One Off by Genny (Genteel Rebel)

Sometime after midnight, the topic turned to sex.

Joe would never know what caused it. He really, really wanted to blame it on the alcohol--god knew he’d drunk enough that night. Later, though, he would suspect that Methos had turned the conversation that way on purpose. Joe had been getting more and more maudlin all night, and that night had started out with the oh-so cheerful sight of Amy walking out of his life. By twelve o'clock Joe had been in a depression even Richard Simmons would have needed a ladder to climb out of. Methos must have known that--hell, of course he knew. And so the Really Old Guy had sought about for a topic to distract him.

It worked, too. Oh, how it worked.

***

It started out simply enough. Joe made some off-hand remark about the sexual revolution of the 1960’s. Methos encouraged him, and before Joe knew it, he was waxing poetic about a go-go dancer he'd once lusted after in Chicago , even though he'd never had a chance to consummate the relationship. Methos responded with a wild and completely unbelievable story about a 1920's flapper, an art deco lamp, and a bottle of maple syrup. By the time he finished, Joe was shaking his head so hard he thought it might fall off. "No way," he said. "During the twenties? I know it was wild with the speakeasies and all, but people just didn't behave like that back then."

"Joe, Joe, Joe," Methos said sadly, removing the cap from a second bottle of beer. "And to think that you call yourself a historian. Believe me. The twenties was a time of sexual revolution even greater than that of the sixties."

"Yeah?"

"Certainly. Think about it. The West had just finished fighting the biggest war in its history. War is always good for a boom in sexual behavior; everyone needs to celebrate still being alive. Then there were all the cultural and technological advances. Horizons were broadened and values rethought...the rubber industry made condoms and diaphragms available to the masses..." Joe choked on his whiskey. "No, really. Have you ever seen some of the films Hollywood produced, before the Hayes code came out? The diaphragm had much the same effect on your great-great grandma as the Pill did on your high school girlfriend. It was a very liberal time."

"Not *my* high school girlfriend," Joe mumbled.

Methos frowned and put a finger behind his ear, his oh-so subtle way of asking Joe to speak up. "No, it was nothing," Joe said dismissively, and reached for the whiskey bottle he'd brought to the table. He topped up his shot glass and looked at the old Immortal sideways. "It doesn’t matter what you say, Methos. I still don't believe the part about the lamp. Women just don't behave like that. No matter how liberal 'the times'."

Methos shrugged. "Oh, every woman has a bit of exhibitionist in her," he said easily, slouching back into his chair. "They just need the freedom to let it out."

"And just how do you know that, pray tell?"

"I’m very old and very wise. Don't you remember? I already told you once tonight."

Joe snorted. "Oh, yeah. Right. How silly of me to forget."

They lapsed back into silence. Methos played with his beer bottle, but didn't drink. Joe suspected that he had really opened it just to keep Joe company. Joe tossed back another shot, feeling his melancholy starting to creep back with even more strength than it had had been before, and his normally cautious nature took a long running leap off the metaphorical pier. "Okay, Wise One. If you know everything there is to know about women..."

"Joe, *nobody* knows all there is to know about women. It would take me much longer than 5,000 years to even make a good start." Joe nodded and looked down at the table, depression doubling. "Buuuut," Methos drawled, "5,000 years is a lot longer to have learned things in than your mere 40-odd. Why, Joe? Got a new mystery you want to consult me on?"

"Not a new mystery, no. Just the same old one that's been bamboozling men for eternity." Joe flung his arms open wide, sloshing the small amount of liquor still left in his glass over his hand and onto the floor. "Where the hell are they, and how do I get one interested in me?"

Methos looked at Joe's whiskey-sodden fingers pointedly. Joe supposed that his gesture *had* been a little on the over-dramatic side. "Been a while, has it Joe?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's been a while." Joe brought his hand back to his face, sucking what he could of the whiskey off his fingers. It seemed a pity to waste it. "A while, yes indeed. Years. Decades. Lifetimes." Okay, so he was exaggerating a little. His last time had been with Betsy, less than three years ago. But it sure as hell felt like longer.

"Spoken like one of the truly deprived," Methos replied sympathetically. "I hear you." Joe nodded and reached up a hand to rub his suddenly bleary eyes. "Look, Joe, we all have dry spells. Yours will come to an end, one way or another."

"Oh, yeah?" Joe spread his fingers apart so he could peer at Methos through them. "And how long was your longest 'dry spell'?"

