This story is 100% pure parody, so please, by all that's holy, do not take us seriously. No animals were harmed in the making of this story, although most Immortals involved won't be able to sit down for a week. Children and pregnant women should not read this story. In fact, no one should read this story. We're sorry, we really are.
(No, we aren't.)
Duncan McCleod swam through a hazy world of warmth and light. He could see flashes of radiance peeking through an intricate, delicate web of gossamer white, as though someone had thrown a doily onto a strobe light.
It was Heaven. Duncan knew that it was Heaven, because he was holding an angel clasped in his breathless arms, giggling and writhing against him.
"I've missed you…" he mumbled into the angel's golden curls, which glowed with such brilliance that they eclipsed the halo encircling his tawny head. "You don't know how it's been having to carry on without you…the loneliness…the guilt….the pain….when I wake up, it's like a knife through my heart. And when I try to make it through each day, it's like hot needles being jabbed into my eyes…and when I try to sleep at night, it's like being stuffed into a gunny sack and thrown down the stairs…."
"Shh….sweet Dunky-kins, shhh…." said the angel gently, pressing a fine alabaster finger – the nail a shimmering pearl – against Duncan's moist tan lips. "You mustn't think of such things now. We're together and that's all that's important…"
"Bang, bang, bang, all the way down the steps," Duncan mumbled, pressing his face into the angel's oiled, muscular shoulder. "Sometimes I land on the cat on the way down, sometimes I just crash into the door…that's what it's like being….being without you, my love…" His voice broke on the last word, and diamond tears sparkled at the corners of his liquid brown eyes (like icicles floating in a brown soup of despair). The angel clutched Duncan against his brawny velvet-steel chest and folded his arms around him, wrapping him in a comforting blanket of meat.
"Don't cry, my love, you mustn't ever cry," the angel begged, although Duncan, raising his head, could see tears standing out in the angel's vibrant blue eyes as well. "It hurts me to see you cry. Hurts me like being hit by a car made out of burning railroad spikes."
"Then I won't cry, darling," Duncan gasped, swallowing his tears and shoving his pain down deep inside him, burying it in a too shallow-grave, like he'd once buried his beloved dog Winky. He smiled bravely. "Let's just enjoy being together, and think about this moment."
"Exactly," the angel breathed, beginning to move his body against the Scotsman's tanned and muscular one. Duncan moaned softly, feeling the coarse fabric of his plaid kilt begin to rub him in sensitive places. He ran a hand down the angel's toned back, feeling out the spots where beautiful white swan wings had grown.
"Are they strange to you, Dunky-dearest?" asked the angel, now kissing his way down Duncan's chest, which was miraculously free of the its usual matted clumps of hair. "I can make them go away, if you like."
"No," Duncan said. "I think they're beautiful. Just like you."
"Oh, Dunky-kins!" And the angel met Duncan's lips in a deep kiss, still moving his body against Duncan's kilt, which was now tented with the obvious signs of the Scotsman's arousal. Duncan couldn't help blushing at the sight of it.
"Don't be ashamed," the angel said, smiling, and pointing to his own naked member, which stood out proudly in the air, regal, the king of a small scrotal-shaped country. "No one will judge us here." And he slipped his hand under Duncan's kilt and began to stroke. Duncan moaned, louder this time, at the contact. Gods, it had been so long….he felt as though he could explode at any moment, as though what pulsed between his legs was a lit stick of dynamite with a very short fuse.
"Oh, darling," Duncan whimpered, "You feel so good. I can't hang on much longer." The angel, not seeming to hear, or perhaps hearing all too well, increased the pace of his strokes until his hand pumped up and down like an uncooked piston engine bought on sale.
Duncan gritted his teeth as he felt his climax hit him, arching his back as the pleasure-electricity shocked through him. As a flurry of perfumed feathers (not sticky human substance, this was heaven, after all) erupted out of him, Duncan lost all control, and screamed out his lover's name.
"Oh! Oh, Fizcairn!"
And then he woke up.
The ice-covered sledgehammer of frosty morning air smashed into Duncan's face as he opened his eyes. Even worse was the grief-covered sledgehammer that now pounded a steady rhythm into his chest. Hugh Fitzcairn, Duncan's beautiful angel, was gone beyond his reach, and would never come back. The grief continued to assault him, barbed drumsticks being wielded by a demonic Keith Moon, who was playing "Acid Queen" on Duncan McCleod's taut drumskin heart. Duncan bit his wrist and blinked back more tears, shivering in chill air which was strangely reminiscent of Dante's ninth circle.
"The circle of traitors. Where I belong," Duncan thought, choking down a sob that threatened to burst out of him like a baby Alien. "He loved me, and I let him die. I swore that I'd never love anyone else, and now…." Duncan gave a pain-filled glance at the lanky Immortal stretched out in bed next to him, boyish face cherubic in sleep.
"Thank god he didn't hear me!" Duncan thought suddenly, knowing that he had screamed Fitzcairn's name aloud as he had awoken. Betraying one lover was bad enough, but the idea of hurting another – a new lover who was so beautiful and fragile, always using apathy and sarcasm to hide his bruised heart from the world – that would have been more than Duncan could take.
"I can't be so selfish," Duncan thought. "Always thinking of my own pain. I have to be strong for him. Strong for Methos." He reached out to touch his partner's cheek, and Methos snuggled up against him in his sleep like a lonely ferret. Duncan smiled. The oldest living Immortal pretended to be so jaded, so cynical and aloof. Few knew how sensitive and hurt he was underneath, open wounds left bleeding from centuries of pain and loneliness, especially after what Kronos had done to him. Duncan had to suppress that thought, fists clenched automatically in anger – he was glad he'd slashed that bastard's head off, after what he'd done to his darling Methos. He turned his thoughts back to more important matters, smoothing Methos' soft brown hair away from his sculpted forehead, and planted a tender kiss, which bloomed into a rose-bud blush.
"Could you pull the covers up?" Methos mumbled, still half-asleep and groggy. "It's cold today."
