The Favor
by Diana DeShaun

Standard Disclaimers:  Rysher and Panzer/Davis Productions own the original  characters.  I'm only borrowing them for fun.  I'll give them back (even if they don't want to go).

Rating:  NC-17 for graphic m/m sex. If you are underage in your locality, LEAVE NOW.


This story originally appeared in Futures Without End #1

 

Feedback as always, please, to [email protected]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

          The Favor
               by Diana DeShaun

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Ring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ring. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Struggling up from sleep, Duncan MacLeod was disoriented. The phone sounded
farther away than usual. Reaching blindly, he groped toward the bedside
table and found a warm body instead.

Slapping limply at the sleek chest beneath his hand, Mac mumbled, "Phone�
Methos, phone."

Ring. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mac slapped at him again�this time connecting with his face. Methos growled
and made a half-hearted brushing motion with one hand. Otherwise, nothing.

Ring. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Groaning, MacLeod levered himself up and stared bleary-eyed at the old
Immortal. He didn't so much as twitch.

Crawling on top of his sleeping lover, he managed to snag the phone just as
it was about to ring for the fifth time. Deliberately settling his entire
weight on the slighter man beneath him, Mac propped his elbows in the middle
of Methos' ribs and mumbled, "H'lo."

"Hey, Mac, you finally decided to give up and answer it. What're you doin'?"
Joe's voice seemed abnormally loud and cheerful over the phone line.

Wincing, MacLeod held the phone away from his ear. He noticed with interest
that the old man was awake now, staring up at him with a ferocious frown on
his face.

"Get your elbows off my chest!" he hissed.

"Mac, did you say something?"

As the ancient Immortal began to squirm beneath him, Duncan grinned and
deliberately ground his elbows deeper into Methos' chest. "Uh, yeah, Joe.
Hi."

"So, what's happening?"

"Nothing. Not a thing. Mmph...Why do you ask? Urk." MacLeod ended with a
yelp as Methos began to buck like a madman.

"Get. Off!" It wasn't a hiss this time, but more like a bellow.

Joe held the phone closer as he strained to hear more. "What's that?"

Clamping his hand firmly over Methos' mouth, MacLeod moved his knees to
either side of the old man's hips. Squeezing mightily, Mac smirked and
settled back for the ride.

"It's nothing, Joe, just something weird on television. What can I do for
you?"

"TV again. Uh-huh. Ah, Mac, you and I and Methos need to have a little
talk."

Now the old man was lying totally still. Mac stared down at the gold-green
eyes blazing above his palm. "Talk?" Distracted, MacLeod tried to
concentrate on the phone call. "I don't know what we need to talk about,
Joe."

"I bet you don't. Anyway, it's your lucky day. Turns out I need a favor, so
I've got a proposition for you."

Frowning at the man trapped beneath him, Mac found that paying attention to
Joe was becoming increasingly difficult. A hot, wet tongue was teasing at
the inside of his palm, sending shivers down his spine and wreaking havoc
with his senses. A finger of suspicion insinuated itself into Mac's brain.
It wasn't like the old guy to give up so easily.

Turning his mind back to Joe's voice with effort, Duncan tried to end the
conversation as quickly as possible. "What do you want, Joe?"

"Well...I might be willing to postpone our talk for a few days." Joe
drawled. "I was originally going to be closed today, and I gave everyone the
day off. I had it all arranged for our chat to be free from any
interruptions."

"And? What's your point?"

"Patience, Mac, I'm getting there. I got this call from this...uh, women's
group. It seems they're having a meeting tonight, and the place they had
scheduled just burned down. The woman organizing it is a friend of a friend,
and she wants to have it here. The problem is, I can't get anyone to wait
tables. Richie's already said he'll help me, but I need two more..."

"We'll do it!" Mac answered immediately. Anything to hang up. Methos had
begun to rub his hands up and down Mac's thighs. MacLeod really needed to
get off the phone. Smiling down at the old man, Duncan was just about to
hang up and set him free when Methos made his move.

"Aagghh!"

Teeth replaced tongue as the old Immortal clamped down hard on the
Highlander's hand. At the same time, he threw himself upward with a mighty
heave. MacLeod, long since relaxed under the combined assault of Methos'
mouth and hands, was totally unprepared. He went flying back through the air
to land in a heap on the floor with the phone still clutched in his hand.

On the other end of the phone, Joe's mouth was hanging open. The tremendous
crash was followed by silence, and he struggled to hear any clues as to what
was happening. Puzzled, but not particularly alarmed�he was fairly certain
he knew what was going on, though he couldn't quite believe it yet�he began
to shout into the phone, "MacLeod? MacLeod! Answer me! If this is some kind
of trick, it's not gonna work!"

Suddenly he heard Methos' voice, smug and satisfied. "Told you to get off."

There were scrambling and scuffling noises, then Methos spoke into the
phone. "What's up, Joe?"

"I had a feeling you would be there. I don't suppose you'd like to..." Joe
sighed heavily. "Nah, never mind. A deal is a deal."

"What deal?" Methos asked suspiciously.

"You and Mac are doing a little job for me tonight." Joe quickly filled
Methos in on some of the details.

"Don't I get a vote?"

"Certainly, old man. If you don't want to do it, I'll just call her up and
say 'no,' and then we'll have the whole day for our talk. In fact, now that
I've talked to both of you again, I am really looking forward to our
conversation..."

"We'll do it." Methos snapped.

"Great! I knew I could count on you two. Be here at 5:30. Oh, and don't
worry about wearing anything special. They'll be providing your costumes,
too."

"Costumes?" Methos croaked.

"Uniforms. I meant uniforms. Don't worry about it. I'm sure it's probably
just aprons or something like that. Well, I've got things to do. Remember,
5:30 sharp. Don't be late." With a chuckle, Joe hung up.

Scowling, Methos couldn't quite fathom how he'd let a man some 4,950 years
his junior manipulate him so neatly. "Fuck."

Hanging his head over the side of the bed, Methos looked down at the younger
man sprawled on the floor. "MacLeod, get back up here."

"You bit me!" Mac's eyes were wide with disbelief.

Methos arched his brows and shrugged. "I couldn't breathe! You deserved it."

"Did not. You made it bleed."

"It can't be that bad. Come back up here and let me see."

"Scoot over."

Methos slid over obligingly. MacLeod crawled in beside him and held up his
injured hand.

"You can still see the teeth marks."

"Barely." Methos took the proffered hand in both of his and brought it up to
his mouth. Just as his lips brushed the sensitized skin, a wicked grin
appeared. Clamping down again with his teeth, he bit the struggling
Highlander for a second time. "There, that's better."

Jerking his hand away, Mac rose to his knees and barked, "Better? You shit!
What are you trying to do? Permanently mark me?"

Methos laughed and drew the resisting Scot down beside him. "Now, Duncan,
where's your sense of humor?" Shaking his head mournfully at the other man's
reaction, he continued, "Give me your hand."

Eyeing the old man suspiciously, Mac warily held out his hand.

Taking it carefully, Methos stroked the palm softly. Kissing and nibbling at
the offending spot, he mused, "It's too bad, really."

MacLeod shivered as Methos began to trail kisses up his arm. "Um...what's
too bad?"

"That I can't mark you permanently. Some sort of a 'No Trespassing�Private
Property' sign would be helpful when all those women see your big brown eyes
tonight."

Methos' lips had reached Mac's shoulder and were continuing toward the
juncture of his neck. MacLeod wrapped his arms around the old Immortal and
stroked his back as he considered. "We could get some kind of matching
tattoos." He laughed at the thought.

Biting Mac's ear playfully, Methos breathed, "Oh, sure. Hearts, snakes or
hula girls?"

Getting into the spirit, Mac continued, "We could get several to try out and
just cut off the ones we didn't like."

"Do you know how much it hurts to cut out a big hunk of your skin?" Methos
ask incredulously.

"Well, not really..."

"Why do you think I had those permanent markers that you borrowed�weeks ago,
by the way? That's how I planned to keep my Watcher tattoo intact after
having the real one removed."

"Ah...you don't mean those laundry markers of yours stuck in my desk, do
you?"

"You've been using expensive permanent inks as laundry markers?"

"Maybe," Duncan hedged. "Why not? You're not a Watcher anymore."

"True," Methos chuckled. "Actually, they were a lot more trouble than they
were worth...fine, they're laundry markers."

Methos leaned in to kiss the richly curved lips smiling at him.

Mac returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but pulled away to continue with his
thought. "I like the idea of having a private sign only we know about. Too
bad it's so hard."

Methos deliberately raked his eyes down the Highlander's body. "Is it?"

Laughing, Duncan pulled the old Immortal tightly against him. "As a matter
of fact, it is." His voice was a deep whisper as he nuzzled the slender neck
that seemed to beckon for his caress. "That's not what I meant, though. It
suddenly occurs to me that except for the flight back from Paris, this'll be
the first time we'll be out in public since...since..."

