after O'Rourke."
Methos hummed a noncommittal sound, studying Duncan thoughtfully. The Highlander was flushed, confused, annoyed, and finally noticing flirtations. About time. Methos smiled at him, lazy and knowing; the smile only widened with the color spreading across Duncan's face. He'd make his point later. "Weren't you going to go deal with Matthew?"
Aroused or not, Duncan's mind was still working. "You're changing the subject."
"And you're running out of time. He didn't look likely to stay awake much longer."
Duncan growled something that sounded both obscene and unfamiliar; it made Methos regret he hadn't spent more time on North American tribal languages. Duncan threw him a pillow neatly in its case and stalked out, calling over his shoulder, "This discussion isn't over."
"Oh, definitely not. Do try to use the right name around Salisbury."
"Yeah, well, try remembering that his name is McCormick, why don't you?"
Methos gave him the last word for the pleasure of watching him leave: both for the view and for the fun if Duncan turned back. Unfortunately, he didn't.
Yet.
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Matthew leaned against the wall, head cushioned on forearms folded in front of him, and let hot water beat down onto his shoulders and neck. He was breathing more steam than air, but that didn't bother him -- he'd never have done so well in Louisiana summers if it did. Duncan had put in one of the tankless water heaters, which meant Matthew didn't have to worry the hot water would run out suddenly. He was taking full advantage of that.
The tiles were warm under his feet and not quite cool against his arms. His muscles were slowly beginning to unknot in the heat and comfort of the beating water. A memory was nagging at him and it was important, but Matthew already knew it would show up at its convenience, not his. Aggravating, that. Almost as aggravating as Samuels, or Dawson, or whatever the hell his name was this year. Joe might well be less than amused by the new name; Duncan was surely right about that. It ought to be entertaining to overhear. Possibly even educational, between Joe's time in the Marine Corps and touring in bars. Across many countries and at least three continents, I'd think. I'll have to mention that to see how long it takes him to track the quote down and threaten my bourbon supply again.
Steam billowed and curled around him, and Matthew turned his head just enough to be sure it wasn't Samuels who'd come through the door. A slow smile pulled the corners of his mouth up. He knew that line of shoulder to hip very well.
Even as a silhouette through a fogged shower door, Duncan stripping clothes off was well worth watching. Matthew was still leaning against the wall, water pouring down through his hair and along his back, when Duncan stepped into the shower. Duncan chuckled, a low, amused sound that made Matthew wish he had more energy. "Close your eyes and stay there, why don't you? You don't look ready to move yet."
"Mmm. Going to have to take a day off, get one of these installed in my house." The words might be comprehensible through his arms; Matthew wasn't sure it mattered. Duncan's hands were in his hair, rubbing shampoo through and stripping tension out of his scalp. Coherent thoughts were quickly sliding away into a dangerous mixture of pleasure and fatigue.
Duncan chuckled, either at Matthew's words or the groans he couldn't suppress. "You haven't managed to take a day off since you moved here. And you say I work too much?" Strong, soapy hands traveled down Matthew's shoulders to his back, digging into knots that had been there so long Matthew'd almost forgotten them in the clamor of newer aches. "Did you stay up all night again?"
"Informant called in a tip about four yesterday morning. Useful of him, but the warrants and arrests and interviews took until ten last night, and paperwork ate the rest of the night. Then I had agents testifying in another case this morning and we had to break an alibi by this evening or release our suspects from yesterday." Matthew shook his head and sighed at just how much more easily his neck was moving now. "You're entirely too good at that."
"A lot of practice," Duncan told him, and his grin carried clearly into the words. "Hold your breath."
Matthew let Duncan's hands pull him under the spray until the shampoo was out and gone. A gentle push shifted Matthew back to his original position, leaning on his folded arms and promising himself he'd either finish cleaning himself off or give up and get out in just another minute....
He hadn't quite managed either when Duncan knelt behind him, ostensibly still washing him, but really using that as an excuse to rub his way up Matthew's legs, and between them. Matthew only smiled and shifted enough to give him better access. Moving was starting to seem more attractive, but he still hadn't gotten to it by the time Duncan stood up and grasped his shoulders to turn him around. Duncan began rubbing shaving cream up Matthew's throat and along his cheeks, removing any chance for him to comment without getting a mouthful of soap.
"Feel free to keep your eyes closed. I doubt you'll fall asleep during this." The smugness in Duncan's tone made it very clear he was enjoying having the upper hand, but the careful precision of his touch said he was as interested in pampering as seduction.
Besides which, he was much more awake than Matthew, who'd been trying vainly to remember where either of them kept a safety razor in the bathroom. Using a straight razor while he was this tired was folly, even for an immortal. Letting Duncan use one on him was, any other time, more like foreplay. Maybe even this time. Duncan's right. I don't believe I'll have any trouble staying awake through this, Matthew realized. Sleeping after he's finished may be another matter.
Duncan settled in along Matthew's side, one hand tangling into Matthew's hair to expose his throat to the razor he unfolded with a flick of his other wrist. Duncan's weight pinned Matthew against the tiles, and he was straddling Matthew's thigh as well; in combination with the blade, Matthew suddenly had reasons to hold still beyond mere tiredness. Duncan's grin carried into his voice -- and Matthew wasn't sure he wanted to know the cause for that insouciant mischief -- as he mentioned, "Sorry to keep you awake."
Duncan's cheerful insincerity drew an answering smile from Matthew, one that vanished as a thin line of metal, barely cooler than his skin, traced a slow path up a tendon, clearing soap from collarbone to jaw.
Matthew froze. From his shoulders down, muscles barely moved beyond the necessities of breathing. Every other muscle, collarbone to scalp, seemed to relax instantly as his subconscious went straight from 'Metal' to 'Sharp' to 'Do not twitch.' It took Duncan's soft chuckle to let Matthew realize that the small, rapturous noises echoing off the tiles were coming from his own throat.
"Try to hold still," Duncan murmured, voice very close to Matthew's ear, and Matthew only then realized that he'd never opened his eyes, even knowing that Duncan had a blade that sharp near his throat. Duncan was leaning in against him, slick with soap and water, solid with muscle, and as hard as Matthew -- who suspected he knew exactly when he'd gone from 'too tired to get it up with a crane' to 'rigid enough for building code specs.'
He wasn't about to move.
He didn't have to, in any case. All Matthew had to do was let Duncan shift him as he saw fit. The metal of the razor blade was as warm as his skin now, warmer at the start of each stroke where the heat of the rinse water had transferred to it, trailing cool air behind it as it left exposed skin along its path. Duncan's hand cradled the back of his head, silently aligning him into each new angle. Almost the only sounds were the spray of water on their bodies, the soft, near-inaudible scrape of the razor along his skin, and the slow hiss of Duncan's breath that matched the equally slow strokes of the blade.
Almost.
Each time the blade lifted off his jaw, Matthew intended to stay silent, and each time his temporary release drew embarrassingly eager noises. It was moan or move, and even with his eyes closed, he knew there was a razor coming back towards his throat in someone else's hand. The lines of pressure should have drawn panic. Instead, they were drawing pleasure, trails of it overlapping as the razor's edge slid along heat-sensitized skin until every nerve felt like it was exposed and purring.
When Duncan finally finished his throat and moved up to his face, Matthew still didn't dare twitch. The feel of the blade over his face should have been less intense than metal over his throat -- he'd never met an immortal yet who wasn't susceptible to blades or teeth there -- but the nerves along his neck were still humming with tension and exposure. Matthew was so still he could feel how the trail of water ran down his cock onto Duncan's thigh, how Duncan's cock felt hotter against his skin than the water falling between them. Beads of water built up on his collarbone, on his nipples, along the faint line that marked an old, mortal, break of his sternum -- built up and slid down, marking their own trails along his nerves.
