WiP Amnesty: Drunken D/M by Sapphire, HL
Drunken DM
by Sapphire
Pairing: Duncan/Methos?
Rating: Oh, I dunno. PG-13?
WiP Began: 2000
Author's Notes: It needs de-wording. It need de-repetition. It could be clevered-up a bit. But, basically, it's not a bad little snippet; just needs some polish. I think I just lost interest in, so it never got finished. And I think I wanted a bit more farce in it. I'm not certain if I had more in mind than what's there. I think I did. But really don't remember at this point.
Morning light glimmered through a window of MacLeod's loft and slowly crawled across the room, climbing over what appeared to be hastily discarded clothing strewn on the floor. Eventually, the ray of sunshine found the bed. Neither of the sleeping figures in the bed stirred when the morning sun touched lightly upon them. So deep in slumber were the two figures that neither showed the slightest sign of activity until a car alarm loudly blared from outside.
A hazel eye shot open, the body tensing as its owner realized that something unusual had snapped him to alertness. Methos had learned early on that when wakened suddenly the wisest course of action wasn't always to immediately jump up. Sometimes that made you more of a target. He lay still, quietly cataloging his surroundings. He felt another immortal presence. That definitely wasn't a good sign.
The more alert he became the more certain he was he was being watched, and that whoever had their eye on him had been observing him since he had awakened. He usually wasn't so slow noting these sort of details. That should concern him, he knew. Feeling groggily out of focus, his gaze slowly focused on what was in front of him, halting abruptly when he made contact with a brown eye, approximately four to five inches from his, staring back. He blinked. The brown eye mirrored his action. He purposely blinked again and wasn't at all surprised to see that brown eye blink responsively once more. In fact, he recognized that eye.
If he hadn't been so confused he would have breathed a sigh of relief at having identified the immortal presence. MacLeod. That was MacLeod's eye staring back at him. But why so close?
It took another minute for the realization to sink in that they were sharing a bed. That didn't qualify as a disaster or even a mild alert but it was puzzling. How had he ended up in MacLeod's bed with MacLeod? It had certainly never happened before. Come to think of it, he didn't have a clear memory of how he ended up at MacLeod's. The unmerciful pounding in his head was finally recognized for the hangover of mammoth proportions that it was.
When had he last managed to drink enough by immortal standards to leave him with a hangover? To his recollection, it hadn't happened since the early 19th century. His senses, being rather slow and dimwitted compared to his usual sharp cognitive abilities, started reporting in one by one. Not only was he sharing a bed with MacLeod but he was fairly certain that MacLeod's legs were tangled with his under the covers and he could feel the weight of an arm that didn't belong to him, resting across his back--his bareback.
Just what exactly had happened last night?
His gaze refocused on the one in front of him, seeing the same dawning comprehension seeping into the Highlander's eyes. They both moved at the same time, both pulling back from each other, only to discover they were irrevocably tied together by a confusion of sheet and blankets that refused to untangle.
Methos gave an especially strong jerk on the blankets and felt MacLeod's body unexpectedly jump toward his, then he was falling backward, off the bed, in a confusion of arms and legs and blankets with one full-grown Highlander on top of him.
Bloody hell.
Breathing heavily from the unexpected exertion, not to mention a Highlander who was draped across his body and further impeding his breathing, Methos' irritation burst forth in vivid Technicolor, which his pounding head mightily protested. He wasn't certain what or who he was irritated at but MacLeod seemed a good target right about then.
"Get off me!" grumbled Methos, pushing at MacLeod.
"I'm trying," retorted the Scot. "Stop squirming around so much!"
"Get off me and I'll stop squirming around!" hissed the world's oldest immortal.
MacLeod finally managed to free his right arm from the bed sheet's treacherous grasp, only to realize too late that same arm has been supporting Methos' head. The Old Man's head flopped back to hit the floor with a loud thud. MacLeod winced in sympathy, thinking that if Methos' head felt anything like his did that thud had just reverberated at massive proportions through Methos' skull.
A pain-laden moan confirmed MacLeod's suspicions. Methos tried to curl up and escape the horrible pain of the hangover, only to find his knee hitting MacLeod's groin with unanticipated accuracy.
MacLeod grunted, going completely limp for a moment, until Methos began shoving at him again. Mac retaliated by shoving back. Arms and legs were finally semi-freed from the cocoon of the bed sheet and blankets. Unfortunately, all the rolling around had tightened the bed sheet around their waists like shrink wrap. The more they moved the tighter the sheet wrapped their bodies together. Underwear wasn't offering much protection against all the body contact.