"Oh, about three hundred years, give or take a decade." Joe's jaw dropped. Methos looked apologetic. "You did ask."

"Yeah, I guess did. Huh." Joe smiled sourly. "I guess that puts my little drought into perspective. Let me guess. You were in a monastery?"

"For part of it," Methos nodded. "Then I got mixed up in the Crusades, and then...well, it's all very ancient history now." He leaned on one elbow, earnestly. "Joe, listen to me. You will find the right woman. You just have to give it time."

Joe shook his head sadly. He wanted to say, "Ah, my friend, but time doesn't work for me the same way it does for you," but decided not to. Methos was trying to be kind, and Joe didn’t want to stamp on the attempt. Methos made them much too rarely. "And what shall I do in the meantime?"

The old Immortal's eyes twinkled. "Share a drink with a good friend?" he suggested. "Always works for me."

Joe smiled. "You *are* very old and very wise," he said. "Let's drink to all our 'in the meantime's." He lifted his glass, and Methos lifted his bottle. They saluted each other and drank.

***

Time wore on. The two of them stayed at the table, sometimes talking, more often simply drinking in companionable silence. The old clock on the wall started ticking off the wee small hours like a child learning to count. One, two, three...

It was really very strange. Normally, Joe didn't care to be in the bar this late after closing. The place was a nightmare to heat at the best of times, and after hours, without a crowd to lend body heat, it grew quite cavernous and cold. Joe often felt like the shadows were closing in around him. It tended to remind him of just how painfully fragile and alone his mortal self really was…but tonight, in company, there was a kind of coziness in the dark. Somewhere around three thirty Methos started singing an old rock song under his breath; Joe joined in briefly, then dropped out again, startled by the sweetness and clarity of the other man's voice. He listened, and when it was over, Methos started drumming his hands on the table rhythmically. "You know, Joe, women really aren't all that they're cracked up to be," he said.

"No?"

"No."

"Huh." Joe considered this for a minute. "Well, I guess you ought to know."

The Old Immortal's head snapped around to face him. "Excuse me?" he said politely.

"I said, I guess you ought to know." Methos continued to look ever-so-politely blank. Joe smiled indulgently. "Come off it, old man. Who did you think you were fooling? Everybody knows that you walk both sides of the street. Hell, nine-tenths of my staff get remarkably clumsy every time you come in, dropping glasses and tripping over chairs. And I'm not just talking about the waitresses. The bartenders and busboys, too."

Methos sniffed. "That doesn't prove a thing, Watcher. Your staff is a remarkably horny bunch. I think you hire them that way on purpose." He shrugged, carefully not meeting Joe's eyes. "Besides, they all drop things whenever MacLeod walks in, too. I've seen them."

"I know you have. But there's a difference," Joe answered. "Mac never notices, at least not when it's a guy doing the dropping. *You* do."

"I do?"

"You certainly do." He chuckled at Methos's shocked expression. It was fun to get the better of the Ancient One every once in a while. "I'm not saying that you haven't been discrete, man. But whenever a handsome young thing gives you the eye, you respond. Even if you do keep it subtle."

Methos coughed and half turned in his chair, his gaze going to the floor. Joe frowned, realizing for the first time that Methos was genuinely uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken, not just stringing out a friendly debate as Joe had originally thought. Good god. Had Methos really thought he didn't know? "What's the matter, Methos?" he said, as gently as he could. "Surely you don't think *I* give a hoot one way or the other. What, were you worried that I was going to run you out of my bar? I thought you knew me better than that."

The quiet admonition seemed to do the trick. Methos relaxed. He smiled shyly, going instantly from paranoid Ancient to innocent young grad student, and Joe had to marvel at the ease of the transition. "That's true," he said. "I guess I do. It just isn't always easy..." He chopped off the words mid-sentence, leaving Joe to wonder forever about what he'd been planning to say. "Never mind. Thanks, Joe."

"Don't mention it. Just watch who you assume to be a homophobic idiot without proof, all right? Some people without my forgiving nature just might take offense." Methos grinned outright at this, and Joe smiled, feeling the tension ease. "Anyway, almost all Immortals past their first century are at least occasionally bisexual," Joe continued lightly. "To my knowledge, MacLeod is the only exception still active in the Game."

