a little death, without mourning, for killabeez
Title: a little death, without mourning
Author: The Dangerous Perfectionist
Written for: killabeez
Characters/Pairing: Amanda, Methos, Duncan, several permutations of pairings therein
Rating: somewhat NC-17
Wordcount: 6,300
Notes: Thanks to my betas to be named later, who were rockstars.
Warnings: highlight to revealJoe's been dead for a bit over five years at the start of the story.
Summary: "If I've learned one thing about Methos, it's that he always comes back eventually."
Prompt was lyrics from U2's "Love is Blindness," but I ended up latching onto a different verse:
A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby, a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense
1
The warning buzz of another immortal carried no threat, so Amanda ignored it. The ballroom was too public a place, too many people on the crowded dance floor for there to be any danger. Before she could pinpoint the source there were hands taking hers and when she looked up the hands belonged to a stranger.
But this was a stranger she knew. Not well - never well, no matter how long their acquaintance. He'd meandered into and out of her life for nearly a thousand years, but every time they met again he wore another skin. She never got used to it. Methos.
So the evening had just gotten interesting.
The party was supposed to be an insufferable bore. Amanda had been invited by her good friend Hiram and she'd planned to drop by, make an appearance, and vanish in time to get downtown to the real New Years celebrations. Not Times Square - though there was fun to be had, disappearing into the anonymous crowd, kissing random strangers, their youth fresh and freely offered. But an artist -- another of Hiram's circle, and when had Hiram's friends become her friends, anyhow? -- with a big, open loft that doubled as a private dance club, was throwing the party that was supposed to end all parties.
Amanda had her doubts about that, but even so, it wasn't something she wanted to miss
Exclusive could be fun in its own way, as long as you remembered to keep your (metaphorical) head about you. The supremely rich lived to turn against one another, and it was never healthy to be too visible. But she was missing Duncan, who'd decided to shun the New Years festivities in favor of hunkering down at Connor's old SoHo apartment. She respected his desire to commune with his teacher -- she still made pilgrimages to the Abbey to walk the labyrinth with Rebecca -- but there was a time for mourning and a time for partying and this was the time to party.
Besides, things between she and Duncan had been edgy at best the last few months. It was like he'd expected her to fly into his arms the moment he called to let her know he'd moved (however temporarily) to New York, like she should give up her lovely little loft and her circle of rich, fun friends just to keep him company in a mausoleum. She'd tried, she really had; but she hadn't been as diplomatic about it as she could have been and distance had crept between them. Not the physical kind - God no. Just... afterwards, she didn't stay
Which was one explanation for how Amanda ended up arriving at her first engagement of the evening slightly buzzed from a solitary pre-party bottle of champagne. Just enough that the rooms sparkled, the reflections in glass and mirrors catching her attention more than the hallowed guests.
“Good to see you, too.” Methos' voice drifted down to her and she pulled her attention back to the present. Their hands were still entangled, held between their bodies like children playing a game. She'd drawn closer to him than she'd realized; she pulled her hands from his and her fingers tingled at the absence of contact.
This version of Methos dressed... well. Unexpectedly well, and not at all understated, as she'd have expected if she'd ever imagined running across him at such a high-society event. Tailored jacket with crisp, asymmetrical lapels, a narrow accent of bright red adorning the left - oh, that was an unanticipated pleasure in this wasteland of stiff tuxedos and perfect little bow ties.
“You're wearing glasses,” she said. She reached up to touch the thin black frames. His smirk crinkled the fine skin of his nose.
“All the cool kids are. Hadn't you noticed?” Behind the twin, alien lenses his eyes were just as opaque as ever. He wasn't wearing a tie - it would have spoiled the effect of that one red stripe. The skin slid over his Adam's apple when he swallowed. She left the glasses behind and fingered the curved edge of the jacket.
“Yamamoto.”
“Sorry?” Methos took her wandering hand in his and she wasn't sure when it had happened but they'd got closer again, pressed together by the mass of bodies on the dance floor.
“Your suit. Yohji Yamamoto.”
“Ah.” A laugh rumbled up behind the jacket. “Been frequenting the Paris shows, have you?”
She didn't bother to respond. Of course she'd been to the shows. What did he think she was doing in New York? Fashion Week was... well... soon. The more interesting question was why had he suddenly developed a taste for couture?
“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr.-” She held out her hand, and he bent to kiss the skin near her unadorned wrist, his breath tickling the fine blonde hairs.
“Thomas Pierson.”
“Any relation to an Adam Pierson?” She was grinning and couldn't stop; the games they played with their identities always tickled. “He was a dear friend of mine. Lost track of him a couple of years back.”
“You know Adam!” The performance was flawless. Of course it was. “A small world indeed. Adam is my second cousin. On his father's side. Naturally.”
“Naturally.” The music was distracting her, something serene and harpy. Notes fell over the bare skin of her shoulders. “Good genes, the Piersons. Hardy stock.”
“Hmm.” He was already bored with the charade. So was she, for that matter. What she really wanted... was a terrible idea. Terrible.
“...dance.”
“What?” God, did she hate getting caught not paying attention by Methos, of all people. But he just grinned his Cheshire cat grin - one she didn't see often - and took her hand up in his again.
“Seemed like you were here dressed to dance, not to catch up on whoever we're both pretending to be today.” And without another thought, they were on the dance floor. His big hands on her back, just above the spot where the wide swath of the red silk obi belt knotted to drape down over the arch of her ass to brush the backs of her calves.
His voice tickled her ear. “You remember how, right?” He smelled faintly of basil and grapefruit - something fresh. Earthy. Sharp. She stepped on his toe, to remind him who he was dealing with. He retaliated by pulling her closer. The music was anachronistic, fittingly: some kind of gothic medieval revival, all plucked strings and buzzing keyboards, the sort that usually made her roll her eyes. Instead, tonight, she couldn't escape the music's grip.
Methos led until she caught up to him and then they moved together in the easy way she remembered from long ago, back when they had celebrated under parti-colored tents, feet bare in the grass, circling around a bonfire, passed back and forth between partners. Rebecca's solemnity melting into deep joy, Methos at turns wicked and sensual. The bonfires might be gone, but the memories of them echoed between them as they drifted over the floor.
"What's going on, Amanda?"
She bit his earlobe. Lightly. “What do you mean?”
A puff of warm air on her neck, a rumble of laughter that she felt sink into her where they touched. Their bodies continued the dance, even if their attention had wandered.
“You haven't tried to seduce me for two hundred years, my dear.”
“Has it been that long?” No, that couldn't be right. There'd been that time in Milan, with Rebecca when... oh. Right. “Is that what I'm doing? Seducing you?”
“Trying, anyway.” He didn't duck her swat, just caught her hand in his and kissed her palm.
“I don't try to seduce anyone.” It sounded too insistent, too shrill. Not the purr she was trying for at all. Methos' hands slid over the train of the obi and settled just above her ass. “I don't attempt seduction. I perfect it.”
“Like a fine work of art, eh?”
He always wanted the last word. Too bad. “Performance art,” she said, then burst into a gale of giggles.
Pressed up against him, her fingertips feathered through the hair at the back of his neck, barely moving despite the music. They had yet to kiss, to do more than dance (albeit closer than was strictly polite, given the company) but her flesh was already alive to him.
“Now,” she said, her hands on either side of his face, framing him, capturing him. “Nownownow.”
“Where?”
“Behind you. Down the hall. Bathroom. Big one, all marble and chrome. You'll like it. Very Roman.”
“How would you know?” he teased. Before they parted he leaned in, pulled her hips tight to his pelvis and bit her neck, right where it met her shoulder. A shiver raced through her and settled behind her navel. Waiting. “Why don't you show me this Roman splendor?”
Surely it was obvious, where they were going and why. Who the hell cared?
Methos let out a low whistle as she pushed past the heavy door of the bathroom and pulled him through behind her. “The Romans would have wept to have even dreamed of such a perfection of plumbing as this.”
“Stop teasing.” She fumbled at the latch but the door lacked a lock, so she shrugged and gave up.