In the midst of their struggle, Methos was hit with the unwelcome image of Joe or Amanda walking in and finding them like this--all flailing arms and legs. It was just a bit too reminiscent of a Skipper and Gilligan moment for Methos' taste--an observance he was sure MacLeod wouldn't get, given the Highlander's lack of pop culture proficiency.
Sucking air into his lungs, Methos roared in a deep voice that had been known to silence Horsemen in their day, "ENOUGH!"
MacLeod froze. Not a sound was heard in the room for long moments other than their harsh breathing. Methos, still pressed to the floor beneath MacLeod, took a moment to gather himself. MacLeod's mouth opened but before he could utter a word, Methos quietly but no less sternly ordered, "No. Don't say a word, MacLeod. Don't move. Don't think. Don't even breathe, unless you absolutely have to."
Moving carefully, Methos stretched out his left arm to the bedside table. Sliding the lower drawer open, he blindly reached inside, groping around until he found what he was looking for and pulled it out.
From his perch atop Methos' body, MacLeod, eyes wide, watched as Methos pulled the dagger, still sheathed, out of the drawer. It never crossed his mind to ask how Methos knew it was there. He was more concerned by what Methos planned to do with the knife. He tried not to let his concern show when Methos unsheathed the dagger.
Slowly and methodically, Methos sliced the bed sheet away from them, until it no longer held them captive. Methos' voice, carefully modulated and clearly enunciating, pulled MacLeod out of his stupor.
"Get. Off. Me."
It never occurred to MacLeod not to obey. He rolled off Methos, landing on all fours. Without another word or glance in his direction, Methos climbed to his feet and, dagger still in hand, stalked off to the bathroom. The clicking of the lock on the bathroom door was unnaturally loud in the silence.
MacLeod, still trying to get his bearings, flopped over onto his back and lay staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. His head, loudly protesting the huge amount of alcohol intake the night before, was picking up pace and refusing to be silenced. He groaned. Immortal healing would soon take care of the hangover but for the short term he was going to have to suffer through it.
Hearing the shower start up drew his thoughts back to Methos and what had just transpired. What had just transpired? And what had happened last night? He and Methos had got rip-roaring drunk at Joe's from what little he could remember. And he seemed to have some vague memory of Joe or someone pouring him and Methos into a cab. Things started getting really fuzzy at that point.
MacLeod tried to breech the foggy drunken memories of the previous night and found only murky images that refused to come into focus. He worked backwards, hoping that would bring some clarity. He and Methos had obviously shared his bed last night. They'd both still been wearing their underwear so nothing had happened--had it? Why was he so unsure of that? Maybe because you woke up practically snuggling in Methos' arms this morning? an inner voice jeered. MacLeod had this vague memory of his body and Methos' rubbing sensually together and wasn't sure if it was an actual memory or just an overactive libido fantasizing.
MacLeod stiffened in mild shock when he realized where his thoughts were taking him. He was thinking of Methos in terms of a lover--if not current then certainly potential. When had that change come about? He'd never thought of Methos like that. Had he? There had been some underlying attraction there practically from the beginning but it had never been overt nor had either of them ever acted upon it. They were just friends. Weren't they?
And if they were just friends, then why, suddenly, did it seem like more than that? Deeper than that? And why was the thought of that exciting him more than just a little?
Chuckling at himself and the ludicrous thoughts that the aftereffects of a night of heavy drinking can leave you with, MacLeod climbed to his feet, determined to get some sweats on and have coffee brewing before Methos exited the bathroom. But the bed had other ideas. Drawn to it by the mystery of what had or hadn't happened there the night before, MacLeod found himself staring at a spot on the remaining bed sheet near the middle of the mattress. He frowned, refusing to believe it was what it appeared to be. But some inner devil made him bend down and take a sniff. It smelled of sex. Of male sex. The remains of--his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a noise behind him and he turned to see the bathroom door opening and Methos, towel wrapped around his waist, walking out as if this was any other morning. Moving quickly to cover his actions without giving much thought as to why he was doing so, MacLeod scooped up the remainder of the bedding, including the sheet Methos had shredded, and dropped them on the bed, covering the questionable spot on the sheet.
Heading for the bathroom, MacLeod tossed over his shoulder, "You know where the coffee is. Mind starting a pot while I take a shower?" Not waiting for a reply, he beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom and temporary sanctuary. He needed more time to figure this out before he faced Methos.
