Disclaimer: Davis, Panzer and Rysher are the lucky ones. I just like to play with other people's stuff. Believe me, I'm not ripping anyone off and no copyright infringement is intended.Thanks Dail and Anne for your usual candid comments and beta read. This is the FINAL segment of the Paradise arc. You didn't need to read the first one to understand the second one, but at this stage of the game, I strongly suggest you read the others first. They may be found on my HL fiction page at:
The whole logistics of this arc will probably be blown totally out of the water when we see the next Methos episode, but this is my own little universe, indulging in wish fulfillment, so just go with the flow and enjoy! Adult header due to homoerotic content (D/M).
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"United Flight 906 to Newark with connection to Paris now boarding at Terminal A," the robotic voice purred over the loud speaker, interrupting Methos' thoughts. He threw the backpack across his shoulders with one hand and gathered the olive drab duffel bag with the other. He still wasn't quite sure why he was making this insane trip back across the ocean to an uncertain welcome.
On top of everything, the only seat left was in Coach. Just when he was able to spend the money he'd been hoarding and act like Methos instead of Adam Pierson, piss-ant grad student, he gets screwed out of first class. No, he was not in a particularly good mood. Add to all that his lack of sleep and the teeniest hangover (it even takes immortals awhile to get over a whole bottle of tequila and a six pack of beer) and one could almost feel sorry for the person(s) sharing his row of seats.
Most everyone else had boarded when he entered the plane so Methos had quite a time trying to find a place to stash his duffel bag. The backpack could easily go under the seat ahead of him, although that would cut down on the already inadequate leg room. He finally found an empty bin about four rows back from his seat which would hold both bags, allowing him to stretch out as much as possible in a sardine can driven by engines.
He was seated next to an eight-year old with a toy plane who was making sure everyone on board knew that he'd flown before. Calling on centuries of discipline, Methos closed his eyes and blocked out the obnoxious noise the best he could. He needed to think about other things right now.
He hadn't told MacLeod he was returning to Paris, of course. Hell, he'd only decided himself two minutes before buying the ticket. He wasn't even sure how long he would be there before he looked him up. He still needed to sort out his feelings about what he saw as a betrayal of friendship. He cared deeply for the other man, it was true, but he was also hurt beyond imagining. Suddenly he had severe doubts about the wisdom of this flight. Whatever had possessed him? He'd let sentimentality and memories blind him to the foolish act he was about to commit. Methos grimaced as the unruly child bumped his arm with the toy plane while making irritating vroom vroom noises. His hand itched to grab his sword and scare the shit out of the little brat.
Methos played over their parting once more in his mind like a much loved movie. He'd memorized the look of those deep brown eyes, the set of the mouth...full of disapproval and judgment. But there had been something else...he was sure of it. Before he'd walked away he thought there had been a flicker of hope in the Highlander's eyes. He'd been as surprised as Cassandra when Duncan had yelled at her not to kill him. Methos had closed his eyes and bowed his head in preparation for the expected blow... a blow that never came. Instead there was MacLeod, across the room, preventing the witch from taking his head. It conflicted with the mood of their last meeting, yet somehow, after mulling it over, seemed perfectly in step with MacLeod's personality. Was Methos his next pity case? Was he now out to reform the former Horseman who'd admitted to murder, mass destruction and worse? Gods, he hoped not. He didn't want to be reformed. He just wanted to be accepted.
Tiring of those maudlin thoughts, Methos turned them towards happier times. He much preferred remembering how it had been between them before the return of Kronos. He'd sidestepped that little issue nicely in his mind, a part of him chided. He pushed it away again to deal with later. He didn't need *that* right now. Instead he recalled his and MacLeod's short weeks together. He'd waited years to be able to share the man's bed ...to be a part of his life...and how ironic that once having achieved his goal, he'd had mere days to fully savor that which he'd so patiently and longingly worked for. He accepted that the four weeks they'd been lovers might be all he would have to last him another 5000 years. It didn't make it less painful, however.
