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Methos used to invade his life like the tide, arriving inevitably and occupying everything in sight with his boots and bags and pointless anecdotes. He'd stay for a time and then go away, leaving behind some small detritus of life in beer bottle caps, piles of cheap novels, and rock CDs hidden underneath a stack of Duncan's opera music. That was how their friendship worked. Methos seemed satisfied with it, and Duncan didn't mind, except when he'd search his wardrobe for a certain sweater only to recall that the last time he'd seen it, Methos had been wearing it. On his way to the airport.
Then times changed, and Methos stopped coming to visit. Perhaps he was unsure of his welcome, or perhaps he knew that Duncan hadn't really been emotionally equipped to handle guests the last few years. Whatever the reason, Duncan had appreciated the space. But it turned out that he didn't need it anymore, and Methos' continued absence only brought Duncan's attention to how few good friends he had left. Duncan only had the address of Methos' last house and a now defunct e-mail account to work with, so he went to Joe.
"I talked to him on the phone last month," Joe said, ambling toward his back office, leaning a little heavier on his cane than he used to. His hair was almost all silver now. "Said he's taken up investment banking. Livin' large. Of course," Joe said turning around and extending a folded slip of paper, "I trust the old bastard about as far as I can throw him."
"Thanks, Joe," Duncan said.
"Don't mention it," Joe said, waving him off. "And I mean that. If he finds out it's me who told you where he's living, he'll stop sending me those cute little change of address cards." At Duncan's look, Joe explained, "His idea of a joke. He's his own Watcher, see."
Methos had a rather posh flat in London, a far cry from his days as Adam Pierson, lowly researcher. Duncan got into the building by smiling charmingly at a young woman struggling with several large packages, and courteously holding open the door for her. It was easy when he dressed well and acted as if he had every right to be there. He steeled himself in the elevator. When he stepped into the hallway, an Immortal presence washed over him, and he took a deep breath. There was no turning back now. It was better than a doorbell.
He stood waiting, knocking after a moment. The door opened slowly, Methos standing with one arm out of sight.
"Hello," he said, looking surprised.
"Hi," Duncan said. "You can put the sword away. Pretty sure I'm not gonna kill you."
Methos narrowed his eyes but set the sword aside with a small clank, letting the door swing wide. "What information do you seek today, MacLeod?" Methos looked good, wearing a soft sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of dark jeans.
Duncan felt slightly overdressed. "Information?"
"Well, I assume that's why you came to see me," Methos said, eyeing him calmly.
It was a fair point, and Duncan nodded in acknowledgement. The fact that he only came to visit when he needed something was unpleasant but no less true, at least in recent years. It hadn't been a good time to be a friend to anyone but Connor.
"There is something I'd like to know, actually," Duncan said finally.
"Oh, I'm all ears," Methos promised, and crossed his arms.
"How've you been lately?"
Methos stared at him for a moment, a small smile spreading over his face as Duncan's words registered. "I've been keeping busy."
"Yeah?" Duncan said. "I'd like to hear more. Are you going to invite me in?"
Methos stepped away from the door. "You're not a vampire, and you know you're always welcome."
"Am I?" he asked. He came inside and shrugged out of his jacket.
Methos hung it on the coat rack next to his own, his broadsword propped at the base. "Come on. I'll cook you dinner."
Duncan followed him down the hallway. "Don't tell me: it's an ancient recipe."
Methos glanced over his shoulder. "I was thinking maybe chicken marsala, but if you'd rather I fix turnips stewed in blood, I'd be more than happy to oblige. No? Lamb's womb stuffed with sausage, perhaps?"
"Let's not and say we did," Duncan suggested.
"Yes, but who on Earth would we tell?" Methos asked.
"You could tell Joe."
Methos took two wineglasses from a cupboard. "You know, it has been a while since I've had the occasion to tell Joe an outrageous lie."
"I'm sure he'd be happy to hear from you," Duncan said.
"Hint, hint? I suppose I do have to thank him properly for sending you. Maybe I'll ship him a case of blended whisky." Methos retrieved a corkscrew from a drawer next to the sink and opened a bottle of wine already sitting on the sideboard.
"Is that for us?" Duncan asked, raising his eyebrows when he saw the label. It wasn't like Methos to choose a dessert wine.
"Good lord, no," Methos said. "This is for the meat. Let me get something less fortified from the cellar."
Duncan poked around the kitchen while waiting for Methos to return. He peeked in the cupboards, looked in the well-stocked refrigerator, and cast an envious glance at a rather costly set of chef's knives. It was a nice kitchen; lived in.
"Here we are," Methos said, holding several bottles of wine in his arms. "These are much less likely to kill us."
