double

Double Date
by Diana DeShaun
Feb. 1998



Standard Disclaimers: Rysher and Panzer/Davis Productions own the original characters.
I'm only borrowing them for fun. Do not post, copy, publish or link to this material without
the express permission of the author.

Warning! Rated: NC-17 Same-sex sexual content. Use the delete key now if you are
under the legal age in your locality or if that isn't to your taste.

Please let me hear from you. I appreciate all feedback. :-)   [email protected]



    "C'mon, Methos! Please!"

   "No!"

   "I never ask you for anything. Now I need your help, and you can't do this one little thing for me?"

   "You never ask me for anything! Pardon me while I choke, MacLeod."

   "Well, if that's the way you feel about it..."

   "Oh no you don't. Stop pouting. You are not going to make me feel guilty... MacLeod!"

   "Never mind, never mind. You certainly shouldn't do anything that you don't want to do. There's no law that says friends do things for each other. I understand."

   "Oh, gods no! You understand. I'm doomed. I might as well give in now."

   "You'll do it then?"

"Argh... Yes. I'll do it. Are you happy now?"

   "Very. And you'll see Methos, you will be too."

And with that conversation, the fates of Duncan MacLeod of theclan MacLeod and Methos, the World's Oldest Immortal, were sealed.



   It had all started earlier that morning. Duncan MacLeod had been dozing in the sun near the Louvre, eyes closed, head thrown back. A very fetching picture indeed. He was right in the middle of having the craziest dream about living in the jungle � la Tarzan with all his friends. The thing about it was, aside from Richie as Cheetah, none of the roles he'd cast them in made any sense. He'd just gotten to the famous line: 'Me Tarzan, you...Methos?' when reality plopped smack into his lap and he woke with a start.

   "Oh, excuse me!" a breathy, feminine voice cooed in his ear. MacLeod's arms and lap were overflowing with ripe, voluptuous female. "It's so dark inside that I was blinded when I came out into the bright sun. I didn't even see you until I tripped." The young woman continued to wiggle, ostensibly trying to get up. But she's not making much progress, the bemused Highlander noted.

   Thrusting away his mild annoyance at the interruption of what was shaping up to be a very interesting dream, Mac went into his Highland Lady Killer mode. Shaking away the remaining cobwebs, he grasped the soft shapely arms of the damsel in distress and lifted her gently off his lap. Settling her safely at his side, he said, "You're right about the Louvre. Some parts of it are as dark as a cave, Miss...?"

   "Marsha. Marsha Melons."

   "Enchant�, Miss...Melons. I'm Duncan MacLeod. Are you new to Paris?"

   "Actually, it's just a stopover till tomorrow. I'm a flight attendant."

   "A flight attendant. That must be very interesting." He certainly found it interesting. At least, he should have. Mac frowned to himself as he tried to decide exactly why he wanted to ask her if she ever flew to Africa.

   "It's usually lots of fun. Of course, then you come to a totally new place like Paris and you have exactly one day and one night to experience it. I don't even know where to start!" she laughed.

It was an obvious opening. She knew it, and he knew it. And of course, leaping into the breach was as natural to Duncan MacLeod as breathing. "Let me take you dancing tonight. You haven't been to Paris until you've been dancing in a Paris nightclub."

   Miss Melon all but purred. "Why, I'd love to...Duncan." And she leaned against his big strong arm to smile up into his face.   "Of course, there is one little problem."

   MacLeod felt a flicker of wariness. "What's that?"

   "My roommate. It's her stopover too, and I couldn't just leave her in the hotel room alone."

   "Bring her too."

   "But she'd feel uncomfortable being the odd one out. Unless...don't you know someone who could be her date?"

   "Well, I don't know..."

   "I can't go without her."

   What was wrong with him? For one brief moment, Duncan considered using this to get out of the evening. But his very hesitation made him more determined to go through with it.

   "No problem. I...yes! I have just the guy! He'd be happy to do it."

   "Wonderful!" And Miss Marsha Melons threw her soft, soft arms around MacLeod's bronze neck, pressed her soft, soft body against his rock hard chest and thanked him most prettily. "We'll meet you right here--say eight?" And she was gone.