Duncan slid the razor along the last, short strip of foam above Matthew's upper lip and pulled the blade away. Before Matthew could gather himself together, while he was trying to control the noises he was making, Duncan let go of his nape and slid down him in a controlled descent that trailed one hand down Matthew's chest. The other hand, however, traced something warm and slick and hard down Matthew's spine. Part of him knew the razor had to be folded and safe again. The more paranoid part of his mind froze him in place again with the memory that the razor didn't have a latch....
Then Duncan's mouth wrapped around the head of his cock, wet and hot and skilled, and moving wasn't an option, but holding still was going to be impossible. Matthew let his head fall back against the wall, his hands coming up to tangle in Duncan's hair. Wet strands slid along Matthew's palms as that slick mouth slid along his cock. He wasn't allowed to move more than his hands, apparently -- the razor case pressed firmly against his back in a silent warning -- but that didn't matter when Duncan was devouring him like this, fast and deep, fucking his mouth on Matthew's cock.
It was a very short stretch of eternity before he came.
<> <> <>
Warmth, softness, comforting weight of blankets along his side, a bed to himself that wasn't his but was almost as familiar... Matthew didn't have to wake completely to reach out his right hand and find his gun on the nightstand. He ran a thumb across the safety, reassuring himself that it was on, and subsided back under the blankets again, fingertips tracing his badge case as they retreated. His left hand burrowed under the pillow, the pads of his fingers brushing over the hilt of a concealed dagger. Weapons found, he sagged back towards sleep.
His hair was damp enough to be pleasurably cool but water wasn't running into his eyes. His bones were gone, his muscles past pleasantly exhausted and well into limp, and his nerves were humming with satisfaction. He didn't know how he'd gotten into the bed, but he could tell that very good sex lay on the other end of his memories. Later would be soon enough to remember.
A body settled next to him. The bed creaked under the additional weight and a small part of Matthew's mind identified the scent and feel as Duncan. Warmth caressed Matthew's cheek, but he was already drifting down and didn't bother making sense of the words that accompanied the touch. The tone promised safety, and sleep, and company somewhere along the way. That was enough.
The click of the door latch slipping into place pulled Matthew partway into consciousness again, his instincts wary of danger with an insistence he knew better than to fight. Duncan's voice rumbled through the door, low and amused. Who was he talking to?
A lighter voice answered, male and laced with self-mockery and seduction simultaneously -- known and not particularly safe. Matthew tried to fight the exhaustion that lay over his thoughts like fog.
Cold wrap of fog, warmth and safety of bed, warm/hard flash of Duncan pinning him, grinding tiredness of too long without sleep, a flash of irritation that was an old adversary, edged, biting humor of Joe's probable reaction to the bastard using Joe's name--
Matthew woke abruptly as the elusive memory finally came clear, body still and tight again despite Duncan's earlier efforts. There'd been fog then, too, and a warm bed... but he'd pinned Duncan, not the other way around, and lain sprawled across him in a townhouse in Charleston, listening to rain drip off the eaves and discussing what was between them other than two very good nights. Immortal memory, as much a curse as a blessing, replayed Duncan's soft, rueful laugh and his answer: "I thought I was lonely for Adam."
Matthew matched that memory to the earlier conversation and the easy amusement as Duncan asked, "Adam, have you got someplace to stay or were you planning on taking over my couch again?" and wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't so prone to solving puzzles.
I'd been wondering what damn fool vanished so thoroughly that Duncan couldn't find him to see if he wanted a lover as well as a friend. I should be more careful what questions I ask of Fate. His sense of humor failed him there, falling silent against implications that might or might not be accurate.
Matthew rolled over and forced himself to listen to the rain outside the window, to the soft creaks and tocks of the house settling in the coolness of the night, to the soft rasp of cotton sheet moving across cotton pillowcase as he breathed in and out with a careful, steady monotony and began to force his circling thoughts into stillness and rest. He needed sleep before he could consider how much might have changed, or where. His personal life had just gotten more complicated, but work tomorrow would be barely simpler than today, and that only if he was lucky.
Ben Dawson and the question of Duncan's reactions to him were matters for tomorrow. Of course, so was cleaning his gun after the steam in the shower.
<> <> <>
Duncan eased the door closed and heard Methos say, "I didn't think he had the energy to be that restless?"
"Obviously you don't think. If you did, you'd have called so I'd have a room ready," Duncan pointed out, turning to grin at him. He paused, eyes flicking over Methos' clothes and the familiar, near-smirking cant to his lips. It'd been too long.... "What are you doing in San Francisco? Decided you needed free time and money to get up to mischief?"
"Amanda can be very persuasive." Methos -- Ben, Duncan reminded himself -- chuckled and turned away. "More so than you, apparently. There's coffee downstairs."
Duncan stared at him, then said, "You came up to tell me that? There was coffee in the pot when I came upstairs."
Methos turned back, a half-smile on his mouth and deviltry in his voice. He cocked a hip to lean against the wall and settled his thumbs in his pockets which left his fingers curved tantalizingly near the placket. Duncan forced himself to watch his face and try to think as Methos asked lazily, "What else would I be here to tell you, Duncan?"
Duncan snorted at that, annoyance suddenly overlaying the warmth of Methos' company, and that was familiar too. "Let's start with why you're suddenly calling me Duncan instead of MacLeod?"
Methos chuckled. "It's your name?" Methos looked him over, from his feet (bare in his own house), up over old jeans (varnish-stained from working on the store), to the pale gold cashmere sweater that Duncan had owned for so long that it had gotten a little snug.
Methos just smiled. "Your hair looks good short. And you've put on some muscle since Paris. San Francisco styles suit you. I can't say I'm surprised by that. "
Duncan frowned, resisting the urge to tug at the hem of his sweater. When he looked up again, Methos had moved forward to stand not even an arm's length away. He didn't back up, but that was sheer stubbornness. "No, Ben. What's really going on?"
"I like the hair, too. The ponytail was good, but short like this...." Methos ran a hand along the side of his neck, fingers curling around to cradle the nape as he laughed softly. He was standing closer than he had all night, closer than he'd been since Duncan talked to him after O'Rourke's death. He chuckled and leaned in, abandoning words in favor of whispers of breath along Duncan's mouth and wisps of touch along his neck and shoulders, convincing even through the fabric of his sweater.
Persuasive, those whispers, past any need of words. Duncan's back was against the wall and his hands were on Methos' arms, gripping and kneading as Methos kissed him until his lips parted, and his mouth opened. Hard muscle against him, a leg between his, desire roused and reminding Duncan that he hadn't taken his own pleasure in the shower--
That thought reminded him of the shower and the company he'd had in it.
Duncan tightened his hands around Methos' arms and pushed him back: a few inches rather than the couple steps he'd intended, but enough to let cool air between them. It should have been more but Methos didn't want to go and Methos was rarely forced away from something he really wanted. Duncan shoved that thought aside, along with momentary flashes of pulling Methos closer.... None too steady in voice or balance, he still managed to murmur, "Methos."
Methos cocked his head sideways to study him. The tip of his tongue appeared, swiping across his lips, before he smiled, wicked enough to make Duncan feel young and gauche for a too-long moment. One hand lifted, fingers stroking along Duncan's mouth, thumb rubbing along moisture left by his tongue, the flush left by his actions. "We can talk in the morning, Duncan."
