Pairing: Methos/Duncan
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Please ask.
Warnings: Highlight to read. Spoiler alert! [This story contains the death of a main character. ]
Summary: What game are you playing, Methos?

****

The call was unexpected, but not unhoped for. Since Amanda had been killed, shortly after the last of the bombings, Methos was the only person left that Duncan wanted to hear from.

And in the post-apocalyptic world that was, Methos seemed like a possible fount of wisdom. Five thousand years and more, what had the man seen in his time? Surely a few cities destroyed could be very little in the grand scheme of things.

That early morning in his country home, Duncan was sitting on the porch, half watching the news, and half listening to the birds singing, when his phone rang.

Methos cut straight to the chase, as soon as the greetings were over. "Listen, Mac, I haven't seen you in far too long."

"It has been too long," Duncan agreed. "When shall I pick you up?"

Methos laughed into his ear. "So quick to play the host, MacLeod?"

"For you, yes," Duncan answered, smiling.

****

Their meeting was like an ancient plea coming back to life. Silent, in an airport, crowds pushing past them, their hands met once again, and fingers clung longer than was deemed absolutely polite.

It seemed like a dream, Duncan would have said, a gentle slow slide of Methos' hand into his, and the way his hair moved against Duncan's shoulder when he leaned forward into a quick embrace.

Methos had grown his hair out; it looked classically beautiful on him, a sweep of dark brown locks over shoulders, perfectly straight, no curls there. The ancient immortal glanced up with a smile after the hug.

"You still wear your hair short to remember Richie," were Methos' first words to him.

"Yes," Duncan sighed.

"I admire your devotion," Methos cast a soft, coy glance at Duncan, who saw Methos, suddenly, in a whole new light. The golden light that always had traveled about him seemed to intensify, and Methos became godlike, eyes starry radiant.

"How have you been?" Duncan asked the question so no one would wonder why he was staring at this man like the dying gaze into heaven.

Methos tilted his head. "Well." Another gentle glance into Duncan's eyes. "And you?"

"All right," Duncan answered, grabbing for Methos' bag. "Is this all you have?"

Methos kept hold of the bag. "Yes, that's all," he said. "Let's go home."

Duncan made another grab for the bag, and Methos let him have one of the handles, rolling his eyes with a sarcastic sigh.

They walked out together.

****

Methos paused, for the first time, at the door of Duncan's home. "Isn't this where you ask me in, Mac?" he said, softly smiling.

Duncan turned, and the light in his eyes must have been obvious. "Come in, Methos," was all he said. "Make yourself at home."

Methos' laughter was somewhat subdued. "Don't I always?" he said, suiting the action to the word and throwing his bags on the couch.

Methos was different, in a way that couldn’t be pinned down to merely the passing of a hundred years, Duncan thought.

"Have you changed your name recently?" Duncan asked. Methos glanced up from his contemplation of the couch, and stepped forward, smiling.

"Yes," he said. "Who I am, well, you'll find out later."

"Why is that?" Duncan asked. "Are you in the Secret Service or something?"

Methos only raised an eyebrow. "That remains to be seen," he said. He stalked over to the refrigerator, purpose in his eyes. "They have awful beer in China," he declared to no one in particular, and pulled out a bottle, raising it to MacLeod in a mock toast.

*****

The last hundred years had been the hardest Duncan had ever seen. Connor's and Richie's deaths began the century, a girl he had loved had been killed in the bombing of New York, and Amanda had gotten herself beheaded in Paris three years ago, exactly how Duncan never found out. Methos was the only one Duncan cared about that was still alive, the only constant.

"The survivor," Duncan whispered. "Not the strongest, or the quickest, but the foxhole warrior, the sneakiest."

Said survivor was sprawled out on the couch across the room, alternately dozing and reading, an empty beer bottle beside him, while Duncan cooked a quick dinner.

His country home was actually very simple. It only contained two rooms and a bathroom, one large living room with a kitchen at one end and a foldout couch at the other, and a small bedroom with a big bed.

"At least the couch becomes a bed," Methos had laughed when Duncan told him about it, in the car on the way home. "I've slept in far worse, trust me, even recently."

At that, Duncan had glanced over at Methos, noting the strains of weariness in his face, and promising himself to make Methos rest for a while. What had the man been doing to get so tired?

"Flew from China last night," Methos had said, as though answering the thought.

That's not it, Duncan thought to himself. Not enough to get him that exhausted.