Persuading Methos was just as difficult as Mac thought it would be. It entailed large quantities of beer and more than one trip to the blarney stone. Finally in desperation, Duncan had brought out his big gun. He'd never used it on a man before. Why he'd been inclined to use it on Methos, he wasn't sure, but it had worked like a charm. He had of course, used The Look.
That devastating combination of pouting lips, smoldering eyes and sweeping sidelong glances had Methos quivering in Mac's hands. Figuratively speaking, of course.

   Now that Methos had agreed, MacLeod set to coaxing his friend into a better mood. Employing visual aids in the form of hand motions, MacLeod enthused, "Wait'll you see this woman, Methos. She's...she's got...she's really very nice."

   "That's your girl, MacLeod. What does mine look like?"

"Well, er, I didn't actually see her."

   "You didn't actually see her. OK, what's her name?"

   "Er, I didn't actually catch her name."

   "You didn't actually catch her name. Are you sure it's even a woman? There are male flight attendants too, you know."

   "Quit repeating everything I say! Of course I'm sure it's a woman. I think--no, I'm sure! I distinctly recall Marsha referring to her roommate as a 'she'."

   "Marsha. I see you know your date's name. And, from what I heard you know yours is female."

   "God, Methos! Would you lighten up? I had no idea you were such a homophobe!"

   "A homophobe, me? Hardly. We all know who the homophobe in this room is!"

   "I am not a homophobe!"

   "You couldn't prove it by me."

   "Well I never!"

"Don't I know it."

   "Humph. If you're getting ready here, I get the shower first."

   "Uh huh."

   "What do you mean 'uh huh'?"

   "Nothing. Not a thing. Go ahead, change the subject. You look a little flushed, Duncan."

   "...I'll save you some shampoo."

   An unconscionable amount of time later, MacLeod emerged. Methos looked up from his usual sprawl as he downed his second 'just passing the time' beer, and promptly choked on the brew.

   MacLeod had a tiny little towel knotted about his waist. As he padded over to the couch to beat encouragingly on Methos' back, he had to keep grabbing at it. Every time the towel began to slip
downwards so did Methos' streaming eyes. MacLeod had to knowhow he looked. He's doing it on purpose! Methos fumed.

   Finally catching his breath, Methos glared at the Highlander as he plopped down on the couch beside him. MacLeod's big hand was still on Methos' back, and the towel had scrunched up perilouslyclose to regions unexplored by man. Of course, thought Methos, women were a different story.

   Still gulping air, Methos shoved MacLeod away from him. Big mistake! Mac rolled off the couch like Humpty Dumpty. Resolutely focusing on the task at hand, Methos ignored the man sprawled on the floor. He fastidiously stepped over him and his tiny little towel as he grabbed a bundle off the chair and headed for the bathroom.

   "Don't use all the shampoo," Mac yelled, still making no effort to rise. Instead he sighed in contentment, wriggling his shoulders as he settled more comfortably on the floor. He idly toyed with a long strand of hair, bringing it across his face to inhale the fragrance embedded there. Ah! Jungle Gardenia. Closing his eyes, a lopsided grin played over his features as MacLeod returned once again to the savage, but oh so intriguing world of Tarzan, Laird of the Jungle.

   An hour later it was time to go. Mac had heard Methos come out once, but by the time he'd turned from the window where he stood, the bathroom door had again been tightly shut. Glancing at his wrist watch, Duncan yelled impatiently, "Come on, Old Man! What are you doing in there--plastic surgery?"

   The bathroom door flew open. "Very funny, MacLeod. What are you standing there for?"

   MacLeod pursed his lips as he considered the sight before him. Methos had emerged from the bathroom wearing his trench coat belted tightly closed. "You do have clothes on under that thing don't you?"

   "Yes I have clothes on! They're just not exactly what I expected."

   "What do you mean? You don't know what your own clothes look like?"

   "Actually no. They're new. I had them delivered. You know, you call a store, give them your size, tell them the occasion and they take care of it."