"Since we became bunkies?" Methos ran his hand slowly down MacLeod's side,
stopping at the muscular flank.

"Bunkies?" Mac shuddered. "You make it sound like we're in summer camp."

"Want me to show you how to start a fire?" Methos' eyes sparkled with
mischief as he suddenly dipped his head and flicked his hot tongue over
Mac's taut nipple.

"Methos!" MacLeod shivered at the tendrils of flame radiating down his body.

"You can learn all kinds of things at summer camp, MacLeod. You can even
earn merit badges, just like in the Boy Scouts." Methos' eyes were hooded,
and his pupils dilated with passion as he slowly licked his way down the
Highlander's chest.

Mac closed his eyes as he concentrated totally on the sensations of rough
tongue against heated flesh.

"Of course," Methos stopped abruptly and levered himself back up to nip the
younger Immortal's nose, "I can't just give you a merit badge. You have to
earn it."

MacLeod opened his eyes slightly. Reaching up in amused frustration, he took
Methos' head in his hands and began running a callused thumb across the old
man's lips. "So, how do I earn it?"

"You have to show the ability to perform under trying circumstances. You
know, like in a bar full of people. I guess you'll just have to whisk me off
to the store room and ravage me."

"All right."

Methos had to laugh. "Oh, sure. I can see it now. 'Be right back, Joe, just
ducking back here for a quickie.'"

"I'm serious."

Methos cocked his head to one side as he studied the Highland warrior.
"Careful, MacLeod. I might start to believe you."

"I might want you to," Mac murmured.

Methos pulled back to look into the Highlander's eyes and saw a mixture of
emotions dancing in their dark depths. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to
analyze them at the moment. Laughing a little, but unable to totally conceal
the tremor in his voice, he said, "Fine, the storage room it is." Drawing a
deep breath, he smirked sarcastically, "Shall we set a specific time, or
just wait until our eyes meet across the crowded room?"

The intensity of the moment gone, MacLeod snorted. "You certainly have a
high opinion of your charms, don't you?"

"I wasn't voted Mr. Fun and Games by past lovers for nothing."

"Ha, ha, very funny. If you want to retain your title, you'd better get to
work."  "Oh my, yes. How could I forget? I hope you're good at balancing
trays of drinks and washing off tables."

"That's not the work I was referring to. Besides, I've been cleaning up
after you for almost a week now."

"I think not! And anyway, it's the least you can do, since I seem to spend
all my time getting you out of trouble. Especially since you have a nasty
habit of dragging me into it with you."

"Is that so? I recall a couple of tight spots I've gotten you out of
lately."

Methos skimmed his hand down MacLeod's side, following the curve of muscle
around Mac's hip. Pausing to run his fingers up and down the crevice
separating Mac's buttocks, the ancient Immortal grinned and said, "Speaking
of tight spots, I can think of one that I need to work on right now."

Suddenly breathless, Mac said, "Never let it be said that I wouldn't help
out a friend in need."

"I was hoping you'd see it that way." Methos' hand stroked deeper, his
fingers brushing against the puckered opening that lay hidden within.

Duncan caught his breath at the feel of a rough fingertip drawing tiny
circles at the closure. "Oh, I do. As a matter of fact, I'm willing to start
helping right now."

And with that, MacLeod adroitly flipped the old man over onto his back and
began to devour the ivory flesh of his chest.

"Mac, exactly who is supposed to be helping whom here?"

"Why, Methos, I'm helping you. Can't you tell?" By this time he had made his
way to the older man's navel. Plunging his tongue into the indentation, Mac
was rewarded with a shuddering moan from his partner.

"Helping me...gods, yes, I think you are."

Like a man starved for water who reaches an oasis, yet pauses in gratitude
before he drinks, Mac's lips suddenly halted their journey at the very top
of Methos' groin.

Bracing himself with his forearms, Mac drank in the sight before him.

The old man lay tousled and flushed, white skin against whiter sheets. His
eyes were dark with desire and need, darker than Mac could ever remember
seeing them. His chest, that surprisingly broad-shouldered, sleek chest, was
heaving, as arousal wreaked havoc with his breathing. The abdomen, flat and
hard, was rippling slightly, as if the feel of Mac's eyes alone was enough
to send him over the edge.

And then there was Methos' cock, jutting up rigidly from a nest of curly,
dark hair. Long and thick, it completed the picture.

Methos was beautiful. All of him. And he belonged to MacLeod. Smiling to
himself, Mac wondered how long it would take the old man to give in to the
inevitable.

Released from the spell, Duncan dipped his head and prepared to drink. His
tongue flicked out, just touching the tip, catching the drops of fluid
gathered there. Methos' hands reached down to tangle in Mac's dark, curly
hair. In one swift stroke, like a man given permission to drink his fill,
MacLeod took Methos' entire shaft deep into his throat.

//Gods, he's good at this,// Methos thought as Mac began to suck. The
pressure and the pleasure were intense.

The old man's hands tightened spasmodically, almost painfully, and a groan
was wrenched from him. Thrusting his hips upward, he responded to the
suction created by MacLeod's lips. Again, he thrust. Again. Suddenly giving
a shout, he surged upward forcefully and erupted into the hot cave of
Duncan's mouth.

When at last the orgasm was over, Methos pulled the Highlander up and kissed
him passionately, tasting himself on the younger man's lips.

Running his hands over the Scot's muscular back, Methos whispered, "Thanks
for all the 'help.' Oddly enough, I feel compelled to respond in kind. I
hate to be in someone's debt, you know."

"I couldn't agree more. So...what are you planning to do about it?"

"What do you want me to do about it?"

A firm believer in the old adage about actions speaking louder than words,
MacLeod took Methos' hand and placed it over his burning erection. Looking
deeply into the old man's eyes he asked, "Does this give you any ideas?"

"Hmmm...maybe. Let me think." He gave the silky steel shaft a little
squeeze. "I could�no, I don't think so." He squeezed again, harder. "Then
there's always�but no, that won't do either." Another squeeze, this time
accompanied by a pumping motion. "I give up, Highlander. I just can't think
what you might want me to do. You're just going to have to tell me."

As the old Immortal's hot, callused hand began to pump rhythmically up and
down his rod, Mac groaned. "Methos, just do it. Just keep on doing it!"

His eyes very wide, Methos ask disingenuously, "Keep on doing what, Mac?"

The hand pumped faster and faster. MacLeod closed his eyes and threw his
head back, groaning. "That! Keep doing that." The Scot began to writhe. He
could feel the tightening in his balls that signaled approaching orgasm.
Just a few more seconds...

The motion stopped. Mac raised his head to stare at the ancient Immortal in
disbelief. Methos had a decidedly wicked glint in his eyes as he said, "I
don't think so."

"You don't think so? My God, are you trying to kill me?"

Stroking the younger man's cheek, Methos shook his head slowly. "No. I just
remembered I promised you repayment in kind. Wouldn't want you to feel
cheated, Mac. I might wind up having to do it all over again later."

With a chuckle, Methos bent his dark head and took Mac's penis into his
mouth, sucking strongly. The effect on MacLeod was profound and immediate�he
felt as if he would burst into flames. It was too much; he was already too
aroused from Methos' hand. Even as he thought to slow the old man, his body
began to convulse. He came in shuddering spurts as Methos milked him for
every drop.

When Duncan finally relaxed, Methos gave his now drooping penis one last
kiss and levered himself up until they were face to face. Leaning over, he
gave the Scot a passionate kiss, plunging his tongue into the heat of his
lover's mouth until they were both breathless.

Mac sighed with contentment. Still dazed, he murmured, "Um...I guess we're
even now. Too bad. I guess I'll just have to find another way to get you
back in my debt."

"I'm sure you'll think of something, MacLeod. I've always said you were a
man of many talents."

"Why, thank you. I could say the same thing about you."

"Oh, you will, MacLeod, you will."

Thinking about Methos and talents and Methos and sex and Methos and...Duncan
MacLeod drifted into a sated sleep.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

MacLeod woke up several hours later and noted reluctantly that it was about
time to dress for their 'job.' Oblivious to the world, Methos slept on.
Duncan thought with some amusement that the old guy was apparently not
feeling cold-blooded today. The ancient Immortal was lying on his stomach,
with the covers tangled around his ankles.

Mac raked an admiring gaze down the sculpted body, pausing on the twin
mounds of Methos' buttocks. Methos had a great ass. Even now Mac could
remember the way the firm muscles rippled beneath his fingers. Reaching out
his hand, he froze a fraction of an inch above the beckoning flesh.

Methos could joke all he wanted about women chasing Mac. From his own point
of view, it was Methos who was in danger. God, the man was beautiful, all
elegant lines and planes. Maybe Methos was the one who needed to be marked.

Narrowing his eyes speculatively, Mac remembered the markers in the desk
drawer. A wide grin creased his face as he levered himself off the bed with
elaborate caution. Slowly, he tiptoed across the floor until he was at the
desk. Easing the drawer open, he cringed when it emitted a low squeak.