“Speaking of perfect plumbing...” He only grinned through her slap, which made her madder. And... the buttons on his black shirt were too small for her fingers. She'd hit him harder than she meant to -- when she finally spared some of her attention away from spreading his shirt open to the waist she saw that his teeth were streaked with red.
“Sorry.”
“I'm not.” He batted her hands away and pulled her closer. He tasted of pennies and champagne.
They didn't bother much with preliminaries. Didn't need to. She was ready, the warmth spreading from her belly up to her breasts and back, round and round like a circuit. A completed circuit, and his touch set her buzzing. Methos kissed her again. Lifted her breasts free of the silk bodice while she tugged open his pants, the slide of the fine fabric over the backs of her hands sending her heart racing. “Wait,” he said, words muffled, tickling her collarbone.
“Wait.”
“No,” she breathed. “Now.”
“God.” His gasp sent shivers of warmth down her back as she freed his cock from the fabric. “Manda-”
“Yep.” Amanda guided his hands to her ass. “That's me.”
“I certainly hope so.”
It made no sense. No sense at all. She fell into giggles again.
In a blink he had hefted her up to perch on the edge of the white marble counter, the narrow skirt hitched around her waist. The head of his cock brushed against her wetness, slid through the warm layers. She twined her fingers through his hair, pulled him to her and bit his lower lip just as he pushed inside.
“Oh yes,” she laughed, “Yes.”
One of her gold sandals clattered to the floor as she wrapped her thighs around his hips and pressed herself to him. Tight. Tight. He thrust back into her, filling her again, and she felt herself contract around him, felt him shudder. God. God. She-
“What the hell?” The voice was male, familiar, just a bit high-pitched, and oh, there was the immortal buzz she'd been too distracted to notice.
Over Methos' shoulder (the bastard nipped at her ear, so she ground her hips until a strangled groan escaped him) she could see a blur of white face, black tie, neat white rose at the lapel.
Duncan.
“What does it look like?” she grinned at him. Methos didn't turn, but he stilled, and his head rose. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him staring into the mirror behind her, at Duncan's reflection.
"Where have you been?" Duncan demanded. And since he knew very well what she'd been up to...
Oh. Amanda blinked, felt her grin go brittle. Right. She'd forgotten. Duncan and Methos and the five years since they'd laid eyes on each other. “How awkward,” she managed, breathier than she'd have preferred.
“What do you want?” Methos didn't turn as he spoke to the reflection in the mirror.
"Answers would be nice."
Amanda pulled up her bodice and squirmed, trying to untangle herself from Methos, but there wasn't a lot of room.
"Always looking for answers from me, MacLeod." Methos shifted to give Amanda more space but didn't turn around. He wasn't looking in the mirror anymore, his attention somewhere around Amanda's dropped sandal. "Sorry I never have any."
"Oookay," Amanda said, hopping down from the counter, pulling her skirt back into place. With a flick of her wrist, she fastened Methos's pants for him and then patted him on the cheek. "This has been fun, but I'm gonna let you boys catch up."
And with that, she slid past Duncan and headed back into the crowd.
2
Afterwards MacLeod couldn't remember what he'd said, if he'd even said anything at all. Just that he'd followed Methos out of the bathroom and the other man had made a beeline for the coat check and he'd known if Methos got out the door, he'd be gone again.
So he might have been a little aggressive in his attempt to catch up, to intercept Methos before he left, but as it turned out Methos threw the first punch. Which was rather a surprise. MacLeod managed to deflect the blow and Methos, canny as always, ducked under MacLeod's jab.
Before MacLeod could try again, Methos' hand shot out and gripped his throat, used the momentum to slam him back against the paneled wall. In return MacLeod surged forward and threw Methos off-balance but Methos kept his grip as they went down. He landed on his back on the wooden stairs, let out a short grunt of pain and bucked against MacLeod, his hand squeezing MacLeod's throat, forcing his head backward. MacLeod thrust a knee between Methos' thighs, wedged his legs apart and shoved him forward until his back was pressed against the hard wood of the staircase.
Then MacLeod's fingers were in Methos' mouth and Methos' free hand gripped MacLeod's hair. His hold on MacLeod's throat shifted into something less deadly but no less aggressive. Methos bit down on the fingers in his mouth. Hard. In retaliation MacLeod ground his knee against Methos' unprotected crotch.
“Get the fuck off me,” Methos growled when the fingers slipped free of his mouth. He'd broken through the skin on MacLeod's finger, which leaked a sluggish bead of red before sealing over. They were both still panting, still struggling against one another, but neither made a move to relent.
“Let go of my bloody throat, you maniac.” This was less clear, as Methos tightened his fingers under MacLeod's jaw when he started to speak.
“Just what d'you think is gonna happen here, MacLeod?”
Methos' silk jacket was rucked up under his arms. The black shirt had pulled free to expose a swath of straining abdomen. Somewhere along the way the top button of the pants had popped off, leaving the waistband gaping open.
MacLeod used his body weight to pin Methos in place, even as Methos squirmed against him, eyes wide and opaque, the shadow of a bruise blooming along his jaw under his right ear.
“First, you're going to stop attempting to asphyxiate me,” MacLeod ground out, emphasizing each point with a shove of the knee. “Then I'm going to make sure you regret throwing that punch.”
The corner of Methos' lower lip oozed blood. He let it run down his chin to spot the still crisp collar of his shirt. He arched his back, trying without success to throw MacLeod off-center enough to escape.
“As I remember it, you were the one who made this physical.”
If he'd meant the comment to enrage further, well, Methos' barbs always were well aimed. But usually MacLeod had some idea why he'd let them fly in the first place.
MacLeod's right hand shot out and squeezed Methos' crotch, nails raking over the dark cloth. “How physical do you want it, Methos?”
Methos' breathing sped up, coming in quick bursts. He stared at MacLeod and something shifted in his eyes. MacLeod moved back a breath - not enough to let him free, but out of biting range.
“Whatever makes you feel better.” It came out like a threat. MacLeod's hand still moved over Methos' crotch, stroking him through the material. Methos stopped fighting, though his hand remained tight around the flesh of MacLeod's throat.
MacLeod yanked the already unfastened material of the pants open, parted it enough to slip his hand inside. “Fuck,” Methos gasped, his head falling back with a loud thump against the wood steps.
His legs spread wider apart as MacLeod kneaded him, relentless, nothing kind in the motion, an action of pure frustration. The hand at MacLeod's throat shifted. Despite Methos' grip MacLeod lowered his head to bite at the neck bared below him.
“Bastard,” Methos hissed. He was panting now, lips swollen and half parted. And there they remained, hardly moving, MacLeod's fingers tight around Methos through the thin cotton of his briefs, Methos' hand pressed up under the base of MacLeod's jaw, keeping him a bent-arm's length away.
The moment spun away from them, opening up into a vast empty space. MacLeod gasped as if he'd been dumped in the ocean and Methos convulsed against him, familiar, but it felt less like pleasure than--
“Fuck this. Fuck. What am I doing?” Methos' voice went hoarse and jagged near the end. “This is why I fucking left in the first place.”
With a cold shock, Macleod dropped out of the ocean and into now, came shuddering back to the stairway.
"What's that supposed to mean?" MacLeod demanded.
Methos restarted the struggle, clenching his free hand around MacLeod's wrist.
"What's what supposed to--"
So that's how Methos was going to play it. MacLeod slipped his hand past the cloth at Methos' crotch and reached hot flesh. Methos' words vanished in a choking gasp.
Before MacLeod could push it further a pair of voices intruded. In the outer hall, coming closer. One mellow with a familiar teasing edge. One unfamiliar. Male. And trailing just after, the sudden wash of immortal presence. Probably just Amanda, but--
“Get. Off.” Methos hissed, fighting to draw one leg up to kick MacLeod away. MacLeod went reeling, landing on his ass two steps down, legs and arms akimbo.
MacLeod swallowed, hard. Bit his lip and stayed where he was. Watched as Methos found his feet and leaned against the railing for support as he straightened his suit the best he could, tucked in his shirt and closed the jacket over the pants to hide the gap at the waist where the button had been.
Beneath the rumpled suit he was perfectly, unbelievably unaffected by the last few minutes. Cool as... well. It was inhuman. No. That wasn't quite true. There was a trace of blood above Methos' upper lip. God.