He walked over to the sleeping Methos, and took him by the shoulder, gently. Methos jumped up, hand making a move toward his sword, then saw it was only Duncan and let his hand fall.

"Don't do that, Mac," he growled, suddenly primal. "I could have killed you."

Duncan backed up, spreading his hands, helplessly. "Dinner's ready," he said.

*****

After dinner, Duncan asked if Methos would like to see the rest of the property. Methos smiled and assented. They walked out into the twilight, and Duncan pointed out the small stream, rushing swift along a small canyon next to the house. They climbed down the canyon, clutching at a rope rigged to two trees, the wind blowing Methos' hair about his face, making him look even younger than he already did.

At the bottom, Methos drew a hand along the edge of the canyon cliff, and picked out a small rock. He handed it to Duncan, quietly.
"A fossil," Duncan said. "Do you know what kind?"

Methos shrugged. "No, just a old shellfish." He smiled, wryly. "So you can remember who's with you here. That thing is older than I am."

Duncan raised his eyebrows. "You sure about that?"

Methos spluttered, pushing at Duncan's shoulder. "Of course, infant," he laughed.

And in the deepening twilight, amid their laughter, Duncan felt he could be comfortable, just being with Methos, until the end of time.

****
They were deep in the country, in an old house Duncan had bought thirty years earlier. Not many houses still remained this far in the country, for either they had been sold to companies and eventually assimilated into the city, or they had been abandoned by their owners and left to fall to pieces.

A short while after the general flight to the cities, what was spoken of now as "the apocalypse" had broken out, and several of the major cities had gone up in one giant burst of flame. Los Angeles was gone, New York destroyed, Seattle exploded into small pieces in the ocean -- and that was just in the United States. The world had duked it out with nuclear weaponry and settled at last to a mere whimper of what it once had been. It had been a horrible time, for no Immortal knew where it was safe to be.

Duncan remembered his own fears during that time, frantically trying to reach his friends, not finding many of them, finding that others were dead. Amanda was the only one who had joined him, flying from her latest profession, which had turned terrifying -- international spy.

Together they had left Paris for good, striking deep into Russia to hide. After the cease-fire was declared, though, they, having grown good and tired of each other, had gone separate ways.

And Duncan returned to the United States and bought a small home in hill country.

People who could were desperate to get back into the relative safety of the deep countryside, but that option was only available to those who were wealthy. Duncan had been one of them.

At last the world had trickled down to peace again, and Duncan had discovered that there were no more Watchers existing as a group. They had been scattered in the wake of the bombings and could not be located.

Perhaps Methos had been involved in trying to find them, Duncan thought the next morning after Methos arrived, after breakfast. Almost he had turned to ask, but hesitated. Methos had been gentle, too careful, with him, making sure Duncan was as happy as possible.

He volunteers information only when he feels like it, Duncan thought. I can at least be courteous enough not to ask.

Methos looked happy, as though it was the first time in years, Duncan reflected. He sat in the sunshine, book lying neglected in his lap, staring off at the growing trees and the grassy meadow, intercut by the stream and its waterfall that thundered down into the canyon, and the forest beyond. He looked beautiful, ethereal, not of earth. A golden radiance, more than sunshine, seemed to float about him.

Methos looked up, catching Duncan's eyes, and smiled, open, wanton, bright.

Duncan went down the steps to him, feeling the tug of an irresistible impulse, knowing his desires were shared and returned, without even having to say it. Methos took his hand and drew the Highlander down next to him in the soft grass.

"I love you, you know," Methos whispered, and tossed the book away, pulling Duncan into his arms. And Duncan could not help but be swept away by the fierceness of Methos' passion.

"I really do," Methos said. Was that a sob in his voice?

And then Methos was kissing him, and it was so good, so perfect. "Over five thousand years of training for this," a small voice seemed to whisper in the back of Duncan's mind. He ignored the cynicism of his own brain, and lingered in Methos' mouth instead, dwelling on the taste of his lover, the warmth of his body, the surging heat against his thigh.

So right. They tumbled backward onto the grass, embracing with a fierceness Duncan had known could be inside Methos, but had touched so rarely. Methos' hair tumbled across his shoulders, wildly, and Duncan ran gentle fingers through it, breathing hard.

"I don't know who or what you are, Methos, but you have bewitched me," Duncan sighed.