"Oh, yes. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Straight and Narrow." Methos made a sour face and lifted his bottle in a mock toast. "Trust me, Joe. I am painfully aware of Duncan 's...exceptionalness."

"Really?" This, too, was not a surprise. Joe was a good Watcher, and he had suspected that Methos felt more for the Highlander than simple freindship from the first moment Joe had ever seen the two together. But it was nice to have his suspicions confirmed. "So that's how it is. I had wondered."

"Yes, Joe. That's how it is. God!" Methos drummed his fingers on the table, shaking his head. "Remember this, Joe...old age alone does not preserve one from idiocy. When I think of all the things I've done to get Duncan MacLeod's attention, I'm seriously tempted to try and take my own head. I'm not sure which of us wins the greater Stupid Award, me for trying or him for never catching on. He never once bought a clue...not even when I came back to save his sorry head from Kristen, or his sorry Quickening while Alexa was sick. And *that* was before he found out about the Horsemen." Joe nodded his understanding; whatever possibilities there once might or might not have been between Methos and MacLeod, Kronos's coming had nailed that door shut for good. Methos glanced at Joe out of the corner of his eye. "So, Joe. What about you?"

Joe laughed. Now that the tension had passed, he felt himself approaching a very silly mood. "What about me? I don't think I'm MacLeod's type, either."

"That wasn't what I meant, Joseph." A sly grin. "Ever been tempted to cross the street?"

Yup. They were definitely on firm ground again. It was just like Methos to distract him with a tease. "Nah. I had a misspent youth, Methos--I spent it chasing after girls. I never caught very many, but the chase was fun. I'm much too old to change my ways now." He decided to try a joke of his own. "Besides, I've seen what you have to look like in this town to get that kind of action. I don't think I really have the figure for tight jeans and a nipple ring, do you?"

To Joe's surprise, Methos didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. "So...you'd never even consider it, then."

His voice was remarkably solemn. Joe blinked, wondering at the change in mood. "Well, I'm not saying *that*," he said carefully, as honestly as he could. "It has crossed my mind, once or twice. But--" he motioned to his legs-- "I think it would have to be a pretty unusual set of circumstances for me to even get the chance."

Methos turned his head to look at Joe square on, exasperation plain. "Joe, I don't think you understood," he said. "I was asking if you'd ever consider it with *me*."

"Oh," Joe said blankly. "That's different. I guess I..." He trailed off. "Oh. *Oh.*" He felt his throat go dry for a second, and then his heart start to pound. "What the hell...are you actually telling me that you're attracted to *me*?"

"Guilty as charged." Methos put on his very best charming smile, although his eyes stayed strangely shadowed. "Yes, Joe, it's true. I confess. I think you are a very attractive man. As would any one else with half a brain." Joe gawked at him. Methos sighed. "Poor Joe," he said sympathetically. "The last twenty four hours have just been full of surprises for you, haven't they?"

"You got that right." Joe said. In his wildest dreams, he had never expected to be propositioned by any man, let alone the World's *Oldest* Man. "I-uh, I don't know what to say."

"Well, why don't we review your options?" The twinkle was rapidly returning to Methos's eyes. He appeared to be getting more and more comfortable the more Joe floundered. "There's really only two that I can see. One, you can say no, in which case I'll finish my beer--" he swirled his bottle around in the air, frowning as he discovered that there was only an inch or so left-- "and leave, no damage done. I won't ever mention this again. Tomorrow or the next day I'll come in to hear you play, you can twit me about my bar tab, and everything will be the same as normal. Or, option two..." he nodded at Joe's whiskey glass, "You can finish your drink while I finish mine, and then we can go to my place and have an incredibly fulfilling night of boundless passion. It's entirely up to you."

Joe smiled in spite of himself. "Either way you still get to finish your beer, huh?"

"Of course! Good beer *is* good beer, Joe. And love is love." Methos took a swig, shrugging his well-formed shoulders. "It's only when people start confusing the two that they get into trouble."

Joe raised his eyebrows. "Love?"

"Just a manner of speaking, Joe. Just a manner of speaking." Joe frowned, and Methos sighed. "Substitute 'friendship' if you'd rather. I'm not asking for anything long term. I'm just asking you to spend the night and have sex. Think of it as a one off, a one time experiment. I take you home; we share some pleasure, share some comfort. That's it. Nothing more." Methos's hazel eyes darkened subtly, and he looked down at his hands, very pale against the surface of the table. "It's been quite a dry spell for me too, you know. I've been celibate ever since Alexa died."