Duncan just stared at him, too warm under his hand and inside his clothes, too cool in the rest of his skin, and wondering what the hell had just happened. "What was that about?" Another moment of gathering scattered thoughts, then he said, "Other than the obvious."
Methos considered him, eyes dark, intent, and full of plans. "Nothing that can't wait." His thumb continued to caress Duncan's cheek.
"It's not that late," Duncan pointed out, clinging to practicalities as he reached for his balance. "And you said there's coffee."
Methos shook his head, lips curving and secretive as an Etruscan statue. Duncan locked his hands into fists rather than reach out and touch him. Methos glanced down at his fists, then back up, and Duncan realized even that simple act was provocative and too damn tempting.
"Ah." Methos looked back up, gaze lingering along the way, then said, "Just pointing out possibilities, Duncan." Methos turned away, his fingers trailing off Duncan's face in individual lines of heat. "My bed's calling. Good night."
"Your timing… so is the coffee," Duncan managed to remind him, laughing despite himself at the absurdity of it all.
"Ah, but the bed's good for hours of bliss. And this is San Francisco; I can find you more good coffee." Methos chuckled. "Sleep well, Duncan."
Duncan watched him go, admiring the way the corduroy accented the length of his leg and the sweater displayed rather than concealed the breadth of shoulder. Duncan ran his thumb along his lips and realized he wasn't sure which touch he was craving, Methos' mouth or Matthew's skin. Left with that unsettling thought, Duncan shook his head and went downstairs to distract himself with cleaning up the kitchen. That, at least, was easily set to order.
The rest of the coffee went down the drain.
Next part up Dec 12th.
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So. Have 8500 words today. (Also here at the AO3.) There'll be about as much again once a week for the next three weeks. And then we're on a cliffhanger and I'm still writing. All that said, if you still want to read it, please DO. Then feel free to comment, ask questions, speculate, tell me about any typos, whatever. It all counts as encouragement to finish this, which I would really appreciate!
Summary: There's a serial killer operating up the coast, but Matthew McCormick's an ASAC now; that's not his job anymore. A student and apprentice of Xavier St. Cloud's is living in the Bay Area. Oh, and the man Duncan MacLeod was interested in has shown up unexpectedly. Then Joe Dawson vanishes.
It's a good question which part of this is the biggest problem.
Rated: NC-17 for m/m sex and for violence. Part 6 of the series "Southern Comfort. You don't have to have read the others, but this will make more sense if you have. Last, if m/m relationships bother you, this is not the right story for you.
Many thanks to Alyss, Devo, JiM, Killa, Mischief, Raine, Yena, and tarsh for cheerleading and/or beta efforts, to Merewyn for her cheerful assistance with razor choreography, and to Dragon for everything (as usual). All errors are, of course, my fault, and will happily be corrected as found. This series was started before HL: The Raven aired,and does not use canon from that, nor from any movie other the first.
Depth of Field
Southern Comfort, Pt. 6
San Francisco, Monday, June 21, 1999
To snark or not, that was the question. A vorpal sword would have settled the issue, granted, but he could do without a Boojum....
Methos studied the interior of the refrigerator thoughtfully, ignoring the cold air spilling out onto the tile floor -- renting out the other side or not, if MacLeod had a house this size to himself in San Francisco, he wasn't hiding much of his money -- and considered, again, whether it was worth twitting the man over the lifestyle changes. Hmm, he hasn't seen my place outside London yet, but maybe I'd better not.
The refrigerator contents were interesting, however. As usual, Duncan had fresh produce of varying kinds -- Methos wanted to taste whatever he was going to do with chard, beets, and fingerling potatoes -- and various savories to let him influence the results. Capers, three kinds of mustard, wine and beer, milk and three kinds of juice, cheeses, deli meats and breads: no surprise, in and of themselves, but Duncan didn't usually drink Harp or Sam Adams. He preferred Beck's and local microbreweries. For that matter, the mineral water was usual for him but the sports drinks weren't. Those were more Richie's style, but the boy had been dead two years and some now.
Methos moved his exploration along to the freezer and raised an eyebrow at that, too. Ice cream, coffee beans, soup stock, frozen vegetables and fruits, of course... but also sealed containers of various sizes, neatly labeled, and portioned for one. It almost looked as if MacLeod was expecting Amanda to come through, although Methos wasn't entirely sure she'd mastered a microwave either. Toast and tea were about Amanda's speed, or cheese and crackers, or takeaway. Reheating lasagna and green beans with lemon and almonds might be asking a bit much of her.
He, on the other hand, had adopted microwaves almost as soon as they had come out, for the speed, the ease, and the impending ubiquity. Penne puttanesca and Italian spinach ended up on his plate; he drained one Sam Adams while he was assembling and heating the food. Methos wandered into the living room, nosing around to see which items were new to him. He tossed his coat onto the coffee table and made it back to the kitchen in time for the scent from the microwave to confirm that the ping of 'done' actually meant 'ready'.
Plate in one hand and a second bottle of beer in the other, he strolled back in and propped his feet up, settling into the couch with the comfort of long familiarity. This one might be tawny corduroy rather than the green leather he'd gotten used to in Seacouver, but it was every bit as long and gloriously overstuffed. Sleeping on it would be perfectly comfortable if it turned out that MacLeod didn't have a guest room. He'd have to explore after he ate.
The Italian spinach was definitely up to Duncan's standards. The puttanesca tasted different from the last batch Duncan had cooked for him in Paris, less traditional and much spicier. A very pleasant change. It needed the beer to cut it, and left Methos wishing he had some garlic bread to sop up the last of the sauce. The final swallow of beer had vanished and he was debating coffee -- which would require getting up, finding the grinder, and a few other steps -- when he felt another immortal and then heard steps in the hallway.
Methos looked up, already starting to tease Duncan into doing the hard work on the coffee. "The pasta's up to--"
He cut the sentence off while he hastily reconsidered the situation. That wasn't Duncan, and the pistol aimed at him meant he'd probably have to get the coffee himself. Damn.
<> <> <>
A moment ago, Matthew McCormick had been bone-tired. The adrenaline jolt of an unexpected immortal sitting on Duncan's couch had wiped that away, although the bill would come due soon enough and viciously enough. Worse still, he knew the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued bastard lounging on the couch. No, not just sprawling there. The man was wriggling farther back into the cushions... trying to seduce him again? Hardly as if that had worked last time. Or any of the times before, for that matter.
"William Samuels. Breaking and entering instead of smuggling? Or in addition to it?"
Samuels, or whatever his name might be now, only smiled slowly in greeting. It was almost enough to make a man want to shoot him on general principle.
"Matthew Radclyffe. Still upholding the status quo for the local authorities?" Samuels folded his arms behind his head, leaning back and leaving his neck exposed for a moment. Familiar trick, that. "And what makes you think I'm not a welcome guest?"
"I never said you weren't welcome here, since I don't know one way or the other," Matthew said softly. He held the gun steady on Samuels' chest both for the larger target and because it would make less mess to clean up than a head shot. "I said you don't have keys."
"I didn't have keys in Paris or Seacouver either," Samuels commented casually. "Duncan's never minded me dropping in. You're not going to shoot me, Radclyffe. You'd have to get the blood off the floor, and this carpet's almost as old as MacLeod is. He's fond of it."
Matthew just studied Samuels, feeling far too cold and too calm for his own liking. "Most of it would get on the couch and I assure you, that's more easily cleaned up." The man was still abominably relaxed... and he'd been too relaxed when another immortal came in. Damnation. He really is a friend of Duncan's. Matthew holstered his gun reluctantly. "I see you ate my dinner."