*
Methos watched MacLeod disappear into the bathroom. He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to spike up even more. Slowly, he turned full circle, taking in every corner of the loft. Their clothes were strewn on the floor and furniture starting at the elevator and ending at the back side of the couch. From there on, it was a clear path to the bed. His gaze rested on the bed. What had happened here last night? Had they . . . ? Gods, Methos, he chastised himself, you'd think you would remember something like that. He supposed it was a testimony to his trust in MacLeod, as well as Joe, that he would get that far in his cups in their presence.
Getting his priorities in the right order, Methos headed for the kitchen to put on some coffee before making his way back across the loft toward the bed, picking up not only his clothing but MacLeod's as well. He paused when he picked up the black shirt MacLeod had been wearing under a sweater last night. He had a sudden and vivid image of himself teasingly unbuttoning the shirt and pulling it from Mac's shoulders before his lips caressed MacLeod's bare shoulder. He gave himself a mental shake. No, that hadn't happened. He'd remember if they had--wouldn't he?
He shook off the confusing images. How could remember something that happened to him four thousand years ago as clearly as if it had happened yesterday but couldn't remember last night? Methos' sharp-eyed gaze was overcome by a flood of apprehension when his eyes found the closed bathroom door. What if MacLeod remembered? He'd never live this down if that were the case. Eyes narrowed in thought, Methos decided the best course of action right now would be to behave as if nothing unexpected had happened last night, although his instincts were telling him otherwise. He would wait and see what the Highlander had to say about it all, if anything, when he emerged from the bathroom.
*
Duncan stepped into the shower, hoping the warm water could rinse away his unease. It was bad enough that he was normally a little off kilter with the Old Man when it came to trying to figure out what was going on behind that five thousand year old façade, but he certainly didn't need to show it. Methos would be quick to jump all over that. Sighing in pleasure as the water sluiced first over his shoulders and chest and then over his head, he turned to reach for the bar of soap and came up short. There was a dagger in his soap.
His lips quirked dangerously. It's not funny, MacLeod, he told himself, only to find himself battling not to chuckle out loud. Something about the whole scene between himself and Methos this morning was striking him as farcical. He wondered if it would bring out the humor in a five thousand year old immortal or just make him grumpy. You never knew with Methos. MacLeod was starting to understand that he needed to take his Methos one day at a time.
*
Methos didn't turn when the Highlander exited the bathroom. He wasn't certain his rumpled psyche could take seeing a nearly nude Duncan MacLeod fresh from the shower. Something that had happened this morning--or was it last night and why couldn't he remember what had happened last night?--had sent his libido into full overdrive. He couldn't deny that he had been attracted sexually to MacLeod before this. He just never had any overwhelming urges to act on it before now. He'd been content to savor their friendship, particularly after the events at Bordeaux had so badly shaken the foundations of that friendship. So what had happened, consciously or unconsciously--drunken his recalcitrant inner voice joyfully hissed at him--last night to bring that sexual attraction to the fore? Answers. He needed answers.
Methos set a steaming cup of black coffee on the bar for Mac before exploring the refrigerator for the makings of breakfast. Normally, he didn't cook when at MacLeod's, preferring to let the Highlander handle that chore, but he had an urge to keep busy this morning. If he didn't, he end up beating a hasty retreat from the loft and that would never do. That would be giving the Highlander the upper hand. No, Methos decided he would have to tough this out and try to discreetly ferret the information out of MacLeod about what had happened last night so he wouldn't be caught flatfooted.
*
MacLeod stole a look at Methos as he rummaged through the dresser for underwear and clothing and found himself freezing in place. Methos was bent over, rummaging through the refrigerator, giving MacLeod a very nice view of his denim-clad rear-end. MacLeod's cock twitched in interest and started showing some signs of life before he returned to the task of finding something to wear.
By the time he emerged, Methos was busy whipping up something in a bowl and had a pan heating on the stovetop. Spotting the untouched cup of coffee on the bar, Mac snatched it up, gulping at it gratefully. He eyed Methos' oversized fisherman's sweater, the sleeves pushed up to accommodate the food preparation, and realized it was one of his sweaters. Methos was forever 'borrowing' clothing and MacLeod wasn't sure if it ever exactly got returned or not. It had ceased to matter. He didn't mind sharing with Methos. In fact, he was having thoughts this morning of sharing more than clothing with Methos.
"Want a refill?"
"What?" MacLeod was snapped out of the beginnings of what had promised to be a very enjoyable daydream to find Methos looking at him expectantly, pot of coffee raised in inquiry. He felt himself coloring but pushed through it, ignoring Methos' assessing gaze. He held out his coffee cup for Methos to refill.