"Of course, sweet," Duncan said, pulling the blankets up over Methos' slim form, rubbing his hands over the goose-pimpled flesh. "You shouldn't sleep naked just for my sake on cold nights like these, you know. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
"It's worth it for you, Duncan. Besides, I can always count on you to warm me up," Methos murmured, wrapping himself coyly around Duncan's arm.
"Anytime, lover," Duncan ran his hands through Methos's close-cropped brown hair, thinking of how baby-soft it was. "But I've got to get up now. Work calls."
"As always. Want me to cook you breakfast?"
"Let me do it," Duncan said, pulling the blankets up further over Methos's bare shoulders. "I'll make pancakes and beer."
"You know all my favorites, Duncan," Methos smiled, and burrowed back under the covers. Duncan stopped in the doorway to gaze fondly at his lover's dozing form. Methos. So delicate, and yet so strong, like a tank made out of faery wings. His own beautiful Mesopotamian god. He had loved Fitzcairn once, but he had to learn to let him go. For Methos.
Entering the kitchen, wrapped in his own little cloud of bliss, Duncan didn't hear the quiet sobs that filled the dark bedroom, muffled by the heavy comforter. Curled up into a tight little ball of sadness and agony, Methos cried alone, his tears crystal drops of concentrated acid sorrow, his sobs filling the room in a lonely concert, like a violin made from broken dreams, played for the world's abandoned children by a sad clown.
Every day he died. That was his penance. For once he had dared to don a tacky mask and call himself Death. Now he must face death, and dance a dark, desperate polka in her skeletal arms. Everyday, he called the pain down upon himself, because it was the only way that he could still the agony inside. He had done it for over a thousand years.
Duncan must never know. That he'd sworn from the very beginning.
"But what does it matter any more?" Methos sighed. "Duncan still loves another." He'd heard Duncan scream his name that morning – "Fitzcairn!" – and the sound of it had shattered Methos' heart into a thousand opalescent pieces and scattered them forever on the black sands of Regret.
His only balm for his bleeding soul lay in a bleeding body. When he pulled the razor across his scarred skin, using his flesh as a canvas for masterworks of Pain, he felt the throbbing in his heart ease a little every time.
Duncan must never know. That's why he waited until Duncan left for work before he began, and locked himself into the bathroom, so that any unexpected visitors would think that he was merely masturbating.
In a way, he supposed he was. After all, what was suicide but masturbating with Death? He dug the razors in deeper, deeper. Someday, he knew, he'd find the Quickening, flowing and sparkling along with his blood. Someday he'd cut deep enough to let his Immortal soul flow out of him, and then he could finally rest in peace. Of course, he could just lay his head down across the railroad tracks. But that would be icky.
He hit the vein, and the trickle of blood down his arms became a torrent – a red flow of whispered sighs and quiet little betrayals. He swayed as a wave of dizziness hit him, and collapsed onto the tile floor, staring up at the tub. On top of it, Duncan's rubber duck stared back at him. It and the Mother Mary night-light cover gazed down at him solemnly, a grave tribunal judging whether his soul was good enough to enter the Kingdom Everlasting. He knew what the answer would be, even as the light began to fade from his tear-filled eyes, and the icy hands of death tickled their way up his legs like frost spiders. He'd slaughtered ten thousand for fun. He was going to hell.
And now he knew that Duncan didn't really love him. Everyday would be hell. He wished that he could slide forever into the inky seas of oblivion, never having to surface and face the harsh light of the world, just swimming under the water in an octopus's garden of eternity.
And now he was sinking, down into the depths…resting his head…on the sea bed…in the octopus's garden….near a cave..
And then the bathroom door was kicked open, and Methos realized that he really was in hell. Because it was Kronos, his dead brother-lover staring down at him. Kronos flashed razor teeth, twirled an exquisitely brushed handle-bar mustache, and peered down at Methos from eyes that were shaded by the brim of a massive velvet black top-hat.
"Greetings, brother!" Kronos exclaimed.
"M…Mustache…." Methos mumbled through the veil of death that had wrapped itself around him.
"Nice, isn't it? I got it from the dramatic villain's gift-pack. There was a monocle, too, but Caspian ate it. Still, the top-hat's pretty classy, eh?" He waggled it back and forth on his head, showing the black rose that had been shoved into the hat-band on one side, and the lily on the other.
"t…hat…" Methos agreed weakly, feeling the Reaper's cold breath down his throat, or possibly just a draft.
"Now, I think you and I have a date with some train tracks. But first, a spot of rape! Sounds like fun, huh? Just like the old days!"
But Methos had gone beyond all hearing. Methos was dead. Not fazed in the slightest, Kronos gathered him into his arms, and carried him, like a diarrheatic bride, out of the bathroom, and into the waiting arms of Fate.
Methos awoke in a haze of pain and fear, although that was nothing new. He'd had the most horrible dream, that Duncan was going kilt shopping with Fitzcairn, and they'd both come back in matching plaid miniskirts, leaving him to have to match colors off of Richie.
It had chilled him to the core of his ancient, five-thousand year-old soul.
But the sight that greeted his innocent, doe-like brown eyes chilled him even more, sending ice ribbons around his heart and transforming it into a gaily wrapped present of pure terror.
Kronos stood over him, the top-hat tipped rakishly to one side, his smile like a shark among toddlers. And clutched in Kronos's hand, a long katana gleamed cold death.
"Duncan! What have you done to Duncan!" Methos screamed, trying to sit up, and realizing that leather straps restrained his arms and legs.
"Oh please, brother, I didn't touch your little Highland piece of totty. You're the one I want right now."
"Want...? I'll…I'll never go back to you, Kronos! My horseman days are over!"
"Well, no shit, brother. You've turned into a whimpering little pansy, haven't you? Then again, you always were the bitch when it was just us two."
"How…how are you still alive? Duncan cut your head off, I saw it!" Methos rallied, although he felt himself begin to tremble like a daffodil in the wind.
