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Well, MacLeod reflected several harrowing minutes later, it could be worse. Not much, but worse. Methos could be mortal.
As it was, it was bad enough.
Methos was suffering from burns all down his front, and was laying on MacLeod's bed, for the second--at least--time that afternoon. He was healing, since, after all, he was immortal.
Richie had then insisted on helping by temporarily leaving to retrieve Chinese take-out--which was where he was at that moment. MacLeod had just finished cleaning up the now-cooled sauce from his entire kitchen, and was currently in the process of getting the healing immortal something to drink, and considering banging his head against the wall while he was at it.
The perfect spontaneous seduction, ruined by the inappropriate application of spaghetti sauce. Hell, he hadn't known that there was a bad side to getting spaghetti sauce on your future lover. Most of his best seductions involved some kind of food being applied to the body of one's choice to be slowly, teasingly removed by a hungry tongue...
Now he'd be surprised if Methos even still agreed to the relationship, much less allowed Duncan to play with his food.
He cast a glance into the darkened bedroom to see an arc of lightening dance over the other man's chest. Good; it wouldn't be long now. Turning from his trusty mop and bucket, he moved to stand at the doorway. "Hey."
"This day," Methos pronounced as the pain faded little by little, "has truly sucked."
Mac smiled slightly, feeling a little sad. "So I've heard."
With a gesture, Methos invited Mac into the room. "Mac, we have to talk."
Oh, no, the Scot moaned inwardly as he settled next to the old man on the bed. "You feeling better?"
"I've had worse." His bare chest glistened with new skin and his sinewy muscles twitched as he made sure the skin was completely healed.
"I'm sorry," Mac said, feeling guilty.
Methos rolled his eyes. "Unless you knew the burner was going to blow up, you have nothing to be sorry for." His eyes slid over to meet the darker ones at the same time that his hand slid over to cover Duncan's. "MacLeod, I've had a half an hour to think while I lay here in pain, and I've decided this isn't a good idea."
"No--" Mac cried, beginning to panic. So close--
"It's not you, Highlander, it's how bad things happen to me when I'm around you. It's self-preservation, plain and simple. I--"
"Don't tell me you don't feel this," Duncan leaned over and whispered to Methos. He could see the heat he felt reflected in the other man's eyes, and an intense moment passed around them. Duncan could feel the skin of Methos' bare chest radiating heat against his arms, could almost imagine the touch of that new skin, could practically feel gravity pulling his mouth to the one in front of him. He's breathing heavily, he thought with glee. But, so am I...
"I..." Unable to resist a moment longer, Methos rose up to blindly capture Duncan's mouth, wrapping his arms around the Scot to realize that the other man was enthusiastically meeting him halfway. He pulled the Highlander on top of him, grinding his hips lightly against the others.
Duncan gasped and ground his pelvis back at the wriggling, delicious man in front of him. He tasted so earthy and spicy, something he'd secretly craved but only just found. He ran his hands down the smooth back. He could feel Methos' hands--one in his hair, freeing it from the ponytail, the other pushing up his shirt to get to the broad expanse of his--
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"Hey, Mac!" a rather cheery voice called as the feeling of immortal presence engulfed the lovers once more. "I brought take-out..." Wandering over to the bedroom, he found Methos lying on the bed and Mac a few steps away. Mac's hair was half-loose and his shirt untucked. Both he and the old guy were panting heavily, not looking at each other--
Oh, god.
Holy mother of--
Crap.
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.
"Oh, crap." He dropped the takeout and scampered towards the door. Mac and the Old Guy had almost--
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap.
He had walked in on--
Fuck.
Exactly.
Damn.
He could hear Mac racing after him, trying to straighten himself up as he ran. "Richie!" the older man called. "Richie!" After he had almost cleared the dojo, a hand caught his arm and he spun around.
"What, Mac?"
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Methos was fuming. It wasn't enough that the stupid kid kept walking into Mac's loft, completely uninvited and with no warning, nor was it enough that he'd managed to interrupt the one part of the day that WAS, contrary to all expectations and reason, actually going well. No, of course not. Instead, when he walked in, his total of--being generous--three brain cells were working well enough to figure out what was going on, so he decided to leave--though not out of any feeling of chagrin for interrupting, oh, no. Because it bothered him. Not that it was any of his damned business, but... And MacLeod actually called him back and tried to explain!