"Thanks." He watched Methos as he set the coffee pot down and then returned to his breakfast preparations.
"Methos. You're fixing breakfast." Oh, MacLeod, that was brilliant.
Methos gave MacLeod a look over his shoulder before returning his attention to whipping the mixture in the bowl. "You're very observant, MacLeod. How long did it take you to deduce that?"
Methos stiffened when he heard MacLeod's laughter. That wasn't the usual response from the Highlander when he used that 'I'm-the-elder-you're-the-youngster' tone of voice with him. He eyed the Highlander as he walked over to the stove and poured the egg mixture into the heated pan. Still working over the cooking breakfast, he finally asked, "Care to tell me what's so funny, MacLeod?"
"Nothing really, Methos. I just enjoy it when you're being Methos."
Looking up at that strange statement, Methos found MacLeod gazing at him with that fond clan father expression he frequently employed. There was warmth and affectionate amusement in those eyes now and it was directed at him. Methos found himself unaccountably warmed and for once at a loss for something to say.
"Well, that's who I am," he finally settled on, chastising himself for being less than brilliant.
*
MacLeod had an urge to cup Methos' face with one hand and run his thumb over that lower lip and found that the image and the feelings associated with that need pleased him. Instead of acting on his feelings, though, he sat back and just enjoyed the view. Until Methos interrupted his reverie.
"Make yourself useful and set the table, will you?" the oldest snapped mildly at him.
Burying a smile that was sure to further irritate the other man, MacLeod did as he was bade while still sneaking looks at Methos. He was having trouble reading the Old Man this morning. Methos was being even more evasive than usual but he was fixing breakfast for them and that was something he never did. Something was up and it had to do with last night. If only he could remember--
The elevator coming to life grabbed his attention. Someone down in the dojo had called it. That someone would have to have a key and since he felt no immortal presence other than Methos' . . . his gaze collided with Methos'.
"Joe," they both said at the same time with nearly identical tones of fait accompli.(resignation?)
*
Joe Dawson, humming a jaunty tune under his breath, exited the elevator to find two immortals watching him with carefully crafted neutral expressions. He smiled and dropped the coup de grâce on them by tossing a black sweater at Methos. "Found that in the dojo. Weren't you wearing that last night?"
He watched as Methos swatted the offending sweater away from his face. The oldest immortal's expression went from neutral to puzzlement before the shutters dropped down to hide whatever he was thinking.
"Thought it was MacLeod's sweater for a minute," commented Joe as he maneuvered further inside the loft. "Smelled like his cologne." Joe watched in anticipated delight as Methos obliged him and lifted the sweater to his prominent nose and sniffed. An interesting expression flitted across the Old Guy's face before he turned and walked the sweater over to the bed, where he tossed it down carelessly.
"You guys were in rare form last night," chuckled Joe. "Don't think I've ever seen either of you cut loose quite like that."
"You want some coffee, Joe?" offered MacLeod. Dawson knew the immortal was trying to steer the conversation in a different direction and didn't fight it--for now. There'd be time later to tease them about their rather hedonistic behavior the night before.
"Sure, MacLeod. Would love a cup."
"May as well stay for breakfast while you're here," stated Methos on his way back to the kitchen. Joe watched the two men maneuver around each other in the kitchen with well practiced ease and he wondered if their relationship had progressed further than he thought. Then he noted with no small amount of surprise that Methos appeared to be the one preparing breakfast.
"Methos is cooking? Sure, I'll stay. Don't think I've ever had a meal prepared by you."
"Imagine that, Methos." MacLeod's voice was overflowing with teasing. "Joe's never tasted your cooking. Come to think of it, neither have I."
Joe's grin widened when he realized he was seeing a flirtatious MacLeod and that it was being directed at the world's oldest cynic, who appeared to be floundering a bit.
"Yeah, imagine that," muttered Methos. "MacLeod."
"Yes, Methos."
Joe nearly laughed aloud at the mock meekness in MacLeod's voice and the gruffness that was hiding something much more telling in the Old Man.
"Stop standing around uttering useless commentary and make yourself useful. We need toast to go with this." A nod of his head indicated the egg dish that was now warming on low.
Joe's gaze slid past Methos to meet MacLeod's. The Highlander's gaze evaded Dawson's, but Joe Dawson knew his immortal. Something that was going to carry a big emotional wallop was simmering just under the surface. Turning, Joe found a seat at the table and made himself comfortable. He had time. But before he left today these two would admit to him that they'd not been entirely truthful about their relationship with him lately and he'd get to the bottom of this.