Methos smiled, an odd maddening kind of smile. "Good," he said, and reached for Duncan's hand. "Let's take this inside. I don't know how many neighbors you have, but I'd rather not have an audience."

Duncan got to his feet, with difficulty, taking Methos' hand into his own. "If I can walk," he said. "God, Methos, what are you doing to me?"

Methos smiled that smile again. "Just think, I've only begun!"

****

Inside, Duncan was quick to take the lead, pulling Methos into the small bedroom, and tumbling him onto the bed. Methos laughed, delightedly, and yanked on Duncan's hand, pulling him down onto the bed also, and into more of those ravishing kisses.

Duncan found himself unable to keep his hands out of Methos' hair, running his fingers through it and twining it around his hands, until Methos pulled away.

"Clothes -- lose 'em or lose 'em," he joked, pulling off his shirt. Duncan complied, as hastily as possible, watching Methos strip and throw his own clothing across the room.

They were both laughing when their clothes had all been thrown over the floor, and socks tossed at each other, playfully, in a mock fight. Methos stepped out of his boxers, hastily, almost before Duncan was ready, and launched himself at the Highlander, wrapping himself around the slightly taller man with a laugh.

"Marry me!" Methos joked, mouth moving against Duncan's nipple.

And Duncan drew Methos down with him onto the bed, looking at the laughing, radiant Immortal with something akin to wonder in his eyes.

"You never cease to amaze me," Duncan said.

A strange wild look came into Methos' eyes. "I hope I never do," he said. Then laughed again. "Shut up and kiss me, my Highland child."

And Duncan did.

They fell into an easy slide of give and take, kissing each other, discovering the special places that made bodies thrust and erections come alive. When Duncan licked a slow trail down Methos' neck, Methos shuddered hard against him, and when Methos traced a line down Duncan's spine, Duncan gasped into Methos' mouth.

Methos pulled away at last, just before the point of no return. "I damn well hope, Highlander," he said fiercely, "that you have something resembling lube, because I really want you" -- he grasped Duncan's cock and placed it poised at his entrance -- "right here."

"Yes," Duncan gasped, almost undone by the touch of Methos' hand on him. "Yes." And he reached over to the bedside table, opened the small drawer, and drew out a small bottle of hand lotion. "Should work."

Methos nodded, letting go of Duncan's cock and drawing up his legs.

"Don't you want to be facedown?" Duncan asked, lotion-covered fingers moving to just below Methos' erection.

"Nah, I want to see you," Methos answered, pushing Duncan's hand downward to tease at his entrance. Together they stretched the small hole, their fingers moving in sync, Methos gasping at the sensations.

Fingers tangling around each other, they drew back out of Methos' body as Methos finally exclaimed "Enough!" Duncan gently replaced their fingers with his cock, and Methos groaned faintly as Duncan pushed inside.

"It's been a long time," he said in answer to the questioning look Duncan gave him.

"Good," Duncan whispered.

And they eschewed talk for more worthy pursuits, feeling their bodies joined together, Duncan deep inside of Methos, holding on with sweat and love and passion.

When orgasm finally hit, it was like the double Quickening -- that was all Duncan could compare it to. Methos' groans were loud in the room, mixed with Duncan's faint whimpers of pleasure. And they were joined now as they had been joined then, only this time both willingly, both in love...Duncan fell over the edge of ecstasy, feeling Methos' body clench around him in his own orgasm.

And in the total silence that followed, Duncan heard an almost-suppressed sound. A broken sob from Methos.

****

Another night, another few days, Duncan and Methos never talked about themselves, just completely absorbed in the wonder of loving each other. Duncan watched as Methos grew gentle and silent and still, except when they made love. Then he became impassioned, pleading, sometimes laughing, but always with a fierce undertone of something indefinable.

"Promise me you'll always love me!" Methos said once as they embraced. "No matter what happens, promise!"

"I promise," Duncan had said gently, and pushed away from Methos slightly to look in his eyes. But there was nothing there, no passion, no love, no hate, no fear. No peace.

The thought was chilling.

Near the end of their tenth day together, Methos coaxed Duncan into taking a walk across the meadow into the forest with him. Duncan looked at the clouds and pondered the wisdom of such a course, but Methos could be...persuasive.

They buckled on swords, put on coats, and headed across the meadow, wandering casually, slowly, talking of nothing. When they reached the forest, it seemed as though they were entering another world, dark trees covering the earth, ancient, some of them partly burnt.