A glance at the bed reassured Mac that Methos slept on. Raking through the
clutter inside the drawer, Mac finally found the markers shoved in a corner.
There were five different colors: red, yellow, blue, green, and black, in a
little plastic pack. Removing the markers, he inched the drawer shut and
retraced his steps across the room.

Returning to the bed, Mac knelt quietly on the floor beside the sleeping
man. For a moment he thought about using all five of the markers but...no.
Settling on the blue one, he lay the others on the floor beside him. It
occurred to him that the ancient Immortal wouldn't appreciate what he was
about to do. But really, why should Methos care? It was all in fun, and
nobody would ever know except the two of them. 'Fun and games', Methos had
said earlier. This should certainly qualify.

Mac grinned and removed the cap. Catching his full bottom lip between his
teeth, he raised the marker. What to draw, what to draw. This could be a
problem. The Highlander had never considered himself an artist, and he
certainly didn't want the finished product to look like it had been done by
a kindergartner.

Very well, no picture. He'd write something. Something specific, to show
ownership. Something like... Nodding to himself, MacLeod set to work.

A couple of minutes later, Duncan sat back on his heels to admire his
handiwork. In his not-so-humble opinion, it looked downright professional�
real quality work. Mac felt positively smug as he considered it.

Centered on the old man's right hip, in blue, inch-tall block letters were
the words:


      PROPERTY OF:       DUNCAN MACLEOD

Seized with a sudden fit of the giggles, Mac clamped his hands over his
mouth. Methos was going to kill him! But not until he found out about it.
Mac thought he'd wait a while to tell the old Immortal. The sight of that
little label over the next two or three days was going to be worth any
aggravation later. //Besides//, Mac told himself again, //it isn't as if
anyone else will see it//. Surely Methos would appreciate the sentiment
behind it� *behind it*!

This time MacLeod couldn't totally restrain the laughter. Snorting and
gasping, he noted with alarm that Methos was beginning to stir. Grabbing the
packet of markers, he replaced the blue one hastily. Crawling on all fours,
the Highlander scrambled down to the end of the bed and slipped back up on
his side just as Methos rolled over and opened his eyes.

"Good morning!" Mac said brightly. His face was still flushed, and he
couldn't contain the big grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Methos looked at him suspiciously. "Morning? It's the afternoon, MacLeod."

Widening his eyes, Mac adopted his best innocent expression. "Right. Good
afternoon." He started to reach over and give the old man a kiss, then
realized he was still clutching the markers. Thrusting his hand under his
pillow, he left them there, deciding to return the evidence of his deed to
the desk at a later time.

Methos still looked a little puzzled. "Have you been awake long?"

Duncan leaned over and planted a quick kiss on the tip of Methos' nose.
"Nope. Just woke up. Why?"

The old Immortal frowned. "No reason, I just thought...never mind. Looks
like it's time to get ready for our big career change."

He hopped out of bed and headed for the bathroom, absently scratching at his
right hip. The sight sent Duncan into gales of laughter that he no longer
tried to restrain.

Turning to face the Highlander, Methos said, "What?"

"Nothing!" gasped Mac. "Nothing. I was just, um, picturing you in one of
those little aprons."

"Ha, ha, very funny. Don't forget, you'll be right there with me. And if we
serve any food, I believe health codes will require you to wear a hair net."

The old man disappeared into the bathroom as MacLeod spluttered indignantly,
"A hair net! I think not!"

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Half an hour later, it was time to go. Both men had taken Joe at his word
and opted for casual clothing: jeans and pullover sweaters. As they got into
the car, Mac noticed with some surprise that Methos was still absently
scratching his hip. MacLeod felt a frisson of unease. Surely, it was just
coincidence that it was his right hip. Still...

"Um, Methos, I feel guilty about using your good markers without asking you.
What if you need to use them again?"

Brushing his knuckles across the Highlander's jaw, Methos said, "Don't worry
about it, Mac. I have no intention of rejoining the Watchers. Besides, I'd
get a real tattoo before I used those markers again."

"Why?"

"It's weird, but I think I'm allergic to them."

"Allergic?" MacLeod blanched as a knot began to form in his stomach.

Methos cast a quizzical glance toward the younger man. "Your voice sounds
funny. You also look kind of pale. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm just fascinated, that's all. Why do you think
you're allergic to the markers?"

"I don't know what else to call it. Right after I drew the tattoo on my
wrist, it started itching, and the skin around it turned red. It'd itch, and
I'd scratch. Immortal healing would kick in, the redness would go away, and
the itching would stop. Then, a couple of minutes later, it'd all start
again. It was like the stuff was slowly sinking into my skin, and every time
some of it did...I'd call that an allergy."

MacLeod managed a sickly grin as he maneuvered through the Seacouver
traffic. "Certainly sounds like one. But I guess it eventually went away,
right?"

"Oh, yes, it went away all right. I made it go away. Almost blew my Watcher
cover before I managed it, though."

The grin vanished; Mac looked horrified. "What happened?"

Shaking his head ruefully, Methos remembered, "After maybe two hours of
intermittent itching, it's like my body finally got tired of fooling around.
My Quickening reacted as if I had an open wound and tried to heal it."

"Heal it?"

"Yep. Little arcs of electricity started dancing around my wrist. Happened
every few minutes, regular as clockwork. The problem was it happened right
in the middle of Watcher Headquarters. It wasn't a lot of energy like a
full-fledged Quickening, just enough to be annoying. It was like getting a
charge of static electricity. Can you imagine what it did to my clothes and
hair? After several jolts, even when my wrist wasn't flashing like a
sparkler, I looked like a bloody idiot."

Closing his eyes in mock horror, Methos continued, "My hair was plastered to
my skull, and all my clothing was clinging to me as if I had adhesive on my
body. Luckily, my coat was also sticking to me like flypaper, and I was able
to drape it over my wrist until I could get out."

Pulling up outside Joe's, Mac stopped the car and stared straight ahead.
"Oh, my God."

"Come on, Mac. It was no big deal, really. I rushed home and scrubbed at it
till I got it off, and that was the end of that. Look, there's Joe. Let's
get this over with."

"Methos, wait! I have to..." Too late. The old man had already bounded out
of the car.

Groaning to himself, Mac followed. It was going to be a long night.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

The first hint that something a little stranger than a simple meeting was on
the agenda hit both Immortals as soon as they entered the bar. Richie was
sitting in a corner with a huge grin on his face. "Hey, guys! Ready for the
party?"

Turning suspicious eyes on the man who had orchestrated the evening, Mac
said, "Party? I thought you said it was a women's meeting?"

Laughing, Richie rose to join the others. "Is that what he told you?"

Methos had a strange glint in his eye. "What did he tell you?"

Before Rich could reply, Joe leapt into the breach. "Did I say meeting?
Well, it is, but I suppose that's not really the best name for it."

Mac looked like an animal caught in a trap. "What would be the best name for
it?"

"The women are meeting for a bridal shower and, er, pre-wedding party."

"Pre-wedding party?"

Richie cackled. "It's a bachelor party, guys! A women's bachelor party!"

"No way!" Duncan was vehement. "Come on, Methos."

MacLeod started for the door, but stopped when he realized that Methos
wasn't following him. The older Immortal was looking at Joe with a quizzical
half-smile on his face. Sensing that Mac was still fuming behind him, Methos
said, "We'll stay, MacLeod. A deal is a deal. Besides, this could be fun."

"Fun?" Duncan reluctantly rejoined the group. Still glaring, he continued,
"Playing waiter to a bunch of rowdy women? What's the entertainment, Joe?
Somebody gonna pop out of a cake?"

Joe began to grin as Richie enthusiastically piped up, "I will!"

MacLeod was speechless. Methos, on the other hand, was finally moved to
comment. "Good for you, Ryan. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Are you kidding? If it's anything like the movies, they'll be throwing
everything from money to phone numbers to clothes at me! It'll be great!"

Joe shook his head affectionately. "Sorry, Rich. That's 'exotic
entertainment.' I had to turn 'em down. I'm not licensed for it."

Richie was crestfallen. "Oh. Too bad."

Methos patted the young man on the back in sympathy. "Maybe next time, kid."

"My gosh, look at the time!" Joe exclaimed. "You men better go back to my
office to change."

"Yeah, come on guys." Once again Richie was fairly bubbling over with
anticipation. "Wait'll you see our costumes!"

Following Richie and Methos to the office, MacLeod prayed furiously. //Oh
God, please don't let this be like I know it's gonna be. Oh God...// Mac
stopped short at a small table just inside the office. Underneath it were
three pairs of large white flip-flop shower shoes. And on top of it were
three...laurel wreaths?

Before he could puzzle them out, the Highlander was distracted by a
commotion near Joe's desk. Methos gave a hoot of laughter as Richie held up
a shapeless white...something.

Turning back to Mac, his eyes bright with humor, Methos grinned slyly.
"Togas, MacLeod. We're wearing togas."