"Well, if it does kill us, we're much more likely to die happy," Duncan said, looking at the labels with flattered approval.
"Sit," Methos said, opening the wine and pouring him a glass. He turned back to the stove, pulling out a frying pan. "How's Kate?"
Duncan sat on a stool at the kitchen island and sipped at his wine, watching Methos at work in the kitchen. "You know, I don't think I've actually seen you cook before."
"Avoiding the question, right," Methos said. "Won't bring her up again."
"No, it's not that. It's just..." Duncan trailed off. He fiddled with the stem of his glass.
"Take your time," Methos said. He had flour dust along one cheek. "It looks like I've got all night."
Duncan remained silent a long time, listening to the hiss of oil in the frying pan as Methos browned the chicken. "People change."
"Read that in a fortune cookie, did you?" Methos asked, adding the wine and chicken stock.
Duncan rolled his eyes at Methos' back. "It's been centuries, Methos. People change, and maybe we never had all that much in common in the first place. We're no Robert and Gina de Valicourt."
He and Kate were friends now, or at least friendly, and she didn't hate him; it was enough.
"God forbid," Methos said. "I mean, do you really want me sending you an anniversary present every hundred years? Eventually I'd have to get creative."
Duncan smiled at his glass. "We can't have that, can we?"
They were silent after that, the comfortable silence of a warm kitchen, a fine wine and a good friend to drink it with, and the rich smell of food simmering on the stove. It wasn't long until Methos was dishing up dinner and handing him the plate with a flourish.
"No garnish?" Duncan asked.
"You're lucky it isn't poisoned," Methos said casually, leading him into the living room.
"Oh, good," Duncan said. "Poison isn't exactly my favorite way to die."
"Besides, I'd never get the stains out of the couch." Methos put his plate down on the coffee table and went back for the wine bottle. Duncan settled on the leather couch, and took a cautious bite of food.
"It's good," he exclaimed when Methos sat down next to him.
"You don't have to sound so surprised, MacLeod," Methos said.
"You realize, of course, now that I know you can cook, I'll be paying you back for all the times you've imposed on me." Duncan found himself actually looking forward it. He wondered how Methos felt about waking up to Aida at five o'clock in the morning.
"Somehow I think I'll survive," Methos said. He smiled and swirled a bite of chicken in the sauce on his plate. It was hardly a 'let the games begin', but Duncan trusted that Methos knew what he was getting himself into, and probably would call a moving company the moment Duncan left his flat.
It wouldn't be any fun if Methos made it easy.
"How have you been?" Duncan asked when he cleaned his plate. Methos laughed and poured himself another glass of wine. "I'm serious, Methos."
"Fine. Things have been quiet," Methos said. He stacked his empty plate on top of Duncan's. "Believe it or not, my life doesn't have much drama when you're not around."
"I hear you've got a new job."
"Mm," Methos said. The sound resonated in his wine glass. "I got tired of living on Adam Pierson's paycheck. What about you?"
Duncan thought it over, and came up with, "Better."
"I'm glad to hear it," Methos told him. He nudged Duncan's shoulder. "And speaking of hints, you should call Amanda. She's been driving me nuts asking after you."
Duncan smiled to himself. He knew how she worried; if she really thought he needed her, she'd be on his doorstep in the morning with more luggage than a Crown Prince's entourage.
"I'll do that. So. Seeing anybody?" Duncan asked, going for artless and coming up short. He hadn't seen any evidence of a girlfriend, but then again, he hadn't been in the bedroom.
Methos eyed him closely. "Not at the moment. Why do you ask?"
Duncan snatched at his glass. "I'm just trying to make conversation."
"Well, you're failing miserably," Methos observed. "Out of the habit?"
Duncan scowled at him. "You're not making this any easier."
Methos pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why did you come here, Duncan?"
"Because you're my friend," he said. Duncan was enjoying the quiet life now, but it was far too quiet without his friends.
Methos nodded, clearly unconvinced. "Are you going to tell me why you're here, or are you going to make me guess?"
If Methos needed more of a gesture, he'd give him one. Duncan sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees and keeping his voice low. "There are very few people left in this world who I can come home to."
"Home?" Methos blinked.
Duncan smiled at his reaction. "You have to take me in, don't you?"
"No, I don't have to," Methos said slowly, meeting Duncan's eyes. "But I always will."
He didn't know if it was the wine heating his face, or just high emotion. He always felt things strongly around Methos. Probably why everything blew up spectacularly whenever they butted heads.
"I'm glad to hear that," Duncan said, staring back, his voice thick. "I missed you."