"Duncan's cooking is always worth eating and I was hungry. There's plenty left. There's even more of the pasta, and your Sam Adams." Samuels smirked at him. Definitely a smirk, not a smile.
And making the point that he knows what's in Duncan's refrigerator, and what should be there. One century, this motherless son is going to show up when I've gotten sleep in the last twenty-four hours. Hell will freeze over first, more likely. No. That's giving him far too much credit.
"You never did have any sense," Matthew finally said, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Do remember I'm the one with the pistol. Come along where I can keep an eye on you. And so that you can't say you weren't warned -- if you put that coat back on, I will shoot you."
Samuels smiled at him, smug as ever, and waved an arm towards the kitchen. "I'd say after you, but that might not go over well. I'll make the coffee. You'd forget to use decaf."
Matthew backed up to watch him. "You can go first, by all means, but I don't believe I'll be drinking anything you've made. You do seem the type to hold a grudge."
Samuels stood up and collected his mess, then sauntered past him with a sway of hips and ass meant to tantalize. "Why would I poison you? You only had me hanged," he said, sardonic as ever. "It could have been worse."
"Cutting your hands off, say? It was suggested." Matthew watched him, thinking that a desire to horsewhip the man probably wasn't the reaction Samuels had intended to elicit. "And I'm not the damn fool who got caught red-handed in public."
"The tea tax was a fool’s move."
"It was," Matthew agreed calmly. "Of course, so was bringing a wagon-load of contraband tea past the customs office, much less driving it by another immortal."
"The clerks had been paid to let me by," Samuels said coldly and moved to the sink to drop his plates in and fill the coffeepot. "And that tax wasn't in place when the ship left for that tea."
Matthew rooted through the freezer and chewed on that new data, most of his attention still on the noises from the other immortal. I did wonder how much of a coincidence it was that those clerks died that winter. No coincidence at all, I daresay. So Samuels is more dangerous than he lets on. No surprise from one of us, but worth remembering.
Matthew pulled out the first thing that came to hand in the freezer, saw it was gumbo, and decided his luck was finally looking up again. After forty hours on duty, that was a pleasant surprise. He dumped the gumbo into one pot, measured hot water into a second pot, salted it, turned both burners on, and pulled the rice canister forward. Beer was only briefly a consideration, unfortunately. He was too tired to risk alcohol around Samuels.
Matthew reached into the freezer and pulled out a bag of ground coffee he kept there just for nights like this. Setting up an espresso maker with half the coffee and a full measure of water would give him a perfectly good single cup of coffee that Samuels wouldn't have touched.
"Not drinking my coffee? Paranoid of you." Samuels eyed him up and down, gaze lingering just a moment too long below the belt. "Living here or just stopping in regularly?"
"I daresay that's none of your business. If it was, you'd know the answer already." Matthew pushed the gumbo around with a spoon, watching it thaw and wishing it would heat faster. He wanted his dinner and some caffeine, and he'd been hoping to spend the night here rather than go back to Oakland; he had to be up in time for an eight AM court appearance in San Francisco. The water finally boiled and Matthew resisted thoughts about watched pots as he dumped the rice in.
"Oh, I don't know." Samuels lounged against the counter, eyes bright and interested and his smile was both too knowing and too presumptuous. "It might be my business. Or you might want to ask me a few questions about MacLeod, and I'd want quid pro quo. He's an old friend, but not precisely legal in everything."
The espresso maker was still gurgling its way through the death throes of that particular batch of water, which meant he couldn't throw the coffee in Samuels' eyes. Besides, Matthew had been promising himself proper coffee for easily twelve hours now.... He needed the food, too, which left out the rice and the gumbo. A gun would make too much damn noise, and he didn't want to fill out more paperwork. Not after ten straight hours of paperwork, depositions and court appearances. And Duncan would never quite forget it if Matthew used one of his cooking knives to fillet the bastard.
Matthew finally shrugged and decided to make it clear that he knew where the weapons were, if not the precise particulars of Samuels' most vulnerable points. It was also the simplest attack he could think of just now that might shut Samuels up long enough for Matthew to get dinner.
"I'm well aware of parts of Duncan's history. I also know the source of some of those habits, and I have the gentleman's number on speed dial. Kindly shut up or I'll call and offer to reimburse his flight out here. I imagine he'd have a few words to say about 'quid pro quo' from someone who claims to be a friend."
Samuels paused to decide who, exactly, Matthew meant -- then his eyes narrowed. "Did you just threaten me with Connor MacLeod?"
Matthew glanced up at him, baring his teeth in something slow and not at all a smile. "I might stop at shooting you. Connor's far less generous, particularly where clan's concerned."
<> <> <>
The unseasonable rain had started just as Duncan got off of BART, although he'd been able to smell it coming for more than an hour. The sunset had been spectacularly red as the front rolled in, and the wind had picked up steadily, driving fog in from the warmer ocean to the rapidly-cooling land. Now the sky was falling in, the sheets of rain driving gaps into the fog that refilled every time the gusts let up. Any plans Duncan had had for a walk were gone now. Instead, his choices for the evening looked like a toss-up between practicing katas or browsing The Mad Hatter for a new book and winding up at Chicago Blues for a drink and some of Joe's music. Either one was going to have to wait until he got some dinner at home first, too, and let the storm abate.
The adrenaline spike of another immortal's presence nearby told Duncan that his plans might be changing yet again.
Matthew had called Sunday afternoon, canceling coffee plans with a regretful murmur about 'The Bureau never sleeps, unfortunately, and thinks we don't either.' Amanda and Cory had vanished together a month before, squabbling about who had the better accent in modern Polish and discussing a perennially under-funded orphanage. Marcus Constantine was coming for a antiquities conference, but that wasn't taking place for another six weeks.
Duncan moved towards the kitchen with his katana cocked behind his back -- just in case.
I might need it, he realized. Matthew was leaning hipshot against the range, shirt collar undone, jacket more rumpled even than usual, and looking as if he hadn't seen a bed for sleep in-- Duncan resisted the urge to tally the time precisely, although he suspected he could. The snap on Matthew's pistol holster was unfastened and he looked as though he would gladly pull the gun on Methos. The kitchen smelled of garlic, lemon and spices, but Matthew was still heating something on the stove. Which meant Methos had been here first, made himself dinner, and had probably broken in, for that matter.
Methos slouched against the counter opposite Matthew, mouth set in a mocking angle that belied the intensity of his gaze. He was still in well-worn pants, although he'd switched from jeans to cords, and his outsized sweater was better quality than usual. From the looks of it, he was still playing the perennial grad student, if one a little better off financially. He was also flirting blatantly and pretending he was harmless.
Matthew didn't seem to believe either implication. The tension between the two of them strangled Duncan's greetings in his throat, and gave him a moment to debate whether he was still angry that Methos had finally reappeared, after more than a year this time.
No. We'll talk about that later. Duncan sheathed his sword and walked in, smiling at Matthew rather than kissing him hello. As tense and tired as Matthew looked, it would be better to let him decide how much he wanted to reveal about their relationship -- certainly until Duncan had a better idea of where things stood between him and Methos. "Finally got away from work, then?"
Matthew nodded and returned the smile with interest. He didn't move to steal a kiss, however, and he sounded far too taut as he said, "Barely, if you call needing to be in court by eight tomorrow an escape."