"Oh, that's easy, brother! That demon guy resurrected me. You know, the one who killed Richie?" Kronos' shark smile became broader as he drew a hand across his throat in a sick pantomime. "Or made your little Dunky-kins kill him, anyway. So, apparently I'm supposed to stretch your neck across the railroad tracks and wait for a train. But first, I get to violate your brains out. Just like the old days."
"My little Dunky-kins will rescue me!" Methos protested, although there was no heart in it. How could he be brave when he knew that Duncan didn't really love him – he was too busy pining for that dead Irishman…or Englishman….or Celt…or whatever the hell nationality Fitzcairn was.
"Yeah, maybe he will," said Kronos lazily. "But I don't think he'll be arriving before I rape and mutilate you." And he pulled the top hat off and tossed it to one side. Methos shrank back against the table that he had been strapped to, pulling at his bonds. He felt horribly exposed and vulnerable in his silk peasant blouse and khaki pedal pushers. He knew what was coming next. Centuries of horror-movie nightmares had burned the images into his mind.
Grinning like a mad Jack-O-Lanturn, and twirling his handle-bar mustache in one hand, Kronos lowered the katana, and began to slice his way through Methos's silk shirt.
"Stop, please!" Methos squealed, squirming away from Kronos's cruel touch. But Kronos simply cackled and ripped the shirt open, revealing Methos's taut chest and firm, voluptuous man-boobies, nipples standing up in the cold air like delicate pink towers in which some goddess – Venus, perhaps – might house herself. Methos shrieked and pulled weakly at his leather restraints, struggling in vain to cover himself. He felt a blush like a traffic light glowing out of his face; surely Kronos could read the white letters emblazoned in his stop-sign red expression, begging him silently not to go on. But Kronos didn't care. Kronos ran all stop-signs, whether put up in school zones or etched into his lover's pleading eyes. Ignoring even the desperate "No left turn" symbols that Methos' hands were clawing in the air, he lowered his mouth to the Immortal's chest, and began to suck at the strawberry nubs. Methos could not help moaning a little at the contact of Kronos' hot, wet mouth, and the stiff, waxen moustache that tickled his skin.
"Methos…" Kronos said through his mouthful of nipple. "You taste so good. I could eat you up like delicious man-candy."
"No!" Methos declared proudly, trying to pull away. "Only Duncan is allowed to lick down to the Tootsie Roll Center of my Tootsie Pop of Love!"
"Why waste time licking when you can bite half-way through?" Kronos snickered, and he clamped his teeth down on Methos' sensitive, quivering nipple. Methos screamed and tried to pull away, pain jabbing into him like imps with little dessert forks. It was almost more than he could endure, and yet, there was something strangely beautiful about the pain, something like a haunting, lonely song in the rose-red blood that began to trickle down his heaving chest. Kronos darted out his tongue, cat-like, and caught the stream. He ran his tongue all the way back to the wounded nipple, and began to suck again. Methos groaned, now feeling a bitter-sweet mix of pleasure and pain, blended smoothly together like bile in a chocolate milkshake. He could feel a heat begin to gather between his legs, and then tears of shame in his eyes.
"No!" Methos thought, shutting his eyes tightly, trying to fight the urge that was creeping up upon him. "I love Duncan!" Kronos cackled again, twirling his mustache. He'd noticed the blush spreading across his victim's face, red apples in the white snow of his cheeks.
"You like it better with me, Methos. You know you do." And to prove his point, he lowered his head down towards Methos' tall Pleasure Tower, which was quickly pulling itself upward to point proudly at the blue sky above them (or the ceiling, but whatever). He held his open mouth over it, and let his hot breath come down, making the Tower quiver as through enduring a gale-force wind.
"You see?" Kronos smirked, now tickling the tip with his bristly mustache, making Methos gasp in shame and delight. "I barely even have to touch you."
"I…I can't help my body's reaction," Methos said, lips trembling. "It doesn't mean anything! My heart belongs to Duncan!"
"Yes," Kronos sneered, "But the rest of you belongs to me!" And as he threw back his head to laugh, his own gigantic erection came bursting out of his pants, ripping through the fabric with the force of his evil demon-driven lust. Methos nearly fainted at the sight. As large as a bowling pin, it towered over Kronos' dense thicket of pubic hair like a mighty Sequoia, or a lofty Redwood.
"You can't! It's…it's too big!" he cried, horror making every part of his body tighten and constrict.
"I can, and I will!" Kronos roared. "And you'll love it!" He pulled Methos' flailing legs apart, the oldest Immortal's protests falling on cruelly deaf ears. Then, without even the mercy of Vaseline, or possibly K-Y Jelly, or maybe chocolate sauce if you're into that sort of thing, he jerked his hips forward, and thrust - *
*Due to the graphic nature of the following scene, which may cause permanent damage to both writer and reader alike, the rest of the sex will be written in vaguely suggestive symbolism. We now return you to the story in progress.
-the gas pump into the cherry-red Convertible's slick, tight hole. Kronos grunted as he grasped the handle, pumping fuel into the machine, which seemed to shudder, gaining new life from the dark, oily love-liquid. Sitting on the passenger's side, Methos squirmed uncomfortably in the hot seat.
"Not so hard!" he exclaimed. "You'll scratch the paint-job!"
Kronos merely leered in response, and shoved the nozzle savagely deeper into the Convertible's fuel-hole, letting the gas overflow and spray across the body -*
*Okay, maybe it's more than just vaguely suggestive symbolism. Hell, let's skip the whole damn thing, and just go right to the after-sex cuddling. Or, since it's Kronos, the after-sex torture.
Methos lay spread-eagled in a pool of his own fluids and blood, like a broken, anatomically correct Ken-doll. His glassy eyes stared blankly up at the ware-house ceiling above him. The harsh breath rasping in and out of his tortured chest was the only indication that he lived. Kronos had used the razor, and the red lines along Methos' body were evidence of his handiwork. He'd also used the whip, the handcuffs, and the ball-gag, but the wounds on Methos' body were unimportant. All he could feel were the deep web of scars along his wounded heart.