A sigh of relief behind Mac alerted him to Joe's presence. Looking between
Methos and Dawson, the Scot spluttered, "No way! Methos, stop that. You are
not wearing a toga."

Pulling his sweater over his head, Methos tossed it aside, then nailed
MacLeod with a steady gaze. "*You're* forbidding *me* to wear a toga? Gee,
Dad, I don't think so." His hands moved to the snap on his jeans.

"Wait!" Mac's hand snaked out and grabbed the old Immortal's wrist.

Richie, stripped down to very fashionable white nylon briefs, walked over to
where Joe stood to get a better view. Dawson signaled the young man to
remain quiet and settled back to watch.  "MacLeod, let go of me."

"Methos, you can't." Duncan whispered.

"Why not? I love togas. I used to wear 'em all the time, remember?"

Mac hissed, "But, but, you're not wearing any underwear."

"So? What do you suppose we used to wear under them? Fruit of the Loom?"

"But, but..."

"Lighten up, MacLeod. You got us into this, so we might as well enjoy it. I
don't plan to flash them. Besides, you're not much better off in that tiny
little black thong you're wearing."

A muffled snort reminded the Highlander of their attentive audience.
Mortified, he dropped Methos' wrist as if it were aflame and turned a deep
crimson.

"How exactly is it you know the old man is kamikaze, Mac?" Joe inquired
mildly.

"And gosh, Mac, I didn't know you wore thongs. But I guess Methos does,
huh?" said a smirking Richie Ryan.

Like rocks dropped into a well, the words spread in silent ripples through
all four men. MacLeod floundered for a reply. "Uh..."

Taking pity on his new companion in carnal carousing, Methos was the picture
of blandness. "Come on, you two. I'm staying at the loft, remember? There
isn't exactly a lot of privacy there. Besides, it's not MacLeod's fault that
I'm so phenomenally well-endowed he couldn't help but notice."

Looking for all the world like he was talking about the weather, Methos
waggled his brows at a speechless Joe and Richie, then looked to the
Highlander. Duncan's jaw was resting on his chest, and his eyes were very
wide. Reaching over, the old Immortal used his index finger to push Mac's
chin back up. "See? He's speechless."

The tense moment passed in laughter. Even MacLeod found himself chuckling.
//Maybe tonight will be fun. Maybe I'm worrying about nothing.// Mac sobered
abruptly as Methos again scratched idly at his hip.

"The ladies will be here any minute. You've got to get dressed, well,
undressed, whatever. Don't forget your sandals and laurel wreaths. I'm gonna
get to the bar." Joe turned and left.

Duncan tried one last time, "Methos..."

Without bothering to look at the Highlander, Methos unzipped his jeans.
"It's settled, MacLeod. We're going to have fun."

Mac watched in fascination as Methos' firm ass was exposed to the world. Or
would have been, if the Scot hadn't hastily positioned himself to block
Richie's view. The 'tattoo' was still there, of course, bright and bold and
blue. Leaning in for a closer look, MacLeod had to admit that it looked red
and irritated.

Sure enough, Methos reached around to scratch at the inflamed area. Trying
to look back over his shoulder, he said, "Something itches. See anything
weird about my hip, MacLeod?"

"Did you just ask Mac to look at your butt?" Richie tried to crowd forward
to see for himself.

"Yeah," Methos mumbled, still trying to contort himself for a clear view.
"It itches."

Fending Richie off with one long arm, MacLeod said hurriedly, "Looks great
to me, Methos. Hey, Rich, you look kinda cute in that toga."

"First Methos' butt looks great, now I'm kinda cute...um, thanks, I think.
But truthfully, you're not who I'm really interested in impressing tonight.
Methos, have I got this arranged on my shoulder the right way?"

Brushing around MacLeod, the old man raked an appraising eye over the young
Immortal. The toga rose over one shoulder, leaving the opposite shoulder and
pec exposed. Reaching up, he tugged here and there until Richie's toga was
draped gracefully to mid-thigh.

"There you are, Ryan. You look like you were born in it. Aren't those
feminine voices I hear?"

Richie turned to rush out, but stopped when Methos snagged his arm.
Communicating silently with his eyes, the old Immortal said, "Wait a second.
Wouldn't it be better if we all three went out together?"

Catching on, Richie agreed. "Oh, right. Definitely. Safety in numbers and
all that stuff."

"Come on, MacLeod. You're holding us up."

"Yeah, come on, Mac. I wanna get out there."

"All right, all right, I'm coming. But if anything happens out there
tonight, just remember I tried to stop it." With those cryptic words, the
Highlander fairly ripped off his jeans and sweater. Methos and Richie began
to smirk as Duncan turned around to pick up his toga. The front of the thong
was tiny�just a small black triangle�but the back...

"Hey, Methos, why do they call that thing a thong?"

"Good question, Richard. Let's ask the expert. Well MacLeod, why do they
call it a thong?"

Whirling back around, Mac hastily dragged the toga over his head. "I
wouldn't know. You're the researcher, Methos. Why don't you look it up?"

Gathering his dignity, MacLeod attempted to brush past the other men.
Stopping at the table he shoved his feet into a pair of shoes and plopped a
laurel wreath on his head. "Could I feel any more ridiculous?" he growled.

Just as he thought he'd run the gauntlet, Methos' hand flicked out.
"Hm...'look it up,' you say. You mean like this?" He flipped up the back of
Mac's toga.

Highly affronted, the Highlander tugged his costume over as much of his
muscular thighs as possible and hissed, "Just wait. You'll get yours," and
stalked out.

Snickering, Methos and Richie followed.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

The room was a sea of females. As the three men paused near Joe, it seemed
that every face turned toward them. Silence fell over the room like a
blanket as the men stared at the women, and the women stared right back.
"Oh, my God," came a sibilant whisper from somewhere near the back.

As if on cue, the room erupted with clapping, yells, and whistles as the
ladies showed their approval for their waiters.

"Just ignore 'em, guys." Joe advised kindly, as all three Immortals began to
squirm. "In five minutes they'll have forgotten you're even here. Now, we
start everyone off with champagne to toast the bride. Mac, you take this
tray to the right third of the room. Rich, you go to the middle; Adam, you
have the left. Got it?"

Mumbling their assent, the new recruits lifted their full trays and stepped
into the line of fire.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Watching his friends advance into the throng, Joe was a little puzzled.
Actually, he was a lot puzzled. In addition to the women, there were at
least half a dozen men. They stood arrayed at intervals along the wall,
almost like soldiers at attention. They looked like thugs, or bodyguards.
Actually, they looked like really thuggy bodyguards. Why would a bunch of
women at a bridal shower need bodyguards? Something told Joe he wouldn't
like the answer.

Adam, Mac, and Richie were making very slow progress. At every table they
were greeted with choruses of 'Well, hello, Handsome,' and 'What's your
name?' However, far from looking reluctant, all three men had big smiles on
their faces as they spoke to their new fans. Richie, in particular, was
preening like a peacock. Joe watched silently, then decided to give the guys
a little help. Rapping on the bar to get everyone's attention, he said,
"Good evening, ladies and, er, gentlemen. We hope you enjoy yourselves
tonight. Let me introduce your waiters."

Indicating MacLeod with a grin, he said, "The big burly one over there is
Duncan. Say hello, Duncan."

Coloring slightly, Mac waggled his fingers and said, "Hello, Duncan."

"Hello, Duncan!" the ladies gleefully called back.

"Next, in the middle here, this handsome young man is Richie."

Bowing from the waist in a courtly gesture, Richie said, "It's a pleasure,
ladies."

"And on this side is a man who can say 'been there, done that' to just about
everything. This is Adam." With a glint in his eye, Methos inclined his head
as the women looked at him with expressions of frank speculation.

"If you need anything, anything at all, just let them know."

"Whoohoo..." The women loved that remark.

Joe reached down to activate the music system that would replace the band
for the night and tried to relax. Looking at his three Immortal friends in
their little togas, he had to grin. It was a wedding shower, for God's sake.
What could happen?

His friends were still grinning, too. They were literally surrounded by
chattering, giggling, admiring females. It was too good to be true.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Mac was the first victim, but by no means the last. As the three inched
their way around the tables, they found it harder and harder to make any
progress. At first, MacLeod thought Joe had arranged the seating without
giving enough thought to access. Then he realized that many of the women
were deliberately scooting back into his path. As he picked his way amongst
them, more and more arms, legs, hands, and feet shot out, forcing him to
bend and squeeze his way past.

Brief, fleeting, seemingly accidental touches became full-fledged caresses,
pinches, and gropes. By the time Mac had emptied his tray and made his way
back to the bar for more, his cheeks were a dull flaming red�all four of
them. Seething with frustrated outrage, he shook his head at Joe and grimly
waited for his next tray.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Richie's serving area included the bride-to-be. As various women presented
her with gaily wrapped packages, Richie noticed a curious thing. All of the
presents were exactly the same size, about as large as a shoebox. And she
didn't open them, but simply handed them on to one of the men who had
materialized from the side of the room. The man then stacked the packages on
a nearby table.