Methos whipped out a handkerchief and the blood vanished. He checked his cuffs, his cuff links - twin golden bees MacLeod hadn't noticed until now. How appropriate. Pulling his collar back into place, Methos stalked away without another word.
"So, that could have gone better," Macleod muttered into his coffee the next morning.
Amanda just quirked her lips. There was an exasperated fondness in her expression that he wasn't sure what to do with. She'd arrived unbelievably early at Connor's -- his -- door with a basket of pastries and a thermos of coffee, as if she'd known exactly how his night had gone after she'd left. That, more than anything, made him wary.
And it must have registered in his expression, or she just knew him too well. "What?" she asked, picking apart her pain du chocolate. She looked ridiculously well rested despite the three other parties she'd told him she'd hit after Hiram's. He wondered if she'd bothered to sleep at all, given that she'd rung his bell at seven, though she'd at least gone back to her place to change. She'd left the red dress behind, and was wrapped in a sensible -- for Amanda -- black cashmere sweater and leather pants.
"You're two peas in a pod sometimes," he said with a sigh. "What'd he tell you?"
"Who?" she said, idly dunking a piece of pastry into her coffee.
"Don't be coy," MacLeod said, "it doesn't become you." That was a lie, of course, but one didn't tell Amanda things like that unless one wanted trouble.
"I haven't spoken to him since I saw you," she insisted. "Really."
"Right."
She settled on her stool then took in the apartment, Connor's antiques just as he'd left them, with a deliberately sweeping gaze. "I can't believe you've hung on to this old thing."
"Amanda."
"Give a girl some credit, okay? I saw Methos, I saw you, I haven't seen you both in the same city in ages. After a thousand odd years I've gotten pretty good at putting two and two together. So how long has it been?"
He hated it when Amanda managed to turn the conversation around on him. "How long has what been?"
She just gave him a look.
"Couple of years," he admitted. Then, at her amusement, "Okay, five. Five years. Give or take."
"I never did get it out of him, what happened between you." Amanda said.
MacLeod threw up his hands. "When you find out, let me know. I woke up one morning and he had his things packed."
"Did you ask him yourself?" Amanda asked.
"Would have, if he'd given me the chance. But he didn't."
Amanda shrugged, shot Duncan a sideways glance. "Maybe he got bored." Then, probably at the look on his face, she let out a cascading chime of laughter. "Darling, he's older than the hills. He stuck around, what? Twenty years?"
"On and off," MacLeod grumbled.
Amanda patted his hand. "That's a long time."
"It's really not."
"I know."
They sat sipping their coffee in a wash of sunlight from the window over Connor's breakfast nook, accompanied by the faint sound of morning traffic, that weird ocean-like whir of city noise that only ceased in the wee hours.
"I know I haven't been around as much," Amanda said into the quiet. "Since..."
MacLeod shifted in his chair, heard it creak with his weight. "You can say it, Amanda. Since Joe died." He found a smile, found he could do that now when talking about Joe. "I'm okay, really."
Amanda's mouth quirked. "Maybe I'm not."
Joe had been gone over five years now and this was the first time since the funeral that she'd given any sign that it had affected her, the first time she'd even mentioned Joe at all, and MacLeod hadn't noticed the absence until now, filled as it had been with Amanda's usual fluttering into and out of his life when the whim struck her. He leaned over and bussed her cheek.
"You will be."
"I know," she sighed, "I always am."
Amanda brushed crumbs from the table in front of her and tilted her head. "And as for Methos, he'll be back."
MacLeod knew he sounded petulant. "You're so sure."
"If I've learned one thing about Methos, it's that he always comes back eventually," she said.
"How long is 'eventually'?"
Amanda smiled. "Rebecca always said that's the part that makes knowing him interesting."
"That's not the word I'd use." MacLeod ignored the way her smile broadened. Grabbed another pastry from the jaunty, towel-lined basket and chewed. Pensively. Tried not to roll his eyes at himself, at letting Methos get to him. Again.
"So," Amanda said after a pause, waiting until he had his mouth full. "I'm in town. I partied all night. Is that a new bed?"
He choked on a laugh and swallowed. "Subtle, Amanda. It's the same bed as last time you were here, two days ago." "
At least you bought a new mattress when you moved in. It's a little creepy, you know, all Connor's stuff everywhere, just where he left it. Like making out in a church." And then she laughed again and gave him a kiss. Not on the cheek, this time.
3
"Learned a few tricks from Amanda, have we?" Methos said, flicking the safety back on his gun.
He should have known better after Hiram's party, just abandoned his shit and found another hotel. In another country. Wasn't like he'd have left behind anything irreplaceable.
But no, that would have been too smart. Couldn't have that.
MacLeod gave the handgun a pissy look from where he was draped over Methos' couch. Waiting. Uninvited. Methos rolled his eyes in anticipation of the inevitable comment about immortals and firearms. When it wasn't forthcoming, he dropped the thing onto the little table by the door and turned to lock the door.
Thumped his forehead against it for good measure.
Instead of doing the sensible thing last night, Methos had found another party, one he was sure MacLeod wouldn't know about. Then spent the morning and most of the afternoon wandering Brooklyn before he convinced himself there was no way MacLeod could have figured out where he was staying and took a train back to the Upper West Side.
How quickly he'd forgotten what a bad idea it was to underestimate MacLeod's sheer doggedness.
"Where've you been?" MacLeod said to his back. Speaking of predictable.
"Do you want me to draw you a map? I'm a little rusty, it's been a good hundred and fifty years since I was a cartographer." At the last, Methos turned around and gave MacLeod a quick once-over as he headed for the suite's mini fridge.
He looked the same as last time Methos had seen him. Same haircut, even. Had obviously been waiting for awhile -- his creme wool coat was neatly folded next to him on the couch, his leather gloves sitting on top. Only MacLeod could pull off a coat like that in New York in the winter and somehow keep it spotless. He'd probably taken a head wearing the damn thing without leaving a mark.
"This is quite the posh room for Adam Pierson."
Methos didn't offer MacLeod a drink. Poured himself one, though, scotch straight into a glass tumbler, no ice.
"Yeah, well, catch up, MacLeod. Haven't been Adam in years." He downed the scotch in one swallow and frowned. "I should call security on you. It'd serve you right, breaking into my room."
MacLeod snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."
Methos lifted a shoulder and found himself another tiny little bottle of alcohol. "How'd you find me?"
"That was a distinctive suit last night. Not exactly hard to track down."
Methos found himself brought up short, didn't much like the feeling. "Yamamoto pulled out of New York years ago. What'd you do, call all 15 shops in Tokyo? That's a tad obsessive, even for you."
MacLeod smirked. "Didn't have to. You had it altered and pressed a few blocks from here. Not many tailors worth trusting with that kind of suit, even in New York."
Fucking tuxedo. Why'd he even go to that ridiculous party in the first place? Should have known Hiram knew MacLeod. Should have figured out what a bad idea it was when he ran into Amanda. Well, as far as ideas went, that one hadn't been all bad, but--
"So it's obvious you've been avoiding me. Am I ever going to find out why?"
Fucking MacLeod. How such a big lunk could manage that level of passive-aggression was a mystery for the ages. Why Methos always felt like he needed to respond was another.
"Pick something." Oh look, his second bottle was empty. He lined it up next to the first and sighed. Fucking immortal metabolism. He was going to need a lot more liquor for this conversation, but interrupting to dial room service would just rile MacLeod up more than he already was.
Maybe MacLeod had learned something in the last five years, though, because he didn't take the bait. Just waited, sitting there watching, as if he knew Methos wouldn't just turn around and walk back out. Or shoot him. Come to think of it, why hadn't he taken a shot when he'd had a chance? Could have avoided this entirely. And the splatter might have ruined MacLeod's perfect coat while he was at it.
"You're looking for some kind of explanation, some answer that will make sense to you, and I just don't have one," he said finally. He should really find a different place to stand. Hovering over the mini-fridge wasn't exactly a strategic position of strength.
The surface of MacLeod's face finally shifted. "So you just woke up one morning and decided that's it, time to disappear?"