The mention of the waitress's name softened something in Joe's chest. Alexa had been a great loss to them both. "You really miss her, don't you," he said needlessly. Methos nodded very slowly. "Ah, hell," Joe said. "I guess we old blues singers don't have a monopoly on loneliness, do we."

"No, Joe," Methos answered quietly. "No, my friend, you do not." Joe looked away, suddenly embarrassed. Methos cleared his throat. "All right, Joe. Which is it going to be? Either way is fine, but I *would* like to know. Shall I finish this bottle and take you home? Or should I run before you get out of that chair and toss me out on my bum?"

Joe thought about it. He already knew he was not going to toss Methos out. Heck, as sexual propositions went, this was probably one of the friendliest, most respectful passes Le Blues Bar had ever witnessed. Not to mention good for an old mortal's ego. Joe wasn't going to break up a promising friendship just because of the question, especially not when said friend had just taken a head to save his daughter's life. But...was he interested?

Joe looked at Methos appraisingly. Yeah, he knew the guy was handsome. And they had been through a lot together. Richie's death, MacLeod's cyclic disapprovals, today's close encounter with Walker...Joe would never delude himself that he knew Methos's true character, but he knew he liked what he'd seen. Why, just that morning...well, yesterday morning, now...the old Immortal had jumped in front of a bullet meant for him. Methos was full of flaws, but he was capable of great kindness as well as great ruthlessness, and he was both noble and trustworthy in the oddest kind of way. If he had been a woman, Joe knew he would probably have risked acting like a fool and asked him out long ago.

But...did he find the man attractive? Attractive enough for this?

Methos leaned towards him across the table. The small hanging light overhead bathed his face and torso in a soft yellow pool. Joe took in the muscles revealed by the pushed-up sleeves of his shirt, the long elegant hands. Had Methos ever played an instrument? Joe had never thought to ask. What could those fingers do with his guitar? And what could they do with *him*, aided by 5,000 years of sexual experience? "I'm tempted," he said honestly. "But Methos...I gotta know. I'm much too old to rush into these things. I have to know what things are going to be like in the morning."

"Between us, you mean?" Joe nodded. "How would you like them to be?"

"I--" Joe thought. "I think I'd like them to stay the way they are. Like you said before. You keep coming in to hear me play, and I continue my hopeless quest to get you to pay for all that hooch you guzzle. Both of us keep trying to keep MacLeod from losing his head to a hopeless cause. Sound good?"

"Yes." Methos actually looked relieved, his shoulders relaxing subtly. Funny. Joe had thought the old Immortal was already completely at his ease. "That sounds good. Very good indeed, Joe." He tipped the last of his beer into his mouth and set the bottle on the table, shoving his chair backwards. "Well. Shall we go?"

Joe grinned. "Got through that last inch pretty fast, didn't you?" he teased. Methos merely smiled. Joe took a final sip, gathered up the bottles and his shot glass, and carried them to the back. It wouldn't do to leave an untidy bar. Without Joe asking, Methos scrubbed down the table with a bar towel, then slipped on his coat and headed for the door, holding it open for Joe. Joe took a deep breath. And followed.

***

Methos's new flat was a surprise.

Joe had visited Adam Pierson's old apartment in Paris on Watcher business more than once, long before he ever suspected that Adam Pierson was Methos. When MacLeod had seen it and they'd compared notes, the Highlander had just confirmed Joe's impressions. Methos's old home had been a mass of stark sculpture and ultra modern decor, mixed together with a few of the rare historical artifacts all Immortals seemed to gather as time went by. This new apartment was very, very different. "Wow," Joe said as he awkwardly stumped through the doorway. "This is nice. Cozy." He flashed a smile at his host, who was walking around turning on overhead lights and lamps. "Not an abstract sculpture to be seen."

"My stark phase is over," Methos replied. "After the way the last couple of years have gone, I thought I needed someplace comfortable to relax. Not to mention easier to move from in a hurry." Joe nodded in understanding. The new apartment certainly was comfortable, with lots of overstuffed furniture and warm rugs on the floor, but nothing around him looked irreplaceable. Well, nothing except the books, which lined almost every wall. Joe wondered suddenly just how much Methos had lost in that first, frantic flight from Paris after Kalas had come after him. Methos laid his coat across the back of the couch, and Joe noticed that he arranged it carefully so that the side with the hidden sword pocket faced up. "I'm very glad you're here, Joe."

