Rating: PG-13
Archive; If you want to. :-)
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Disclaimer: The Methos Muse gets paid *quite* well for his services, thank you. But no one else makes anything off of this.
Summary: Post Till Death. Pre The Messenger. Why Methos went to Tibet.
Notes: I needed a reason. The Muse needed action. The Result is this.

Strange how time leads us down roads we never thought we could take. I've been down a thousand of them, made choices that, though I didn't know it, affected the course of history beyond any thought of mine.

And when you kissed me, I knew that was a turning point. We could either go on to become lovers, or go our separate ways, but we could not stay the way we were.

Part of me regretted it, I had enjoyed our friendship, our prolonged flirtation, our dance around each other, so careful not to upset the balance of beer-stealing and teasing.

After the wedding you made me interfere in that nearly cost me my head, you offered me yourself. As a sort of substitute prize, I suppose, since I'd given you back the barge. Whatever reason you dreamed up, it worked.

In any case, finding oneself sitting on the couch next to a dangerously relieved Highlander can be a frightening experience. I thought you were going to attack me.

Instead you kissed me.

Oh, I kissed back. A stone would kiss that mouth of yours back, if you did that thing with your tongue that very nearly left one five-thousand-year-old in a puddle on the couch.

After we broke apart, you were making noises that sounded suspiciously like maudlin sentiment, so I had to kiss you again to stop it. And from there, one thing led to another, and another, and yet another.

We were late for the wedding. Gina took one look at us, smiled devilishly, and whispered to her husband.

Did you feel like we were shooed out of the reception at a bit of an early hour? I did.

But I didn't really give a damn. I kind of wanted to figure out if you could try that thing with your tongue on a somewhat lower region.

Oh. Apparently you could. Apparently you could give lessons in L'art d'amour. Apparently you weren't for hire to anyone bar a certain man who says his name is Adam Pierson.

I liked it like that.

Liked it so much that I figured overexposure would ruin me. That, and your little tricks with the Watchers. Let's put it this way: for a guy who says he wants me around for a long time, you sure don't act like it sometimes.

But then again, neither do I.

Tibet, here I come.

MacLeod, honey, you just stay right there. And when next you walk into your home to find me lying on your bed, the first thing I expect is that kiss of yours. We'll take it from there.

END