"Something like that," Methos said. There were three more bottles left in the fridge: tequila, brandy, cognac. He went with the cognac.
"You know, I don't understand you," MacLeod said, as if this wasn't the hundredth time he'd tossed off some variation of the sentiment. "Maybe I never have."
Methos was suddenly weary. Immortals couldn't get hangovers, yeah, but he thought maybe he remembered what it had felt like. Or maybe he'd just picked it up from years of watching mortals live through their mornings after, like a psychosomatic tic. Or it was just MacLeod, here in his space, taking up his entire couch. Practically half the room. Most of the air.
"What's there to understand?" he muttered. "I'm just a guy." Winced at his own choice, there, the echoes of another conversation. Not that MacLeod would get the reference. It was just that he'd been too distracted last night to really let MacLeod and all the memories that followed him sink in.
"Why'd you even stay as long as you did?" And there it was, finally, just a hint of hurt in MacLeod's voice.
"I dunno," Methos said. Not that MacLeod would accept it as the truth. "Look, I just -- it's not like everything I do has some kind of nefarious plan behind it, MacLeod. And I didn't -- I didn't wake up one day and decide to leave. It was a long time coming."
MacLeod's attention sharpened. "How long, exactly?"
Flustered, Methos fumbled the cap of the miniature brandy. "Uh. Awhile, I guess. It was just time to move on."
"Hmm," MacLeod said, fixing him with a considering stare. Like he was doing mental math. Balancing the equations of everything he knew about Methos, which wasn't much, but was more than Methos usually tolerated in his friends.
"It was Joe, wasn't it?" Methos didn't drop the bottle. Curled his hand around it and then emptied the brandy into his glass.
"Joe kept you around. Kept you coming back. And after he was gone..." MacLeod didn't finish the sentence.
And Methos was absurdly grateful for that. He supposed he could try denying it, but his face was never as opaque as he wanted it to be, even after 5,000 years of practice.
"I tried to stay," he admitted. "For awhile."
He'd made it eighteen months after they put Joe in the ground. And then he'd left.
"The club in Paris didn't last," MacLeod said after a long silence. "A concert promoter bought it three years ago."
"They don't even play blues anymore, I know." At MacLeod's curious glance, he shrugged. "I heard from Amy."
MacLeod lifted an eyebrow but didn't comment.
"So," Methos said, shifting from foot to foot. One bottle left. MacLeod gave him a close-mouthed smile, shoulders squared, like he knew something Methos didn't. Fuck it. Methos uncapped the miniature tequila and took a swallow straight from the bottle. "What I need right now," he said into the silence, "is more booze."
"I was afraid you were going to mix them all together in that glass," MacLeod said, an edge of amused disgust there that eased something in Methos' spine.
Fucking MacLeod.
"So," Methos said again. "You played amateur detective, broke into my room, and watched me drink a great deal of liquor from very small bottles. As entertaining as I'm sure it's all been, isn't it time you were going?"
"Nope." MacLeod glanced at his watch and then just sat there.
Maybe Methos was going to have to go for the gun after all. "And why not?"
MacLeod had apparently lost the gift of speech. Just as Methos was about to make a strategic retreat either to the balcony or the bathroom (he hadn't decided), there was a sharp rap on the door. And the buzz of another immortal.
MacLeod's poker face was atrocious.
Methos tossed aside the empty tequila bottle and stalked to the door. Whipped it open just as another round of knocking started, to find Amanda with her fist raised, her mouth open in a neat O of surprise.
"What is this, an intervention?" Methos grumbled.
"Why, do you need one?" Amanda pushed past him, long coat swirling behind her. "Duncan!" she chirped. "Whatever are you doing here?"
"I don't even want to know." Methos dropped into the suite's lone armchair and scrubbed his eyes with one hand. "Did you at least bring me something to drink that isn't meant for a Lilliputian?"
Amanda's grin slid from MacLeod over to Methos and then she pulled three bottles of wine out of her conveniently Mary Poppins-sized bag. "Even brought a corkscrew."
"You're clearly rusty at threesomes," Amanda said much later, the wine long gone, slapping at Methos before he could elbow her in the face.
He turned and slid his tongue into the shadow under her jaw and then pulled away again with a smirk. "It's the bed. It's not nearly big enough."
"I don't think the bed's the issue," she said, arching one brow at him. She stretched against the sheets, one hand drifting over Methos' bare thigh, and squirmed in pleasure under his lips as they made their way down the curve of her belly. "Mmm, remember that bed Rebecca had in Spain?"
MacLeod's head came up, scowling, from between them, hair in his eyes. "I don't remember threesomes involving this much talking."
Methos opened his mouth only to choke on whatever he'd meant to say next as one of MacLeod's broad hands enveloped his dick. "Right," he managed, strangled. "No more talking."
MacLeod's hand picked a rhythm that Methos very much approved of just as Amanda's mouth found one of his nipples.
"Why haven't we done this before?" she asked, breathy, her short hair tickling his collar bone.
"I thought we weren't--" Then MacLeod broke off as Amanda pushed him back, straddling his thighs.
The back of Methos' head thunked into the headboard at the loss of all contact.
"Hey, I was using that hand!"
"Rebecca wasn't this whiny," Amanda said, sinking down onto MacLeod, her thighs clenched around his hips.
"Hmm," was MacLeod's response, which seemed atrociously non-committal to Methos.
Being compared unfavorably with Rebecca wasn't exactly new to him, but it had never taken quite this particular form before.
"You're both leaving me out and I'm the one who's bad at this?"
Amanda just laughed, but MacLeod turned to him, eyes too serious for the occasion by far.
"You're leaving yourself out, you lazy git."
Methos rolled onto his side, head propped on one hand, watching Amanda and MacLeod move together, watching the way the light played over the angles between them. He couldn't really remember anymore why he'd left five years ago, but it sure hadn't been because sex with MacLeod had been bad. Or maybe that had been part of it: with Joe gone, he hadn't been able to figure out whether sex was the only thing keeping him in MacLeod's orbit, long after he'd normally have moved on.
But that wasn't the whole truth. There'd always been something between he and MacLeod, long before they'd finally started fucking. Something itchy and uncomfortable and vital. Even so, MacLeod hadn't been wrong. Methos had known Joe first, and longer.
"You've totally forgotten how, haven't you?" Amanda giggled, and then let out a little whining gasp. "Spent too long a Watcher." She reached over MacLeod and grabbed Methos' wrist, yanked him up for a kiss.
Maybe he had forgotten. He'd forgotten a lot of things, after all. Without Joe he hadn't known how to be Adam Pierson, and without Adam there as a buffer he hadn't known how to be around MacLeod.
MacLeod had too often looked to Methos for... wisdom, or guidance, or some kind of Obi-Wan bullshit. And it had just got worse after Joe. Methos wasn't built for whatever it was MacLeod wanted from him, never had been. But Joe's absence had been a sudden hole in his landscape, like a tank had taken out a cathedral but left the city around it intact, and he'd run out of patience entirely.
The way he'd left hadn't been his finest moment, no. But it had been the right decision.
"Oh my God," Amanda breathed, and then she groaned, but it wasn't the kind of groan he would have expected given the circumstances. "Will you. Just. Stop. With the overthinking?"
MacLeod sat up, Amanda still perched in his lap, and wrapped a hand around the back of Methos' neck. Gave him a little shake. "No one's asking anything of you tonight."
"Uh, speak for yourself," Amanda interrupted. They were close enough together now that she could reach him, and he couldn't help a shudder when she slid her hand under his balls and gave him a gentle squeeze.
MacLeod laughed then, full throated. "Okay, no one's asking anything of you beyond tonight," he said, smiling.
Methos had his doubts about that, but mulling them over really wasn't the best way to spend a surprise threesome.
Maybe he'd made the right decision, but he hadn't expected the loneliness afterwards. And now MacLeod had found him, had even maybe guessed a bit about why he'd left, and it wasn't so bad. It wasn't going to go back to what it had been, Methos knew that much. But maybe it could be something new, the three of them. Something he hadn't had since Rebecca; something he hadn't realized he'd missed.
"I'll have you know, I used to be very good at this," Methos said, then kissed them each in turn.
"Prove it," MacLeod growled.
So he did.