"Not really, but I'm not sure there is any escape from bureaucracies short of quitting and moving, and maybe not then." Duncan crossed the kitchen to hang his coat up to drip. He gave Methos a second quick glance, taking in the slightly longer hair, the way it made Adam look even younger than usual, and the relaxed set to his shoulders. Mostly, Duncan was fixing the correct name firmly in his mind. "Do we blame the Chinese for those?"
Adam chuckled and pulled down a second mug for the coffee. The pot was full, Duncan realized, and his eyes flicked to Matthew's own mug, wondering if he'd made tea or had some reason not to want to drink any coffee Adam had made.
"Of course not, Duncan. The West has managed to develop civil services every bit as annoying, and much less amenable to bribes."
The rare use of his first name caught Duncan's attention as Adam added cream to the coffee and managed to caress Duncan's wrist as he handed the mug over. Worse, Duncan couldn't have ignored either incongruity if he'd tried. Focused on both men, trying to keep the peace between them, Duncan never had a chance of missing the warmth and strength of Adam's fingers; he might as well have trailed streaks of heat along Duncan's skin. His quickening would have healed those. The sudden tightening of his belly made Duncan uneasily aware that other burns might not heal nearly as swiftly.
He moved to take over the stove, as much to cover his sudden flush as because he enjoyed feeding anyone under his roof. He considered cooking, then decided something quick and easy might be a better idea just now. The cold air of the refrigerator was a welcome distraction, but the hum of the compressor kicking on made it suddenly clear that neither Matthew nor Adam had filled the silence behind him. Duncan turned around, hands full of sandwich makings, and promptly put his foot in it. "I take it you two know each other?"
"Not this century," Matthew drawled, and the deliberately lazy tone reminded Duncan uncomfortably of their first meeting when Matthew had considered arresting him to get to Carl. Matthew was studying the kitchen furnishings from the same lidded glance that had studied a Slinky; he looked just as ready to start mayhem now.
"Yes, well, hanging me was such a memorable first meeting, we've had to work to keep topping it," Adam said casually -- too casually, the last words barely weighted.
"Oh, your capacity to be a damn fool has rarely been topped," Matthew said softly, and he was watching Adam closely now. "Daresay you've come close once or twice though."
"Not really. But bottoming can be fun." Adam smiled slowly and added, "Duncan, that's not enough meat for you."
Duncan looked down at the sandwich he'd been assembling: honey mustard, brie, a pear that would have gone bad in another day or two, some sun-dried tomatoes that were open.... "It's not intended to have meat." He looked up and shrugged. "Business lunch earlier."
"Can't have you getting off-balance. In your training, that is," Adam said and tilted his beer up. Wrapping his lips around the neck seemed to take longer than usual; a single drop trickled out.
Duncan looked away, wondering when Methos had started flirting with him -- or if he'd only now started noticing. Right now, however, he had one friend -- And potential lover? he wondered -- in town unexpectedly. He also had one lover -- And how do you stay friends if you want Methos? that same little voice wondered -- in need of food, and reassurance, and sleep.
Well. It wouldn't be the first time he'd balanced something like this. A sudden, too vivid memory of Tessa's reaction to Amanda made Duncan wince. Come to think of it, that hadn't gone well.
<> <> <>
"And here I thought you specialized in keeping people off-balance?" Matthew aimed the jibe at Samuels, but he was more interested in whether he needed to stir the gumbo. He was also trying to sort out whether he cared more about food than about trying to piece together Duncan's reactions to Samuels' blatant pass. The startled flush looked a little too familiar from last year in D.C. For that matter, Duncan had kept losing track of that conversation, too. Surely this isn't the first pass Samuels has made at him? Duncan's a skilled fighter and Samuels would rather fuck than fight, so far as I can tell. Or perhaps not. The deaths of those clerks do change the picture.
Matthew gathered his wits back from their scattered directions when he noticed a plate in front of him; it held about a third of Duncan's sandwich, which smelled delicious.
"Did they give you time to eat, or have you been living on coffee again?" Duncan asked, his voice gone gentle as it did when he fussed that Joe had been on his feet too much. Duncan smelled of fresh-cut wood, wood stain, and new rain, although the storm had only just started and showed signs of pouring all night. In combination, it was enough to tell Matthew he'd probably worked late at the antiques store he was opening.
Matthew took the sandwich and managed a smile in apology for his temper; he also tried to keep his eyes from giving away his worries. "There was a sandwich somewhere in there, and someone brought in doughnuts mid-afternoon. Dreadful sense of humor on the woman, but it's rare enough to have a new agent who still admits she has one." He shrugged and sipped his coffee, grateful for caffeine that hadn't scorched all afternoon.
"So you've had caffeine, lunch, and a sugar rush? And they want you back by eight." Duncan reached past him to stir the gumbo, let his hand rest on Matthew's shoulder for a brief, warm moment on the withdrawal. "Eat the sandwich, why don't you? The gumbo's almost ready. Adam, have you got someplace to stay or were you planning on taking over my couch again?"
"If it's not too much trouble...?" Samuels/Adam smiled at Duncan's question -- a small smile, private and knowing. "God forbid the clan chieftain's hospitality be impugned."
Matthew bit into the sandwich while he watched them talk, trying to decide why he was bothered by Samuels' flirting with Duncan. God knew Samuels made passes at him every time they ran into each other. For that matter, he'd made passes at Constantine, Ceirdwyn, and Kastagir, that Matthew knew of.
Of course, Matthew ignored his offers. Duncan… was noticing them, at the least, which might be part of what Matthew was worrying at. Unfortunately he didn't think that was all of it; he just couldn't quite put a mental finger on the rest.
Duncan pulled out a beer, opened it, and passed it over to go with the sandwich. "Here, Matthew. That'll be dry if you've been drinking coffee all day." He glanced in the fridge and asked, "Adam, did you have to drink half of his beer? And of course it's not too much trouble to put you up, but you can help make your bed. Telephones have been around more than a hundred years now, you know. You could try calling occasionally before you show up."
"And ruin the surprise?" Samuels glanced at Matthew, amused and secretive as ever. "It made life more interesting."
"S'pose it did at that," Matthew said, alternating between the beer and the sandwich, grateful as always that Duncan still enjoyed cooking and was so good at it. After days like this, scrambling eggs and making toast was as much bother as Matthew had energy for. Fortunately, Duncan didn't mind leaving leftovers in the freezer for him.
Matthew finished the sandwich and checked the rice, saying over his shoulder, "And it's Matthew McCormick this century."
"And here Radcliffe suited you so well. Oh, well, McCormick's better than Graham or Campbell, I suppose. When are you going back to an English surname, anyway?" That knowing gleam was back in Adam's eyes. "Did you have to go with Buchanan, or was that just for propriety?"
Rage surged through Matthew, focusing his attention and leaving his voice as cold as the beer he'd been drinking. He let the drawl go slow and dangerous as he said, "My names are none of your business, Samuels. Even more so, my students are none of your business. You've had your two warnings. Next time you go for blood, one of us is going to draw it."
Duncan moved to stand between them, but he was glaring at Adam as he said, "Matthew, Adam's a friend, and I'd rather you didn't put his blood on my floor." Duncan added grimly, "But, Adam? You and I are overdue for a talk about pushing buttons. Starting with mine, about sixteen months ago."
Samuels' chin came up, and Matthew swallowed his rage back down when he realized that Duncan had broken the bastard's imperturbable calm.
Duncan added, "Matthew's a friend of mine, too, so quit goading him. And don't point out that you don't have a blade out, Adam."
Samuels drew a breath, eyeing Matthew warily. He clearly hadn't expected the rage, or that Matthew would keep a hand resting on the rack of knives. Good. God forbid I be the only one off-balance.