*****
by Sapphire
Pairing: Duncan/Methos?
Rating: Oh, I dunno. PG-13?
WiP Began: 2000
Author's Notes: It needs de-wording. It need de-repetition. It could be clevered-up a bit. But, basically, it's not a bad little snippet; just needs some polish. I think I just lost interest in, so it never got finished. And I think I wanted a bit more farce in it. I'm not certain if I had more in mind than what's there. I think I did. But really don't remember at this point.
Morning light glimmered through a window of MacLeod's loft and slowly crawled across the room, climbing over what appeared to be hastily discarded clothing strewn on the floor. Eventually, the ray of sunshine found the bed. Neither of the sleeping figures in the bed stirred when the morning sun touched lightly upon them. So deep in slumber were the two figures that neither showed the slightest sign of activity until a car alarm loudly blared from outside.
A hazel eye shot open, the body tensing as its owner realized that something unusual had snapped him to alertness. Methos had learned early on that when wakened suddenly the wisest course of action wasn't always to immediately jump up. Sometimes that made you more of a target. He lay still, quietly cataloging his surroundings. He felt another immortal presence. That definitely wasn't a good sign.
The more alert he became the more certain he was he was being watched, and that whoever had their eye on him had been observing him since he had awakened. He usually wasn't so slow noting these sort of details. That should concern him, he knew. Feeling groggily out of focus, his gaze slowly focused on what was in front of him, halting abruptly when he made contact with a brown eye, approximately four to five inches from his, staring back. He blinked. The brown eye mirrored his action. He purposely blinked again and wasn't at all surprised to see that brown eye blink responsively once more. In fact, he recognized that eye.
If he hadn't been so confused he would have breathed a sigh of relief at having identified the immortal presence. MacLeod. That was MacLeod's eye staring back at him. But why so close?
It took another minute for the realization to sink in that they were sharing a bed. That didn't qualify as a disaster or even a mild alert but it was puzzling. How had he ended up in MacLeod's bed with MacLeod? It had certainly never happened before. Come to think of it, he didn't have a clear memory of how he ended up at MacLeod's. The unmerciful pounding in his head was finally recognized for the hangover of mammoth proportions that it was.
When had he last managed to drink enough by immortal standards to leave him with a hangover? To his recollection, it hadn't happened since the early 19th century. His senses, being rather slow and dimwitted compared to his usual sharp cognitive abilities, started reporting in one by one. Not only was he sharing a bed with MacLeod but he was fairly certain that MacLeod's legs were tangled with his under the covers and he could feel the weight of an arm that didn't belong to him, resting across his back--his bareback.
Just what exactly had happened last night?
His gaze refocused on the one in front of him, seeing the same dawning comprehension seeping into the Highlander's eyes. They both moved at the same time, both pulling back from each other, only to discover they were irrevocably tied together by a confusion of sheet and blankets that refused to untangle.
Methos gave an especially strong jerk on the blankets and felt MacLeod's body unexpectedly jump toward his, then he was falling backward, off the bed, in a confusion of arms and legs and blankets with one full-grown Highlander on top of him.
Bloody hell.
Breathing heavily from the unexpected exertion, not to mention a Highlander who was draped across his body and further impeding his breathing, Methos' irritation burst forth in vivid Technicolor, which his pounding head mightily protested. He wasn't certain what or who he was irritated at but MacLeod seemed a good target right about then.
"Get off me!" grumbled Methos, pushing at MacLeod.
"I'm trying," retorted the Scot. "Stop squirming around so much!"
"Get off me and I'll stop squirming around!" hissed the world's oldest immortal.
MacLeod finally managed to free his right arm from the bed sheet's treacherous grasp, only to realize too late that same arm has been supporting Methos' head. The Old Man's head flopped back to hit the floor with a loud thud. MacLeod winced in sympathy, thinking that if Methos' head felt anything like his did that thud had just reverberated at massive proportions through Methos' skull.
A pain-laden moan confirmed MacLeod's suspicions. Methos tried to curl up and escape the horrible pain of the hangover, only to find his knee hitting MacLeod's groin with unanticipated accuracy.
MacLeod grunted, going completely limp for a moment, until Methos began shoving at him again. Mac retaliated by shoving back. Arms and legs were finally semi-freed from the cocoon of the bed sheet and blankets. Unfortunately, all the rolling around had tightened the bed sheet around their waists like shrink wrap. The more they moved the tighter the sheet wrapped their bodies together. Underwear wasn't offering much protection against all the body contact.