   "So let's see them."

   "No."

   "You look like a flasher. Don't tell me you're planning on wearing that coat all night."

   "Mind your business, MacLeod. I'll take it off at the club...probably."

   Shaking his head, the Highlander opened the door then executed a sweeping bow and said, "After you, Sir."

   Eyeing him with some suspicion, Methos started out. As he passed, Duncan suddenly leaned forward and stuck his nose in the back of the Old Man's neck. "Um...Jungle Gardenia," he enthused.

   Methos jerked forward with a shiver and growled, "Back off, Highlander. You poke it out again, I'll slice it off."

   "Well!" said Duncan, highly affronted. "I hope you don't use that line on your date."



   Striding up to the plaza in front of the Louvre, the men were just in time to see their dates arriving in a taxi. Marsha rushed up and flung her arms around MacLeod as Methos looked on with a kind of glowering half-smirk on his face. Greetings were exchanged, introductions were made. Methos' date, the redoubtable Miss Bernice Bovene, was a blonder version of Duncan's and just as...friendly. It was quickly apparent the two ladies were planning on a big evening.

   The first hint of trouble came when it was time to check their coats at the club. After an elaborate show of helping Bernice out of hers, Methos hesitated. MacLeod noted his friend's uncertainty and stared at Methos with a challenging glint in his eyes. Bearing up under the strain, Methos closed his eyes and shook his head. Taking a deep breath, he removed his coat. At first, in the dim light nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but then Methos turned around to hand it to the checker...and MacLeod's
mouth fell open.

   Black leather. Methos was encased from neck to toe in skin tight black leather. The ensemble hugged every curve, every line on the man's body. It might as well have been painted on his skin.

   As they were shown to their table, Marsha leaned in to Mac's side and whispered, "You didn't tell me your friend was so hot, Duncan."

   "I didn't know." MacLeod still couldn't tear his eyes away from the view. After sparring with the man on numerous occasions, Mac already knew his slender frame was covered in whipcord muscles but....He'd never actually contemplated the overall package. If MacLeod were to be honest, the sight of Methos' ass cupped in that buttery soft black leather made him feel tingly in places heretoforetingle free.

   Mac was grateful when they were seated in the tiny round booth. At least he was until he realized that Methos and he were squashed right next to each other. The ladies had wanted the aisle seats so they could have a better view of the club. Soon both were commenting on the other men and women around them even as they flirted outrageously with their escorts.

   After pointedly avoiding looking at the man who was pressed against him, shoulder to knee for several minutes, MacLeod relaxed marginally. What was wrong with him? He was with a beautiful woman in a hot Paris club accompanied by his best friend and another beautiful woman. It had all the makings of a memorable evening full of dancing and laughter. The heat branding the entire left side of his body was his imagination or, more likely, probably that damn leather. It was no doubt very
conductive of heat...heat from Methos...

   Clamping down on that thought, MacLeod realized Marsha was staring at him expectantly. Casting wildly about, he found no recollection of their ongoing conversation. Giving her what he
hoped was a mysterious smile he touched one finger to her lips andsaid, "Hold that thought."

   Turning to Methos, he opened his mouth to tell the Old Man to scoot over, for God's sake! Instead, he found himself engulfed by gold-flecked green pools that were wide with panic. Methos' face was a flaming red and he seemed to be having some troublecatching his breath. Ha, thought MacLeod smugly. He's a lot more bothered than I am. Even as Duncan began to ask himself why either of them were bothered, Methos squawked, "Excuse me!" and took off at a lope for the men's room.

   Stopping in mid-chatter, the girls looked at Mac. Shrugging he said, "I dunno, but, er, he might be sick. I'd better go check. Excuse me, ladies."

   The men's room buzzed with Methos' unmistakable presence, but he was nowhere in sight. Aside from an odd thumping noise, all was quiet. Mac knew he was there somewhere. Taking the precaution of locking the main door, he did the only sensible thing given the situation, he bent double at the waist and began to peer under the stalls.