Methos was pulled out of his brooding by his curiosity as to exactly what MacLeod was telling the kid. Surely he knew about the birds and bees by now... He chuckled as he remembered the look on the kid's face. Then again, maybe not. His laughter intensified, and began to display the hysterics behind it. Oh, this day... a day to end all others... a day that would live in infamy...
He struggled for breath around the choking, extremely undignified "hee-haws" he had just begun.
To put this day in perspective, it could be worse. Kronos could be back among the living dead--nope, even Kronos was an improvement over the flesh-consuming gay power of Ryan...
Oh, his gut hurt. Undignified... it was undignified for a 5,000 year old man to giggle so...
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"So you like men now?"
"Richie--!"
"Do you like me? Are you trying to get me into bed?"
Mac could almost scream. "Do you try to bed all your women friends?"
Richie leveled him a Look. "Of course I do!"
Having this conversation while painfully aroused was probably not the best way to go about things. Mac took a deep breath and slowly hissed it out through his teeth, counting backwards from ten in Russian as he found his temper and attempted to put it back to use. "Richie, it's not that I've suddenly started liking men... it's just Methos."
"But Methos is a man--""Damn it, Richie, this isn't easy for me! It's all very new! I love him, and I want you to understand that, okay? He's so important to me... and you can stop looking at me like I'm going to jump you. I don't see you that way at all."
"Promise?" A little doubt still remained in his tone.
MacLeod nodded. "And another thing--I don't mind you making yourself at home when I'm not around, but why don't you save the picking of locks for when some one's chasing..." his voice trailed off as he looked back at the lift from where he and Richie were holding this conversation--by the doors. The unmistakable sound of... lightening? From upstairs?
"Methos?" he whispered, eyes glued to the ceiling. Finally, he remembered how to work his legs and took off.
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He found the older man kneeling in the middle of the floor next to a decapitated body. He was trembling--most probably not from the breeze coming through the broken window, despite the fact that Methos was wearing only his boxers--and his breath was coming in what could only have been pained pants. The furniture was all askew; a chair lay in it's toppled-over state across floor from its usual home, and a few other chairs and the coffee table had been tipped over.
Duncan glanced at the head on the floor: that pesky woman from earlier. Humph. Served her right.
"Oh, man..." Richie groaned, coming up from behind Duncan. "Who was she?"
He answered absently, still looking at the somewhat strange tableau, "Oh, just some bitch who was after Methos..."
Richie gave him an odd look. "Doesn't it even concern you a bit who she was beyond that, or that Methos just beheaded her in your living room, and she obviously wasn't up to his ability in fighting... What happened to your characteristic chivalry?"
MacLeod felt a fatalistic shrug fall from his shoulders. "I warned her."
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Richie took a moment to re-evaluate the mental status of his mentor. Sexual preferences: a neat 180. Morals: non-existent. Strangeness quota: overfilled by about ten times.
Definitely not a time to leave the man alone with the weirdest immortal alive. Maybe he should call Joe...
Mac was kneeling next to Methos at this point, offering some sort of whispered condolences.
"She came through the window," Richie heard the old man reply dully. "Kronos hired her a couple years back to take me out if anything happened... I guess the bastard never did really trust me. She's insane. The whole bloody world is insane."
The oldest man alive was having a mental breakdown right in front of him. It was too ridiculous for words.
"Methos--" Mac interrupted the other's brood, "let it go. He only has control if you let him bother you." His hand moved to Methos' face to cup it gently. Their eyes met, and Mac traded an encouraging smile for Methos'. The old man's hand reached up tentatively to brush a strand of Mac's loose hair out of his eyes.
Woah, doggies. Richie shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he should cough or something to remind the two that he was still there, conscious, and not enjoying the show.