In the midst of their struggle, Methos was hit with the unwelcome image of Joe or Amanda walking in and finding them like this--all flailing arms and legs. It was just a bit too reminiscent of a Skipper and Gilligan moment for Methos' taste--an observance he was sure MacLeod wouldn't get, given the Highlander's lack of pop culture proficiency.
Sucking air into his lungs, Methos roared in a deep voice that had been known to silence Horsemen in their day, "ENOUGH!"
MacLeod froze. Not a sound was heard in the room for long moments other than their harsh breathing. Methos, still pressed to the floor beneath MacLeod, took a moment to gather himself. MacLeod's mouth opened but before he could utter a word, Methos quietly but no less sternly ordered, "No. Don't say a word, MacLeod. Don't move. Don't think. Don't even breathe, unless you absolutely have to."
Moving carefully, Methos stretched out his left arm to the bedside table. Sliding the lower drawer open, he blindly reached inside, groping around until he found what he was looking for and pulled it out.
From his perch atop Methos' body, MacLeod, eyes wide, watched as Methos pulled the dagger, still sheathed, out of the drawer. It never crossed his mind to ask how Methos knew it was there. He was more concerned by what Methos planned to do with the knife. He tried not to let his concern show when Methos unsheathed the dagger.
Slowly and methodically, Methos sliced the bed sheet away from them, until it no longer held them captive. Methos' voice, carefully modulated and clearly enunciating, pulled MacLeod out of his stupor.
"Get. Off. Me."
It never occurred to MacLeod not to obey. He rolled off Methos, landing on all fours. Without another word or glance in his direction, Methos climbed to his feet and, dagger still in hand, stalked off to the bathroom. The clicking of the lock on the bathroom door was unnaturally loud in the silence.
MacLeod, still trying to get his bearings, flopped over onto his back and lay staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. His head, loudly protesting the huge amount of alcohol intake the night before, was picking up pace and refusing to be silenced. He groaned. Immortal healing would soon take care of the hangover but for the short term he was going to have to suffer through it.
Hearing the shower start up drew his thoughts back to Methos and what had just transpired. What had just transpired? And what had happened last night? He and Methos had got rip-roaring drunk at Joe's from what little he could remember. And he seemed to have some vague memory of Joe or someone pouring him and Methos into a cab. Things started getting really fuzzy at that point.
MacLeod tried to breech the foggy drunken memories of the previous night and found only murky images that refused to come into focus. He worked backwards, hoping that would bring some clarity. He and Methos had obviously shared his bed last night. They'd both still been wearing their underwear so nothing had happened--had it? Why was he so unsure of that? Maybe because you woke up practically snuggling in Methos' arms this morning? an inner voice jeered. MacLeod had this vague memory of his body and Methos' rubbing sensually together and wasn't sure if it was an actual memory or just an overactive libido fantasizing.
MacLeod stiffened in mild shock when he realized where his thoughts were taking him. He was thinking of Methos in terms of a lover--if not current then certainly potential. When had that change come about? He'd never thought of Methos like that. Had he? There had been some underlying attraction there practically from the beginning but it had never been overt nor had either of them ever acted upon it. They were just friends. Weren't they?
And if they were just friends, then why, suddenly, did it seem like more than that? Deeper than that? And why was the thought of that exciting him more than just a little?
Chuckling at himself and the ludicrous thoughts that the aftereffects of a night of heavy drinking can leave you with, MacLeod climbed to his feet, determined to get some sweats on and have coffee brewing before Methos exited the bathroom. But the bed had other ideas. Drawn to it by the mystery of what had or hadn't happened there the night before, MacLeod found himself staring at a spot on the remaining bed sheet near the middle of the mattress. He frowned, refusing to believe it was what it appeared to be. But some inner devil made him bend down and take a sniff. It smelled of sex. Of male sex. The remains of--his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a noise behind him and he turned to see the bathroom door opening and Methos, towel wrapped around his waist, walking out as if this was any other morning. Moving quickly to cover his actions without giving much thought as to why he was doing so, MacLeod scooped up the remainder of the bedding, including the sheet Methos had shredded, and dropped them on the bed, covering the questionable spot on the sheet.
Heading for the bathroom, MacLeod tossed over his shoulder, "You know where the coffee is. Mind starting a pot while I take a shower?" Not waiting for a reply, he beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom and temporary sanctuary. He needed more time to figure this out before he faced Methos.
