This story is a Remix of CHERRIES IN THE SNOW by Carene done for the Highlander Remix Live Journal Community.   It is rated adult, because sex happens, even though not spelled out in explicit detail.  Warning:  Duncan in Drag, then and again.

 

Notes:  Thanks to UD for his beta of this story.  He claims he is going to write a sequel.  I am sure the world is waiting.

A WINTER’S SNOW

 

No matter how wonderful the dinner, after it was over Duncan preferred to have no evidence that the meal had occurred.  This required that the dishes be rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher, the pots scrubbed and hung on the overhead racks and the counters wiped clean.  .  Only then would he pour himself a scotch and join Methos who had retreated to the living room, beer in one hand and remote in the other, to watch a movie on television.

 

Tonight, of course, there had been the perfunctory, somewhat obligatory, inquiry as to assistance.  Duncan sometimes wondered what would happen if he would say “yes.”  He fantasized the two of them working in harmony like a well oiled machine, each completing the required tasks in half the time and then melting into each other’s arms, or maybe hoisting Methos to the counter-top. . .  the fantasy continued. But he always said “No.”  He realized that they would probably end up at each other’s throats, with Methos constantly asking where things went and probably dropping a piece of pricy china.   Cleaning the kitchen was something best done singly.

 

Methos would be flipping through the cable channels ostensibly looking for difficult to find British football scores or impossible news from the Australian Rugby League.   The seven all-sports channels preferred instead to program animated discussions on who was the third best shortstop of the 1960’s or which college sensation would be next to forgo a chance at education in exchange for millions of dollars.  He usually ended up watching some babe shake her bootie on a hip-hop channel which drove Mac absolutely crazy. 

 

Methos and the leather living room couch had been sleeping together, on and off, since he first visited Seacouver.  Even after Mac had succumbed to seduction and invited Methos to his bed for sex, Methos did his actual sleeping on the couch.  Mac often wondered if it was his way of maintaining distance, or if he just liked burying his nose in leather.  He refused to comment on comfort knowing that Methos had spent centuries sleeping on the ground and still slept that way on his treks to the wilderness.    The man was comfortable sleeping on twigs, stones and insects, but tonight on the couch, he looked uncomfortable.  As if something was poking him in the back.

 

“There’s something – ah.”  Methos stopped groping beneath him and pulled out a small shiny metallic tube.  Lipstick!  “Mac, do you know you have lipstick in your couch?”

 

“Must be one of Amanda’s.”

 

“When was Amanda here?”

 

“You know Amanda, she’s always in and out.”

 

“I would imagine.”  Methos paused, surveyed the tube carefully, and continued, “Ah, lipstick.  It’s always been part of the culture.  The Ancients Egyptians used henna or a reddish purple mercuric plant dye called fucus.  Little did the ancient Egyptians know that it was potentially poisonous. Talk about the kiss of death!”

 

“Fuck us?” Mac frowned.

 

“Those Egyptians had a way with words, didn’t they?”

 

Duncan pretended not to watch as Methos set his glass down, picked up the lipstick, uncapped it, and twisted it to extend its creamy red contents. 

 

“Cherries in the Snow.”  Methos said, as if Duncan had asked.  “I remember when they first marketed the color.  Big in the 1950’s.” 

 

For the moment, Duncan couldn’t take his eyes away.  Methos’s face had a dreamy look as he slowly mimed painting his mouth, opening his lips slightly and pulling them taut.  Duncan was not prepared for the result it was having on him.  He thought of Methos with bright red lips, kissing him, leaving lip prints on his clothes, and on his body.   This was going to be a fun night, as soon as the dishes were done. 

 

“Well, are you going to do it?” Duncan prodded.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Put it on.”

 

“Me?  Cherries in the Snow?  You have to be kidding, Mac.  It’s not my season.”

 

“What?”

 

“Certainly you remember back in the 1980’s.  Color Me Beautiful.  Everyone KNEW their season.  Helped you pick the right colors for your clothing.”