With the faintest quirk of mouth and tilt of head, Samuels changed the topic. "There were a few people looking for Adam Pierson. It's Ben Dawson these days."
The gumbo was bubbling and the rice a hair's breadth from scorching, so Matthew deliberately turned his back and poured his dinner into a bowl while it was still edible. It took a long moment to make himself do so; his hand kept wanting to curl around gun butt or blade handle. Samuels moved restlessly behind him, and Duncan's feet shifted at the same moment. Matthew resisted the urge to look back.
"I mean it, Adam. Ben. Damn. That'll take a little while to get used to. If you push your luck again, I'm going to stay out of Matthew's way while he tries to break your neck, and you're both going to clean up any mess." Duncan paused -- probably giving the reprobate his most old-fashioned look. "And speaking of broken necks, does Joe know about your new name?"
Matthew moved to the kitchen table, trying not to let a comfortable chair and hot food and cold beer convince him he could sleep now. Not when he didn't know yet if he needed to catch BART to Oakland.
Samuels shrugged off Duncan's comment and moved to refill both their mugs. He poured cream into Duncan's without asking, and Matthew found himself wondering if that was normal between them, another attempt to goad him with the assumption of familiarity, or a chance to flirt with Duncan? The last two at once seemed likely, come to that.
"Joe won't know about my new name until I tell him or I have to change identities again and he gets an inheritance he doesn't expect."
"He's more likely to get a gun. Or tell you to get some sense," Duncan pointed out. He reached past Matthew for a napkin only to pause, a concerned frown on his face. He said very softly, "Matthew. You need a hot meal and sleep. I'll handle this." His hand lay warm against Matthew's cheek, sword calluses catching on the day's stubble. "Stay. Please."
Matthew drew a breath and released it again before he nodded, resisting the urge to lean into Duncan's warmth. Leaving would grant Samuels the battle and the victory, I suppose. Bad enough I lost my temper. One point to him. "The guest room upstairs, then?"
Duncan nodded. "I need to find clean sheets and show Ad-- Ben where everything is." He smiled abruptly, transformed from handsome to beautiful. "And none of that's your problem, Matthew. You look like you've been tense all day. Finish that and get a shower. I'll be there in time to get your back."
"Are we a problem?" Matthew murmured, still watching Duncan.
That drew a puzzled frown that slowly shaded to worry. "No. We're not. Who did you think I was making up the guest room for?"
Matthew shook his head and finally said ruefully, "A long day, Duncan, and I'm not thinking so straight as I could be." The gumbo was too good to let go to waste, and Matthew knew full well that hot food would help as much as coffee just now. "Go on. Get," he paused, reaching for something neutral, and settled on, "your friend settled."
Duncan paused, frowning as he debated something, but he finally nodded. "I'll be back down, Matthew."
It didn't sound as reassuring as Duncan had undoubtedly intended.
<> <> <>
Methos followed Duncan upstairs and went straight to the cedar armoire without even having to ask where spare linens were kept. Duncan had stored them here in Seacouver, too; the doors on either side of the armoire stood open, exposing a bathroom and bedroom to view, as he'd expected. "Getting predictable, Duncan?"
Duncan threw a down comforter to him. Fabric puffed out around Methos' hands as an edge slipped away from him to trail to the ground. Methos gathered up the amber cloud rather than trip over it.
"Since when am I Duncan? And what's your problem with Matthew?"
"Who said we have a problem?" Methos followed him down the hallway, trailing linens behind him as he looked around at the carefully refinished and repainted rooms. He didn't recognize quite a bit of the art. Either Duncan had been laying out a great deal of money in the last couple years or he'd raided a previously sacrosanct stash.
Duncan pointed to the last door on the left. "The bathroom's through here. Towels in that cabinet and toiletries in the other one. I'm assuming you didn't bring any, anyway." Duncan came back around to his prior topic. "And you and Matthew do have a problem. He wasn't that angry the last time I saw him pull a sword on someone."
"Oh, that." Methos shrugged and dumped the sheets onto a chair. He let an aggrieved note into his voice to see what Duncan would say. "He's the one who always costs me identities." He stripped the blanket and pillows from the bed to start making it.
Duncan tugged the blinds closed, head momentarily cocked to the left as he listened to the rain pounding outside. "I'd better check the supply of candles and bottled water. Odd. It doesn't usually do this in June...." He shifted back to the previous subject remorselessly. " 'He started it?' According to you, I cost you your identity with the Watchers. Are these ever your fault? And where's your bag?"
"Of course they're never my fault. My bag's downstairs by the couch. I don't suppose you'd make more coffee? Yours always comes out better."
Duncan came to help with the bed. "Not until I get Matthew settled, no. After, maybe, if you want to stay up and talk. Although I'd say you need less caffeine right now, not more."
They worked together with the quick precision of practice, and Methos commented casually, "This always goes faster with two." He pulled the comforter up over the sheets and smiled. "Of course, any number of things go better with two."
"Dancing?" Duncan asked. "Arguments? Bicycles built for?" Confusion slowed his words down towards the end of the list and Duncan stopped his restless straightening of the blanket to watch Methos.
The pillow was being stubborn about going into the pillowcase, and Methos reached in to shift the corner into place. "So is he Connor's lover or yours? Didn't you two fight over Carl Robinson?"
Duncan looked thoroughly startled by that idea and sounded even more incredulous. "Not like that, no. Matthew? Connor's lover? Have you ever heard them argue?"
Methos smiled slowly and took his time looking Duncan up and down, pausing appreciatively over the extra muscle displayed by the fit of his slacks and the still damp curls exposing his nape to the air... and teeth. "Your hair looks good short. I've heard a lot of people argue, Duncan. What is Matthew of Salisbury doing with a key to your house?"
"Are you asking me why he has a key, Me-- Ben, or why you don't?" Duncan frowned at him. "You're the one who vanished after O'Rourke."
Methos hummed a noncommittal sound, studying Duncan thoughtfully. The Highlander was flushed, confused, annoyed, and finally noticing flirtations. About time. Methos smiled at him, lazy and knowing; the smile only widened with the color spreading across Duncan's face. He'd make his point later. "Weren't you going to go deal with Matthew?"
Aroused or not, Duncan's mind was still working. "You're changing the subject."
"And you're running out of time. He didn't look likely to stay awake much longer."
Duncan growled something that sounded both obscene and unfamiliar; it made Methos regret he hadn't spent more time on North American tribal languages. Duncan threw him a pillow neatly in its case and stalked out, calling over his shoulder, "This discussion isn't over."
"Oh, definitely not. Do try to use the right name around Salisbury."
"Yeah, well, try remembering that his name is McCormick, why don't you?"
Methos gave him the last word for the pleasure of watching him leave: both for the view and for the fun if Duncan turned back. Unfortunately, he didn't.
Yet.
<> <> <>
Matthew leaned against the wall, head cushioned on forearms folded in front of him, and let hot water beat down onto his shoulders and neck. He was breathing more steam than air, but that didn't bother him -- he'd never have done so well in Louisiana summers if it did. Duncan had put in one of the tankless water heaters, which meant Matthew didn't have to worry the hot water would run out suddenly. He was taking full advantage of that.