*
Methos watched MacLeod disappear into the bathroom. He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to spike up even more. Slowly, he turned full circle, taking in every corner of the loft. Their clothes were strewn on the floor and furniture starting at the elevator and ending at the back side of the couch. From there on, it was a clear path to the bed. His gaze rested on the bed. What had happened here last night? Had they . . . ? Gods, Methos, he chastised himself, you'd think you would remember something like that. He supposed it was a testimony to his trust in MacLeod, as well as Joe, that he would get that far in his cups in their presence.
Getting his priorities in the right order, Methos headed for the kitchen to put on some coffee before making his way back across the loft toward the bed, picking up not only his clothing but MacLeod's as well. He paused when he picked up the black shirt MacLeod had been wearing under a sweater last night. He had a sudden and vivid image of himself teasingly unbuttoning the shirt and pulling it from Mac's shoulders before his lips caressed MacLeod's bare shoulder. He gave himself a mental shake. No, that hadn't happened. He'd remember if they had--wouldn't he?
He shook off the confusing images. How could remember something that happened to him four thousand years ago as clearly as if it had happened yesterday but couldn't remember last night? Methos' sharp-eyed gaze was overcome by a flood of apprehension when his eyes found the closed bathroom door. What if MacLeod remembered? He'd never live this down if that were the case. Eyes narrowed in thought, Methos decided the best course of action right now would be to behave as if nothing unexpected had happened last night, although his instincts were telling him otherwise. He would wait and see what the Highlander had to say about it all, if anything, when he emerged from the bathroom.
*
Duncan stepped into the shower, hoping the warm water could rinse away his unease. It was bad enough that he was normally a little off kilter with the Old Man when it came to trying to figure out what was going on behind that five thousand year old façade, but he certainly didn't need to show it. Methos would be quick to jump all over that. Sighing in pleasure as the water sluiced first over his shoulders and chest and then over his head, he turned to reach for the bar of soap and came up short. There was a dagger in his soap.
His lips quirked dangerously. It's not funny, MacLeod, he told himself, only to find himself battling not to chuckle out loud. Something about the whole scene between himself and Methos this morning was striking him as farcical. He wondered if it would bring out the humor in a five thousand year old immortal or just make him grumpy. You never knew with Methos. MacLeod was starting to understand that he needed to take his Methos one day at a time.
*
Methos didn't turn when the Highlander exited the bathroom. He wasn't certain his rumpled psyche could take seeing a nearly nude Duncan MacLeod fresh from the shower. Something that had happened this morning--or was it last night and why couldn't he remember what had happened last night?--had sent his libido into full overdrive. He couldn't deny that he had been attracted sexually to MacLeod before this. He just never had any overwhelming urges to act on it before now. He'd been content to savor their friendship, particularly after the events at Bordeaux had so badly shaken the foundations of that friendship. So what had happened, consciously or unconsciously--drunken his recalcitrant inner voice joyfully hissed at him--last night to bring that sexual attraction to the fore? Answers. He needed answers.
Methos set a steaming cup of black coffee on the bar for Mac before exploring the refrigerator for the makings of breakfast. Normally, he didn't cook when at MacLeod's, preferring to let the Highlander handle that chore, but he had an urge to keep busy this morning. If he didn't, he end up beating a hasty retreat from the loft and that would never do. That would be giving the Highlander the upper hand. No, Methos decided he would have to tough this out and try to discreetly ferret the information out of MacLeod about what had happened last night so he wouldn't be caught flatfooted.
*
MacLeod stole a look at Methos as he rummaged through the dresser for underwear and clothing and found himself freezing in place. Methos was bent over, rummaging through the refrigerator, giving MacLeod a very nice view of his denim-clad rear-end. MacLeod's cock twitched in interest and started showing some signs of life before he returned to the task of finding something to wear.
By the time he emerged, Methos was busy whipping up something in a bowl and had a pan heating on the stovetop. Spotting the untouched cup of coffee on the bar, Mac snatched it up, gulping at it gratefully. He eyed Methos' oversized fisherman's sweater, the sleeves pushed up to accommodate the food preparation, and realized it was one of his sweaters. Methos was forever 'borrowing' clothing and MacLeod wasn't sure if it ever exactly got returned or not. It had ceased to matter. He didn't mind sharing with Methos. In fact, he was having thoughts this morning of sharing more than clothing with Methos.
"Want a refill?"
"What?" MacLeod was snapped out of the beginnings of what had promised to be a very enjoyable daydream to find Methos looking at him expectantly, pot of coffee raised in inquiry. He felt himself coloring but pushed through it, ignoring Methos' assessing gaze. He held out his coffee cup for Methos to refill.
