Title: Wings of the Morning--MacLeod

Author: Figlia Della Musica

Series: Wings of the Morning 5/?

Pairing: Duncan/Methos

Timeframe: Take your pick

Summary: A talk

Warnings: slash, mush

Rating: G they just talk

Archive:  anywhere else sure but just ask me first

Author’s comments: Still pretty boring.  I have problems with this whole plot idea

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.

 

++++++++++

 

Arriving at the barge, we make ourselves comfortable.  I hand Methos a beer and he flops down on the couch in his usual style.  I pour myself a shot of whiskey and sit beside him.

 

“So,” Methos says.  “Talk.”

 

I glare at him for a moment, then take a deep breath, trying to arrange my thoughts, my formless hopes and fears, in to a form I can manage.

 

“*Do* you want there to be an ‘us?’” I ask, finally.

 

He’s silent for a few moments, thinking.  Hazel eyes search my face intently, as though he can read the answer in my features.

 

“I’m… afraid,” he says finally.  The admission is hard for him to make, that much is obvious, but he’s not evading me, not being sarcastic or changing the subject, and that gives me some hope. 

 

“You have to understand,” he continues, “the last time I had a steady relationship with another Immortal, I very nearly lost my head.  It scares me, but…” he takes a deep breath, bracing himself.  “Yes.  I want there to be an ‘us,’ MacLeod.”  He searches my face, looking for my reaction.  “That is, if you want it,” he adds.

 

I hope my reaction shows.  “Yes, Methos,” I say, “I want it.”  I want it so badly I’ll chase him to the ends of the earth if need be, but I don’t say that; it’s the one thing guaranteed to make him run.  Methos reminds me of a half-tame cat—approach him slowly, make no sudden or unexpected moves, and always be somewhere he can see you, and he’ll let you close, but startle him, come at him too quickly, make him even vaguely nervous, and you’ll never see him again.

 

He seems to accept my words, pondering them for a minute, then comes up with a comment in true Methosian style.  “Okay, now that we’ve decided that there is, in fact, an ‘us,’ we can talk about it.”

 

Someday, I’m going to write a book that will be composed entirely of Methos-quotes.  It’ll be called “Methosisms” and I’ll bet anything it’ll be a bestseller.

 

I lean over and take one of his hands in mine.  It’s cool, and I think it’s shaking a little.  He’s scared, all right.  “Methos,” I say softly, “I want you to stay with me.  I don’t mean moving in, precisely,” I hasten to add as he tenses, “but I mean around here.  Don’t just stay for a few days and disappear like you usually do.  Stay here, where I can see you, talk to you, be near you.”  I’d *like* him to stay with me, to move in with me—I’ve loved him a while now, and the times he’s stayed on the barge or at the loft with me have been heavenly—but if I say that, he’ll disappear so fast I won’t even see the door open.

 

His eyes have never left my face, and their searching intensifies.  Abruptly, Methos drops his gaze to his hand, still clasped between both of mine, seeming even paler and more slender compared to my duskier skin and thicker fingers. 

 

“MacLeod,” he says, “I…”  He stops and his eyes fasten on mine again, like torpedoes, golden-brown and endlessly deep.  “I’ll stay.  I won’t go off disappearing without good reason.  That much, I think I can give you.  But…”  And his eyes focus on me even more than they had before, until I’m almost drowning in their depths.

 

I wet suddenly dry lips.  “But what?”