 

“I bet you paid close attention.”

 

“Everyone but me, Mac.  It’s the eyes.  My eyes change color, so sometimes I am a spring, sometime an autumn, and sometimes even a summer.  But believe me, I am never a winter.  ‘Cherries in the snow’ is a winter’s color.”

 

Across the two rooms, Methos held his glance with those ever-changing eyes.  He looked down at the still open and extended – erect? – lipstick and smiled softly.  “You know, Mac.  You’re a winter.”

 

*   *    *   *   *   *

 

Both Methos and Amanda had teased him that if he just polished the pot bottoms a little more they could double as mirrors, but the face reflecting back was not his today.  It was the face of Duncan MacLeod, the actor, from 1663, a man who had gone in five short years from learning to read Shakespeare’s plays to performing in them.  He was wearing the long red wig and the overdone rouge on his cheeks and lips.  He smiled and pursed a kiss and thought of cherries in the snow.

 

He’d met Walter Graham in a tavern.   Some of the folks were teasing Walter about losing his star actor, Jeremy Beaufort, and Walter kept telling them that there was a multitude of raw talent available, you just needed to look.  Duncan wasn’t very interested, keeping his head down and drinking his ale.  He hoped this immortal was not in a challenging mood and would ignore his presence. It must have been that sixth ale that gave him that original idea.

 

Walter made some overblown comment about his ability to identify and mold talent, and reached over and pulled Duncan’s face up to survey its features.  Duncan fumbled for his sword and realized that that self-same ale had also had a profound effect on his coordination.  Walter smiled softly and let him know he wasn’t interested in that kind of a challenge.  What he was interested in was an actor -- preferably someone who could read.

 

Reading English, especially reading Shakespeare, was something that brought Duncan great pride.  It usually didn’t come up in tavern conversations.  Duncan pictured himself playing the heroes and mentioned the names of a few so that Walter would know he was familiar with the parts.  Walter smiled softly, bought him two more mugs of ale, and then explained that the actor who left had played the women’s roles.

 

Some say ale is a great persuader.  It might have met its equal in Walter Graham.  That night together with the help of a number of oversized women’s dresses, shampoo and a hairbrush, make-up pigment, and scent, Duncan was transformed into one of Shakespeare’s women.  He remembered how Walter could look you in the eye, quoting the bard, while he rolled a rag into the approximation of women’s breasts and stuck it in your bodice.  It produced feelings Duncan found strangely pleasant.

 

It was only much later, and after a bottle of scotch had been consumed, that Duncan learned that there were other obligations of an actress.  But by then, he would probably have protested if they were not required.   Walter’s admonition, that only when Duncan could best him with a sword, would he get to play the male roles, had a double meaning.   Men’s roles were a dime a dozen, but playing a woman for Walter . . .

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Almost in slow motion, Duncan dropped the dishtowel on the island countertop and stepped silently toward the couch.  Methos had managed to sit up and patted the couch next to him indicating that Mac should be seated next to him.

 

The phallic red tube sat on the coffee table next to the remote.  Methos touched him lightly on the shoulder and guided him so that the two faced.  He reached around and unhooked the band that held back Mac’s long dark hair, pulling the hair to the front and fluffed it slightly with his hands.  Methos continued patting, molding and sometimes blowing on the hair to style it. 

 

Methos held Duncan’s chin in one hand and the lipstick in the other.  Before Duncan could speak, Methos had touched the lipstick to Duncan’s mouth and he felt it run feather-light across his lips.  Methos pressed his lips together in the familiar blotting motion Duncan had seen women do hundreds of times.  Duncan mirrored the motion. Methos picked up one of the pub coasters scattered on the table and held it up as if it were a mirror for Mac to see his reflection.

 

“See, it is exactly your color.  You look very beautiful.”  Methos commented.  “But it needs to be blotted.”  He put his cheek close and pulled away, offering Duncan the edge of the coaster.