"Thanks." He watched Methos as he set the coffee pot down and then returned to his breakfast preparations.
"Methos. You're fixing breakfast." Oh, MacLeod, that was brilliant.
Methos gave MacLeod a look over his shoulder before returning his attention to whipping the mixture in the bowl. "You're very observant, MacLeod. How long did it take you to deduce that?"
Methos stiffened when he heard MacLeod's laughter. That wasn't the usual response from the Highlander when he used that 'I'm-the-elder-you're-the-youngster' tone of voice with him. He eyed the Highlander as he walked over to the stove and poured the egg mixture into the heated pan. Still working over the cooking breakfast, he finally asked, "Care to tell me what's so funny, MacLeod?"
"Nothing really, Methos. I just enjoy it when you're being Methos."
Looking up at that strange statement, Methos found MacLeod gazing at him with that fond clan father expression he frequently employed. There was warmth and affectionate amusement in those eyes now and it was directed at him. Methos found himself unaccountably warmed and for once at a loss for something to say.
"Well, that's who I am," he finally settled on, chastising himself for being less than brilliant.
*
MacLeod had an urge to cup Methos' face with one hand and run his thumb over that lower lip and found that the image and the feelings associated with that need pleased him. Instead of acting on his feelings, though, he sat back and just enjoyed the view. Until Methos interrupted his reverie.
"Make yourself useful and set the table, will you?" the oldest snapped mildly at him.
Burying a smile that was sure to further irritate the other man, MacLeod did as he was bade while still sneaking looks at Methos. He was having trouble reading the Old Man this morning. Methos was being even more evasive than usual but he was fixing breakfast for them and that was something he never did. Something was up and it had to do with last night. If only he could remember--
The elevator coming to life grabbed his attention. Someone down in the dojo had called it. That someone would have to have a key and since he felt no immortal presence other than Methos' . . . his gaze collided with Methos'.
"Joe," they both said at the same time with nearly identical tones of fait accompli.(resignation?)
*
Joe Dawson, humming a jaunty tune under his breath, exited the elevator to find two immortals watching him with carefully crafted neutral expressions. He smiled and dropped the coup de grâce on them by tossing a black sweater at Methos. "Found that in the dojo. Weren't you wearing that last night?"
He watched as Methos swatted the offending sweater away from his face. The oldest immortal's expression went from neutral to puzzlement before the shutters dropped down to hide whatever he was thinking.
"Thought it was MacLeod's sweater for a minute," commented Joe as he maneuvered further inside the loft. "Smelled like his cologne." Joe watched in anticipated delight as Methos obliged him and lifted the sweater to his prominent nose and sniffed. An interesting expression flitted across the Old Guy's face before he turned and walked the sweater over to the bed, where he tossed it down carelessly.
"You guys were in rare form last night," chuckled Joe. "Don't think I've ever seen either of you cut loose quite like that."
"You want some coffee, Joe?" offered MacLeod. Dawson knew the immortal was trying to steer the conversation in a different direction and didn't fight it--for now. There'd be time later to tease them about their rather hedonistic behavior the night before.
"Sure, MacLeod. Would love a cup."
"May as well stay for breakfast while you're here," stated Methos on his way back to the kitchen. Joe watched the two men maneuver around each other in the kitchen with well practiced ease and he wondered if their relationship had progressed further than he thought. Then he noted with no small amount of surprise that Methos appeared to be the one preparing breakfast.
"Methos is cooking? Sure, I'll stay. Don't think I've ever had a meal prepared by you."
"Imagine that, Methos." MacLeod's voice was overflowing with teasing. "Joe's never tasted your cooking. Come to think of it, neither have I."
Joe's grin widened when he realized he was seeing a flirtatious MacLeod and that it was being directed at the world's oldest cynic, who appeared to be floundering a bit.
"Yeah, imagine that," muttered Methos. "MacLeod."
"Yes, Methos."
Joe nearly laughed aloud at the mock meekness in MacLeod's voice and the gruffness that was hiding something much more telling in the Old Man.
"Stop standing around uttering useless commentary and make yourself useful. We need toast to go with this." A nod of his head indicated the egg dish that was now warming on low.
Joe's gaze slid past Methos to meet MacLeod's. The Highlander's gaze evaded Dawson's, but Joe Dawson knew his immortal. Something that was going to carry a big emotional wallop was simmering just under the surface. Turning, Joe found a seat at the table and made himself comfortable. He had time. But before he left today these two would admit to him that they'd not been entirely truthful about their relationship with him lately and he'd get to the bottom of this.
*****