"So…this is what it sounds like…when…doves cry…" Methos thought, although his eyes were dry and desiccated. His tears had spilled forth in a torrent during the rape, as though his eyes were two shaken bottles of Mountain Dew. Now he had no more tears to express the black abyss of pain that had opened in the depths of his soul.
"Hello, brother! Wasn't that fun?" Kronos, now wearing the top-hat again, leaned into Methos' line of vision. "Nothing like a bit of rape to put the spring back into your step. And now….." He paused, as though waiting for an imaginary drumroll, "I get to kill you!"
"W…Why?" Methos gasped. He did not beg for his life. He no longer cared whether he lived or died. He didn't even care whether his eye-liner matched his shoes, anymore.
"Because, dear boy, I want to hurt the Highlander. That's right, it's not about you. It's about him. I want to hurt the man who lopped my head off as much as I possibly can. Then I'll kill him too, but that's just a given."
"You'll…never…beat him…" Methos breathed through swollen, puffy lips.
"Of course I'll beat him!" Kronos looked almost hurt. "I've got a top-hat this time! And a mustache!" He twirled it again. Methos simply closed his eyes in defeat.
"C'mon brother, it's time for your death scene," Kronos went on, starting to undo the leather straps. "Let's get you into a cute little dress – we can't do virginal white, but I think that slutty eggshell should do the trick." And for the second time that day, he gathered Methos up in his arms - Methos limp and lifeless as a lingerie store mannequin - and carried him away into the waiting arms of Fate. I mean, Destiny. Yes, it's the waiting arms of Destiny this time. No, I haven't done that one before, you're just imagining it. Shut up.
"Meeeeeeeeeeethooooooooooos!" The agonized scream boiled up from the depths of Duncan McCleod's tortured soul and burst out of his mouth, disturbing the upstairs neighbors and scattering a gathered flock of mourning doves on the roof. The doves fluttered up in alarm, then swooped down across the city like a graceful troop of ballet sky-divers. The neighbor banged on the floor with a broom.
"Hey, shut up down there!"
But nothing would shut up the grief of the Highlander, who paused for breath and stared down at the bathroom floor, as he forgot for a moment who he was mourning for. Let's see…Richie…Fitz…Darius…no, it was an M-name. Oh, that's right…and Duncan filled his aching lungs with air again.
"Meeeeeeeeeeeethooooooooooooos!"
Bang, bang! "Shut up, I said!"
Duncan stopped, drew in breath for another cry, and let out a sob as he collapsed onto his knees. His beloved was gone, and now Duncan's life was as desolate and hopeless as a world without balloons.
"Why…why didn't I stay home from work today!" the Highlander wailed, pounding his fist against the bathroom tiles, where Methos's spilled blood made a grim, accusing stain, like the dark patch on the crotch of a closet incontinent. The entire empty bathroom seemed to condemn the grieving Scotsman – the blood on the floor, the gory razor blade in the sink, the silent black eyes of the rubber duck, whose orange body filled the room with a hellish glow. Duncan stared at the bath-toy's life-less rubber eyes, and found that he was staring into the Abyss – a dark mirror raised up to reflect his very soul.
"Don't you accuse me, damn it!" Duncan screamed, now grabbing the toy around the neck and flinging it into the living room. "Don't you accuse me, duck!"
"Duncan, m'love," came a soft-snowfall voice in the Scotman's ear. "This grief solves nothing. You have to save him." Duncan stopped, waterfall tears still spilling down the rocky-outcroppings of his cheekbones. He knew that voice. It was the same voice that had come to him at work, warning him that his beloved Methos was in danger.
"Oh, Fitz…why do you do this for me? After I let you die…"
"Dunky-kins, you know that wasn't your fault. All I want is for you to be happy. Our love was strong and pure, but I'm in another place now, and your love for Methos is just as strong." the voice whispered, tickling the hairs of his inner ear like a tiny goose-down cockroach.
"I…I want to save him, Fitz. Please help me save him," Duncan begged, lifting his hands towards Heaven in supplication.
"Then," came the tickling voice – a thousand miniature feather-dusters wielded by an army of miniscule French maids – "I'll show you where he is."
The clear blue sky had grown dark with threatening grey clouds, and thunder rumbled ominously, like Duncan's stomach after an evening meal of haggis and cabbage. But Duncan had no appetite for Scottish sweet-meats, or even boiled sheep's brains. He went to sup at the table of Vengeance, and the only thing he longed to taste was Methos – er, Victory. I mean, Victory. He clutched his sword in an unbreakable kung-fu grip, ready to show Kronos his realistic chopping action. But as he arrived at the abandoned railway station, the scene before him made his Captain-Crunch heart grow soggy in the milk of grief. Methos had never looked so fragile before, stretched across the metal tracks in a strap-less off-white evening gown, the evidence of Kronos's abuse sketched into his exposed arms and legs. So intent was Duncan on his spun-glass lover, he barely noticed the dark, top-hatted form standing over him, until the Horseman spoke.
"So, we meet again, McCleod!" Kronos sniggered. "Too bad that you're too late to save your beloved. Any minute now a train will come by and pop his head right off his sexy little body."
Duncan did not bother wondering why a train would be coming by an abandoned station. His mind and body were filled with rage, like hot lava flowing in his veins, except that it didn't cause him to catch on fire and die. His pulse pounded in his ears, and the entire world seemed to be draped in a faint shade of red, as though he was living the whole showdown on God's Virtual Boy.
"You'll pay for this, Kronos!" Duncan screamed, hot tears searing down his cheeks. "By all that's holy and Scottish, you'll pay!" Lightning illuminated the scene as Duncan held the sword out in a Heroic Pose. Kronos merely smiled, and tapped the giant top-hat that dwarfed his head.
"Let me remind you," he said, starting forward. "I've got a top-hat. And a mustache, now."