The guessing post for this fic is here.
Author: The Dangerous Perfectionist
Written for: killabeez
Characters/Pairing: Amanda, Methos, Duncan, several permutations of pairings therein
Rating: somewhat NC-17
Wordcount: 6,300
Notes: Thanks to my betas to be named later, who were rockstars.
Warnings: highlight to revealJoe's been dead for a bit over five years at the start of the story.
Summary: "If I've learned one thing about Methos, it's that he always comes back eventually."
Prompt was lyrics from U2's "Love is Blindness," but I ended up latching onto a different verse:
A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby, a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense
1
The warning buzz of another immortal carried no threat, so Amanda ignored it. The ballroom was too public a place, too many people on the crowded dance floor for there to be any danger. Before she could pinpoint the source there were hands taking hers and when she looked up the hands belonged to a stranger.
But this was a stranger she knew. Not well - never well, no matter how long their acquaintance. He'd meandered into and out of her life for nearly a thousand years, but every time they met again he wore another skin. She never got used to it. Methos.
So the evening had just gotten interesting.
The party was supposed to be an insufferable bore. Amanda had been invited by her good friend Hiram and she'd planned to drop by, make an appearance, and vanish in time to get downtown to the real New Years celebrations. Not Times Square - though there was fun to be had, disappearing into the anonymous crowd, kissing random strangers, their youth fresh and freely offered. But an artist -- another of Hiram's circle, and when had Hiram's friends become her friends, anyhow? -- with a big, open loft that doubled as a private dance club, was throwing the party that was supposed to end all parties.
Amanda had her doubts about that, but even so, it wasn't something she wanted to miss
Exclusive could be fun in its own way, as long as you remembered to keep your (metaphorical) head about you. The supremely rich lived to turn against one another, and it was never healthy to be too visible. But she was missing Duncan, who'd decided to shun the New Years festivities in favor of hunkering down at Connor's old SoHo apartment. She respected his desire to commune with his teacher -- she still made pilgrimages to the Abbey to walk the labyrinth with Rebecca -- but there was a time for mourning and a time for partying and this was the time to party.
Besides, things between she and Duncan had been edgy at best the last few months. It was like he'd expected her to fly into his arms the moment he called to let her know he'd moved (however temporarily) to New York, like she should give up her lovely little loft and her circle of rich, fun friends just to keep him company in a mausoleum. She'd tried, she really had; but she hadn't been as diplomatic about it as she could have been and distance had crept between them. Not the physical kind - God no. Just... afterwards, she didn't stay
Which was one explanation for how Amanda ended up arriving at her first engagement of the evening slightly buzzed from a solitary pre-party bottle of champagne. Just enough that the rooms sparkled, the reflections in glass and mirrors catching her attention more than the hallowed guests.
“Good to see you, too.” Methos' voice drifted down to her and she pulled her attention back to the present. Their hands were still entangled, held between their bodies like children playing a game. She'd drawn closer to him than she'd realized; she pulled her hands from his and her fingers tingled at the absence of contact.
This version of Methos dressed... well. Unexpectedly well, and not at all understated, as she'd have expected if she'd ever imagined running across him at such a high-society event. Tailored jacket with crisp, asymmetrical lapels, a narrow accent of bright red adorning the left - oh, that was an unanticipated pleasure in this wasteland of stiff tuxedos and perfect little bow ties.
“You're wearing glasses,” she said. She reached up to touch the thin black frames. His smirk crinkled the fine skin of his nose.
“All the cool kids are. Hadn't you noticed?” Behind the twin, alien lenses his eyes were just as opaque as ever. He wasn't wearing a tie - it would have spoiled the effect of that one red stripe. The skin slid over his Adam's apple when he swallowed. She left the glasses behind and fingered the curved edge of the jacket.
“Yamamoto.”
“Sorry?” Methos took her wandering hand in his and she wasn't sure when it had happened but they'd got closer again, pressed together by the mass of bodies on the dance floor.
“Your suit. Yohji Yamamoto.”
“Ah.” A laugh rumbled up behind the jacket. “Been frequenting the Paris shows, have you?”
She didn't bother to respond. Of course she'd been to the shows. What did he think she was doing in New York? Fashion Week was... well... soon. The more interesting question was why had he suddenly developed a taste for couture?
“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr.-” She held out her hand, and he bent to kiss the skin near her unadorned wrist, his breath tickling the fine blonde hairs.
“Thomas Pierson.”
“Any relation to an Adam Pierson?” She was grinning and couldn't stop; the games they played with their identities always tickled. “He was a dear friend of mine. Lost track of him a couple of years back.”
“You know Adam!” The performance was flawless. Of course it was. “A small world indeed. Adam is my second cousin. On his father's side. Naturally.”
“Naturally.” The music was distracting her, something serene and harpy. Notes fell over the bare skin of her shoulders. “Good genes, the Piersons. Hardy stock.”
“Hmm.” He was already bored with the charade. So was she, for that matter. What she really wanted... was a terrible idea. Terrible.
“...dance.”
“What?” God, did she hate getting caught not paying attention by Methos, of all people. But he just grinned his Cheshire cat grin - one she didn't see often - and took her hand up in his again.
“Seemed like you were here dressed to dance, not to catch up on whoever we're both pretending to be today.” And without another thought, they were on the dance floor. His big hands on her back, just above the spot where the wide swath of the red silk obi belt knotted to drape down over the arch of her ass to brush the backs of her calves.
His voice tickled her ear. “You remember how, right?” He smelled faintly of basil and grapefruit - something fresh. Earthy. Sharp. She stepped on his toe, to remind him who he was dealing with. He retaliated by pulling her closer. The music was anachronistic, fittingly: some kind of gothic medieval revival, all plucked strings and buzzing keyboards, the sort that usually made her roll her eyes. Instead, tonight, she couldn't escape the music's grip.
Methos led until she caught up to him and then they moved together in the easy way she remembered from long ago, back when they had celebrated under parti-colored tents, feet bare in the grass, circling around a bonfire, passed back and forth between partners. Rebecca's solemnity melting into deep joy, Methos at turns wicked and sensual. The bonfires might be gone, but the memories of them echoed between them as they drifted over the floor.
"What's going on, Amanda?"
She bit his earlobe. Lightly. “What do you mean?”
A puff of warm air on her neck, a rumble of laughter that she felt sink into her where they touched. Their bodies continued the dance, even if their attention had wandered.
“You haven't tried to seduce me for two hundred years, my dear.”
“Has it been that long?” No, that couldn't be right. There'd been that time in Milan, with Rebecca when... oh. Right. “Is that what I'm doing? Seducing you?”
“Trying, anyway.” He didn't duck her swat, just caught her hand in his and kissed her palm.
“I don't try to seduce anyone.” It sounded too insistent, too shrill. Not the purr she was trying for at all. Methos' hands slid over the train of the obi and settled just above her ass. “I don't attempt seduction. I perfect it.”
“Like a fine work of art, eh?”
He always wanted the last word. Too bad. “Performance art,” she said, then burst into a gale of giggles.
Pressed up against him, her fingertips feathered through the hair at the back of his neck, barely moving despite the music. They had yet to kiss, to do more than dance (albeit closer than was strictly polite, given the company) but her flesh was already alive to him.
“Now,” she said, her hands on either side of his face, framing him, capturing him. “Nownownow.”
“Where?”
“Behind you. Down the hall. Bathroom. Big one, all marble and chrome. You'll like it. Very Roman.”
“How would you know?” he teased. Before they parted he leaned in, pulled her hips tight to his pelvis and bit her neck, right where it met her shoulder. A shiver raced through her and settled behind her navel. Waiting. “Why don't you show me this Roman splendor?”
Surely it was obvious, where they were going and why. Who the hell cared?
Methos let out a low whistle as she pushed past the heavy door of the bathroom and pulled him through behind her. “The Romans would have wept to have even dreamed of such a perfection of plumbing as this.”
“Stop teasing.” She fumbled at the latch but the door lacked a lock, so she shrugged and gave up.
“Speaking of perfect plumbing...” He only grinned through her slap, which made her madder. And... the buttons on his black shirt were too small for her fingers. She'd hit him harder than she meant to -- when she finally spared some of her attention away from spreading his shirt open to the waist she saw that his teeth were streaked with red.