 

Duncan shook his head.  Surely Methos would allow himself to be kissed now, but instead he rose and started walking around the apartment.  He picked up several items, a delicate Art Nouveau figurine, a small framed oil painting, a rare old book, but none seemed fine enough to bear the mark of the lips of Duncan MacLeod.  He wondered if the small bust of Shakespeare that served as a bookend jogged his memory.  Methos had been pretty busy that week when Walter was in town, he might not have noticed; but then Methos seemed to notice everything.

 

*   *    *    *     *

 

“How far do you want to take this, Mac?”  Methos stated.  “Be prepared, because I’m willing to go as far as you like.  Do you want to look like a frat boy in drag, or do you want to go all the way.  I can wax, shave, and pluck your body so you are hairless all the way from your eyelashes down.  Roman women of a certain class used to do that you know.”

 

Methos extended his hand and led the still uncertain MacLeod into the bedroom.  He sat him on the bed so that he Mac could see himself reflected in the large wood framed mirror.

 

“See how lovely your hair looks.  You are a natural winter.  All you need is a little rouge – you know a few pinches can bring a rosy glow to the cheeks -- and a touch of eye-shadow.”  He knew where Amanda kept that, tucked in behind the towels along with a few other female necessities. 

 

Methos knew, however, that too prolonged a tease might spoil the mood Mac wanted him to create.  He knew that alpha men realized that they would never look like women; Mac just wanted to surrender his superior masculine façade for a few minutes . . . or hours.  He felt Mac shudder as he continued to brush his hair and smile softly as he touched his lids with eye-shadow. 

 

There had to be things in the bedroom which Methos could use in the transformation, but right now he couldn’t think of a thing.  He had discovered some of Amanda’s forgotten underwear, but the size difference made those items unusable.  One of Amanda’s thongs would be nice to tie around Mac’s wrists, or perhaps his cock, but would break if he tried to stretch it over his ass.  A man who wore kilts for centuries would not be excited about calling an “after shower” towel a skirt.  So if Mac wanted to be feminized today it had to be a combination of psychological taunts and things he might have hidden himself.

 

“OK, babe, where do you keep them?”  Methos was certain that Mac knew what he meant.  He also was certain that his friend wanted to keep the presence of his collection of women’s underwear a secret. 

 

“You mean you don’t know?  You want me to believe that there is some place in this apartment that has escaped your prying eyes, curious hands, and inquiring mind.” That was Mac talking; not the character he had become. Methos was unsure if the comment was spurred by frustration or was the signal of a premature ending

 

“A few.”  Methos gave his cute little twinkle eyed smile and touched his fingers to Mac’s red lips to silence him.  He had to be careful, the mood was almost broken, certainly not, he hoped, what either of them wanted. 

 

Still what was there to lose if the game were over?  Mac would still probably toss him on the bed, lift his legs over his head and fuck him until morning.  But Methos was certain that Mac needed more.  Mac wanted to reveal his secret which he probably had told no one recently.  Surely he had a stash of women’s underwear that he kept for special occasions.  It was the ultimate of confessions . . .  and it would put a welcome new wrinkle back in their sex life.

 

“You really need a pair of nice silk panties.  You’d be so beautiful that a man would really want to fuck you.  Your bum would look good in silk.”

 

He patted Mac on the shoulder, and wished he wasn’t sitting on the part of his anatomy he really wanted to pat.  Still good secrets come hard.

 

Methos rose again and walked to the large mahogany chest of drawers.  It was almost six foot tall with an assortment of drawers of all sizes.  A slight smile on Mac’s face indicated that he was proceeding in the right direction. 

 

“There must be some secrets in this chest, you can’t live this long and not have secrets.”  Methos commented.

 

Methos reached down to the underside of the chest.  Most chests of that vintage had a secret drawer.  Families could keep their treasures there, safe from thieves, or at least thieves without a bent toward interior decorating.  He pulled it open.  It was full of stuff.  Most of it seemed military, everything from grape shot to dog tags to medals.  No panties there.