   They were all empty except the large handicapped accessible one at the end. There Methos' boots were flashing in and out of Mac's line of vision in time to the thumps. The Old Man was apparently hopping up and down.

   Muffled grunts and curses began to accompany the hops until suddenly with a loud "Damn!" the stall door crashed open and a very disheveled Immortal snarled out, "Get in here MacLeod!"

   "What?"

   Methos tugged futilely at the waist of his pants. "They're stuck. I can hardly breath. Get in here!"

   MacLeod reluctantly entered the stall. "Well, what's wrong with them? You seemed all right earlier."

   "I was all right earlier. Then your two little friends started feeling me up."

   "They did not!"

   "Oh yes they did. Both of them and you just sat there. Fat lot of help you are."

   "Come on Methos. Bernice, maybe. But why would Marsha come after you when she's got me?"

   "One hand, one foot, MacLeod from 180 degree oppositedirections. You do the math."

   "Well, I like that."

   "I didn't. I mean, I can certainly understand it since you were totally ignoring her but still..."

   "I wasn't ignoring her...I just lost track of the conversation for a minute."

   "Umph. Whatever. To make a long, hard story short, there's not enough room in these pants for air molecules much less any more of me! I was in pain!"

   MacLeod bent over to stare fixedly at Methos' crotch. "Looks ok now," he opined.

   "I've calmed down now. I'm safe in here. But they're still stuck and it still hurts. It's one of those lace-up closings, see? I seem to have gotten a knot in it."

   As Methos pointed out the offending laces, MacLeod knelt on the floor of the stall and cocked his head to one side. "I see the knot," he murmured. "It's a mess. Let me see what I can do."

   He reached out his index finger and poked at the tangle. Then adding his thumb, he attempted to lift the knot away from the rest of the lacings. No luck. Methos was right, there was absolutely no extra space in there.

   Looking up, he saw with concern that Methos had his eyes closed and was beginning to breath raggedly again. His face was returning to that alarming shade of red and the veins on his neck were starting to stand out. He must really be suffering, Mac thought as he poked desperately at the knot.

   "MacLeod," Methos' strained voice seemed to come from very far away, "do something!"

   Maybe two hands would work better than one. With enough force to wring a groan from the Old Man, Mac rammed his hand down inside Methos' pants. His plan was to push the lacings forward from the inside, hopefully making them more accessible.

   Methos began to shake and shimmy. "Ow! Ow! Hair, MacLeod, hair! You're pulling out my hair!"

   MacLeod was frozen in shock. "You're not wearing any underwear!"

   "It made a line! Spoiled the whole effect. Arghh... You're still pulling the hair!"

   MacLeod was beginning to sweat. "Sorry, sorry! There's not much room in here....I thought you said you'd calmed down!!" He began to rake his hand back and forth trying to force his way down past...past...

   Grabbing the younger man's head, Methos roughly tilted the flushed face up to stare into his own. "I am calm, Highlander!" he gritted.

   Duncan's eyes seemed to dilate as his breath quickened. "You don't feel calm." He gently wiggled his captive fingers for emphasis.

   "Oh Gods! First the towel and now this!" Methos sounded desperate as he pulled MacLeod's hand back out of his pants. "What am I going to do?"

   MacLeod still knelt staring up at Methos. After a moment he roused himself from his reverie and mused, "If I just had my sword."

   "Your sword! Killing me is not really a solution I'd go for."

   "To cut the laces, you dolt. If I just had anything sharp to pick at the knot..." but no amount of searching yielded a solution.

   Finally, "Your teeth, MacLeod. Use your teeth."

   Mac's eyes widened in horror. "What if I bite you?"

   "You wouldn't dare."

There was both a threat and a promise in the Old Man's voice. MacLeod gulped once then leaned in to his task.

   It would have been difficult for an observer to say who was most inflamed by MacLeod's nipping and nibbling. After carefully watching the proceedings, the win would have been given to Methos since he was the one being nipped and nibbled. ButMacLeod would have been a very close runner-up. Every time hetried to get his teeth on that pesky knot, his lips and nose were, perforce, coming into intimate contact with hot leather-encasedMethos.