"Yeah," Joe said quietly. "I think that I am, too." And he meant it. There was a lot of comfort to be had from just being in another person's home, in not being alone for yet another night. Joe removed his own coat and tossed it over the back of a handy chair. "Come here."

Methos complied, looking oddly shy and uncertain. He approached Joe almost warily, head down, hands stuck awkwardly into the back pockets of his jeans. Joe wondered just what had made him so uncomfortable. Surely, Methos didn't think he was going to bolt now? Joe waited for him to come close, then wrapped his arms around Methos's body. After a moment of hesitation, Methos did the same, tucking his head into the space between Joe's neck and shoulder.

Mmmm. Not bad, even if it did feel strange to be holding an armful of angular muscle instead of womanly curves. Methos's body felt strong and warm and he didn't hesitate in the least about pulling Joe right up close, something Joe very much appreciated. He had been subject to too many frigid half-hugs since he'd lost his legs, the kind where you touch at the shoulders and nowhere else, and now he relished the feeling of a warm body pressed firmly against his own. Methos smelled good too, clean, and very very human; Joe's heart ached as he realized just how long it had been since he'd been close enough to smell the unique odor of another person's skin. No. This wasn't bad at all.

From somewhere below his ear, Methos spoke cautiously. "You all right?"

"Oh, yeah. Better than all right." Joe sighed. "You?"

A shaky laugh. "*Much* better than all right."

"You sound kind of nervous, Methos," Joe teased. "What's the matter? You having second thoughts on me?"

"Who? Me?" Methos's head snapped up, and he grinned foolishly. "Ah...no. Actually, I was just thinking about how unbelievable this whole thing is. Part of me was wondering how I could give you a graceful way to slip away if you needed to. I don't think I ever thought you'd actually say yes."

"Yeah, I kind of surprised myself there, too," Joe admitted. "But I'm very glad I did." He hesitated. "Methos?"

"Yes, Joe?"

"You'll have to be my tour guide to this whole gay sex thing, you know. I haven't the faintest clue about what to do next."

He felt the ancient shoulders relax ever so slightly under his hands, and could have sworn he heard a smile in Methos's voice. "That’s all right," Methos said. "I think I have some ideas." And he kissed him.

Joe had expected the first kiss he ever shared with a man to be weird beyond imagining. It wasn't. Methos's lips were soft and smooth, expertly seeking out Joe's sensitive places with a skill few of Joe’s previous lovers could have matched. It felt…good. Pleasurable. Joe gave a soft little moan, startled by his own reactions, and Methos's hands twined around the back of his neck. He pulled Joe closer, seeking deeper contact, not forcing him exactly but certainly not leaving the least bit of doubt about where all this was going. It was all right. Joe could do this. He let himself relax and opened his mouth.

Double "mmmm." Yes. That was very good, very good indeed. Methos's mouth was hot and wet and held an indefinable sweetness under the taste of beer; the tongue that lightly traced the line of Joe's front teeth was soft and very, very arousing. Suddenly hungry, suddenly needing to taste and feel more, Joe reached out with his tongue. Methos made a wordless sound and opened his mouth wider. Joe took control of the kiss, exploring Methos’s mouth thoroughly, reveling in every sound of enjoyment the other man made. He felt the first flares of true excitement slipping into his groin.

After a small eternity, they broke for breath. "Methos?"

The Immortal looked indecently self-satisfied. "Yes, Joe?"

"I'll need some help taking off my legs, before we're in bed. If we're going to bed, that is." Oh, great. How adolescent could he get?

"Well, bed *was* what I had in mind," Methos replied. "But I could also offer you the couch or the kitchen counter. Even the fire escape, though it's bound to be drafty at this time of night, and my landlady will probably have some objections..."

"Methos," Joe said warningly. Damn the man. Now was *not* the time for jokes. "Take me to your bedroom. Now."

Methos led the way. The bedroom was of a piece with the rest of the flat, furnished with the same nondescript comfort. There was a nice big bed with a simple cream duvet, thick pile carpeting on the floor, and more of the inescapable bookshelves lining the walls. As soon as Joe made it through the door, Methos was kissing him again, overwhelming Joe with sensations as he made his desire plain. Joe tried to give as good as he got, despite being quite awkwardly balanced on his cane. Somehow or other, they made it to the side of the bed; Joe sat down heavily, their lips still locked. Methos kissed a final promise, then broke away and moved back, standing just out of reach. He reached for the hem of his shirt.

