Title: Wings of the Morning--MacLeod

Author: Figlia Della Musica

Series: Wings of the Morning part IV

Pairing: Duncan/Methos

Timeframe: whenever         

Summary: Nothing happens. This is buildup for the next one

Warnings: slash, mush

Rating: G.  They do nothing.

Archive:  anywhere else sure but just ask me first

Author’s comments:  Very pointless and boring.  The next one will be better

Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don’t make any money off of this.  I’m just having some fun with them.

 

++++++++++

The day goes by fast.  Late in the morning, Methos and I haul ourselves out of bed and get breakfast, and after a leisurely me we head over to Joe’s, which is just opening.

 

For years now, I’ve watched Methos sprawl on his bar stool and I’ve wanted to just grab him.  The temptation is even harder to ignore now, because I’ve tasted him, I have an idea of what it would be like to just grab him here and now.  Methos himself doesn’t help—he keeps shooting me these burning glances that make me want to grab him off his barstool and….  He’s going to get it when we get back to the barge.

 

Which brings up another thought.  How far are we going to take this?  I love Methos, I have for a while, and I think it would make me happier than anything else if he stayed with me, but what is this all to him?  He admitted last night that he likes this, but there’s no guarantee that means anything.  With him, it might just be enough to inspire a famous Methos disappearance. 

 

Suddenly I have a burning need to talk to him about this before we go any further, before I fall even more. 

 

After a while, we leave Joe to his blues and head back to the barge.   It’s a pleasant day and we’re walking, so there’s plenty of time to think.

 

“Methos,” I say as we draw near the barge.  “We need to talk.”

 

He turns to look at me worriedly.  “What about, MacLeod?”

 

MacLeod.  Last night he called me Duncan.  “Us.”  I glance over at him, trying to gauge how he feels.  His face is stiff, a mask.  “I want to talk about us, Methos.”

 

“What about us?”

 

My heart sinks.  From the look on his face and the tone of his voice, he is not interested in an “us.”  From the way he sounds, I have to believe he’s not planning on changing his disappear-after-a-quick-visit routine. 

 

I shake my head.  “Never mind.”

 

“MacLeod.” 

 

I turn.  Methos has stopped and is standing twenty feet behind me.  His face has lost its mask, and he looks worried, afraid.

 

“What, Methos?”

 

“What were you going to say?”

 

“I…” I look at him closely, trying to figure out how I feel.  I love him, but I’m feeling almost angry.  If he wants there to be an “us” he shouldn’t be acting so weird, and if he doesn’t, he should just say so.

 

“I want to talk about us,” I finally say lamely.

 

He regards me quietly for an instant.  “You’re asking me if I want there to be an ‘us,’” he says calmly, but it’s a question underneath.  “Aren’t you.”

 

I nod.  “Yes.”

 

“Let’s go back to the barge,” Methos suggests, stepping up next to me.  “It’ll be easier to talk there than here.”

 

I nod again.  “Okay.”

 

We walk the rest of the way to the barge in silence.