Warning: Slight hint of DM/M. Not really going into dip into outright slash for this series though.

Summary: Duncan worries about introducing his 'friend' to his kinsman. He shouldn't have bothered.

Meeting the Family

Duncan idly pushed unfamiliar bits of food around on his plate, wondering how in the world he had been talked into this. By 'this', he meant sitting in an unassuming little restaurant in a rarely traveled part of New York City, picking at a plate of some unpronounceable foodstuff randomly chosen from a list of iconoclastic items composed of a eclectic concoction of several ingredients from disparate cultural backgrounds. Well, at least the end results were palatable, as long as one did not give excess thought to its constituents.

"Do you have another Challenge on your dance-card, MacLeod, or is the food making you abstemious?"

Oh yes. He remembered now. That was the reason he was here - because a certain 5000-year-old degenerate had taken advantage of his preoccupied ambivalence at bringing the aforementioned reprobate to New York to meet his equally irascible kinsman, and chose the place for dinner tonight.

"The food's edible, Adam," Duncan replied laconically, making sure to use Methos' current identity while they were in public, "and I haven't taken a Challenge in over a month, since…"

…Since that rainy night when, contradictorily enervated and inflamed by the powerful Quickening he had just taken, Duncan had - his mind tried to shy away from the memory - kissed his friend. They progressed no further than that, and neither had mentioned the incident since then, which was both relief and torture for Duncan's peace of mind. There were times when Duncan just wished that Methos would put his oft-mendacious tongue to work - whichever way he meant it - and put him out of his misery.

"Then what's wrong?" came the uncharacteristically direct question.

"There's nothing wrong…" Duncan tried to gainsay.

"Oh please," Methos drawled as he leaned back into his chair. "You can't dissemble to save your life, MacLeod. So why don't you save me the trouble of delineating every possible scenario and tell me why you've cajoled me into accompany with you to New York? Without any more specious excuses, mind."

Duncan bristled at the slur on his acting ability and was about to return a similar sarcastic retort when the thrumming buzz of an Immortal Quickening washed over them both. Both Immortals stiffened in their seats, their eyes fixed onto the door of the establishment as it swung open to admit a familiar figure clad in trench coat and tennis shoes.

Duncan relaxed as he recognized the man. "Connor!" He called, rising to his feet. So much for finding some way to tell Methos that he wanted to introduce him to his kinsman. There wasn't much choice for him now but to introduce the two to each other, and so he did. Then, he waited in anxious consternation as two similarly recondite stares sizzled across the table. As time dragged on and neither Immortal showed any signs of conceding the impromptu staring match, Duncan began to worry that the night was going to end in bloodshed.

Suddenly, Methos relaxed, quirking his lips in a way that Duncan recognized as amusement. "Russel."

Connor returned a sardonic grin, his version of a welcoming smile. "Matthew."

In unison, the two Immortals reached across the table to clasp their hands in a friendly - and familiar - greeting. Duncan blinked, suspicion creeping across his mind. Two pairs of eyes turned to regard him, one glittering with laughter and the other utterly ingenuous.

"You… you…" he sputtered and glared, "You know each other! Why didn't either of you ever tell me?"

Two wicked smirks accompanied two voices replying in unison. "You never asked."