 

“You know, Mac, you could help me out a little.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“It’s a . . .  a . . . .  secret.”  Duncan’s voice was so soft that the final word was just mouthed.  Telling Methos was not what he wanted; he wanted Methos to discover it on his own, and he’d thought he already knew.

 

“Come on, babe, let’s get those uncomfortable man clothes off you and get you feeling better.  Do you want to take a bath?”  Duncan shook his head, no.  Methos ran a row of kisses across his shoulders and down his back. 

 

“I used to . . . play . . .  a woman in the Shakespearian theatre.”   

 

“And I played a woman in Greek drama.  Men played all the roles, which was particularly interesting when you did plays based on the works of Sapphos.”  Methos grinned, touched his fingers to Mac’s lips, looked down at the red on his fingers and brushed it against his own lips.

 

“I had beautiful brocade dresses with lace and ruffles.  Of course, the bodices had to be stuffed with rags to give me passable breasts.”  Mac exhaled slowly. “Today we’d probably use . . . .”  He stopped and waited.  Methos wasn’t clueless; he had to be playing dumb.

 

Methos looked again at the chest and smiled.  Hopefully he had made the necessary connection.  Methos had helped him put away his wool hiking socks after doing laundry.   He knew they went in the lower right drawer -- a very deep drawer filled to the top with socks.  How many pairs of wool socks did a person need? “Come on, Methos, get with it,” he thought.

 

Methos walked over, pulled the sock drawer open and started tossing socks at Mac who carefully dodged them in a very feminine manner.  After two layers of socks, he would hit what appeared to be the bottom of the drawer.  It was quite obvious when you compared outer and inner dimensions of the drawer that there was something else in it.  Only a small silk pull cord carefully tucked into a groove in the front of the drawer revealed the path to the secret stash.   Duncan sighed and realized his wait would soon be over.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Nice job. Mac.”  Methos breathed as he pulled away from the tangled mass of sheets, lube, sweat, lipstick and tangled panties.   He knew his face had to be smeared with “cherries in the snow”.  His body once covered with the imprints of Mac’s red lips had been lovingly blended into a work of impressionistic art.   After all they had used the whole tube, not just on Mac’s lips, but to transform his nipples to rosebuds and his cock to a passable barber pole. 

Mac lay exhausted face down on the bed a pair of silk panties, exactly the color of the lipstick, still around his upper thighs.   

 

The orchestration of the switch had been quite well done.   Methos was fairly certain the lipstick had not been Amanda’s.  She usually went for pricier brands and more subtle colors.  For a while he had wondered if Mac had expected him to put the lipstick on himself and play his pussy-girl for the night.  That would have been fun, too, maybe some night he would show up completely in drag and give it a try.

 

The bust of Shakespeare was a nice hint testing both his powers of observation and deduction.  As recently as last week a sliced geode had been the bookend for that particular shelf of books.  He truly regretted never having seen Mac in any of his Shakespearian roles.   He’d missed the part of the story about Walter balling up the rag to make breasts, so he was glad that Mac had helped him on that one.

 

The chest-of-drawers had been more difficult.  Despite what Mac thought he had not gone through all his drawers.  It had nothing to do with his respect for Mac’s privacy, but rather the difficulty in refolding his clothes to get them all back into the drawers.  Still when he made the jump it had been much easier and he had little difficulty with figuring out the mechanics of that particular style of false drawer.

 

The panties it contained, ranging from midnight black lace thongs to white cotton step-ins that may have dated from Mac’s acting days, had combined to produce a wonderful high-fashion prelude.  Each garment had taken them one step closer to the ultimate act for which an alpha like Mac was so reluctant to express his desire to do.  Coaxed and cajoled each step of the way with words of encouragement, Mac probably gave his best acting performance in the past three centuries.  The red silk tap pants, carefully wrapped around a tube of cherry flavored lube, had been the cherry on the sundae.

 

It probably would be wrong to sleep on the couch, so Methos gave Mac a “Bravo” pat on the ass, stretched, and tried to find a comfortable place beside him on the bed for tonight.    

 

 

McJude

September 2005