"We are older than most of these," Duncan whispered, mostly to break the silence.

"Or all of them, in my case," Methos whispered back.

The sun was setting behind them, casting long shadows of trees in front of them, throwing entire sections of the forest into shadow. At last they reached a small open glade with a large flat rock on the edge of it. They sat down together, Methos reaching for Duncan's hand, and watched the lights fade across the dying sky.

"I've been many things over the past thousands of years," Methos said. "I'm content to be yours, for the moments that we both have."

Duncan leaned over to kiss him. "And I yours," he whispered.

Methos turned away after a brief kiss.

"Do you know why we are here? The larger purpose behind it? I didn't just come here to seduce you, you know," Methos said, staring up at the sky, throat exposed.

"You didn't?" Duncan turned to Methos, shaking his head with a smile.

"We are the last Immortals," Methos said then, far too casually, looking into Duncan's eyes. "I've come to kill you, or die."

They were still holding hands. Duncan held Methos' tighter. "I wasn't sure whether we were the last or not, but we don't have to fight," he said.

Methos jerked his hand away and stood up. "Yes, we do!" he said. "The Game, MacLeod? The Prize? Don't you want it?"

Duncan stood up too, swallowing tightly. "You're all the Prize I could ever want," he sighed.

Methos shook his head. "What about me? I may not want you forever!" he said. "We'll get tired of each other, fight over something silly and end up one of us taking the other's head anyway! Better to do it while we still love each other."

Duncan could see the wisdom of this, but stood still. "I can't do this," he said.

"Oh yes you can," Methos said. "Here, I'll help you!" And he rushed at Duncan, sword coming out of nowhere. With the reflexes of five hundred years training, Duncan's sword came out too, blocking the blow.

After that the fight was fast and furious in the dying sunlight, parry and reposite flying faster than mortal eye could see over the dank ground.

"Think of it this way, Mac-love," Methos panted out once, standing on the rock above Duncan. "Either way this goes, we'll be together forever."

Then he had lunged back down, giving Duncan no chance to reply.

Duncan was the better swordsman, either that, or Methos was losing deliberately. As the light slowly faded into night and the stars came out, they fought on, waging a battle of wills more than of swords.

Animals stayed far away from the glade that night. The fight of Duncan and Methos was like the clash of Titans in the beginning of the world, like angels warring. In the nearby town, people wondered if there was a fire in the forest, for their swords rang so hard against each other that they sent up sparks.

"I haven't fought like this since Kronos defeated me for the first time," Methos gasped out, pale, sweating, clothing wet.

Duncan wasn't in much better shape. Long ago he had stopped trying to talk. It must have been only Methos' iron-hard endurance that kept him going, for Methos was not the more skilled of the two.

The night wore on, slow, pale, sad. Sometimes they fought fast and hard and furious, other times it seemed they were moving in slow motion.

Long ago they had forgotten the deliberate provocation for the fight and merely fought on because they could not stop.

When dawn began to touch the sky, Methos grew progressively slower and weaker, almost as the sun rose. At last Duncan caught him with a backhanded motion, ripping the sword out of helpless fingers.

Methos knelt, baring his neck to the blade, staring helplessly up into the Highlander's eyes. "You are the One," he whispered. "I love you."

Duncan could not stop to think or breathe. He was entangled in his lover's gaze, hopelessly mesmerized.

"Do it," Methos urged, almost in the same tone he used when begging Duncan to take him.

Duncan nodded, laying the blade against the tender flesh of Methos' throat. As if giving in to an irresistible impulse, he bent for the last time and took Methos' mouth with his own, kissing him with a desperate last passion.

Methos sprang. Twisted on his heels, grabbed the sword. In an instant their positions were reversed, Duncan on his knees, Methos above him.

A litany of grief and world-worn words spun through Duncan's mind -- "used, betrayed, faded, destroyed, lost," and he bent his head, exposing his throat, much like Methos had just done. "Are you my betrayer, then, or did you really love me?" he asked.

"I am Death," Methos said, breath catching in his throat, and swung the blade, silver steel flashing in the early morning sun. The last thing Duncan saw was the soft shimmer of the sunlight on the leaves.

END

"One of the great strengths of Methos is that it would still bear reading that every single thing he has ever done has been a manipulation to get Duncan into a position where he can kill him." -- Peter Wingfield, in Highlander: The Complete Watcher's Guide, page 108.