   MacLeod was losing his inner battle to remain calm. His hands reached around to cup Methos' buttocks, to hold the Old Man steady, he told himself. He kneaded the firm ass beneath his fingers seeking the best grip as he continued.

   At the same time Methos' hands tangled in the Highlander's dark hair, pressing the Scot's mouth closer.   Just helping Mac get closer to the knot, he rationalized.

   The two bent to the task with a will. Several minutes later success, of a sort, was the reward. Subconsciously they had long since abandoned any pretense about what was occurring. Proper
grip and angle aside, by now there was more caressing than steadying of Mac's head and more contact of lips than teeth on Methos'...knot.

   MacLeod leaned against the stall door as Methos began to press forward into Mac. The combined weight of the two led to the inevitable. The door burst out of its lock just as Mac's teeth finally, accidentally clamped on the knot. Methos managed to catch himself on the door frame but MacLeod went flying out on his back with the bitten-off knot in his mouth.

   "I'm free!" Methos sighed as the remaining bits of lacing proved no match for his liberated anatomy. Closing his eyes, Methos savored the first unrestricted breath he'd had in ages.

   Still flat on the floor, Mac reached up and drew the knot from his mouth, "So I see," he managed.

   Methos stared at the Highlander for a moment then whirledaround and pulled the door shut on the other's dawning leer.

   But MacLeod wasn't done yet. Rolling around, he thrust his head under the stall and said, "My God, man! How did you manage to get all that in there in the first place?"

   Methos stared down at the younger Immortal in disbelief. "You can't possibly know what you're saying." Then he smiled smolderingly. "It is impressive, isn't it?"

   Suddenly frightened by the conversation and his own reactions, MacLeod slid back out and stood up. He wasn't about to answer that. As it was, he suddenly couldn't even remember what their
dates' names were. Their dates. Oh no! "Methos! Come on! We've let our dates sit out there alone for God knows how long!"

   "Bloody hell!" came the voice in the stall. "What have you done to me now, MacLeod?"

   "I didn't do anything that you didn't want me to! You wanted me to...to...well, you did!"

   "You weren't exactly reluctant now were you? I need..."

   "Oh no! You're not gonna get me back in there. I don't know quite what's going on, but I need to get out of here and clear my head. Some things you have to take care of for yourself."

   "Go ahead, back off again MacLeod. I expect nothing else from you. I fully intend to take care of some things myself--but that doesn't replace the chord that holds the damn pants closed. You
ate it, remember?"

   "Shit! We have got to get out of here!"

   "Calm down, man. Give me your hair tie. It's a leather thong isn't it?"

   "Yeah, it is. But it's got a medallion attached to it. I don't know if it'll work. How'd you know it was a thong?" Mac asked as he passed it under the stall.

   "I know lots of things MacLeod, plus I'm a damn sight more observant than you. One of these days I'll tell you some more of my observations but for now, get out there and lie like hell to our dates. I'll be out in a couple of minutes."



   Wondering how he'd explain his change in hairstyle, Mac went back to the table. Surprisingly, Marsha and Bernice were still there. They didn't look happy though. In fact, as MacLeod walked up the two women took in his slightly disreputable appearance--he'd been on the floor of a men's room after all--coupled it with his loosed hair and immediately jumped to the most obvious conclusion. It took some great improvising about poor sick Adam and a big problem he was having, but Mac soothed their ruffled feelings as best he could.   He had just ask Marsha to dance when a voice behind him said, "Great idea! Bernice, shall we?"

   Turning in disbelief, MacLeod said pointedly, "I can't believe you handled that big problem so quickly."

   "Actually I didn't. I have some observations on the matter and I decided to wait for later when I could have some help with it."

   With a smirk at MacLeod's sudden flush, Methos whirled Bernice onto the dance floor.

   Marsha frowned as she and Duncan followed. "That's odd," she mused.

   "Hmmm? What?"

   "Something about your friend Adam looks different. If I could just get another good look at him."