As he'd spent the night before cursing the Highlander for his quick judgments, so he seemed to be spending today creeping ever closer to a reconciliation of those actions... and for what? Maybe if he could rationalize why his friend and lover had turned against him so easily it would make facing him a little less painful. He wasn't sure, but for the moment he'd let himself believe everything would be okay and part of that belief was pushing away those angry thoughts of a few hours ago and focusing on the way it would have been...the way it should have been.
Methos drifted to a place he rarely allowed himself to go. Most of the time he was too pragmatic and logical. That's how he'd managed to live this long. Emotions and wishes for happy endings had no place in the race for survival. But under the right circumstances, with the right inducements, he would visit that part of his mind which allowed him to believe he could be like everyone else. Share a life and love with the person he desired, without the complications of immortality, the Game, or judgments without mercy.
He'd planned for them to go to the South Pacific before long. It was to be a surprise. As a matter of fact, they would have been there right now. A time when they could forget who was watching and taking note, who was lurking around the next corner with a sword. It was going to be his surprise to Duncan and he'd practically made all the arrangements when Kronos and Cassandra had waltzed onto the scene and back into his life. Angrily he pushed those thoughts away and returned to his vision by the ocean.
Methos felt the waves lapping at their feet as they walked along the beach in companionable silence, neither touching nor speaking. The sun was setting on the horizon and the only sounds were those of the birds and the sea. He wanted to show Duncan where he'd lived for a short time during one of his 'disappearing' acts...share some part of his past that he had no need to hide. He looked up into the face he loved so. Oh yes, he loved MacLeod. Of that he was certain. The breeze ruffled the long dark waves of Duncan's hair and the creases around his eyes deepened as he squinted into the orange ball just starting to dip below the water line.
They were alone and it was perfect. Both men stopped by silent mutual consent and sat on a large piece of drift that had been washed above the tide. Methos had his loose cotton pant legs rolled to just below the knee and Duncan was in those running shorts that always turned him on. Neither wore a shirt, for what use was such superfluous clothing in this place?
Shadows lengthened and they talked in low tones of inconsequential things. What they'd do tomorrow. The fish they'd caught today. When the supply boat would be in next week. The subject was irrelevant. All that mattered was that they were together. Methos lifted his hand to rest on MacLeod's shoulder. He felt the clammy skin from sea water, sweat and sun, but it didn't bother him. The smoothness was marred slightly by the ripple of muscle jerking instinctively under his touch. Here, away from civilization and the worries which accompany his world, Duncan MacLeod was able to relax and be a partner to Methos as he longed to be. Impulsively he leaned over to kiss the older man on his parted lips, somewhat dry and chapped from the wind and sun. Duncan licked the sea spray from both top and bottom before closing his own mouth over his lover's. Methos needed no further encouragement. His other arm raised to encircle the big Scot and pull him closer. He would never get enough of being close to that body. Yes, what he imagined he shared with this man put a whole new perspective on 'life partner'.
MacLeod let himself be lost in the kiss. He reveled in the feel of the firm, muscular body held tightly against him and Methos could hear a sigh of contentment, mingled with the beginnings of passion against his own lips. The men slid together down from the log into the sand with Methos laying sprawled beneath the hard athletic form of his companion. The weight of Duncan's body was comforting and welcome. Twilight cast a purple hue to the world. Purple for passion, Methos thought idly before returning to the task at hand...making love to Duncan MacLeod.
His hands splayed across the broad bare back and he purred into his lover's mouth as he felt the muscles ripple beneath his fingers. Methos' hips pushed up in an involuntary movement to close the slight gap between their bodies. Duncan laughed low in his throat. A laugh which caught in his throat when long fingers reached beyond the elastic band of his shorts to explore the terrain within. Methos watched the dark pupils dilate with passion as he felt the hips of his lover begin to move of their own volition. His hand grasped the cock that was even now hard and ready for more. The silky feel of the skin lightly covering turgid muscle was the perfect dichotomy of form. Seldom had Methos been so satisfied with his life.
The figure underneath MacLeod was content to tease with his light touch and nibbling kisses until the Scot's body told him that his actions were no longer enough. Methos wriggled invitingly under the hardness, but still denied the panting man little more than this torturous foreplay.