At first, Richie hadn't minded the occasional stroking of his arms and then
legs, but as the women grew bolder, he began to feel uncomfortable. He had
no problem with aggressive females�one, or even two at a time�but a dozen at
once was a bit over the top. Just as he was resolving to live with it, he
felt surprisingly strong arms grab him around his waist. Caught off-balance,
he fell backwards, dropping the tray with a clatter. Expecting to end up on
the floor, he was totally unprepared to find himself in the guest of honor's
lap.

She wasted no time in tilting the bemused young man back over one arm and
kissing him like there was no tomorrow�and no fianc�. After a moment, Richie
began to struggle; the woman wasn't giving him a chance to breathe. Finally
breaking the lip-lock, she swooped down on the young Immortal's ear lobe. As
Richie gasped oxygen back into his starving lungs, she hissed, "Here's my
phone number and a little incentive. Call me."

A hand forced its way down the waist of his toga and proceeded to make
itself at home. With a startled yelp, Richie leapt off the woman's lap and
made a mad dash for the dubious safety of the bar.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Methos noted his younger companions' predicaments with grim amusement. It
wouldn't hurt either of them to be on the receiving end of a few slaps and
tickles. Not that they were the type to do that to women, but still...Gods,
it was funny.

With sublime aplomb, he ignored the fingers raking up and down his own arms
and legs. He was even able to shrug off the tongue that suddenly traced a
line halfway up his thigh and the hand that reached up to blatantly squeeze
his backside. In the course of his life, Methos had indeed 'been there, done
that,' and none of this really bothered him that much.

Besides, he had a bigger problem. If he didn't get someplace where he could
scratch his hip soon, he was going to rub back and forth against the nearest
column like a cow scratching its rump on a fence post. It would be
embarrassing, but it would feel good.

A long gasp brought his attention back to the moment. Suddenly feeling a
cool breeze in the vicinity of his 'itch,' he turned. There were three women
at the scene of the crime. All of them looked totally surprised
about...what? His lack of undergarments? Methos had been so caught up in his
discomfort, he'd totally forgotten about the need to keep his wits and his
skirts about him at all times.

With a strained grin, Methos decided he'd played waiter long enough. He set
his half-full tray on the nearest table and plunged through the crowd toward
safety. Not even pausing at the bar with the others, he rushed back into the
storeroom. Finding a crate just the right height, he lifted his toga and
began sliding his backside up and down the rough surface.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, Richie decided to run the gauntlet one more time. After careful
consideration, the young man had decided there were worse things in life
than getting kissed for cash. He really admired a pair of leather pants he'd
seen recently, and this seemed the perfect way to earn enough extra money to
buy a pair of his own.

Before long, Richie found himself being passed around like, well, like the
only guy at the party�which for the moment, at least, he was. Several kisses
and many dollars later, he'd had enough. Implying that he would return after
he delivered a few drinks, he escaped.

MacLeod had followed the old man back to the storeroom. When he saw what
Methos was doing, he had to laugh. The expression on the ancient Immortal's
face was blissful.

Opening his eyes, Methos considered the Highlander for a moment. He had a
niggling suspicion that MacLeod had something to tell him. Something that he
wasn't going to like. Reaching out, he pulled the younger man into his arms
and kissed him thoroughly. Then, placing his forehead against Duncan's, he
asked pleasantly, "Mac, why do you suppose my hip is itching? You wouldn't
happen to know anything about it, would you?"

Taking a deep breath, MacLeod replied, "Actually..."

He was interrupted by a loud crash and shrill, piercing whistles. Men were
shouting. Women were screaming.

Before either man could move, an amplified voice rang out. "This is the
police! Stay where you are! This is the police!"

It was a raid.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Methos seriously considered ducking out the back and dragging MacLeod with
him, but two things stopped him. One, he actually would have to drag Mac to
get him to leave their friends; two, the back door burst open, and several
more police officers poured in. A bombastic, overweight detective who
flashed his badge and identified himself as one Detective Burge led them.

"Well, well, what have we here?" the burly officer asked the room at large.
"What are you girls doing back here?"

"Now, just a minute!" Mac stepped forward and began to sputter.

Methos placed a restraining hand on the Highlander's arm. "Not worth it,
Mac. Sticks and stones."

"Yeah, sweetheart, just come along quietly now. Out to the front with the
others."

Growling under his breath, MacLeod turned and accompanied Methos back to the
main room.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Joe's was in chaos. Police seemed to be everywhere. A pile of firearms was
stacked on one end of the bar. Mac assumed that the weapons had been taken
from the bodyguards, but then he saw that the women were being frisked and
handcuffed as well, and the pile continued to grow. Slowly but surely, the
entire party was being loaded into squad cars and hauled away.

Richie and Joe were standing on the stage, watching the proceedings with
interest. A couple of detectives were talking to them as Mac and Methos
approached, but it was obvious that they were in no immediate danger of
incarceration.

Joe was shaking his head in amazement as one of the officers tried to
explain what had occurred. "Money laundering! Here? But how?"

The detective elaborated. "They have one of these phony parties every month.
Always something with wrapped presents."

"Oh, I get it." Joe said slowly. "I kinda wondered why she never opened any
of 'em."

Richie stepped off the stage to join Mac and Methos. The surly detective
from the storeroom was standing nearby. "I just can't believe it!" Richie
shook his head mournfully. "Some of them seemed so nice."

"Nice? You mean hot, don't you?" Mac was clearly skeptical. "Rich, they were
pawing us like, like we were the mice, and they were the cats! Did you see
that woman *lick* Meth�Adam?" He stopped abruptly as he realized that
Detective Burge was listening avidly.

"Me? What about you? There were so many hands stroking your backside you'd
have thought it was a good luck charm."

Richie looked back and forth between the two men. "Uh-huh. Whatever. My
women were mostly nicer than that."

At that, Joe stepped down to join them and spoke up. "Oh, yeah, Rich. They
were nice all right. Those gals were passing you around like you were the
last lollipop in the candy store."

"You mean when they were taking turns kissing me?"

"Mauling you was more like it."

"No way, Joe. That part was great!" Checking for eavesdroppers, Richie
lowered his voice to a near whisper. "It was like the kissing booth at a
county fair. Every time one of them stepped up to the window, I'd have a
little fun plus get paid for the privilege." He patted a noticeable bulge
just below the waist of his toga.

Joe's eyes widened. "Richie, you didn't!"

With a quelling look, Richie turned away. He stopped short as a wad of cash
slipped out from beneath his toga and fell to the floor at his feet.

"Here now, what's this?" Detective Burge pushed forward.

"Ah, nothing." Richie put his foot over the telltale bills and tried to look
innocent.

"I'll take that!" Burge pushed the young Immortal back and picked up the
money off the floor.

"Hey, wait! That's mine!"

"Is that so? You're Ryan, right? Do you have a license for the work you were
doing tonight?"

"A license?"

"How about it, Dawson, you licensed for exotic entertainment?"

With utter dismay, Joe knew where the conversation was heading. Desperate to
head it off, he argued, "This isn't what it looks like, Detective. That
money's just tips from waiting tables. Isn't that right, guys?"

"Right." Methos was quick to join in. "In fact," he made an elaborate show
of searching his own waist area, "I made a few dollars myself."

Burge was wavering. He slowly held the money back out to Richie. But just as
Joe heaved a sigh of relief, the last woman was led by on her way to the
door.

"Hey, wait a minute!" she exclaimed petulantly. "I didn't get my money's
worth. I want a refund!"

"What are you talking about?" Burge pulled the money back from Richie's
grasping hand.

Ignoring the detective, the woman sidled up to Richie, handcuffs and all.
"You owe me, Red. Remember? When am I gonna get services rendered?"

"That does it!" Burge roared. "Get her out of here! And you two�no, all
three of you�are under arrest!"

"Arrest! What for?" MacLeod couldn't believe this was happening.

"Soliciting. Search 'em, boys." He gestured, and a couple of other policemen
stepped forward.

They immediately began to pat Richie down. His face turned flaming red as
their questing hands located another bulge under his toga and immediately
dove after it.

"Hey!" Richie squealed. "Watch it! I might want to use that someday." The
bulge turned out to be more money, along with at least half a dozen names
and telephone numbers. "Damn," Richie muttered as Burge took possession of
the contraband.

Turning to MacLeod, the men prepared to repeat the procedure. The Highlander
tensed.

"Back down, MacLeod." Burge warned. "I could always add resisting arrest to
your charges."

Methos again placed a calming hand on Mac's arm and leaned in to whisper,
"Just go along with it, Duncan. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner
we can go home and forget this ever happened."

Looking at the old man for a timeless moment, Mac sighed, "You're right. But
it might not be that easy to forget it ever happened. I have got to tell you
something."

The gravely voice of Burge interrupted, "All right, all right. Are you gonna
cooperate or not?"