"Damn you!" Duncan yelled, charging forward. Kronos pulled out his long, silver katana, which crackled with the black lightening of the Dark Quickening. As Duncan reached him, he brought the katana up in a crackling arc, the black lightening seeming to rip a hole in reality, and sliced through Duncan's own katana like a chainsaw through a live frog. Duncan was flung against the train-tracks, and as he attempted to struggle to his feet, Kronos shot black lightening from the sword's tip, making the Scotsman spasm and jerk in a lively River-dance of agony.
"You'll never win, Highlander!" Kronos cackled. "Nothing beats the power of the Dark Quickening!"
"He's right," Duncan thought, as he collapsed against the metal rails, the shattered sword in his hand as limp and useless as a gay man reading Playboy. Lying on the rails next to him, Methos' pale form looked like a water lily floating in a wood-metal pond.
"I hurt the man who loved me. And now I can't even protect him," Duncan mourned. Kronos stood over him, laughing, lightening flashing up and down his sword. And underneath him, he could feel the metal rails vibrate in warning of an oncoming train.
"Don't give up, Dunky-kins!" came that soft voice in Duncan's ear, the ringing of sleighbells on a crisp winter night. "Don't give up, now!"
"Oh, Fitz," Duncan thought, as Kronos raised the sword to strike a final blow. "I can't beat his Dark Quickening, or his top hat. It's over. I've lost!"
"No, Duncan. You've got something strong than the Dark Quickening. You've got love! Nothing can destroy your love for Methos! Use it, and save him!"
Duncan turned one more time to view the porcelain doll-face of the man whom he loved, and felt power well up inside him, like a miniature sun bursting in his chest. White lightening burst out of his hand and crackled up and down the length of his broken katana, until a new one lay gleaming in his palm. He brought the shining sword up – white lightening still buzzing around it like a swarm of holy bees – and plunged it into Kronos' chest.
"No! Not the power of love! I hate the damn power of love!" screamed Kronos as both the mustache and top-hat burst into flame. His hand twitched, spasmed, and dropped the sword, Dark Quickening flicking out like an old flashlight. As the light of the on-coming train froze them all into a grotesque tableau, Duncan acted quickly. In one smooth motion, he flipped Kronos forward onto the tracks. He then gathered Methos up into his arms, and leaped clear as the train bore down on them.
"Stupid ironic death," Kronos grumbled. "I'll be back." Then the train smashed over him, sending his head spinning through the air like an over-sized baseball. It thudded into the dirt, and was immediately picked up by that freaky midget demon, in preparation for his next resurrection (only he'll be a cyborg this time! Cool, huh?).
Duncan saw none of this. He lay gasping on the pavement, clutching Methos' mutilated body against him, tears flinging themselves suicidally off the Lover's Leap of his chocolate eyes, and dying quietly in the dust.
"I'll make it up to you, my darling," he promised the unconscious Methos, as his chest constricted with sobs. "I'll fix everything that he's done to you."
And climbing to his feet, he carried Methos' limp form like a deflated blow-up doll into the waiting arms of…..um…..er…..bed.
Duncan had thought that the nightmare was over. But it had only just begun. And it wasn't the nightmare where rabid wolverines chased him naked through the Grand Canyon.
Methos lay prostrate in Duncan's heart-shaped bed, pearls of sweat gathered on his pale brow in a sickly crown of Mortality. He had not regained consciousness since the fight at the railroad tracks, but tossed and muttered, trapped in a feverish dream labyrinth.
"I thought Immortals couldn't get sick," Joe said, a frown wrinkling his mature brow as he leafed through old Watcher logs.
"We can," intoned Duncan gravely. "The souls of Immortals are so strong and pure that sometimes the conditions of our bodies will reflect our inner feelings. Methos is sick…at heart."
"That…doesn't actually make any sense, and is completely inconsistent with centuries of Watcher observations," Joe said, raising one eyebrow in Spock-like skepticism at Duncan's "highly illogical" human passions.
"What would you know?!" Duncan accused, thrusting an angry finger at the solemn Watcher. "You and your observations, and your dried up knowledge and study! In all your years, you still don't understand the human heart!"
"That's not even what Watchers are supposed to study-"
"What's the use of all your study, then?! What's the use, if you can't save my darling….precious…" Duncan collapsed against the bed, hugging Methos's hot form with a Gollumish tenacity. Pressing his face against his lover's sweaty chest, Duncan could feel the waves of heat boiling up from him. He was ice-white pale, but burning with a raging inner fire, like a Goth vampire role-player who'd swallowed live coals.
"You never approved of our relationship in the first place," Duncan went on, each barbed word falling sharp from his tongue to the floor, to create a little forest of pointy ninja-star anger between the Immortal and his loyal Watcher. "Why should you care if Methos dies, then? I'll bet you want him to die!" The thoughts left a bitter children's Tylenol aftertaste lingering in the back of the Highlander's raw throat.
"It's not that I disapproved," Joe sighed. "I just didn't want you doing it on my kitchen table. My mother was visiting, for God's sake."
Duncan squeezed Methos a little tighter, knowing that the heat of the fever would soon cause the sick Immortal's fluffy white soul to explode out of its kernel-prison, and then he would be lost forever in the salt and butter of Heaven. It was hard to think of anything but his own sorrow, pounding like a monkey with a hammer into his rib-cage. But there was Wisdom in Joe Dawson's words….Wisdom and Truth, shining pillars of humanity's celestial city.
"Y…You're right, Joe. I'm sorry. I shouldn't lash out at you, dear friend," he apologized, sitting up from his vigil and laying an apologetic hand on the Watcher's shoulder.
"It's all right, Duncan. You're upset right now. I understand," Joe said, squeezing the Scotsman's hand and trying not to think bitterly about stains on his kitchen table that no amount of Pinesol would scrub out. But at least his house was now filled with the fresh aroma of an evergreen forest, bringing a kind of allergy-free spring-time to his cold winter years.
"Please understand that I'll do everything in my power to find a cure for him," he assured Duncan, targeting the Highlander's eyes in the laser-guided cross-hairs of his warm, grandfatherly gaze.
