Rating: PG-13
Archive: Only if you really want it.
Summary: Sappy plot bunny inspired by that song "Austin" by Blake Shelton ::sigh::
Notes: This probably qualifies as a songfic, though you don't have to know the song to read the story (in fact, it's probably better if you don't). There are numerous quotes from the song scattered throughout, and the basic storyline is the same. Call it a re-interpretation of the song for HL slashers. ;)

This is a ficlet that helped me break out of writer's block earlier this summer. Really sorry about the fade-to-black end, but the Methos Muse shut up abruptly just then and won't continue. Evil Muse. Believe me, I wanted to know what happened next just as much as you do. :)

"We can't make this work!" Methos frowned at the maddening Scot hovering nervously beside him. "It's just..." he thought for a moment, "we aren't each other's type."

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod laughed. "And what do you think *is* my type?" he asked, placing a firm hand on Methos' suitcase to keep it from going anywhere.

Methos shrugged. "Lively, outgoing, vivacious people who don't drink beer and who do have breasts."

Duncan looked up, thinking back. "Well, then, must be time for a change. I wouldn't want to be predictable."

"Heaven forbid," Methos stated sarcastically. "No, Duncan MacLeod, it's been nice. I'll even say it's been good. But I wouldn't want you or me to get stuck in a rut, so I am outta here."

Yanking his suitcase out from under Duncan's hand, he moved toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Duncan's voice was just a little less than calm.

Methos turned in the doorway. "Back to Paris," he answered. And walked out.

It was about three months before Methos even tried to call Seacouver. And then he picked a time when Duncan MacLeod was sure to be out of the loft...early morning.

Three rings, and the answering machine connected to the upstairs loft picked up. Duncan's voice fairly flowed over the wires to Methos and, though he tried to replace the phone on the hook and walk away, he couldn't help but listen to the answering machine message.

"If you're calling about antiques, you found me. If you're trying to sell something, don't bother. If it's anyone else, you know what to do. I'll call back soon. And oh yes, if this is Paris, I still love you."

The telephone fell to the table with a dull thud and disconnected. Methos found himself staring out the window into a grey day, feeling totally lost and turned upside down. He had assumed MacLeod would move on, forget what had gone so right and wrong, find another love interest, and put Methos behind. Apparently, that hadn't happened.

Methos had left without any way for Duncan to get in contact with him. No phone numbers, no address, nothing. He had thought it would be better that way.

And so Duncan had taken this foolish step of broadcasting his love to all his friends -- all *their* friends, something inside Methos insisted -- had hoped and wished that Methos would call him, had believed that Methos would call one day....

"You've been outmaneuvered, old man," he said to himself. For there was no defense against simple, undemanding love.

And it was lonely in Paris without Duncan MacLeod.

Three days later he called again. The message he got was slightly different this time.

"I'm going up to an antique show this weekend; I'll be gone until Sunday. But I'll call you when I get back, Sunday evening. And oh yes, if this is Paris, I still love you."

Methos waited for the tone and left a number, quietly, and nothing more.

Duncan's heart was beating like a hammer as he dialed the number he'd gotten that afternoon on his answering machine, in what sounded like Methos' voice. Had his lover finally broken the silence of three months?

Duncan heard three rings and then:

"If you're calling about my heart, it's yours. I should have listened to it a little more. I've been a fool for leaving you."

There was a breath, almost a gasp, on the other end of the line, and Methos continued: "And by the way, this is not a machine. This is Paris, and I still love you."

For a moment their shallow breathing was all that could be heard over the line.

"Shall I come to you?" Duncan said finally.

"Yes," Methos whispered the word fiercely.

"I'll be on the next plane," Duncan said.

"I'll meet you at the barge," Methos replied.

Their clothes were half off before they even got into the barge, disheveled by kissing and touching, reassuring themselves that the other was real and wasn't going anywhere.

Just inside, Methos pulled Duncan down to the floor, but instead of the hardwood, Duncan met a pile of blankets.

"Thought we might need these," Methos said, pulling Duncan's shirt off.

Duncan paused, looking at Methos, who had laughter in his eyes. "You are impossible!" Duncan shook his head, laughing. "You do love me!"

"Yeah," Methos whispered just before Duncan's mouth covered his own. "I do."

(fade to the sound of ripping clothing and a yell of "Hey! That was my favorite sweater!")