Resigned, MacLeod stepped forward. "Get on with it." The search was swiftly
accomplished, yielding nothing more than some raised eyebrows when MacLeod's
choice of accessories was duly noted.

When the officers finally turned to Methos, Mac tensed again. The old
Immortal's insouciance was firmly in place as he obligingly held his arms
out to provide the detectives easier access.

For a moment, all seemed calm. Then, just as the younger of the two
policemen ran a brisk professional palm over Methos' backside, a peculiar
crackling sound filled the air.

     zzzzzzttttttttt!

"Ouch!" The detective jumped back, holding his palm.

"What's wrong?" Burge demanded.

"I don't know. He, he shocked me!"

MacLeod knew to the nanosecond when Methos figured it out. The ancient
Immortal's head snapped up, and he turned blazing eyes on the cringing
Highlander. He said nothing, but merely compressed his lips and stood
stoically as Burge himself stepped up to have a look.

Lifting the back of Methos' tunic, all three policemen stared in amazement.
A look was exchanged, then Methos heard a gruff voice, "Musta been static
electricity or something. Pierson, get back over there with the others."

Burge continued, "You know, MacLeod, we don't usually allow suspects to keep
personal property. I guess this time we'll make an exception."

One of the other detectives started to snicker, but stopped when his partner
elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

Methos looked up at his three friends. His face betrayed nothing, but his
eyes...Joe and Richie were both very glad when those eyes finally settled on
MacLeod. Approaching the guilt-stricken Immortal, Methos hissed into his
face, "I don't know quite what you've done, Highlander, but I have a pretty
good idea."

Whirling back to the waiting officers, he snapped, "Is Dawson under arrest,
too?"

"Naw, he's never been involved with this stuff before. It's not his fault he
hired three temporary waiters who were looking for a little action on the
side."

"We were not looking for action! They were harassing us!" MacLeod was
desperate to deflect Methos' outrage.

"You can tell 'em all about it downtown. Let's go."

As the three disgusted Immortals were led out, Methos shouted to Joe,
"Dawson, I assume you're coming down to straighten all this out?"

"Right behind you."

"Don't forget my coat." Methos deliberately stared at Mac. "I'm going to
need it." He smiled to himself as MacLeod blinked, obviously understanding
that Methos was referring to his sword.

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

The three found themselves stuffed into the back of a police car. All but
crushed between his two friends, Richie shook his head. Here they were,
being carted to the slammer, and Mac and Methos barely seemed to notice. To
top it all off, Methos had begun to squirm. He was scooting back and forth
on the seat pressing against Richie, who was in turn pressing against
MacLeod, who was in turn...well, it was uncomfortable. Turning to the old
guy, Richie hissed, "Methos, what are you�"

     zzzzzzzzzzzttttttttt!

"Yikes!" Richie yelped, bouncing up and banging his head against the top of
the car.

Burge turned around to glare at his prisoners. "Settle down back there!"

"Sorry." Richie settled himself beside Methos warily. "What bit me?"

"Nothing." Methos snapped. Relenting, he sighed, "I'll tell you later."

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

When the interminable ride was over, Burge escorted them inside.
Surprisingly, he led them right past the main desk.

"Where are we going?" MacLeod frowned.

"The waiting room. Where do you think you're going?"

Opening a door, Burge took them down a long hall to a cell. Unlocking the
cell, he gestured the culprits inside.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Mac protested again. "What about our rights?"

"Your rights? That's only if we book you. Right now, we're just holding you
until we decide what to do. Get in there!"

The Immortals filed inside, the door clanging shut behind them. As Burge
began to walk away, he turned back for one last shot. "You boys behave
yourselves." He fixed a knowing smirk on MacLeod and Methos. "There are
still a lot of things that are illegal in this state." He chuckled to
himself as he disappeared down the corridor.

Richie was very aware of the undercurrents flowing between Mac and Methos,
he just wasn't quite certain as to the cause. Deciding that for once
discretion probably would be the better part of valor, he withdrew to the
farthest corner of the cell and sat on a hard wooden bench. He planned on
having a good view of whatever was about to occur. After all, Joe would want
a full report.

Methos was standing at the front of the cell, leaning against the bars and
gazing down the corridor. His rigid posture fairly screamed *leave me
alone*!

At first, Mac was inclined to do just that. But he knew the longer he put
off his explanations, the harder they would be.

Approaching the older man hesitantly, he leaned against the bars beside him.
"Methos," he nearly whispered. "I..."

"You what, MacLeod? You're sorry?"

"Shh! Not so loud. Yes, I'm sorry."

"Uh-huh. Wonder what you've done to be sorry for this time?" The old
Immortal's voice rose perilously close to a shout. "I swear, if I live to be
ten thousand, I will never meet another human being who causes me as many
headaches and gets me into as much trouble as you!"

Aware that Richie could hear every word, Duncan just stared at the old man
in dismay. Methos repeated, "What exactly have you done, MacLeod?"

Looking and feeling miserable, Mac sighed, "You know. I know you know. I
could see it in your eyes there at Joe's."

"Yes, I believe I do. But why don't you tell me anyway?"

"Well, you know we were talking about...tattoos."

"Yes?"

Mac was barely audible now. "I...marked you."

"And you used my permanent markers to do it with, didn't you?"

"Ah, yes."

Methos voice rose again. "The permanent markers I told you I was allergic
to."

"Ah, yes, but you didn't tell me until afterwards. It was already too late
by then."

"I see. And what exactly did you draw on my butt, Highlander?"

"Well, I'm really not a very good artist..."

"Yeah?"

"So I really didn't draw anything."

"What did you do? I know you did something. I can feel it!" Methos' voice
had a distinct edge in it now, despite his best efforts to keep himself
under control.

Over in the corner, Richie sat up a little straighter and struggled to keep
a grin off his face. He leaned forward, determined not to miss a word. He
had to keep fighting the urge to laugh, knowing that the other two had
forgotten his existence for the moment. He intended to keep it that way;
this was too fascinating to miss.

"I, ah, I, I can't tell you, Methos. I just can't!"

"Fine!" Turning, Methos strode over to the corner where Richie was trying to
make himself inconspicuous. "Ryan, I want you to look at my ass."

"What!! No way, man!" Richie squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

"Oh, come on. Don't be such a baby. You asked what bit you, remember?"

Opening one eye, Richie squinted at the man towering over him. "Yeah?"

"The answer is right here." He pointed at his right hip.

"On your butt. The answer is on your butt."

"Correct. And since MacLeod won't tell me, you have to. Now, are you gonna
look at my ass or not?"

"Well..." Richie's eyes had fixed on something behind Methos' shoulder.

Turning around, Methos found MacLeod gesturing frantically, trying to make
sure that Richie refused Methos' invitation. The ancient Immortal began to
stride inexorably forward, slowly herding the Scot back until he was crushed
against the cell door. One hand grabbed at the bars while the other closed
around MacLeod's throat.

Mac's eyes grew huge as he looked into Methos' face scant inches away, but
he made no move to escape. "Go ahead. I deserve it. This is all my fault."

Suddenly, a strange expression passed over Methos' face, and his lips
twitched. "You know, you're right, MacLeod, you do deserve this." Keeping
his grip on Mac, Methos looked back over his shoulder. "Ryan, are you
hearing all this? Got a clear view?"

Richie had been trying to decide what to do. He was relatively certain
Methos wouldn't kill Mac, but still, he was relieved to see Methos' eye
close slowly in a deliberate wink.

Relaxing against the wall, Richie summoned a noncommittal smile and said
blandly, "Yep."

"Good." Methos turned back to the Highlander. His hand began to tighten
around the bronze throat as MacLeod swallowed convulsively.

"Methos," he rasped. "I..."

MacLeod's voice was abruptly cut off as Methos suddenly leaned forward and
bit him on the nose. "You take all the fun out of revenge. Do you know that,
Highlander?"

Releasing his grip on the Scot, Methos stepped back. Mac took the
opportunity to grab the old Immortal around the waist and turn them so that
Methos' back was to the bars. With that bit of protection from prying eyes,
Duncan moved his left hand down. Coming to the edge of Methos' tunic, he
reached back up underneath and cupped the old man's much-abused buttock.
Rubbing and squeezing gently, he whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn't think�"

     zzzzzzzzzztttttttttttt!

"Ah!" MacLeod yelped as he leapt back from Methos.

It was too much. All the tension that had been building crumbled as the
three Immortals succumbed to helpless laughter.

"Serves you right, Duncan." Methos gasped as he tried to pull his suddenly
clingy tunic away from his tingling flesh. The build-up of static
electricity was beginning.

Deliberately sliding away, Methos moved to sit on the bench near Richie. He
had to get his mind on something else, and Richie was the most likely
prospect. Besides... "So, Ryan, I guess you're pretty shocked."

The smirk still firmly in place, Richie looked from one Immortal to the
other. "You mean like Mac was? Oh, you mean the butt writing. You're
kidding, right?"

Moving to sit on an adjoining bench, Mac frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You guys have been in heat for a couple of years now. The only thing that
shocks me is that you ever figured it out."