The tiles were warm under his feet and not quite cool against his arms. His muscles were slowly beginning to unknot in the heat and comfort of the beating water. A memory was nagging at him and it was important, but Matthew already knew it would show up at its convenience, not his. Aggravating, that. Almost as aggravating as Samuels, or Dawson, or whatever the hell his name was this year. Joe might well be less than amused by the new name; Duncan was surely right about that. It ought to be entertaining to overhear. Possibly even educational, between Joe's time in the Marine Corps and touring in bars. Across many countries and at least three continents, I'd think. I'll have to mention that to see how long it takes him to track the quote down and threaten my bourbon supply again.
Steam billowed and curled around him, and Matthew turned his head just enough to be sure it wasn't Samuels who'd come through the door. A slow smile pulled the corners of his mouth up. He knew that line of shoulder to hip very well.
Even as a silhouette through a fogged shower door, Duncan stripping clothes off was well worth watching. Matthew was still leaning against the wall, water pouring down through his hair and along his back, when Duncan stepped into the shower. Duncan chuckled, a low, amused sound that made Matthew wish he had more energy. "Close your eyes and stay there, why don't you? You don't look ready to move yet."
"Mmm. Going to have to take a day off, get one of these installed in my house." The words might be comprehensible through his arms; Matthew wasn't sure it mattered. Duncan's hands were in his hair, rubbing shampoo through and stripping tension out of his scalp. Coherent thoughts were quickly sliding away into a dangerous mixture of pleasure and fatigue.
Duncan chuckled, either at Matthew's words or the groans he couldn't suppress. "You haven't managed to take a day off since you moved here. And you say I work too much?" Strong, soapy hands traveled down Matthew's shoulders to his back, digging into knots that had been there so long Matthew'd almost forgotten them in the clamor of newer aches. "Did you stay up all night again?"
"Informant called in a tip about four yesterday morning. Useful of him, but the warrants and arrests and interviews took until ten last night, and paperwork ate the rest of the night. Then I had agents testifying in another case this morning and we had to break an alibi by this evening or release our suspects from yesterday." Matthew shook his head and sighed at just how much more easily his neck was moving now. "You're entirely too good at that."
"A lot of practice," Duncan told him, and his grin carried clearly into the words. "Hold your breath."
Matthew let Duncan's hands pull him under the spray until the shampoo was out and gone. A gentle push shifted Matthew back to his original position, leaning on his folded arms and promising himself he'd either finish cleaning himself off or give up and get out in just another minute....
He hadn't quite managed either when Duncan knelt behind him, ostensibly still washing him, but really using that as an excuse to rub his way up Matthew's legs, and between them. Matthew only smiled and shifted enough to give him better access. Moving was starting to seem more attractive, but he still hadn't gotten to it by the time Duncan stood up and grasped his shoulders to turn him around. Duncan began rubbing shaving cream up Matthew's throat and along his cheeks, removing any chance for him to comment without getting a mouthful of soap.
"Feel free to keep your eyes closed. I doubt you'll fall asleep during this." The smugness in Duncan's tone made it very clear he was enjoying having the upper hand, but the careful precision of his touch said he was as interested in pampering as seduction.
Besides which, he was much more awake than Matthew, who'd been trying vainly to remember where either of them kept a safety razor in the bathroom. Using a straight razor while he was this tired was folly, even for an immortal. Letting Duncan use one on him was, any other time, more like foreplay. Maybe even this time. Duncan's right. I don't believe I'll have any trouble staying awake through this, Matthew realized. Sleeping after he's finished may be another matter.
Duncan settled in along Matthew's side, one hand tangling into Matthew's hair to expose his throat to the razor he unfolded with a flick of his other wrist. Duncan's weight pinned Matthew against the tiles, and he was straddling Matthew's thigh as well; in combination with the blade, Matthew suddenly had reasons to hold still beyond mere tiredness. Duncan's grin carried into his voice -- and Matthew wasn't sure he wanted to know the cause for that insouciant mischief -- as he mentioned, "Sorry to keep you awake."
Duncan's cheerful insincerity drew an answering smile from Matthew, one that vanished as a thin line of metal, barely cooler than his skin, traced a slow path up a tendon, clearing soap from collarbone to jaw.
Matthew froze. From his shoulders down, muscles barely moved beyond the necessities of breathing. Every other muscle, collarbone to scalp, seemed to relax instantly as his subconscious went straight from 'Metal' to 'Sharp' to 'Do not twitch.' It took Duncan's soft chuckle to let Matthew realize that the small, rapturous noises echoing off the tiles were coming from his own throat.
"Try to hold still," Duncan murmured, voice very close to Matthew's ear, and Matthew only then realized that he'd never opened his eyes, even knowing that Duncan had a blade that sharp near his throat. Duncan was leaning in against him, slick with soap and water, solid with muscle, and as hard as Matthew -- who suspected he knew exactly when he'd gone from 'too tired to get it up with a crane' to 'rigid enough for building code specs.'
He wasn't about to move.
He didn't have to, in any case. All Matthew had to do was let Duncan shift him as he saw fit. The metal of the razor blade was as warm as his skin now, warmer at the start of each stroke where the heat of the rinse water had transferred to it, trailing cool air behind it as it left exposed skin along its path. Duncan's hand cradled the back of his head, silently aligning him into each new angle. Almost the only sounds were the spray of water on their bodies, the soft, near-inaudible scrape of the razor along his skin, and the slow hiss of Duncan's breath that matched the equally slow strokes of the blade.
Almost.
Each time the blade lifted off his jaw, Matthew intended to stay silent, and each time his temporary release drew embarrassingly eager noises. It was moan or move, and even with his eyes closed, he knew there was a razor coming back towards his throat in someone else's hand. The lines of pressure should have drawn panic. Instead, they were drawing pleasure, trails of it overlapping as the razor's edge slid along heat-sensitized skin until every nerve felt like it was exposed and purring.
When Duncan finally finished his throat and moved up to his face, Matthew still didn't dare twitch. The feel of the blade over his face should have been less intense than metal over his throat -- he'd never met an immortal yet who wasn't susceptible to blades or teeth there -- but the nerves along his neck were still humming with tension and exposure. Matthew was so still he could feel how the trail of water ran down his cock onto Duncan's thigh, how Duncan's cock felt hotter against his skin than the water falling between them. Beads of water built up on his collarbone, on his nipples, along the faint line that marked an old, mortal, break of his sternum -- built up and slid down, marking their own trails along his nerves.
Duncan slid the razor along the last, short strip of foam above Matthew's upper lip and pulled the blade away. Before Matthew could gather himself together, while he was trying to control the noises he was making, Duncan let go of his nape and slid down him in a controlled descent that trailed one hand down Matthew's chest. The other hand, however, traced something warm and slick and hard down Matthew's spine. Part of him knew the razor had to be folded and safe again. The more paranoid part of his mind froze him in place again with the memory that the razor didn't have a latch....
Then Duncan's mouth wrapped around the head of his cock, wet and hot and skilled, and moving wasn't an option, but holding still was going to be impossible. Matthew let his head fall back against the wall, his hands coming up to tangle in Duncan's hair. Wet strands slid along Matthew's palms as that slick mouth slid along his cock. He wasn't allowed to move more than his hands, apparently -- the razor case pressed firmly against his back in a silent warning -- but that didn't matter when Duncan was devouring him like this, fast and deep, fucking his mouth on Matthew's cock.
It was a very short stretch of eternity before he came.
<> <> <>
Warmth, softness, comforting weight of blankets along his side, a bed to himself that wasn't his but was almost as familiar... Matthew didn't have to wake completely to reach out his right hand and find his gun on the nightstand. He ran a thumb across the safety, reassuring himself that it was on, and subsided back under the blankets again, fingertips tracing his badge case as they retreated. His left hand burrowed under the pillow, the pads of his fingers brushing over the hilt of a concealed dagger. Weapons found, he sagged back towards sleep.