   The realization hit Mac like a thunderbolt. He maneuvered desperately as he tried to keep Marsha's back to the man in question. Adam was gyrating to the beat of the music, and swinging from his waist was Duncan's medallion. If Bernice noticed it, he and Methos were doomed.

   Narrowing his eyes, MacLeod found himself mesmerized by their approaching destruction. A five thousand year old man shouldn't be able to move like that, he told himself. He again found himself thinking of the jungle: the steamy, hot jungle reverberating with the throb of drums...

   The Highlander became aware that he was standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor with Marsha glaring up at him. Licking his lips, he brought himself back to the proper continent with some effort. Unknowingly echoing Methos' earlier thoughts on the barge, he hissed, "He's doing that on purpose!"

   Stomping her foot in anger, Marsha whirled around to see what had MacLeod so transfixed. It was just what...who she'd suspected. Adam. Suddenly her eyes widened. She raised an accusing finger, pointed at Methos and said in a very loud voice, "What is that?"

   Following her friend's directive, Bernice stared fixedly at the medallion dangling down the front of Methos' pants. "Oh myGod!" she shrieked turning back to Marsha and Duncan. "That was in your hair when we got here!"

   "I knew it!" Marsha steamed. "You've been drooling over him all evening."

   "I have not! I can explain. It's really very funny--really." Duncan ended weakly as Methos and Bernice closed the small gap between the two couples. Now all four of them were standing in the middle of the dance floor. The band had long since taken a break, and people were beginning to stare.

   Ignoring Mac's increasingly desperate shushing motions, Marsha continued, "If you're with him, why were you pawing me at the Louvre today?"

   "I wasn't pawing you! You sat on my lap!"

   "Next you'll be saying you didn't come on to me and insist I go out with you!"

   Remembering he was a gentleman, MacLeod firmly clamped his mouth shut and refused to answer. He couldn't help but notice Methos beginning to titter in the background. Unfortunately for Methos, Bernice noticed too.

   Rounding on him, she fairly spat, "Not that it matters to you, but we're leaving!" And with that, the two women flounced out leaving Mac and Methos standing on the empty dance floor as if they were performers on a stage. The two stared at each other, each waiting for the other to say something, to make the first move.

   Abruptly, Methos whirled away to retrieve his coat. After a moment, MacLeod followed silently.



   Mac was close-mouthed all the way back to the barge, but Methos wasn't. He seemed intent on rehashing the entire incident. "'You'll be happy too, Methos.' 'Please do this for me Methos,'" he muttered. "Yeah, right."

   After that he subsided to cursing in languages long dead. MacLeod figured it was probably just as well.

   By the time they got home, MacLeod was feeling guilty and Methos was lost in thought. He's probably so mad at me he's afraid to speak, MacLeod thought morosely.

   Casting about for an innocuous topic of conversation, MacLeod got a couple of beers from the fridge. Methos threw himself down on the couch.

   Determining his best course was to act like nothing was amiss, Mac flung himself down beside the Old Man and said brightly, "You know, I had the craziest dream. I was Tarzan, see -- you know, lions, loin cloth, the whole bit --" he paused to see if Methos was listening. Apparently not yet. "Everyone we know was there too. You, Richie, Joe--" That had him. Methos had turned to stare at the younger man with narrowed eyes. "--in fact, and this is the funny part, you were...er, you were..."
MacLeod trailed off as he realized that being cast as his erstwhile love interest was not something Methos might appreciate hearing about right now.

   Uh oh. There was a definite gleam in Methos' eye as MacLeod began to squirm.

   "I was what MacLeod?"

   "Um, you were in it, too."

   "You already told me that. So, who was I?"

   "I really can't remember..."

   "You're lying. Who was I? Wait a minute. I wasn't an elephant or a chimp or something?"

   "No, no. Definitely not."

   "Well then who was I? A warrior chieftain? A mysterious villain? Don't tell me. I was your trusty sidekick, right?"

   "Not exactly. Well, sort of. You were my...we were..."

   "I was a guy wasn't I?"

   "God yes. You were definitely a guy."

   "Just tell me MacLeod."

   "Um...me Tarzan--you Methos."