Methos tried to look offended. "In heat? MacLeod, maybe, but I think I'm a
little more mature than that."

Richie laughed outright. "Oh, sure, old man. Do you know how many times Joe
has threatened to turn a hose on you two? Damn. I guess that's one bet I
lost."

"Bet?" MacLeod's voice drew Richie's attention away from the other man.

"Um, yeah. We knew something was going on lately. Joe said you two had
finally gotten together; I just didn't think that it had happened yet. Man,
I coulda used that twenty."

Richie leveled a long look at the chagrined pair, then curiosity got the
better of him. He had to know. "So, Mac, what did you draw on Methos' butt?"

Coloring, the Highlander muttered, "I didn't draw anything. I wrote
something." His eyes slid warily to the old man, who seemed to be very
interested in the floor.

With a hoot of laughter, Richie quipped, "Most people just use a notebook.
So, what did you write?"

Methos looked up, his eyes still brimming with reluctant laughter. "It's not
a poem, or some kind of sappy nickname is it?"

Richie said, "You mean like Tush Boy or Sweet Cheeks?"

"It had better not be," Methos growled.

Mac took a deep breath, but before he could speak, footsteps echoed down the
corridor. Detective Burge strolled up and leaned against the bars.

"Comfy, boys?"

When none of the cellmates deigned to answer, Burge stood for a moment
longer, then reached out and unlocked the door. "Get out. Your boss is here
to take you home. We have more important things to worry about than you
three."

Richie didn't need a second invitation. Hopping up, he moved to the door.
"So, do I get my money back?"

"Get out."

"How about the phone numbers?"

"Get out!"

"Okay, okay!" The young Immortal rushed down the hallway towards freedom and
Joe Dawson.

MacLeod rose also, with Methos behind him. "That's it? Just 'get out?' No
'I'm sorry?' No explanation?"

"Mac, maybe we'd better leave while we're ahead."

"Better listen to him, MacLeod. Take your 'property' and leave while you
can."

MacLeod's jaw stiffened. "I've had just about enough of your bigotry,
Burge."

"Duncan, stop." Methos drew him away. "He's not worth it. Let's go!"

Almost dragging the Highlander out the door, Methos said quietly, "That's
the second time he's referred to me as your property or possession. What
does he know that I don't?"

"He saw your hip, remember? He knows that I wrote 'Property of Duncan
MacLeod' on your butt."

"Oh."

Burge remained by the cell. Ignoring his presence, Methos' steps faltered as
he pulled MacLeod to a stop before they reentered the main lobby. "'Property
of Duncan MacLeod?'"

Mac grimaced. "It was a joke, Methos�a very private joke. God, this has been
one of the worst days of my life!" He rubbed his face with his hands.

"Oh, come on, Mac. I'm the one who's been humiliated here. Remember?" The
old man began to twitch spasmodically as the itching returned in full force.
"And speaking of humiliation, this feels like a big one!"

     ZZZZZZTTTTTTTTT!

MacLeod was impressed. "Wow! That one really sparkled!"

"Bloody hell! Look at my toga!" Sure enough, once again Methos' toga was
wrapped around him like a leech. Every movement brought a crackle of static
electricity. And his hair...

"Hey, what're you two waiting for?" Burge bellowed from somewhere behind
them.

"Come on, Methos. The sooner we get you home, the better."

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

Back in the main room, Mac and Methos quickly located Joe and Richie. They
were engaged in heated conversation and didn't seem to notice the new
arrivals at first. Of course, everyone else in the room certainly did. As if
two grown men in togas wouldn't attract enough attention, the word about
Methos' tattoo had obviously spread like wildfire. Whispers rippled through
the crowded reception area. 'That's them! Which one is it? What's with his
hair?'

Studiously ignoring all of it, Mac and Methos were just in time to hear Joe
protest, "No way. You're telling me you actually saw it with your own eyes?"

"Well, no. But Joe, why would I lie when this means I lose the bet? I'm
telling you, it's right there on his butt."

"Richie!"

"Oh, hi, Mac! I didn't realize you guys were so close. What's wrong with
Passion Puppy's toga?"

Skewering the young Immortal with a look sharper than any sword, Methos
growled, "Passion Puppy?"

Totally unaffected, Richie grinned. "I'm still looking for that perfect
nickname. Not Passion Puppy, huh?"

"Definitely not." Duncan hurried to change the subject. "Joe, have you got
our coats?"

"In the car. Methos, what have you done to your hair?"

"What do you mean?" Reaching up toward his hair Methos could hear it
crackling as his hand approached.

"Does it look that bad?"

"No, no. Not really. Kind of a George Clooney meets Pee-Wee Herman look,"
Joe snickered.

"Oh, wonderful. Let's get out of here."

Leading the way to the exit, Richie gallantly held the door for his friends.
As Methos passed, Richie leaned forward to whisper in the old guy's ear.
"How about Good and Plenty?"

He was rewarded with a mild shock to the tip of his nose when he brushed
against the other man's ear.

Deliberately looking him right in the eye, Methos said pleasantly, "I'll
have my sword back soon. You might want to remember that."

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as they were all in the car, Joe began to apologize for the
evening's debacle. "MacLeod, Methos, Rich, I am so sorry this happened. If I
hadn't..."

"Forget it, Joe. Very little that happened tonight was your fault." Methos
assured him magnanimously. Looking over at MacLeod, the ancient Immortal
continued, "In fact, it wasn't really anybody's fault. Let's just forget it,
shall we?"

Richie was silent during the rest of the ride. Mac fervently hoped that
meant the 'guess the nickname' game was over. Methos had shown considerable
forbearance; he didn't even seem particularly upset about it. Mac wanted to
keep it that way.

Just before reaching the bar, Methos insisted that Joe stop at an all-night
convenience store. Drawing his long coat tightly about him, Methos leapt out
of the car and rushed inside.

A few minutes later he came out of the store carrying a brown paper bag.
Climbing back into the car, he reached into the sack and pulled out a corn
dog. "Snack, anyone?"

      ---------------------------------------------------------------- 
Finally, the four weary travelers were back at the bar. Before either Richie
or Joe could get out of the car, the two older Immortals were standing on
the sidewalk. Just as Mac leaned down beside the driver's side window to say
good-bye, it happened again.

     ZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTT!

It was bad enough that Joe had a huge grin plastered to his face, but Richie
broke into peals of laughter. "Hey, Methos! Maybe we've been approaching
this nickname thing all wrong. How do you feel about Old Faithful?"

Watching Methos stalk back around the car, Duncan scowled across at the
foolish youngster, hissing frantically at him. "Shut up!"

Richie either didn't hear him or didn't care, because he continued. "Wait!
Wait! I've got it! Valley of Earthly Delights!"

"Oh, Ryan." Something in the tone of the old man's voice made Richie tense
as he prepared to look over his shoulder.

Bracing himself, he turned and saw an indistinct, pale-white mass with the
words 'Property of Duncan MacLeod' stamped in one corner; the old man was
mooning him!

Richie blinked, not really believing what he was seeing. Just as quickly as
it had appeared, it vanished.

"Satisfied?" Methos flung back over his shoulder as he strode off.

"Ah, yeah." Richie puffed his cheeks out and shrugged as the Highlander ran
after his 'property.'

      ----------------------------------------------------------------

The trip back to the loft passed in silence. Methos seemed drained, leaning
back against the headrest with his eyes closed.

When they arrived inside the loft, the old man carefully hung his coat on
the rack. Jerking the toga up and over his head, Methos headed for the
bathroom. Pausing at the door, he smiled back at the Highlander, who was
standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Another night to remember,
Highlander. Gods, I'm tired. All those little Quickenings, I guess. I can't
wait to scrub this off and get some sleep." Turning, he went into the
bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Deeply relieved that the evening was ending on a peaceful note, Mac puttered
around getting ready for bed. He really needed a shower, but he couldn't
quite bring himself to join the old man. Finally, he climbed into bed and
tried to relax.

Long minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and Methos emerged, wrapped in
a big fluffy towel. Mac scooted back and held the covers open invitingly.
Approaching the bed, the ancient Immortal dropped the towel on the floor and
joined his lover. As the Scot's arms closed around him, encircling him with
warmth, Methos sighed and relaxed.

"Did you get it off?" Mac hated to break the peace of the moment, but he had
to know.

"It's gone." Methos answered sleepily.

The last knot in MacLeod's stomach unwound. "Thank heavens." He felt
compelled to apologize to him one more time. "Methos, I am so sorry."

Laying his moist palm over the Scot's lips, Methos yawned and said, "Shhh! I
told you, Duncan, it's over. Quit worrying about it. You can make it up to
me tomorrow." Another yawn interrupted. "I can't believe I'm so tired."

"Maybe because it's nearly morning. Go to sleep, Methos." Mac kissed the old
man's neck, pulled the covers more securely around them both, and closed his
eyes.