His hair was damp enough to be pleasurably cool but water wasn't running into his eyes. His bones were gone, his muscles past pleasantly exhausted and well into limp, and his nerves were humming with satisfaction. He didn't know how he'd gotten into the bed, but he could tell that very good sex lay on the other end of his memories. Later would be soon enough to remember.
A body settled next to him. The bed creaked under the additional weight and a small part of Matthew's mind identified the scent and feel as Duncan. Warmth caressed Matthew's cheek, but he was already drifting down and didn't bother making sense of the words that accompanied the touch. The tone promised safety, and sleep, and company somewhere along the way. That was enough.
The click of the door latch slipping into place pulled Matthew partway into consciousness again, his instincts wary of danger with an insistence he knew better than to fight. Duncan's voice rumbled through the door, low and amused. Who was he talking to?
A lighter voice answered, male and laced with self-mockery and seduction simultaneously -- known and not particularly safe. Matthew tried to fight the exhaustion that lay over his thoughts like fog.
Cold wrap of fog, warmth and safety of bed, warm/hard flash of Duncan pinning him, grinding tiredness of too long without sleep, a flash of irritation that was an old adversary, edged, biting humor of Joe's probable reaction to the bastard using Joe's name--
Matthew woke abruptly as the elusive memory finally came clear, body still and tight again despite Duncan's earlier efforts. There'd been fog then, too, and a warm bed... but he'd pinned Duncan, not the other way around, and lain sprawled across him in a townhouse in Charleston, listening to rain drip off the eaves and discussing what was between them other than two very good nights. Immortal memory, as much a curse as a blessing, replayed Duncan's soft, rueful laugh and his answer: "I thought I was lonely for Adam."
Matthew matched that memory to the earlier conversation and the easy amusement as Duncan asked, "Adam, have you got someplace to stay or were you planning on taking over my couch again?" and wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't so prone to solving puzzles.
I'd been wondering what damn fool vanished so thoroughly that Duncan couldn't find him to see if he wanted a lover as well as a friend. I should be more careful what questions I ask of Fate. His sense of humor failed him there, falling silent against implications that might or might not be accurate.
Matthew rolled over and forced himself to listen to the rain outside the window, to the soft creaks and tocks of the house settling in the coolness of the night, to the soft rasp of cotton sheet moving across cotton pillowcase as he breathed in and out with a careful, steady monotony and began to force his circling thoughts into stillness and rest. He needed sleep before he could consider how much might have changed, or where. His personal life had just gotten more complicated, but work tomorrow would be barely simpler than today, and that only if he was lucky.
Ben Dawson and the question of Duncan's reactions to him were matters for tomorrow. Of course, so was cleaning his gun after the steam in the shower.
<> <> <>
Duncan eased the door closed and heard Methos say, "I didn't think he had the energy to be that restless?"
"Obviously you don't think. If you did, you'd have called so I'd have a room ready," Duncan pointed out, turning to grin at him. He paused, eyes flicking over Methos' clothes and the familiar, near-smirking cant to his lips. It'd been too long.... "What are you doing in San Francisco? Decided you needed free time and money to get up to mischief?"
"Amanda can be very persuasive." Methos -- Ben, Duncan reminded himself -- chuckled and turned away. "More so than you, apparently. There's coffee downstairs."
Duncan stared at him, then said, "You came up to tell me that? There was coffee in the pot when I came upstairs."
Methos turned back, a half-smile on his mouth and deviltry in his voice. He cocked a hip to lean against the wall and settled his thumbs in his pockets which left his fingers curved tantalizingly near the placket. Duncan forced himself to watch his face and try to think as Methos asked lazily, "What else would I be here to tell you, Duncan?"
Duncan snorted at that, annoyance suddenly overlaying the warmth of Methos' company, and that was familiar too. "Let's start with why you're suddenly calling me Duncan instead of MacLeod?"
Methos chuckled. "It's your name?" Methos looked him over, from his feet (bare in his own house), up over old jeans (varnish-stained from working on the store), to the pale gold cashmere sweater that Duncan had owned for so long that it had gotten a little snug.
Methos just smiled. "Your hair looks good short. And you've put on some muscle since Paris. San Francisco styles suit you. I can't say I'm surprised by that. "
Duncan frowned, resisting the urge to tug at the hem of his sweater. When he looked up again, Methos had moved forward to stand not even an arm's length away. He didn't back up, but that was sheer stubbornness. "No, Ben. What's really going on?"
"I like the hair, too. The ponytail was good, but short like this...." Methos ran a hand along the side of his neck, fingers curling around to cradle the nape as he laughed softly. He was standing closer than he had all night, closer than he'd been since Duncan talked to him after O'Rourke's death. He chuckled and leaned in, abandoning words in favor of whispers of breath along Duncan's mouth and wisps of touch along his neck and shoulders, convincing even through the fabric of his sweater.
Persuasive, those whispers, past any need of words. Duncan's back was against the wall and his hands were on Methos' arms, gripping and kneading as Methos kissed him until his lips parted, and his mouth opened. Hard muscle against him, a leg between his, desire roused and reminding Duncan that he hadn't taken his own pleasure in the shower--
That thought reminded him of the shower and the company he'd had in it.
Duncan tightened his hands around Methos' arms and pushed him back: a few inches rather than the couple steps he'd intended, but enough to let cool air between them. It should have been more but Methos didn't want to go and Methos was rarely forced away from something he really wanted. Duncan shoved that thought aside, along with momentary flashes of pulling Methos closer.... None too steady in voice or balance, he still managed to murmur, "Methos."
Methos cocked his head sideways to study him. The tip of his tongue appeared, swiping across his lips, before he smiled, wicked enough to make Duncan feel young and gauche for a too-long moment. One hand lifted, fingers stroking along Duncan's mouth, thumb rubbing along moisture left by his tongue, the flush left by his actions. "We can talk in the morning, Duncan."
Duncan just stared at him, too warm under his hand and inside his clothes, too cool in the rest of his skin, and wondering what the hell had just happened. "What was that about?" Another moment of gathering scattered thoughts, then he said, "Other than the obvious."
Methos considered him, eyes dark, intent, and full of plans. "Nothing that can't wait." His thumb continued to caress Duncan's cheek.
"It's not that late," Duncan pointed out, clinging to practicalities as he reached for his balance. "And you said there's coffee."
Methos shook his head, lips curving and secretive as an Etruscan statue. Duncan locked his hands into fists rather than reach out and touch him. Methos glanced down at his fists, then back up, and Duncan realized even that simple act was provocative and too damn tempting.
"Ah." Methos looked back up, gaze lingering along the way, then said, "Just pointing out possibilities, Duncan." Methos turned away, his fingers trailing off Duncan's face in individual lines of heat. "My bed's calling. Good night."
"Your timing… so is the coffee," Duncan managed to remind him, laughing despite himself at the absurdity of it all.
"Ah, but the bed's good for hours of bliss. And this is San Francisco; I can find you more good coffee." Methos chuckled. "Sleep well, Duncan."
Duncan watched him go, admiring the way the corduroy accented the length of his leg and the sweater displayed rather than concealed the breadth of shoulder. Duncan ran his thumb along his lips and realized he wasn't sure which touch he was craving, Methos' mouth or Matthew's skin. Left with that unsettling thought, Duncan shook his head and went downstairs to distract himself with cleaning up the kitchen. That, at least, was easily set to order.
The rest of the coffee went down the drain.
Next part up Dec 12th.
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