Feeling the oddest combination of excitement and shame, Joe let himself look, really look, at the Immortal for the first time. Amazing. Methos was still wearing what he'd worn all night, the same black jeans, the same boring gray long sleeved shirt. Joe had seen the outfit a dozen times before. But somehow he'd never noticed how appealingly the clothes hugged Methos's slim form, and he’d certainly never wanted so badly to see what lay underneath. He watched, utterly rapt, as Methos pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it away.

Joe's breath caught. Oh. At last he understood why Methos had been able to take Morgan Walker so easily. There was a master swordsman's strength etched into every line of the body in front of him, real power obvious in every curve. Why had he never seen it before? "No wonder poor Carl the busboy keeps dropping trays whenever you saunter by," Joe said, almost reverent. "I ought to start charging you for the breakage."

"Better be careful, Joe. You almost paid me a compliment, there," Methos said, the seriousness in his eyes belying the lightness of his words. "Does that mean that you...ah...that you like what you see?"

"Yeah. Oh yeah."

Joe's voice was husky. Methos's beauty was truly intoxicating. Joe's hands itched to touch him, to feel the firm muscles adorning Methos's chest, to slide his fingers down to the trim, smooth waist. A sudden image of what it would be like to have that beautiful body lying underneath him while he ran his hands over every inch of that milky skin rose up in Joe’s mind, and Joe had to suppress a moan as the vivid fantasy overwhelmed him. In front of him, Methos dropped to his knees at Joe's feet, his hands lightly touching Joe's pant legs. "I'd like to see you too, you know."

The gentle suggestion snapped Joe's mind back to the present. "I don't have your beauty, Methos." Joe wasn't normally self-conscious about his age, but it was a simple fact. There was no way that he--legless, middle aged, firm in arm and chest but sagging everywhere else--could possibly hope to compete with what knelt before him now. "I don't know what you're expecting, but I really am 'just a guy'."

"Not here. Not to me. Never, ever to me." Methos's fingers ghosted over Joe's fly. "Let me...?"

Joe nodded his assent. A moment later, a heartfelt groan was escaping his lips--just having Methos's hand on his zipper made his erection throb. His pants slid off, his underwear and legs following quickly after. Methos carefully propped up the prosthetics where Joe could reach them, then bent to kiss him thoroughly. Joe felt a light plucking at his chest and realized that his shirt buttons were being undone. The tantalizing mouth left his, and strong sword-callused hands slipped the shirt off his shoulders, leaving him naked. Joe shrugged out of his dangling shirtsleeves and closed his eyes, waiting for the moment of judgment.

But the judgment didn't come--or if it did, it wasn't the kind Joe was expecting. Methos's hands slipped over his body, taking obvious pleasure in the feel of his skin, and warm lips closed over his nipple. Joe opened his eyes and gasped. Somewhere along the line Methos had kicked off his boots, and the sight of him kneeling there...shirtless, barefoot, body clad only in the tight well-worn jeans as the dark head bent to nuzzle his chest...was one of the most erotic things Joe had ever witnessed. He clasped the bedspread on either side of him, helpless to resist the onslaught as Methos continued sucking on his nipples, completely at the mercy of the pleasure running through him. His breath started coming hard and fast.

Abruptly, the suckling ceased. Methos pushed away, chest swelling and sinking with the rapidity of his own breath. His face was flushed, beautiful, and the eyes that scanned Joe's body from head to knee were filled with wonder as well as lust. "Oh, Joe," he said, and seemed incapable of saying anything more.

Joe nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said. "Me too." Using his arms, Joe swung himself around on the bed. He pulled the duvet up over his stumps and patted the place beside him insistently. "Come here."

Methos moved so quickly that Joe wouldn't have been surprised to see a sword-wielding Hunter behind him. The old Immortal practically teleported to his side of the bed, jeans and boxers peeling away. Joe only got one glimpse of a very pale, very firm backside before Methos was under the covers with him, reaching out for him. Joe wanted badly to comply: he wanted roll right into those arms, to feel Methos’s skin against his own while they sought out deeper pleasures, but he hesitated. He knew that once he really got started touching the other man, he wouldn't be able to stop, and there was something he needed to be sure of first. "No, wait a moment," he said. "Methos. Nothing changes, right? Between us, I mean."

