Ch. 3
"C'mon, c'mon," Methos mumbled impatiently, tapping his foot and waiting for the light to change so he could cross the street. Traffic was mild, the lateness of the hour making it possible to slink through the streets of Paris without drawing too much attention. Methos was grateful that he was almost back to his flat; his sweater was barely long enough to cover his gaping trousers, and having walked with his hands shoved in his pockets to hold them up had given him one hell of a cramp between his shoulder blades.
His mind was still reeling, and he'd resolved not to think about what had happened until he was safely off the streets. He resolutely put one foot in front of the other, dodging passerby by slim margins. Three more blocks... now two... Rue de Charmaine...
Methos took the steps into the building two at a time. "Thank God," he muttered as he slipped inside the entryway. He kicked off his loafers and slid his ruined pants down his legs. His soiled boxers followed and the sight of the blood splotches triggered a twitch in his muscles, causing pain to flare as the memories pushed themselves into the foreground of his mind. He stripped off his sweater and undershirt, balling up the lot and stuffing them in to his clothes hamper on his way into the bathroom.
Methos leaned in to the shower stall and twisted the faucet to the hottest setting, switching the spray from rain to massage. Standing in front of the toilet, he took a moment to relieve himself while waiting for the water to heat. And when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, the tight reign he had on his seething thoughts snapped. His mind's eye was flooded with images from the past hour. Flashes of pale skin in the shadows… the coarse grain of cardboard close to his face… a glimmer of white teeth hidden behind kiss-swollen lips… thick ropes of ejaculate splattering onto dusty boxes…
Methos shuddered, feeling the ghost of arousal move through his slowly overheating body. Stepping closer to the mirror, he was able to make out the faint impressions of fingers along his hips, with two or three bloodied half-crescent indents discernable among the mottled shapes. His regenerative abilities would erase the evidence by morning, but he already knew the memories would never fade. Sighing deeply, the former Horseman eased his body into the steaming spray.
A few moments spent adjusting to the temperature of the water, and the old immortal was finally ready to think about the rest of the night. He was so confused, both at his reaction to Macleod, and more so, Mac's reaction to HIM. Methos tried to single out the moment he lost control of himself with the Scotsman, but it wouldn't come to him. Any way he looked at it, he could only see the slow build of psychological pleasure as he unsettled the younger man, leading up to the sharp spike of arousal that led to his ravishing. It was seamless.
But Duncan… there was no rhyme or reason to how completely the man had given himself over to the moment. His self-control was legendary. And as far as Methos had experienced, Macleod was simply devoid of same-sex lovers over his atypically long lifespan. Whatever the thought process, he realized Duncan Macleod was going to have a LOT on his mind. Methos was bashfully relieved to have escaped his company for that.