"You never cease to amaze me, Methos. You act like you can't get enough no matter how long we're together." The Scot had raised his head slightly and now peered into the depths of his lover's hazel eyes with need, slight amusement and somewhat of a questioning look.
"That's because I don't. But it's not just the sex." Duncan quirked a dark brow and Methos thought he could discern a snort, but couldn't tell for sure in the gathering darkness.
"No really. Yeah, I could make love to you for years and never tire of the feel of your body. But you have a vitality that my life has lacked for centuries. You make me feel again...and trust in the human spirit. I'm not lonely anymore"
Duncan could tell Methos was being very serious and respected the mood for once, resisting his usual urge to brush off the remarks with some wisecrack. Instead, he followed through on what he really wanted to do. Mac lowered his head once more and kissed Methos gently, as a lover and partner in the truest sense of the word would, telling the ancient immortal more in that soft touch of the lips than words could ever say.
"I know what you mean," he almost ended the statement with an endearment, but it still felt rather strange to be calling another man dear or love. He certainly couldn't seeing himself referring to Methos as honey. "Since we've been...together, I've felt the spark of life returning. It'd been banked since Tessa's death and I never expected to feel it's flare again. I can't imagine anything ever coming between us." The two men lay on the sandy beach till the moon was high, simply enjoying the feel of each other's bodies, sharing kisses and caresses reminiscent of a poignant love scene from a 60s movie.
"I can't imagine anything coming between us...." Methos' eyes sprang open and he realized with a start that the plane was descending and the pilot was announcing their arrival in Newark. He grimaced at the thought of having to wait for the connection to Paris, but knew it wouldn't be more than a couple of hours.
He passed the time at the bar, wedging himself between a German man who insisted on talking in a voice five decibels louder than necessary and an American businessman, probably in sales, who was trying to impress the bartender with his world-class ass- holeness. He practically ran to the terminal when the flight to Paris was announced.
Methos spent the next seven hours trying not to think about where he was going and who he was going to see...and failing miserably. Thankfully he seemed to have lucked out in his selection of seating partners on this longer leg of the journey and hardly minded sharing his space with the young woman in a business suit who didn't even hog the arm rest. She respected his obvious wish to be left alone and typed rhythmically on her laptop for much of the flight. Methos just stared out the window at the clouds below them, watching the cottony wisps separate and reform as the plane carved its way across the sky. So fragile, yet so enduring. The clouds parted, but always found their other half again, coming together in a whole once more. Maybe *he* wanted to return to some semblance of their life together too.
Methos hemmed and hawed his way through customs and baggage claims, even though he hadn't checked any bags. He put off making a decision as to his next step for as long as possible. Finally, fortified with a double scotch from the bar, he approached the bank of pay phones near the airport entrance and punched in the number of the barge. It rang and rang and Methos thought it was just as well. He needed more time to think before he spoke to him again. Just as he was pulling the phone away from his ear with relief, the receiver on the other end was lifted. "MacLeod."
"MacLeod?" Well, that sounded intelligent.
"Methos?" Equally intelligent. He didn't feel so bad.
"Yeah."
"Where are you?"
"At the Paris airport."
Silence. Methos cursed himself for being such a lovesick fool. Of course he couldn't expect this to end like some fairy tale of old. Real life wasn't like that and he knew better. At least he hadn't hung up on him yet.
"I'm glad you're back." <Really?> He hardly allowed himself to hope.
"Wanna have a drink?" Methos held his breath. The answer would tell him all he needed to know.
"Yeah, I'd like that. Why don't you take a cab to the barge. There's still some beer here."
"Yeah, right. Be right there."
"Methos?"
"Yeah?"
"I wanna talk too."
Methos could think of nothing terribly pithy to say as was his wont in situations which called for nonchalance and understatement, so he opted for once not to say anything. He slowly returned the receiver to its cradle and turned around. There was a line behind him for the phone, but he was oblivious as he picked up his bags and walked outside to hail a cab.
*I can't imagine anything coming between us* -- I sure hope you remember that MacLeod.
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