“Sorry.”
“I'm not.” He batted her hands away and pulled her closer. He tasted of pennies and champagne.
They didn't bother much with preliminaries. Didn't need to. She was ready, the warmth spreading from her belly up to her breasts and back, round and round like a circuit. A completed circuit, and his touch set her buzzing. Methos kissed her again. Lifted her breasts free of the silk bodice while she tugged open his pants, the slide of the fine fabric over the backs of her hands sending her heart racing. “Wait,” he said, words muffled, tickling her collarbone.
“Wait.”
“No,” she breathed. “Now.”
“God.” His gasp sent shivers of warmth down her back as she freed his cock from the fabric. “Manda-”
“Yep.” Amanda guided his hands to her ass. “That's me.”
“I certainly hope so.”
It made no sense. No sense at all. She fell into giggles again.
In a blink he had hefted her up to perch on the edge of the white marble counter, the narrow skirt hitched around her waist. The head of his cock brushed against her wetness, slid through the warm layers. She twined her fingers through his hair, pulled him to her and bit his lower lip just as he pushed inside.
“Oh yes,” she laughed, “Yes.”
One of her gold sandals clattered to the floor as she wrapped her thighs around his hips and pressed herself to him. Tight. Tight. He thrust back into her, filling her again, and she felt herself contract around him, felt him shudder. God. God. She-
“What the hell?” The voice was male, familiar, just a bit high-pitched, and oh, there was the immortal buzz she'd been too distracted to notice.
Over Methos' shoulder (the bastard nipped at her ear, so she ground her hips until a strangled groan escaped him) she could see a blur of white face, black tie, neat white rose at the lapel.
Duncan.
“What does it look like?” she grinned at him. Methos didn't turn, but he stilled, and his head rose. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him staring into the mirror behind her, at Duncan's reflection.
"Where have you been?" Duncan demanded. And since he knew very well what she'd been up to...
Oh. Amanda blinked, felt her grin go brittle. Right. She'd forgotten. Duncan and Methos and the five years since they'd laid eyes on each other. “How awkward,” she managed, breathier than she'd have preferred.
“What do you want?” Methos didn't turn as he spoke to the reflection in the mirror.
"Answers would be nice."
Amanda pulled up her bodice and squirmed, trying to untangle herself from Methos, but there wasn't a lot of room.
"Always looking for answers from me, MacLeod." Methos shifted to give Amanda more space but didn't turn around. He wasn't looking in the mirror anymore, his attention somewhere around Amanda's dropped sandal. "Sorry I never have any."
"Oookay," Amanda said, hopping down from the counter, pulling her skirt back into place. With a flick of her wrist, she fastened Methos's pants for him and then patted him on the cheek. "This has been fun, but I'm gonna let you boys catch up."
And with that, she slid past Duncan and headed back into the crowd.
2
Afterwards MacLeod couldn't remember what he'd said, if he'd even said anything at all. Just that he'd followed Methos out of the bathroom and the other man had made a beeline for the coat check and he'd known if Methos got out the door, he'd be gone again.
So he might have been a little aggressive in his attempt to catch up, to intercept Methos before he left, but as it turned out Methos threw the first punch. Which was rather a surprise. MacLeod managed to deflect the blow and Methos, canny as always, ducked under MacLeod's jab.
Before MacLeod could try again, Methos' hand shot out and gripped his throat, used the momentum to slam him back against the paneled wall. In return MacLeod surged forward and threw Methos off-balance but Methos kept his grip as they went down. He landed on his back on the wooden stairs, let out a short grunt of pain and bucked against MacLeod, his hand squeezing MacLeod's throat, forcing his head backward. MacLeod thrust a knee between Methos' thighs, wedged his legs apart and shoved him forward until his back was pressed against the hard wood of the staircase.
Then MacLeod's fingers were in Methos' mouth and Methos' free hand gripped MacLeod's hair. His hold on MacLeod's throat shifted into something less deadly but no less aggressive. Methos bit down on the fingers in his mouth. Hard. In retaliation MacLeod ground his knee against Methos' unprotected crotch.
“Get the fuck off me,” Methos growled when the fingers slipped free of his mouth. He'd broken through the skin on MacLeod's finger, which leaked a sluggish bead of red before sealing over. They were both still panting, still struggling against one another, but neither made a move to relent.
“Let go of my bloody throat, you maniac.” This was less clear, as Methos tightened his fingers under MacLeod's jaw when he started to speak.
“Just what d'you think is gonna happen here, MacLeod?”
Methos' silk jacket was rucked up under his arms. The black shirt had pulled free to expose a swath of straining abdomen. Somewhere along the way the top button of the pants had popped off, leaving the waistband gaping open.
MacLeod used his body weight to pin Methos in place, even as Methos squirmed against him, eyes wide and opaque, the shadow of a bruise blooming along his jaw under his right ear.
“First, you're going to stop attempting to asphyxiate me,” MacLeod ground out, emphasizing each point with a shove of the knee. “Then I'm going to make sure you regret throwing that punch.”
The corner of Methos' lower lip oozed blood. He let it run down his chin to spot the still crisp collar of his shirt. He arched his back, trying without success to throw MacLeod off-center enough to escape.
“As I remember it, you were the one who made this physical.”
If he'd meant the comment to enrage further, well, Methos' barbs always were well aimed. But usually MacLeod had some idea why he'd let them fly in the first place.
MacLeod's right hand shot out and squeezed Methos' crotch, nails raking over the dark cloth. “How physical do you want it, Methos?”
Methos' breathing sped up, coming in quick bursts. He stared at MacLeod and something shifted in his eyes. MacLeod moved back a breath - not enough to let him free, but out of biting range.
“Whatever makes you feel better.” It came out like a threat. MacLeod's hand still moved over Methos' crotch, stroking him through the material. Methos stopped fighting, though his hand remained tight around the flesh of MacLeod's throat.
MacLeod yanked the already unfastened material of the pants open, parted it enough to slip his hand inside. “Fuck,” Methos gasped, his head falling back with a loud thump against the wood steps.
His legs spread wider apart as MacLeod kneaded him, relentless, nothing kind in the motion, an action of pure frustration. The hand at MacLeod's throat shifted. Despite Methos' grip MacLeod lowered his head to bite at the neck bared below him.
“Bastard,” Methos hissed. He was panting now, lips swollen and half parted. And there they remained, hardly moving, MacLeod's fingers tight around Methos through the thin cotton of his briefs, Methos' hand pressed up under the base of MacLeod's jaw, keeping him a bent-arm's length away.
The moment spun away from them, opening up into a vast empty space. MacLeod gasped as if he'd been dumped in the ocean and Methos convulsed against him, familiar, but it felt less like pleasure than--
“Fuck this. Fuck. What am I doing?” Methos' voice went hoarse and jagged near the end. “This is why I fucking left in the first place.”
With a cold shock, Macleod dropped out of the ocean and into now, came shuddering back to the stairway.
"What's that supposed to mean?" MacLeod demanded.
Methos restarted the struggle, clenching his free hand around MacLeod's wrist.
"What's what supposed to--"
So that's how Methos was going to play it. MacLeod slipped his hand past the cloth at Methos' crotch and reached hot flesh. Methos' words vanished in a choking gasp.
Before MacLeod could push it further a pair of voices intruded. In the outer hall, coming closer. One mellow with a familiar teasing edge. One unfamiliar. Male. And trailing just after, the sudden wash of immortal presence. Probably just Amanda, but--
“Get. Off.” Methos hissed, fighting to draw one leg up to kick MacLeod away. MacLeod went reeling, landing on his ass two steps down, legs and arms akimbo.
MacLeod swallowed, hard. Bit his lip and stayed where he was. Watched as Methos found his feet and leaned against the railing for support as he straightened his suit the best he could, tucked in his shirt and closed the jacket over the pants to hide the gap at the waist where the button had been.
Beneath the rumpled suit he was perfectly, unbelievably unaffected by the last few minutes. Cool as... well. It was inhuman. No. That wasn't quite true. There was a trace of blood above Methos' upper lip. God.