As it turned out, Mac was out like the proverbial light in less than thirty
minutes. Methos was tired, but he lay and watched his Highlander sleep for
another two hours. Then, when dawn had begun to chase away the night's
shadows, he climbed carefully from the bed.

Padding over to the coat rack, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew
a small packet. Walking back to the bed, he studied the Scot grimly. Duncan
looked so young and innocent when he slept. Who would ever think him capable
of such mischief?

But that didn't alter the fact that MacLeod deserved what was about to
happen to him. He really did. Not so much as a glimmer of doubt deterred the
old man as he carefully pulled the covers down around the Highlander's
thighs.

Methos had always felt that the best method of revenge was to reenact the
crime on the perpetrator. With this in mind, he set out to give MacLeod a
taste of his own medicine. Of course, he wasn't planning on adhering to
every detail. For one thing, Methos wasn't stupid enough to use permanent
markers. The brand new package in his hand said 'Washable' in big, bold
letters.

For another thing, MacLeod lay on his back. Of course, that was exactly
where Methos wanted him. Climbing carefully back onto the bed, he straddled
Mac's legs. Not only would this afford him an excellent view of the 'work
area,' it would also enable him to switch quickly to plan number two, Give
Mac a Good Morning Blow Job, if the Highlander woke up before he was done.

Pulling both the black and red markers from the package, he began. Carefully
taking Mac's flaccid penis in his hand, he looked up at the sleeping Scot.
So far, so good. Taking the top off the black marker with his teeth, Methos
drew three quick strokes across the midpoint of Mac's shaft. It twitched
slightly against his palm, but still the Highlander slept.

Tossing the marker down beside him, the old Immortal opened the red one.
This was the touchy part. Hunkering down, Methos knew he had to be prepared
to react in an instant if MacLeod opened his eyes.

Stroking swiftly, he drew the red marker from the tip of Mac's cock to the
topmost black line. He repeated this procedure exactly twelve times.

After the red marker joined its mate, Methos climbed off Mac's legs and
settled back on the bed to admire his work. MacLeod might not be an artist,
but after five thousand years, Methos felt his work definitely had
possibilities.

Just then, finally, MacLeod stirred. Grabbing the rest of the marker pack,
Methos quickly replaced the two he'd used and dove under the covers with the
entire set. Leaving the markers there, he tugged the comforter back up
around Mac's waist, effectively covering his artwork. He yawned and
stretched elaborately, then smiled and said, "Good morning, Duncan."

"Mmmm...morning, Methos. I can't believe we're both already awake." MacLeod
leaned over to give his bedmate a quick kiss.

Leaping out of bed, Methos suggested, "Why don't you go take that shower you
missed last night, Mac? I'll start the coffee."

Surprised at this uncharacteristic display of early morning amiability, Mac
said, "Thanks. I will." Rising from the bed, he stretched and yawned as he
padded to the bathroom.

In the kitchen, Methos stood immobile, waiting. It shouldn't be too long...

"Aaarrrrggghhh! Oh my God! Methos, what have you done?" The Highlander burst
into the main room, still clutching his semi-erect member in horror.

Leaning against the counter, Methos inquired innocently, "Problem, Mac?"

Tearing his eyes from the red headed smiley face resting in his palm,
MacLeod moaned, "Getting it off is really going to hurt, isn't it?"

Pursing his lips, the old man gave MacLeod a pitying look and moved toward
him. "Now, Duncan, would I do that to you?"

MacLeod tried to read the answer in the old Immortal's eyes. "N-no?" he
guessed hopefully.

"No." Methos agreed firmly placing his hand over Mac's. "I was smart enough
to use washable markers."

Giving a shuddering sigh of relief, MacLeod leaned his head forward until it
rested on Methos' shoulder. "Thank God."

For several long moments they stood like that: MacLeod leaning into the
ancient Immortal's strength, Methos running one hand up and down the
Highlander's back while the other stroked and soothed his hardening rod.

Drawing back, Methos smiled into the Highlander's dark eyes. Deliberately
raking his eyes down the other man's muscular torso, he said, "Come on,
youngster. I'll help you wash it off."

Grabbing MacLeod's hand, the old Immortal turned to lead him into the
bathroom. It was like tugging at a redwood tree. MacLeod stood rooted to the
spot with a big grin spreading over his face.

"Hey, Methos, where are those washable markers anyway?"

"Now, MacLeod..."

"C'mon, it'll be fun!"

"Where have I heard those words before?" Methos studied the other Immortal
for a moment. "Well...all right. But I get the blue one first!" He turned
and dashed back to the bed. Grabbing a corner of the comforter, he dragged
it back. The marker pack was peeking out from under the edge of a pillow.
Uncapping the blue one, he advanced menacingly across the floor.

Still grinning hugely, MacLeod began to back away. "Now, Methos, that's not
fair! I'm unarmed!"

"Catch." The green marker sailed through the air to plunk the Highlander on
the forehead.

"Hey!"

"I said 'catch,' it's not my fault if you have poor reflexes." Methos
smirked as he noticed that the younger man had backed himself into a corner�
literally. "*En garde*!"

Advancing in classic fighting form, the ancient Immortal scored a swift
point as the blue marker etched a jagged line down MacLeod's ribs. Looking
down at himself in amazement, Mac turned narrowed eyes on the old man and
prepared his riposte.

"Oh, yeah? Take that!" And suddenly a huge green splotch was blooming right
on the end of Methos' distinctive nose.

"Aarrgh! Why does it always have to be about my nose?"

The fight began in earnest, both men giving it their all. They soon lost
count of the strikes and counterstrikes.

Several minutes later, a truce was called by unspoken agreement, but only
for as long as it took to change markers. They warily circled each other,
searching out weaknesses�and unmarked body parts�to continue their warfare.
Each man was totally immersed in the battle; it was doubtful that an
explosion could have gotten their attention.

In fact, when the elevator grate rose with a crash, long moments passed
before either man registered the sound. Eyes widening in dismay, they turned
as one to face their doom.

Sure enough, Joe Dawson walked into the loft. A cheery greeting dying on his
lips, Joe could only look from one Immortal to the other in amazement.

Both of them were totally covered in rainbow colors. Along with innumerable
lines and spots, at some point Methos had gotten a tulip garden emblazoned
across his chest.

And MacLeod... When Joe could drag his eyes from the redheaded smiley face
that had started the whole process, he could see that Mac had a parade of
hula girls, hearts, and snakes marching along his torso and trailing around
to his back.

All three seemed to be waiting for someone else to speak first. Joe's mouth
opened and closed a couple of times, but no sound came out. Neither Mac nor
Methos seemed inclined to even try.

Only one thing could have made it any worse. As if summoned, a zing of
Immortal presence rippled over the loft as footsteps rang out on the stairs.
Bursting through the door, Richie said, "Hey, Joe! Here's that Scotch you
left in the..."

The words trailed off as he took in the scene before him. Richie blinked
once, twice, three times. Turning to Joe, he took his flabbergasted friend
by the arm and gently turned him back to the elevator.

"Come on, Joe. I think it's time to buy me another steak dinner."

Turning dazed eyes to the young man beside him, Joe asked, "What? Oh, yeah,
sure. That sounds like a good idea, Rich."

The two entered the elevator and turned. Both older Immortals still stood
rooted in place with the same horrified expressions on their faces.

Joe raised a hand and waved it vaguely in their direction. Sometime they had
to talk, sometime they had to...sometime, but not now.

Stopping as he began to close the grate, Richie raked his eyes over each man
in turn. Fixing his eyes on the specific part of Mac's anatomy that could be
said to be looking back, Richie shook his head.

"Bye, guys. I'd say don't do anything I wouldn't do, but I think it's way
too late for that." A cocky smile threatening to break his calm visage,
Richie slammed the grate into place, and the elevator disappeared moments
later.

Silence reigned in the loft. Then, raising his head, MacLeod shrugged and
smiled into the old man's hazel eyes. "That certainly went well. I hope Joe
will be okay."

"Look at it this way, Mac. Joe doesn't really need to talk to us anymore,
now does he?"

"There is that. Still want to help me wash it off?"

"It would be my pleasure." Methos chuckled, dropping a swift kiss on the
Scot's open mouth.  "There's just one thing I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"Why?  Oh, I don't mean 'why did you do it', that's obvious.  I mean why did
you draw...this?"  Mac gestured at the smiley face again obviously confused.

Stopping at the entrance to the bathroom, Methos shook his head in
exasperation.  "Mac, look at it.  I mean really look at it and think.  Why
would I draw that?"

MacLeod lifted his cock again and studied it carefully.  Understanding
washed over him in a  flood as he dropped his member and closed his eyes. 
"Eric the Red."

Methos smiled triumphantly.  "Exactly.  Eric the Red.  Amanda named him, I
just gave him a look to suit his personality."

Guiding the younger man into the shower ahead of him, Methos began to
scratch.


~ the end ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

back to Main page                                                      back to Highlander fanfic
                             email:  [email protected]
Hosted by www.Geocities.ws

1