"Thank you," Duncan said, using the heels of his palms to rub childishly at tears of gratitude, looking for all the world like a red-headed stepchild who's been promised that the beatings will finally stop.
"Anything for a friend like you," Joe said, putting a certain emphasis on the word "friend," with all the desperation of a man that doesn't want to wake up to any more oiled Scotsmen snuggled into his bed, clinging to him and squealing that he's soooooo lonely.
As Joe turned back to the Watcher archives, pouring through them with the deliberate concentration of a Cyclops/Wolverine slasher searching through back issues for evidence, Duncan let his worried eyes revolve around Methos' pale, tossing form, held in orbit like tiny moons by the strong gravitational pull of love. It was strange, but the fever had somehow made Methos even more radiant, and somehow ephemeral. Spots of hectic red burned high against the white cheekbones, like Kool-Aid on polished marble. His skin, stretched tight across a fine china skull, seemed to have become thin and translucent, and Duncan could see a strange light shining through – the luminescence of the celestial spheres refracted through the intricate stained-glass murals of the High Church of Heaven.
"Life really is fragile," Duncan thought, "Even for Immortals like us. The slightest mistake during a duel, and our Quickening forsakes us…our heads fall like cherry blossoms in the wind."
"No…not the scissors…geese…stop…" Methos muttered, in the grip of fever-induced phantasms. Duncan held one hot hand gripped in his, and used the other to smooth the sweat-soaked hair around from his love's forehead.
"Shh, my love, it's all right," he whispered, leaning close to Methos's ear like Hamlet checking his father for poison.
"Nnnnn…..badger…badger, mushroom…" Methos moaned. "Badger…mushroom…snake!" He screamed the last word, opening his eyes wide and writhing against tentacle-sheets that pinned down his arms and legs like a school girl in a cheap hentai. Duncan freed him from the entangling sheets and held him against his chest, rocking the ancient Immortal back and forth like a child, crooning a soft lullaby. Joe quietly jammed two index fingers into his ears as he continued to flip through the archives, turning the pages with his tongue. It was a skill he'd learned at the last Watcher-Immortal karaoke get-together.
"Maybe you should try a cold bath," he suggested to Duncan, who was continuing, crow-like, to caw out a children's song. "My parents tried that with me when I had the measles. Of course, they also tried it when I broke my leg, and when I needed my appendix out. Come to think of it, I think my parents hated me." As Joe mused, Duncan took the good (?) advice and carried Methos, like a diabetic stripper, into the waiting arms of the Bathroom.
He let the tub fill while he tenderly stripped off Methos' clothing, then gently laid him in the cool water. Methos curled automatically into a fetal position, floating peacefully in the bathtub's white porcelain womb. Sponges floated on top of the water, their water-logged corpses turning the bath into a sea-creature graveyard.
As Duncan ran one of the sponges along Methos' shivering form (unable to help reflecting on the spirit of sacrifice that the sponge represented – dying so that humanity could be comfortably clean) he looked closely at the scars that traced the ancient Mesopotamian's form. He had never paid attention before, knowing that scars were, for both of them, secrets that were better left hidden, like the disturbing bulge in the skirt of a broad-shouldered blind date. He traced his fingers across the mottled lines that mapped out a complex atlas of torture across the mountains and valleys of Methos' torso. At the bottom of it, the older Immortal's once-proud warrior lay lifeless, fallen in what Duncan feared might have been the last battle of love.
"You'll ride to war again, my friend," Duncan murmured, surrounding the limp soldier in finger-hammock and squeezing it affectionately. "We'll ride together."
The bathroom door opened, and Joe poked his head in, wincing as Duncan did not bother to move his hand.
"Duncan, I think I've figured it out. I've found records of a sickness like this, when an Immortal became infected with the Dark Quickening. Duncan, I really don't think that it's the right time for whatever the hell you're doing down there."
"Just…trying to comfort him," Duncan sighed, deflating like a pin-pricked balloon-weasel.
"Right…comfort…" said Joe, praying that he'd be able to sleep that night. He wondered if it was possible to give his eyeballs a good long scrubbing. Steel wool might do the trick.
"But I don't understand how the Dark Quickening could be inside Methos," Duncan said, head cocked to one side like a confused parakeet in a hall of mirrors. Now it was Joe's turn to sigh. He'd hoped that Duncan would connect the dots for himself, but the Highlander had never been good at that particular after-school activity. He was more the "eating Playdough" type.
"You said that the Dark Quickening was inside Kronos," Joe began, laying out his explanation like a row of well-sorted socks. "Somehow..the Dark Quickening passed from Kronos to Methos."
"Like catching a cold?" Duncan scratched his meaty forehead. "So, the Dark Quickening is air-born…"
"Um..no...." Joe said. He really didn't want to go on with this explanation, knowing that his words would be the spark that set Duncan's powder-keg emotions alight. And then he'd be hosing down the bathroom walls for the rest of the night.
"Then…how…"
"I imagine that it could be transmitted through close contact….I mean, extremely close and….initimate…contact…"
"You mean…." Duncan's eyes widened in horrified realization. "Kronos and Methos read each other's diaries?"
"Oh, for God's sake," Joe snapped, fed up. May as well get the worst over with. "Kronos threw him down and raped him. Don't you see the bruises?" Duncan flinched, as though Joe's words were little otters snapping at his unprotected salmon-heart. His eye wandered down to Methos' soft-donut "secret spot" which was ringed by a jelly-purple bruises. He'd seen them. But he hadn't wanted to admit the truth to himself, preferring to sail serenely down the dark waters of Denial (because it ain't just a river in Egypt.)
"No…" Duncan whimpered, face crumpling like an origami bunny mauled by a confused cat. Joe was now edging towards the door, ready to whip it in front of him like a shield.
"So, um..anyway…apparently the only way to heal him is to…um...cleanse his heart of sorrow with your love, or something like that…" There was actually nothing like approaching a cure in the Watcher logs anywhere, so he was improvising as rapidly as a Shakespearian actor who's suddenly discovered himself starring in "Cats."