   "You're mumbling man, I can't hear you."

   "Me Tarzan--You Methos!"

   "Oh."

   Leaping off the couch, Methos began to pace. His face was averted and Duncan could only wonder about the Old Man'sreaction. He felt curiously free now that he had admitted his dream
out loud and he was eager to find out what would happen next.

   After a few turns about the room, Methos stopped to stare into MacLeod's eyes and opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it again and resumed pacing. He stopped again, same results. After suffering through several minutes of tortuous silence, Mac thought he would go mad if something didn't happen soon.

   Then Duncan noted with interest that the Old Man was at it again. Methos' heightened color and rapid shallow breathing spoke volumes. It also did interesting things to MacLeod's libido.

   Suddenly Methos stopped in mid-pace and rushed toward the bathroom. "I've got to get out of these pants," he moaned.

   Mac stood up and moved towards him. "Methos..."

   "Not now MacLeod! I can't breathe! I can't think! I can't...I Can't! Oh Gods no!"

   Duncan was horrified that Methos was so violentlyagainst...whatever it was they were tiptoeing around. But thenMethos came shuffling out of the bathroom like a condemned man dragging reluctant steps to his execution. He appeared unduly fascinated with the barge's wooden floor.

   All but bumping up against MacLeod, the old Immortal stopped a heartbeat away. Slowly, his eyes climbed the Highlander's body. Up they swept, past those full lips to the liquid dark eyes.

   MacLeod's breath caught as he remembered the last time they'd stood like this. It was in his dream. That funny, damning dream. Somehow it had been the final catalyst for this moment.

   Leaning forward, so close his breath caressed the Highlander'sear and sent shivers down his spine, Methos whispered, "Duncan,were there any vines in your dream?"

Turning his head so that his lips all but brushed Methos' jaw, Duncan whispered in reply, "Uh...several, but we didn't exactly swing from them. They were more...for decorative purposes. Did I mention the waterfall?"

   "I love waterfalls. In fact, I would love to be standing under a waterfall right now."

   "That can be arranged."

   "If only you could."

   "Methos, I have a very big shower."

    Methos pressed down hard on the tops of Duncan's shoulders. MacLeod gulped as he wondered what the Old Man had in mind, but he sank willingly to his knees. Unable to keep a little leer out of his eyes, he stared at his medallion still glinting from Methos' waist. Arching a brow at the other man, MacLeod reached toward his errant hair tie only to have Methos grab his hand in a steely vise.

   "You'll need more than that Duncan. Much more."

   Mac's eyes widened in comprehension. "You don't mean..."

   "I'm afraid I do. I seem to be having a little problem with a knot..."

   "And since I can't use my sword..."

   "You're going to have to use your...teeth."



   Tilting his head to get a closer look, the Highlander murmured, "I see it. Looks pretty bad. This may take a while."

   Methos threaded his fingers through Mac's soft dark hair. "I guess we'd better get started then."

   "Mmm..." agreed MacLeod as his hands came up to dig into the Old Man's ass.

   For several moments the only sounds on the barge were the soft moans of the two men as they... worked. With a grunt of satisfaction, MacLeod tilted a lascivious grin up at Methos to display an end of the loosened thong dangling in his teeth.

   "You're getting much better at this." Methos tightened his grip on Mac's head.

   "Practice."

   "Of course. But you know loosening the knot is one thing..."

   "True. But removing the tie before it can get tangled again is another."

   MacLeod's clever, clever mouth began to work in earnest. Methos' groans became louder as he swayed towards the dark Scot. In turn, Mac pressed harder and harder as more of the thong came free. Methos began to thrust towards the beckoning heat of the mouth that came ever closer to its goal. MacLeod was poised to engulf the satiny steel length now just barely contained by the lacing.

   At last Methos was freed from his leather prison. Totally losing control, MacLeod surged forward. He kept right on going as Methos lost his balance and crashed to the floor pinned by the Highland warrior.

   A high pitched scream erupted from the Old Man's throat. At the same moment, MacLeod clamped his hands over his face and cried, "My eye! You've put out my eye!"