Methos whipped out a handkerchief and the blood vanished. He checked his cuffs, his cuff links - twin golden bees MacLeod hadn't noticed until now. How appropriate. Pulling his collar back into place, Methos stalked away without another word.
"So, that could have gone better," Macleod muttered into his coffee the next morning.
Amanda just quirked her lips. There was an exasperated fondness in her expression that he wasn't sure what to do with. She'd arrived unbelievably early at Connor's -- his -- door with a basket of pastries and a thermos of coffee, as if she'd known exactly how his night had gone after she'd left. That, more than anything, made him wary.
And it must have registered in his expression, or she just knew him too well. "What?" she asked, picking apart her pain du chocolate. She looked ridiculously well rested despite the three other parties she'd told him she'd hit after Hiram's. He wondered if she'd bothered to sleep at all, given that she'd rung his bell at seven, though she'd at least gone back to her place to change. She'd left the red dress behind, and was wrapped in a sensible -- for Amanda -- black cashmere sweater and leather pants.
"You're two peas in a pod sometimes," he said with a sigh. "What'd he tell you?"
"Who?" she said, idly dunking a piece of pastry into her coffee.
"Don't be coy," MacLeod said, "it doesn't become you." That was a lie, of course, but one didn't tell Amanda things like that unless one wanted trouble.
"I haven't spoken to him since I saw you," she insisted. "Really."
"Right."
She settled on her stool then took in the apartment, Connor's antiques just as he'd left them, with a deliberately sweeping gaze. "I can't believe you've hung on to this old thing."
"Amanda."
"Give a girl some credit, okay? I saw Methos, I saw you, I haven't seen you both in the same city in ages. After a thousand odd years I've gotten pretty good at putting two and two together. So how long has it been?"
He hated it when Amanda managed to turn the conversation around on him. "How long has what been?"
She just gave him a look.
"Couple of years," he admitted. Then, at her amusement, "Okay, five. Five years. Give or take."
"I never did get it out of him, what happened between you." Amanda said.
MacLeod threw up his hands. "When you find out, let me know. I woke up one morning and he had his things packed."
"Did you ask him yourself?" Amanda asked.
"Would have, if he'd given me the chance. But he didn't."
Amanda shrugged, shot Duncan a sideways glance. "Maybe he got bored." Then, probably at the look on his face, she let out a cascading chime of laughter. "Darling, he's older than the hills. He stuck around, what? Twenty years?"
"On and off," MacLeod grumbled.
Amanda patted his hand. "That's a long time."
"It's really not."
"I know."
They sat sipping their coffee in a wash of sunlight from the window over Connor's breakfast nook, accompanied by the faint sound of morning traffic, that weird ocean-like whir of city noise that only ceased in the wee hours.
"I know I haven't been around as much," Amanda said into the quiet. "Since..."
MacLeod shifted in his chair, heard it creak with his weight. "You can say it, Amanda. Since Joe died." He found a smile, found he could do that now when talking about Joe. "I'm okay, really."
Amanda's mouth quirked. "Maybe I'm not."
Joe had been gone over five years now and this was the first time since the funeral that she'd given any sign that it had affected her, the first time she'd even mentioned Joe at all, and MacLeod hadn't noticed the absence until now, filled as it had been with Amanda's usual fluttering into and out of his life when the whim struck her. He leaned over and bussed her cheek.
"You will be."
"I know," she sighed, "I always am."
Amanda brushed crumbs from the table in front of her and tilted her head. "And as for Methos, he'll be back."
MacLeod knew he sounded petulant. "You're so sure."
"If I've learned one thing about Methos, it's that he always comes back eventually," she said.
"How long is 'eventually'?"
Amanda smiled. "Rebecca always said that's the part that makes knowing him interesting."
"That's not the word I'd use." MacLeod ignored the way her smile broadened. Grabbed another pastry from the jaunty, towel-lined basket and chewed. Pensively. Tried not to roll his eyes at himself, at letting Methos get to him. Again.
"So," Amanda said after a pause, waiting until he had his mouth full. "I'm in town. I partied all night. Is that a new bed?"
He choked on a laugh and swallowed. "Subtle, Amanda. It's the same bed as last time you were here, two days ago." "
At least you bought a new mattress when you moved in. It's a little creepy, you know, all Connor's stuff everywhere, just where he left it. Like making out in a church." And then she laughed again and gave him a kiss. Not on the cheek, this time.
3
"Learned a few tricks from Amanda, have we?" Methos said, flicking the safety back on his gun.
He should have known better after Hiram's party, just abandoned his shit and found another hotel. In another country. Wasn't like he'd have left behind anything irreplaceable.
But no, that would have been too smart. Couldn't have that.
MacLeod gave the handgun a pissy look from where he was draped over Methos' couch. Waiting. Uninvited. Methos rolled his eyes in anticipation of the inevitable comment about immortals and firearms. When it wasn't forthcoming, he dropped the thing onto the little table by the door and turned to lock the door.
Thumped his forehead against it for good measure.
Instead of doing the sensible thing last night, Methos had found another party, one he was sure MacLeod wouldn't know about. Then spent the morning and most of the afternoon wandering Brooklyn before he convinced himself there was no way MacLeod could have figured out where he was staying and took a train back to the Upper West Side.
How quickly he'd forgotten what a bad idea it was to underestimate MacLeod's sheer doggedness.
"Where've you been?" MacLeod said to his back. Speaking of predictable.
"Do you want me to draw you a map? I'm a little rusty, it's been a good hundred and fifty years since I was a cartographer." At the last, Methos turned around and gave MacLeod a quick once-over as he headed for the suite's mini fridge.
He looked the same as last time Methos had seen him. Same haircut, even. Had obviously been waiting for awhile -- his creme wool coat was neatly folded next to him on the couch, his leather gloves sitting on top. Only MacLeod could pull off a coat like that in New York in the winter and somehow keep it spotless. He'd probably taken a head wearing the damn thing without leaving a mark.
"This is quite the posh room for Adam Pierson."
Methos didn't offer MacLeod a drink. Poured himself one, though, scotch straight into a glass tumbler, no ice.
"Yeah, well, catch up, MacLeod. Haven't been Adam in years." He downed the scotch in one swallow and frowned. "I should call security on you. It'd serve you right, breaking into my room."
MacLeod snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."
Methos lifted a shoulder and found himself another tiny little bottle of alcohol. "How'd you find me?"
"That was a distinctive suit last night. Not exactly hard to track down."
Methos found himself brought up short, didn't much like the feeling. "Yamamoto pulled out of New York years ago. What'd you do, call all 15 shops in Tokyo? That's a tad obsessive, even for you."
MacLeod smirked. "Didn't have to. You had it altered and pressed a few blocks from here. Not many tailors worth trusting with that kind of suit, even in New York."
Fucking tuxedo. Why'd he even go to that ridiculous party in the first place? Should have known Hiram knew MacLeod. Should have figured out what a bad idea it was when he ran into Amanda. Well, as far as ideas went, that one hadn't been all bad, but--
"So it's obvious you've been avoiding me. Am I ever going to find out why?"
Fucking MacLeod. How such a big lunk could manage that level of passive-aggression was a mystery for the ages. Why Methos always felt like he needed to respond was another.
"Pick something." Oh look, his second bottle was empty. He lined it up next to the first and sighed. Fucking immortal metabolism. He was going to need a lot more liquor for this conversation, but interrupting to dial room service would just rile MacLeod up more than he already was.
Maybe MacLeod had learned something in the last five years, though, because he didn't take the bait. Just waited, sitting there watching, as if he knew Methos wouldn't just turn around and walk back out. Or shoot him. Come to think of it, why hadn't he taken a shot when he'd had a chance? Could have avoided this entirely. And the splatter might have ruined MacLeod's perfect coat while he was at it.
"You're looking for some kind of explanation, some answer that will make sense to you, and I just don't have one," he said finally. He should really find a different place to stand. Hovering over the mini-fridge wasn't exactly a strategic position of strength.
The surface of MacLeod's face finally shifted. "So you just woke up one morning and decided that's it, time to disappear?"
"Something like that," Methos said. There were three more bottles left in the fridge: tequila, brandy, cognac. He went with the cognac.