"No…" Duncan murmured again, now quivering like a hamster in a microwave. "No…"
"So…I'll just leave you to do that, okay? I'll be back at the bar," Joe said, actually planning to spend the night in a motel, just so that Duncan wouldn't be able to track him down and continue to bother him with this bullshit. As Joe turned around and hobbled for the apartment door as fast as his little cripple legs would take him, he heard Duncan's scream burst out of him, rattling the framed pictures on the wall. Joe slammed the front door gratefully, wondering whether it was possible to get himself re-assigned. Maybe Amanda needed a Watcher.
Inside the bathroom, Duncan clutched Methos against him, sobbing in a whirlwind of torment, tears splattering on the stained tiles like scattered showers with a chance of hail. The pain inside his chest was too large to possibly be contained inside him. His pain could not be contained, even with a Rubbermaid container the size of the sun. Even if the Atlantic and Pacific oceans combined to create a new, mammoth Patlanticific ocean, it would be a puddle compared to his flood of tears. The wound inside him would never be healed, not even if an army of school counselors took turns holding his hand for a thousand years.
"How…how could he…." Duncan moaned, no screams left to scream. "I'll…I'll kill him for this, Methos, my darling. I'll find him, and I'll kill him even deader." Then there was that gentle touch on his shoulder, soft as whipped cream made from starlight.
"Dunky-kins…" Fitzcairn apparently had taken an extended leave of absence from Heaven. "This isn't the time for anger. You have to help Methos. I know you can."
"Oh, but Fitz…how? Hoooooooow?" Duncan howled mournfully, like a coyote who's just learned that road-runner meat is tough and gamey.
"What Joe said is true. You have to show him the true power of your love for him. Make him understand that he is your precious one and only." The words fell from Fitzcairn's ruby-red angel lips like flowers pouring from the sky in some far-off fantasy land where that sort of thing is normal.
"I thought I did that already when I stabbed Kronos," Duncan said sulkily.
"This time, you have to put aside all the conflicts in your heart," Fitz said gently, looking regretful. "And that means, you have to let me go, Dunky-kins. Really let me go, and love Methos with all of your soul."
"I…I want to…but Fitz, how can I let you go when I loved you so? What about you?"
"Don't worry about me. I've hooked up with Richie already," Fitz muttered.
"What?!"
"Nothing, nothing, Duncan, my love," the angel soothed. He began to shimmer and fade, like the scorpions on the arms of a junkie whose LSD is wearing off. "I must return now. The celestial spirits are calling me."
"But Fitz!"
"Let me go, Duncan…" The voice came as an echo, and his form dissolved completely, a snow-flake caught in the flame of a welding torch. And then he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the sweet scent of perfume. Then that, too, faded.
"Love him…" Duncan said, resolute. "Love him with all my heart." He wrapped his arms around Methos limp form again, and laid his head against his hot, slippery chest. He thought of the first time he'd met the Immortal, the electricity between them. Eros had shot his cruel barbs into his heart from the very beginning, even as he had been mourning Fitz. His shaggy, college-nerd haircut, so endearing and boyish, the daring sensuality in his tomato-red pants. It had been, if Duncan could believe in such things, love at first sight. As though the two of them were destined to come together, their lives bounded together with a golden cord made from Venus' tears. But even as he concentrated, Methos still twitched underneath him, lost in the I-Max theater of delirium.
"That's it!" Duncan resolved. "If I can't heal the Dark Quickening inside you, Methos, then I'll take it into myself! I don't care if my life is forfeit, as long as I can save you!" He clamped his mouth over Methos' own, and began to suck, performing a kind of reverse CPR. Black lightening began to crackle around the prone Immortal's body, turning the bathwater into a deadly electricity soup. As Duncan sucked with all his might, sucking even harder than he had on the fateful night that he'd satisfied most of the Union Army, the lightening snapped inside his mouth, and began to sizzle it's way down his throat.
Suddenly, Duncan felt the black lightening being drawn back out of him. He realized that Methos had opened his glazed eyes, staring up at Duncan like a brave puppy.
"I won't let you do this, love. I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me," Methos thought, his words finding their way into Duncan's mind through the connection of love that they shared.
"I have too. Methos, I love with all my heart and soul. More than anyone else. I'm sorry that I hurt you. Now, let me heal you. If you should die, my Immortal life would be over," Duncan thought back, brown eyes shining like glazed chocolate balls of sincerity.
"Really? You really love me?" Methos thought, tears beginning to run down his cheeks.
"Really."
"Really really?"
"Really times infinity, my darling."
"Oh, Duncan!" And as the Dark Quickening was trapped between the two lovers, both straining to draw it into themselves and save their partner, it was overwhelmed in a flood of white light. The Light Quickening destroyed the Dark Quickening completely, exploding out of both Duncan and Methos in an atomic rush of pure love. They collapsed against each other, lips still pressed together.
"Thank god," Duncan sighed, feeling Methos' now cool skin. The fever had broken faster than an expensive toy on Christmas morning. "It's finally over."
"Thanks to you, Duncan," Methos said, grinding his face into the Highlander's in a grateful kiss.
Dusk found the Highland hero, and the ancient Mesopotamian entwined in each other's arms, a Gordian knot of love in the center of Duncan's heart-shaped bed. Duncan had tenderly bathed Methos' wounds, and laid him down to rest, but the smaller Immortal had started to whimper in the grip of terrifying nightmares. Now Duncan held him, smoothing back the hair on his bruised forehead and singing sweet lullabies.
"It's okay, Methos, it's okay. I'm here, now."
"D..Duncan," Methos whimpered, clutching at the brawny Scotsman desperately. "I had the most horrible dream…"
"The one about the scissors and the geese?"
"No, no! K-Kronos!" Methos seemed to gag on the very name. "I dreamt…that he'd hurt you…the way he hurt me."
"Don't be afraid, my love. He's gone, now. I've made him pay for what he did to you.