   Rolling out from under the younger Immortal, Methos staggered to his feet clutching his wounded member. Bent double he lurched to the bed and fell on it, curling into a moaning ball.

   The half-blind Scotsman, tears streaming down his face, followed slowly and sank down on the mattress as well. Looking at Methos with his one open eye, he felt hysteria bubbling up. A snort escaped from his compressed lips, then another. Soon he was convulsed with laughter.

   His nausea finally subsiding, Methos considered the man on the bed next to him. He could feel his erection firming up under his protectively cupped hands. Giving in to the moment, he reached for MacLeod and wiped the remaining tears from his cheek.

   "I would have thought Tarzan would have superb grace and balance -- what with all that swinging through trees."

   Sobering somewhat, MacLeod grinned. "I told you the vines were for decoration only. We were much too busy to worry about them."

   "Oh really?"

   "Mmm... really. Does it still hurt?"

   "Well no, but it might be permanently damaged."

   "Let's see. You're right -- it looks awfully swollen."

   "You did this to me, youngster. What are you going to do about it?"

   All remaining mirth faded as MacLeod slowly rose from the bed and stood looking down at the five thousand-year-old man.   "For starters I'm going to help you get out of those clothes. We aren't going to risk any more accidents."

   In no time he had removed Methos' shirt and shoes. He peeled the skin-tight leather pants down over Methos' slender hips and deposited them in a heap on the floor.

   His dark eyes dilated as they traveled up the long length of Methos' legs to his shaft, now fully erect in a whorl of dark curls. The man was beautiful. How had he gone so long without realizing it? Then again, maybe he'd known it all along. It had taken the dream and tonight's ridiculousness to force the knowledge into his consciousness. He was ferociously glad it had happened.

   Raising his eyes to lock them into Methos' glazed green ones, Mac began to remove his shirt. He meant to do it slowly, seductively, but when Methos stretched his hand in invitation, all thoughts of taking it slowly vanished. Heedless of the remaining buttons, he ripped the shirt off and grabbed the snap on his jeans. If he could've torn them off as well he would have. Finally shoving jeans and briefs to the floor, he stepped out of them and dove onto the bed near Methos' feet.

   MacLeod was achingly hard. He leaned forward until the wet tip of his cock just touched Methos' ankle. Sliding slowly up the bed, he carefully maintained that one point of contact as he rose until the old Immortal's flushed face was a centimeter away from his own.   "Now where were we? Oh yes, your injury. I believe I was about to rub it and make it better."

   "Oh gods."

   MacLeod's big hand closed around Methos' hot flesh as he leaned to press his lips to the Old Man's. Methos' mouth opened immediately under the onslaught as his hand crept out in turn to stroke, then enclose Mac's penis.

   Tongues clashed in a timeless duel as cocks thrust to a matching rhythm. There was no room, no time for gentleness or soft words, the elemental need for completion, for fulfillment consumed them both.

   Now teeth joined the fray, catching and tearing at tender flesh as Methos suddenly grabbed MacLeod's hand, linking fingers and pressing both their cocks together. Duncan shuddered violently as he thrust hard against the Old Man once, twice, three times. With a shout, Duncan climaxed against Methos' taunt abdomen. A heartbeat later Methos joined him as the sensations caused by Mac's pulsating cock combined with the hot slippery cum to take him over the edge as well.

   Both men fell onto their backs in replete exhaustion. MacLeod's right hand crept out and entwined with Methos' left. When he was able to bring his breathing under control Methos rolled his head toward the Highlander.

   Raising their joined hands to eye level, Methos stared at them. "I must admit, this is the best blind date I ever had."

   "Told you it'd be fun."

   "I might even be willing to do it again sometime."

   MacLeod rolled onto his side and began to run his free hand over Methos' chest. "I believe that can definitely be arranged."

   Methos shifted closer to Mac and began tracing his finger over the Scot's lush lower lip. "There's just one condition."

   "And what's that?" MacLeod asked as he captured the finger with his teeth and proceeded to suck it into his mouth.

   "Next time, you get to wear the leather pants."

     -the end-

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