"Nothing, Joe." Methos, who had been about to embrace him, pulled back. He lay on his side and looked at Joe. "I'll still be as much of a pain in the ass tomorrow morning as ever, you know. This isn't about change. Just comfort." He thought for a moment. "And trust."

Trust. Hmmm. Joe hadn't thought about it much, but he did trust Methos. Probably more than any friend Joe had ever had, Methos could take him as he was, cherishing his good parts without either ignoring or obsessing about the bad. But the really strange thing was that Methos seemed to trust him in turn. "You really trust me, Methos? A Watcher?"

"Jo-oe." Methos sounded ever so slightly exasperated. "What do you think? You know how old I am. You know my name--my real one. You're in my bed. Do you know how many centuries it's been since all three of those things have been true at the same time?"

"More than one?"

"More like an even dozen."

Joe whistled softly. To be in hiding for so long, even from your lovers...that had to be a hurt so deep only another Immortal could truly understand. The loneliness of it staggered Joe. "I'm sorry," he said feelingly, and smiled crookedly. "If it helps, you know quite a few of my secrets, too."

"I know," Methos answered. "They're safe with me." He looked into Joe's eyes. "But if you make me wait any longer, I just might die of frustration, and it's no fun waiting around for an Immortal corpse to revive. Touch me, Joe. Please?"

Joe did. He rolled over, wrapping Methos in strong arms and covering the lean body with his own, and started to explore with his hands. Methos lazily thrust his hips into Joe's as Joe fondled and touched, making Joe's whole body come alight with heat and need. His excitement was kindled further by the soft sighs and groans Methos made. By the time he had progressed down Methos's torso to his abdomen, Joe was working hard to suppress his own sounds of enjoyment, or he would have been moaning just as frequently and loudly as Methos. He touched Methos's stomach, loving the steel he felt rippling under the smooth white skin, and then he slipped his hand down Methos's writhing hips to his erection.

The Immortal's back arched helplessly. "Oh! My."

Joe smiled. "Just 'oh my'?" he teased, stroking softly. "I thought I was doing better than that."

This time Methos practically levitated up off the bed. "Oh...my...*god*!" he exclaimed, and bit his lip when Joe squeezed the sensitive head under his foreskin. "Fuck! Yes, Joe. So good."

Joe felt an irrational surge of pride. To his knowledge, he had never heard Methos reduced to using incomplete sentences before. The fact that Joe had been the one to drive him to it was flattering, to say the least. It was also unbelievably erotic. Joe changed tactics, beginning a steady, rhythmic pump. "Good?"

Methos squeezed his eyes shut, dark lashes brushing his pale cheeks. His hips thrust helplessly into Joe's hands. "*Too* good. Oh, god, Joe. I'm not going to last...it's been too long..."

The breathless confession made Joe's excitement jump to an almost unmanageable level. "I won't be far behind," he said roughly. "Can you wait for me?"

"Yes. But only if you stop that...Christ!...this very second." Joe loosened his hold, and Methos slid out from under him, slippery as an eel. Before he had a chance to react, Methos was over him, assaulting his mouth and exploring his skin. And a hard cock was pressing into Joe’s hip.

It should have been frightening. Instead, the feeling was incredible. Methos's hands were like fire, making Joe burn wherever he was touched...and Methos touched him everywhere, even stroking Joe’s thighs and the scar tissue over his stumps before sliding back upward. Most of Joe's lovers had tended to ignore all the skin below his hips; it was a novel feeling to be touched there at all, let alone so erotically. Joe threw his head back against the pillow and felt his mouth open and close like a baby's as the pleasure arced through him, no sound escaping. Methos slid downward. Joe felt warm wet heat surround his own cock, and knew that Methos had taken him in his mouth.

Joe's senses went into overload. Methos sucked gently, and suddenly Joe was *there*, there on the very edge. Another few seconds and it would all be over. Fortunately, Methos pulled away just in time. "I said I could wait, Joe," he said, voice strained with need. "But it's got to be now. Let me..."

"Yes!"