"Oh, Duncan," Methos sobbed. "He hurt me. He hurt me so badly. And only you can make it better, my love, by doing the exact same thing to me." He hugged Duncan a little tighter, beginning to run his fingers up and down the Highlander's bronzed chest.
"But Methos," Duncan said, pulling away. "Surely after a violent rape, the last thing you'd want is –"
"Don't you understand?" Methos said, tears standing out in his brave brown eyes. "I want you to heal me, Duncan. Heal me with your body. That's the only thing that can make it better."
"Anything for you, Methos," Duncan assented. Without wasting time, he slid his hands down Methos' quivering body, slipping one under the silk pajama waist-band and wrapping it around -*
*Once again, the graphic nature of the next scene, plus a rising taste of bile in the writer's throat requires that the rest of the sex be done symbolically. Carry on.
-the giant daikon radish that he'd bought at the market. Duncan loved daikon – their smooth white skin, the firm flesh of the vegetable that left a tart, tangy impression on his tongue. He ran warm water over it, scrubbing the dirt away in long, loving strokes.
"Don't I get a turn?" asked Methos shyly, running his hands along the long squash that he clutched.
"All in good time," said Duncan, now biting into the daikon, savoring the taste of it as the warm, white juice ran down his chin. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Methos used the Highlander's distraction to plunge his own squash into the sink and wash it with short, excited gestures.
"Slowly," said Duncan, "Be gentle with the squash. You don't want to bruise its delicate skin." Coming up behind Methos, he put his hands over the smaller Immortal's, and guided his strokes – slowly up and down the length of the vegetable.
"I just want to make the squash happy, Duncan," said Methos, letting one index finger trace along the tip.
"You've made it very happy," Duncan said encouragingly, taking one hand away from Methos' in order to bring the daikon back up to his mouth and take a generous bite. Methos shuddered at the sound of the crisp vegetable flesh against Duncan's flashing teeth - *
*Okay, that's it. I'm starting to get disgusted with myself. As of now, there will be no more sex in this story! None! Not even vaguely symbolic sex! Duncan and Methos are going to have a lovely tea-party, and that's final.
Methos leaned back in the white wicker lawn chair and inhaled the scent that rose from his steaming cup. Earl Grey, hot. His very favorite. Across the table, Duncan watched his lover relax, seeing the tension melt out of the older Immortal's wiry body like Jello in a furnace. The sun sent its warm rays down onto the gazebo where their table was set up, so that the two men were bathed in a wash of warm, non-cancer-causing solar rays. In the light, Methos's spiky brown hair seemed to have been dusted with gold, or perhaps sparkling faery-dust, sprinkled down by fat Victorian cherubs that surely hovered over peaceful scene.
Duncan shook his head back, and ran his fingers through his thick, chestnut hair. He'd worn it down that day. He'd worn his hair down for other lovers before, but for Methos he had added little white bows, clipped above either ear, that the other Immortal had bought for him earlier. Only for Methos.
"You look so beautiful today, my love," sighed Methos, leaning across the table to pull curry-comb fingers through Duncan's long mane. He stopped and twirled one dark strand around his index finger idly.
"As do you, my sweet," said Duncan, pulling Methos' hand away from his hair and frosting each finger-tip with a sugar-sweet kiss.
"I guess this means you're ready for dessert," Methos smiled, ripping his attention away from his beloved's gorgeous baked ham face, and looking down at the delicacy on his fine-china plate. "I'll have to share some of this."
"And I'll have to return the favor. Here, have a bite," Duncan said, holding out his huge, firm chocolate-covered banana like an offering to a god. Smiling mischievously, Methos leaned across the table, and ran his tongue up and down the banana, pausing to nibble teasingly at the tip, before plunging the entire fruit deep into his mouth.
"I didn't mean for you to take the whole thing so fast," Duncan gasped, as Methos moved his mouth up and down on the banana, sucking the layer of chocolate sauce off with Hoover-like efficiency.
"It looked so delicious, I couldn't resist," Methos mumbled around the thick yellow rod that filled his mouth and throat with sweet banana ecstacy.
"Well, two can play at that game," Duncan said, reaching across the table to pluck Methos long, delicate chocolate-éclair off his plate. As Methos nodded consent, he slid it into his mouth and bit down, sending a jet of cream spurting out of the far end.
"Och, now I've made a mess. Better clean it up," Duncan said coyly, as he began to lick the sweet, sticky cream-filling off of - *
*Damn it. Never mind. Let's just end this thing.
Electricity crackled around both entwined bodies as Highlander and Mesopotamian shuddered and relaxed.
"Oh gods…oh gods…" Methos gasped, still twitching slightly. "That was beautiful Duncan. That was like drinking moonbeams and singing Heaven."
"I saw God," said Duncan in wonder, mouth hanging open like an exhausted fish. The tired lovers drew together in each other's arms, and Duncan pulled the comforter over their sweat-soaked bodies.
"That was no ordinary sex," said Methos, nuzzling Duncan's chest. "That was the Light Quickening, the power of love."
"The Light Quickening," Duncan said, awed. "I thought that was only legend."
"Legend once, my love, but we've made it real. Just as the Dark Quickening is the power of destruction, the Light Quickening is the power of creation. It's the only thing that allows Immortals to bring new life into the world."
"You…you mean…" Duncan tensed, barely daring to hope. His heart thudded wildly, unexpressed joy crashing up against his clenched teeth. "Could it be what we've hoped for all these years?"
"That's right, darling. I can feel it growing inside me even now." Face glowing like Madonna at the Bethlehem stable, Methos rubbed gently at his belly. "Duncan, I'm carrying your child."
And that's the end, unless Satan possesses me – er, I mean, unless I get inspired, and decide to write a chapter 2 (now with new-improved ROBOT KRONOS! and his special piston-pumping crotch attachment!) But I'm a slow writer, and very lazy, so it'll be awhile, if ever. In the meantime, I hope you liked it. All reviews (good, bad, or indifferent) are welcome.