Pairing: Duncan MacLeod and Methos/Adam Pierson
Disclaimer: The Highlander series and the characters therein do not belong to me. I am just borrowing these characters for fan-related purposes.
Warning: This story has male/male romantic situations. If you are offended by this, in particular in the Highlander fan base, please do not read this story. Again, IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY MALE/MALE SITUATIONS, DO NOT READ THIS STORY.
Please enjoy yourself with this story. If you have any comments/critiques, I will be happy to receive them. After all, it's not as if I have anything better to do with my time.
Thick pillars of black smoke hung heavy in the southern sky. The first rays of sunset pierced across the valley, staining the sky bloody red. The smell of death clung to the air, would be carried on the wind to the northern villages, warning them of their fate, telling them the news of their southern neighbors.
Alamach had fallen.
The four specters rode north along the dusty rural road, kicking up debris as they went, their boisterous laughter riding on the air with the stench of their plunder. The specter on the grey horse ripped off his skeleton mask, revealing a young face painted in blue and black swirls, a gash long since healed outlining his right check. His lips were pulled taught into a pleased grin. He turned to his comrade on the white horse.
"Another great victory, wouldn't you say?"
The other man had taken off his mask. Half of his face was painted blue, the other half revealing the tanned skin of his own perpetual youth, made his olive eyes stand out. "It's not really a victory if there's no competition," he replied with a wry smirk. "A crushing defeat on their part, yes. . ."
"Ah, Methos, you're too critical!"
The olive-eyed specter laughed as he steered his horse to walk next to the other man's. "One of us has to be, Kronos."
Both men resumed their laughter, louder than before, shaking the earth beneath them. The other two in the party, Silas and Caspian, joined in, Silas keeping his mask on because he liked the design, Caspian sliding it off his face to show off his own delicate paint job. The smell of blood and burning corpses became overwhelming, suffusing Methos' senses. His eyes gleamed with the excitement of a fresh kill, aroused, hungry, like a vampire let loose in a blood bank, like a child molester left alone in a day care.
He was jarred awake, panting, sweating profusely. His entire body was humming, crackling with fear and intense power.
God help him, he could still smell the blood.
A body shifting next to him pulled him further into the waking world. Large, heavy hands at his waist cemented him on the bed. Methos was met with warm brown eyes clouded with sleep, a light twist to full, pink, delicious lips.
"Methos?"
"I'm all right, Mac."
Duncan MacLeod turned and sat up, moving his hands to grasp Methos'. The contact felt good, grounded the oldest immortal fully into reality, his nightmare fading into the light like the stars into morning.
If only it were just that. . .
"You want to talk about it?" Duncan asked softly, rubbing calloused fingers along the Old Man's upturned palm.
Methos smiled at the gentleness the other man showed him. Of course, Duncan had always been king to a flaw, whether he was sleeping with that person or not. It was a shortcoming that threatened to get him killed.
"No," he sighed, "no, I don't think I do." He brought his eyes up to meet Duncan's. "Could you just. . .?"
He did not need to finish the thought. Duncan wrapped his arms around Methos' torso and pulled him close, laying him back down on the mattress. Methos slid himself against the Highlander's broad chest, rested his head in the crook of the man's neck and shoulder, locked his hands behind the man's nape. Duncan pressed his lips to the man's temple. The skin there crackled with energy, drew itself to the heat of that touch.
Methos turned his head to meet those luscious lips with his own in a long, wanting kiss. The rest of the night was free of nightmares, and dreams, for that matter.