Leaning forward a little, Mac gently moved towards Methos' lips. Methos, in turn, responded by moving into and deepening the kiss. Their mouths parted slightly, and soon they were deepening the embrace by adding tangled arms and hair and fingers and oh my god, Duncan was moving for the old man's boxers--
Richie wanted to scream, but he settled with a cough, shuffling his feet, and saying, "Uh--guys? Uh..." he cleared his throat to bring his pitch back down to more normal, post-adolescent levels. "Guys..."
With a sigh, Duncan ended the kiss, resting his forehead against his partner's. "Yes, Richie?" His voice was tired.
"Could you guys just... not...." Aw, shit, he thought. They sound like they're having such a bad day... But...
Methos made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled sob. His head slid from its resting place against Duncan's and hit the other man's shoulder, where it lay, a heavy dead weight.
Duncan looked torn, obviously needing to both reassure Richie and comfort Methos. His arms went around the old man, cradling the exhausted body, while his eyes pleaded with his protégé. Please, they begged, accept this.
Feeling very mature, Richie made his decision. "Mac, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Turning around, he closed the door behind him and left the building to reconcile the old MacLeod with this new, Methos-loving one.
I'm so patient, he decided, pleased. He gave himself a mental pat on the back.
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Methos blinked slowly, and re-opened his eyes. Richie was, much to his surprise, still gone. "Did... he really just... leave?" It seemed too good to be true, but...
MacLeod sighed and stroked Methos' chin. "Yes, he did." He added mentally, "Thank you, gods of my childhood..."
Methos snuggled closer into the Highlander's arms. Thank you, planets. I'll never mock you again...
Mac heard Methos mutter something. "What was that?"
The old man cleared his throat and said again, this time audibly--and a bit melodramatically--"Take me to bed, Duncan, or lose me forever!"
The younger man grinned happily and scooped up his beloved.
*********Epilogue*********
"Richie Ryan."
"Hi, Richie. It's Amanda. How are you?"
"I'm fine. Amanda, did you --"
The thief eagerly broke in. "So, how did it go?"
"What?"
"With Duncan and the Old Man. How did it go?"
"WHAT?!? You KNEW?"
"Knew? Of course I knew! I'm the one who told him to just accept it, approach it, and move on from there."
"Huh? Why? How could you? I thought you wanted Mac..."
Laughter. "Oh, of course I do. Who doesn't? But it was killing him, and besides... Maybe someday they'll invite me in."
"What?"
Ignoring him, she continued. "Besides, I owed him..."
"Who? Mac?"
"No. I owe the Old Man at least this much..."
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Elsewhere, a happy man smiled down at his sleepy partner and kissed him on the lips.
Duncan cracked open one eye. "Wha--?"
Methos smiled, and placed one finger over his lover's lips. "Nothing, love. Just checking that you're real. Go back to sleep."
As he curled back up with his new lover, Methos smiled. Thank you, Amanda. The debt is paid...
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Professor Jordan carefully unlocked the door to his office. As usual, it was a mess. Papers were stacked in piles upon piles covering the entire room, in between which were strewn various folders, envelopes, textbooks, and essays to be read.
He really wished he were a more organized man.
The first message on his voice mail was from Adam Pierson. Poor kid was sick as a dog yesterday, the professor thought sadly. I'm glad he's calling in ill. No one should have to work like that.
Unfortunately, with the convention taking place today, there was no way someone could've been spared to take his place, what with all the preparations that needed to be made last minute. The thousand and one one hundred things that could possibly have gone wrong had, of course, and now that everything was in the hands of fate, it was nice to just sit back and chew the cud. It was truly a shame that the linguistics professor was such a nice man; so many bad things seemed to happen to him.
There was a sealed envelope on his desk, which he tore open with the bronze letter opener shaped like a Greek beta letter. Inside lay a shiny silver key ring and a note from that one English 101 teacher, Ryan Pike, scrawled in his practically illegible handwriting.
Prof. J--
Found Pierson's key in the loo, thought he might be needing it.
Oh, and by the way, there's a rumor that you might be free for lunch, since [illegible scribble]. Join me?
--Ryan Pike
Professor Jordan shivered. Was it just his imagination, or was the "i" in "Pike" dotted with a heart?
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::g:: Ta-da! All done! Reviews always appreciated.