Methos blinked, once fast, and then again, slowly. Duncan felt his heart beating in his throat. He watched Methos breathe, watched the sharp lines of his face, looking for something. Acceptance? Forgiveness? Reciprocation? Duncan couldn't put a name to what he wanted to see.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Methos said, dropping his glass on the table and climbing onto Duncan's lap. Duncan didn't move, surprised but savoring the touch and weight of his body. Methos cupped his face and kissed him, his mouth warm and wet, and flavored with old wine. It was lazy, a slow hello and a glad to see you; it was exactly what Duncan had been craving, even though he hadn't known it. Methos kissed him until Duncan forgot to ask "What was that for?" and just kissed him back.
"Now," Methos said, panting, his mouth red. "Tell me you didn't want that."
"Why would I wanna do that?" Duncan asked, twisting to pin Methos underneath him on the couch.
Methos looked up at him, his expression cautious. "I was expecting more resistance."
Duncan wanted or he didn't; it wasn't something he could make happen, or stop on a whim. The only thing he could control was whether he acted on it or not, and he'd already decided to act on this want at least three kisses ago. Duncan slid his hands inside Methos' soft, soft sweater, and grinned. "You should have more faith in your mouth."
Duncan kissed his lips, the point of his jaw, and sloppily kissed his neck. Methos arched underneath him, and so Duncan bit and licked a half-circle around Methos' throat. Methos groaned like he was taking a Quickening, his hands pulling at Duncan's shirt and his long legs spread wide. He smelled good and he felt good, and Duncan had every intention of enjoying him. Right now.
"I have a bed," Methos gasped.
Duncan eyed him hungrily. "This is just an appetizer. The bed's for the main course."
"It's a good bed," Methos said, his eyes gleaming as he unbuttoned Duncan's shirt. "Very sturdy."
"Good. We'll need it," Duncan told him. He pushed Methos' sweater up as far as it would go, scratching his fingernails over Methos' stomach before getting his jeans open. Methos squirmed beneath him, pushing his jeans and boxers down his thighs. Duncan tossed his belt on the floor, and did the same with his slacks and briefs. He touched Methos' bare, warm skin with his own, and hissed. It was bliss; skin against skin.
Duncan wrapped his hand around Methos' cock and stroked. Methos flushed and his mouth dropped open, and so Duncan did it again and again. He was warm and firm and alive, and Duncan loved doing this, loved making Methos look wrecked like this, loved the feel of Methos' hands touching him. Duncan kissed and stroked and played with Methos' body until he came with a fleeting grimace.
"Sit up," Methos said, still breathing heavily, sweat darkening the hair at his temples. Duncan sat up, and Methos slid bonelessly to the floor. He used his strength to shove at Duncan until he was sitting almost sideways on the couch, and then curled over his lap and sucked him down. Duncan made a guttural noise of pleasure. He clamped one hand on Methos' shoulder and the other on the back of the couch.
A tight, wet, steady suck. Methos stroked with his hand as he pulled up to rub his tongue under the head of Duncan's cock. It made him groan and thrust his hips, and Methos let him, moving with it. Duncan thrust again and Methos hummed something that sounded like approval. Duncan was a fast learner, and Methos could take care of himself, so Duncan shoved his cock into Methos' mouth and watched him take it with ease.
"I love fucking your mouth," Duncan murmured. He rubbed his thumb on Methos' neck. Methos looked at him from under his eyelashes, and winked. He had a moment to wonder what he'd just gotten himself into, but then Methos drove Duncan mindless with his mouth and his fingers. Duncan closed his eyes and came, blood rushing in his ears. When he opened his eyes again, Methos was still kneeling on the floor and looking pleased with himself. Duncan pulled him back on the couch and held him, and Methos didn't struggle. After a moment, Methos reached out for his wine glass and drank what was left.
Methos propped his head on his hand, elbow digging into the couch cushion. His mouth was red, hair mussed. "I thought we'd never..."
"Never's a long time," Duncan said, even though he hadn't really planned on it either.
"And you're really quite incredibly stubborn," Methos said.
Duncan closed his eyes and smiled. "Are you the kettle or the pot?"
"What I am is old enough to know better," Methos said, the cushions shifting as he climbed off the couch. His fingers were warm on Duncan's neck. "Now stop looking so smug and come to bed."
"I don't think I can do that," Duncan said, opening his eyes.
A startled look passed over Methos' face, lasting the blink of an eye. "What?"
Duncan stood, still smiling. "'Stop looking so smug.' I'm feeling pretty smug right now. I guess you'll just have to deal with it. Where's that bed you were talking about?"
Methos' eyes were narrowed and gleaming, as if Duncan had just painted his nose. He gestured down the hallway. "Second door on the left."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Duncan asked.