The word came out in a breathless sigh of total acceptance. Joe wasn't sure just what exactly he'd agreed to, but he knew that he needed whatever it was just as much as Methos did. Methos settled between Joe's stumps as if he had always been meant to fit just there, his weeping cock rubbing up against Joe's own. The next thing Joe knew, Methos had his hand wrapped around both of them, bringing their erections together. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Heat--rigid hardness--slick, slick moisture--Methos thrust gently, somehow working it so that his cock slid in one long stroke along Joe's, and the sensation was too much for him. He heard Methos whisper urgently, "Now, Joe. Please. For me..." and Joe felt his body convulse, sticky wet heat suddenly flowing all over his abdomen while his entire body seemed to explode in a blinding flash. Methos cried his name and thrust urgently against him, lost in the pleasures of his own orgasm.

Joe collapsed into the bed, sweat covering every inch of his skin, all his strength gone. For a long time he felt nothing at all, too lost in the aftermath of the exquisite pleasure to so much as remember his own name. When he did come back, he felt weak and dazed, almost as if he'd been hit by a truck instead of an orgasm. He hadn't come that hard in much, much too long. Dimly he was aware of Methos climbing off him, leaving and coming back with a damp towel; he held still while Methos cleaned the semen from his skin, trying to get his raging heartbeat under control. "Joe?"

"Mmmm." Joe squinted his eyes to look at his erstwhile partner. The man was beautiful in his post-orgasmic glow, skin flushed, both fatigue and contentment clear in the softly drooping lines of his eyes and mouth. Joe reached out a hand and pulled Methos up beside him, trying to find a better phrase than just "mmmm", something that adequately described what he was feeling. He fell back on an oldie but goody. "Holy *shit*, Old Man!"

Methos understood him perfectly. "Me too," he said.

They were quiet for a few minutes, sharing the glow. Then Methos sighed and stretched out on the bed next to him, propping himself up on one arm. "Any regrets?"

Joe stared at him. Had he really heard him correctly? "Well, let's see," he said. "You take me into your home, treat me gently and well, make me happier than I've been in years, and give me one of the best orgasms of my life. Regrets? Yes, I think I'll regret this to my dying day." Methos grinned, seeming, if possible, to relax even further. Joe looked at him curiously. "Why? Do you?"

"No," Methos said, shaking his head. "This was...fantastic, Joe. Wonderful. Exactly what I was hoping for." He rolled back over onto his back, folding his arms behind his head and looking sheepish. "I just didn't fancy the thought of MacLeod coming after my head if I'd hurt you somehow. He's quite protective of you, you know."

Joe snorted. "Yeah, that would be one for the Chronicles, wouldn't it? 'Duncan MacLeod Challenges new Immortal Adam Pierson for seducing his aging Watcher.' The Paris office would never be the same."

Methos chuckled, a deeply happy sound. "Well, this time their disapproval might actually serve a useful purpose," he said, fanning his forehead and shaking his head woefully. "You really took it out of me, you know. You'd think that by now I would know better than to try to seduce younger men."

Joe glared at him, then barked his sudden laughter. "Yeah, that's what you get for robbing the cradle, all right," he said, and reached for Methos's shoulder. A boneless, wonderfully relaxed body settled over his, molding to his form rather like a warm human blanket. Joe kissed him sloppily--he didn't have enough energy to raise his head too far from the pillow--but Methos didn't seem to mind. "Thanks for asking, Methos."

"Thanks for saying yes, Joe."

***

Joe spent the night in Methos's bed, much too tired to make his way home. After a late breakfast, Methos drove him back to the bar, dropping him off a block or so away. When Joe walked in, the sudden silence told him that his entire staff had noticed that he was wearing the exact same clothes he'd worn the day before, but no one said a word. Later, two of his waitresses exchanged significant looks when they caught him grinning at a row of beer mugs, but they asked no questions. Joe went through the day feeling happy and light.

That evening when he was performing, Joe heard the front door open and shut. Wondering who was arriving halfway through a set, Joe looked out to see Methos, awkwardly edging his way to a back table. Joe nodded at him briefly and continued with his song, feeling warmed to the bone when the old Immortal's smile flashed, true and unrehearsed. Later, when he was between sets, Joe thought about sending over a beer free of charge, but he decided not to. That would be changing too much, messing about with their relationship's dynamics, and last night had not been about that. Joe returned to the stage, and his memories lent extra warmth to his songs as he thought about just what it *had* been about.

Comfort.

Friendship.

Trust.

Sometimes, just sometimes, those things were more than enough.

The End

Originally posted: 1/6/2004

Edited and re-posted: 3/10/2008