"You know, I don't understand you," MacLeod said, as if this wasn't the hundredth time he'd tossed off some variation of the sentiment. "Maybe I never have."
Methos was suddenly weary. Immortals couldn't get hangovers, yeah, but he thought maybe he remembered what it had felt like. Or maybe he'd just picked it up from years of watching mortals live through their mornings after, like a psychosomatic tic. Or it was just MacLeod, here in his space, taking up his entire couch. Practically half the room. Most of the air.
"What's there to understand?" he muttered. "I'm just a guy." Winced at his own choice, there, the echoes of another conversation. Not that MacLeod would get the reference. It was just that he'd been too distracted last night to really let MacLeod and all the memories that followed him sink in.
"Why'd you even stay as long as you did?" And there it was, finally, just a hint of hurt in MacLeod's voice.
"I dunno," Methos said. Not that MacLeod would accept it as the truth. "Look, I just -- it's not like everything I do has some kind of nefarious plan behind it, MacLeod. And I didn't -- I didn't wake up one day and decide to leave. It was a long time coming."
MacLeod's attention sharpened. "How long, exactly?"
Flustered, Methos fumbled the cap of the miniature brandy. "Uh. Awhile, I guess. It was just time to move on."
"Hmm," MacLeod said, fixing him with a considering stare. Like he was doing mental math. Balancing the equations of everything he knew about Methos, which wasn't much, but was more than Methos usually tolerated in his friends.
"It was Joe, wasn't it?" Methos didn't drop the bottle. Curled his hand around it and then emptied the brandy into his glass.
"Joe kept you around. Kept you coming back. And after he was gone..." MacLeod didn't finish the sentence.
And Methos was absurdly grateful for that. He supposed he could try denying it, but his face was never as opaque as he wanted it to be, even after 5,000 years of practice.
"I tried to stay," he admitted. "For awhile."
He'd made it eighteen months after they put Joe in the ground. And then he'd left.
"The club in Paris didn't last," MacLeod said after a long silence. "A concert promoter bought it three years ago."
"They don't even play blues anymore, I know." At MacLeod's curious glance, he shrugged. "I heard from Amy."
MacLeod lifted an eyebrow but didn't comment.
"So," Methos said, shifting from foot to foot. One bottle left. MacLeod gave him a close-mouthed smile, shoulders squared, like he knew something Methos didn't. Fuck it. Methos uncapped the miniature tequila and took a swallow straight from the bottle. "What I need right now," he said into the silence, "is more booze."
"I was afraid you were going to mix them all together in that glass," MacLeod said, an edge of amused disgust there that eased something in Methos' spine.
Fucking MacLeod.
"So," Methos said again. "You played amateur detective, broke into my room, and watched me drink a great deal of liquor from very small bottles. As entertaining as I'm sure it's all been, isn't it time you were going?"
"Nope." MacLeod glanced at his watch and then just sat there.
Maybe Methos was going to have to go for the gun after all. "And why not?"
MacLeod had apparently lost the gift of speech. Just as Methos was about to make a strategic retreat either to the balcony or the bathroom (he hadn't decided), there was a sharp rap on the door. And the buzz of another immortal.
MacLeod's poker face was atrocious.
Methos tossed aside the empty tequila bottle and stalked to the door. Whipped it open just as another round of knocking started, to find Amanda with her fist raised, her mouth open in a neat O of surprise.
"What is this, an intervention?" Methos grumbled.
"Why, do you need one?" Amanda pushed past him, long coat swirling behind her. "Duncan!" she chirped. "Whatever are you doing here?"
"I don't even want to know." Methos dropped into the suite's lone armchair and scrubbed his eyes with one hand. "Did you at least bring me something to drink that isn't meant for a Lilliputian?"
Amanda's grin slid from MacLeod over to Methos and then she pulled three bottles of wine out of her conveniently Mary Poppins-sized bag. "Even brought a corkscrew."
"You're clearly rusty at threesomes," Amanda said much later, the wine long gone, slapping at Methos before he could elbow her in the face.
He turned and slid his tongue into the shadow under her jaw and then pulled away again with a smirk. "It's the bed. It's not nearly big enough."
"I don't think the bed's the issue," she said, arching one brow at him. She stretched against the sheets, one hand drifting over Methos' bare thigh, and squirmed in pleasure under his lips as they made their way down the curve of her belly. "Mmm, remember that bed Rebecca had in Spain?"
MacLeod's head came up, scowling, from between them, hair in his eyes. "I don't remember threesomes involving this much talking."
Methos opened his mouth only to choke on whatever he'd meant to say next as one of MacLeod's broad hands enveloped his dick. "Right," he managed, strangled. "No more talking."
MacLeod's hand picked a rhythm that Methos very much approved of just as Amanda's mouth found one of his nipples.
"Why haven't we done this before?" she asked, breathy, her short hair tickling his collar bone.
"I thought we weren't--" Then MacLeod broke off as Amanda pushed him back, straddling his thighs.
The back of Methos' head thunked into the headboard at the loss of all contact.
"Hey, I was using that hand!"
"Rebecca wasn't this whiny," Amanda said, sinking down onto MacLeod, her thighs clenched around his hips.
"Hmm," was MacLeod's response, which seemed atrociously non-committal to Methos.
Being compared unfavorably with Rebecca wasn't exactly new to him, but it had never taken quite this particular form before.
"You're both leaving me out and I'm the one who's bad at this?"
Amanda just laughed, but MacLeod turned to him, eyes too serious for the occasion by far.
"You're leaving yourself out, you lazy git."
Methos rolled onto his side, head propped on one hand, watching Amanda and MacLeod move together, watching the way the light played over the angles between them. He couldn't really remember anymore why he'd left five years ago, but it sure hadn't been because sex with MacLeod had been bad. Or maybe that had been part of it: with Joe gone, he hadn't been able to figure out whether sex was the only thing keeping him in MacLeod's orbit, long after he'd normally have moved on.
But that wasn't the whole truth. There'd always been something between he and MacLeod, long before they'd finally started fucking. Something itchy and uncomfortable and vital. Even so, MacLeod hadn't been wrong. Methos had known Joe first, and longer.
"You've totally forgotten how, haven't you?" Amanda giggled, and then let out a little whining gasp. "Spent too long a Watcher." She reached over MacLeod and grabbed Methos' wrist, yanked him up for a kiss.
Maybe he had forgotten. He'd forgotten a lot of things, after all. Without Joe he hadn't known how to be Adam Pierson, and without Adam there as a buffer he hadn't known how to be around MacLeod.
MacLeod had too often looked to Methos for... wisdom, or guidance, or some kind of Obi-Wan bullshit. And it had just got worse after Joe. Methos wasn't built for whatever it was MacLeod wanted from him, never had been. But Joe's absence had been a sudden hole in his landscape, like a tank had taken out a cathedral but left the city around it intact, and he'd run out of patience entirely.
The way he'd left hadn't been his finest moment, no. But it had been the right decision.
"Oh my God," Amanda breathed, and then she groaned, but it wasn't the kind of groan he would have expected given the circumstances. "Will you. Just. Stop. With the overthinking?"
MacLeod sat up, Amanda still perched in his lap, and wrapped a hand around the back of Methos' neck. Gave him a little shake. "No one's asking anything of you tonight."
"Uh, speak for yourself," Amanda interrupted. They were close enough together now that she could reach him, and he couldn't help a shudder when she slid her hand under his balls and gave him a gentle squeeze.
MacLeod laughed then, full throated. "Okay, no one's asking anything of you beyond tonight," he said, smiling.
Methos had his doubts about that, but mulling them over really wasn't the best way to spend a surprise threesome.
Maybe he'd made the right decision, but he hadn't expected the loneliness afterwards. And now MacLeod had found him, had even maybe guessed a bit about why he'd left, and it wasn't so bad. It wasn't going to go back to what it had been, Methos knew that much. But maybe it could be something new, the three of them. Something he hadn't had since Rebecca; something he hadn't realized he'd missed.
"I'll have you know, I used to be very good at this," Methos said, then kissed them each in turn.
"Prove it," MacLeod growled.
So he did.
The guessing post for this fic is here.