This story was written in 2003 for the SLASH ADVENT CALENDAR a most enjoyable compilation of various slash fandoms.   This one is a crossover between Ares (Xena) and Highlander.   

Pairing:  Duncan/Ares; Duncan/Methos
Rating: R
Summary:  When spending Christmas in Rome, Duncan meets an interesting and talkative man in an art gallery.
Disclaimer:  These are not my people.  Duncan and Methos belong to Davis/Panzer and Ares (at least this version of him) either belongs to Renaissance Studios or the late Kevin Smith.
Feedback address:  mcjude2001@msn.com
Beta: Thanks loads to Julia, Tol10 and Uber-Dylan

 

JUST THE SCOTCH TALKING

Duncan MacLeod now realized why no one had ever written a song about “Christmas in Rome.” 

The holiday visit had sounded like charming idea, something he and Methos had never experienced, at least together; but that was not the way it had turned out.  The weather in Rome this time of year wasn’t much better than Paris or Seacouver -- lots of clouds, a little bit of rain, and a chill that didn’t want to go away. He found even missed the crass over-commercialization of the December holiday.  Stripped of its Santas, snowmen, reindeer, elves, jingle bells, not to mention stolen Celtic symbolism, Christmas blended into the mass of other dour religious celebrations.  Duncan also should have realized that there had to have been a new discovery of ancient manuscripts in which Dr. Adam Pierson would have great interest and that their spending the holidays together had just been a subterfuge to get Methos to Rome.

Having been left to him to fend for himself in the rain and gloom, Duncan had settled on an agenda that had him visiting museums during the day and concert recitals during the evenings.  At least he could attempt to immerse himself in the culture from the times Methos actually had experienced, hoping to expose himself to the wisdom of the ages, and then forget it all as he listened to the one thing he enjoyed that was abundant during the Christmas holidays in Rome, beautiful music.

Today’s schedule was the National Museum of the Terme housed in a building that dated from the fourth century.  That had been over 1100 years before he was born, and Methos was still an ancient immortal.  It gave him and his life a feeling of insignificancy he did not want to think about or discuss.  In the evening he had tickets for a recital for a new young opera singer.  It would be just another day of celebrating the past and the future.

It didn’t particularly strike him as strange that despite the museums 10.000 inscriptions, sarcophagi, mosaics and frescoes he was drawn to a statue of Ares, God of War.  The Ludovisi Ares was a Roman copy of a Greek Statue, possibly a scaled version of a colossal bronze Ares by Skopas, a contemporary of Praxiteles.  Methos would know for sure; he probably had detailed notes on the work hidden somewhere in the catacombs under the city.  Duncan just enjoyed looking at the artistic representation of the human form.

Duncan had thought about the Greek and Roman Gods sporadically, contemplating whether or not they were immortals like him.  If they were immortal, had they learned to cope in the modern world?  If they were part of the game, had they all been beheaded by early Christians or barbaric conquerors?  He made a mental note to talk to Methos about it for certainly during his lifetime he would have had to encounter a few former gods.

He felt eyes watching him, but was reassured when the buzz did not accompany them.  He turned and noticed a tall, well built, man partially enveloped in the shadows leaning against a pillar.  He was wearing black leather trousers and jacket with a black silk shirt.  His long hair was pulled back and tied with a cord.  It looked like the two of them had shopped at the same expensive stores. He noticed the man’s flashing dark eyes and neatly trimmed beard; he was certainly attractive.   The face looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it.  The man smiled, and Duncan smiled back almost instinctively.

“The original Greek piece was much better.  It was larger and didn’t have the cherub at Ares’s feet,” the man said with a semi-authoritarian voice.

“And how would you know?”  Duncan had done enough research to know that the original statue had been lost for centuries.

“I read about it on the internet,” he replied with a laugh. 

“Still it is impressive.”  Duncan commented.

“Could have been bigger – Roman conservatism,” the stranger muttered.

Duncan glanced down at his watch.

“You realize this place closes in another fifteen minutes.”  The man said.  “If we don’t get moving toward the main door, we could get trapped inside.”

“Thanks, I didn’t check the hours.  Not planning to stay and steal something.”  Duncan replied with a sheepish grin.   He thought about Amanda and realized that there was nothing in here of sufficient value to cause her to attempt to get locked in the museum after hours.  

“I’m sure the curators will be glad to hear that.  Still two o’clock seems an awfully early time to close,” the man commented.

“You’re American?”

“Yea, sure, but you did you know  . . .  the time right?  You wouldn’t know it by my name. I’m Perry Puccini.  I’m here on business and don’t know a soul in Rome.”

Upon hearing the name that couldn’t possibly by real, Duncan tried hard to stifle a smirk.

“Blame it on my mother.  She not only had the bad taste to fall for a first generation Italian restaurant owner but then decided that since her children had a musical last name she would give them musical first names, too.  Of course my brothers were called Frank and Tony, which weren’t so blatantly obvious . . . 

“Or alliterative.”

"Right.”  Puccini flashed broad smile.  “I’m so sorry.  Here I am droning on about my name and I don’t even know yours.”

 "MacLeod.  Duncan MacLeod.”

 “Scotch?”  The large man had a twinkle in his eye.

 “Scott-ish. I was born in the Highlands of Scotland, but now I sort of commute between Washington, the state, and Paris.”

 “Busy man. . . “ The man stopped and started the conversation again. “But, I wasn’t asking your lineage; I was asking if that was what you drink?  I wonder if you might like to join me for one.”

 “Well, since we’re about to be kicked out of the museum, and it’s about lunch time.  Why not?”

 “I have a feeling Duncan MacLeod has a few interesting stories to tell.”

 “You don’t exactly look like a man who likes to listen.”

 “Touché.”

 Duncan considered the irony of the last statement and figured if some strange man wanted to buy him Scotch and tell him stories, it beat being alone on a damp December afternoon.

 *  *  *  *

The passage of time and consumption of three glasses of scotch created a pleasant lightness in Duncan’s head.  The bar Mr. Puccini had chosen had both lacked women for hire and renegade immortals.  It was a workingman’s bar noisy with conversation and oblivious to strangers.  The food was laced with garlic but delicious.  It even had a few tacky Christmas decorations.  His new friend certainly liked the sound of his own voice telling stories about an import/export business in which Duncan had absolutely no interest.  He wondered if there was some special property in the fiery liquid that allowed immortals to retreat within themselves and caused mere mortals to talk incessantly.

Duncan had totally stopped listening when suddenly he heard. “Have you ever considered what it would be like to be immortal?”  The man, who until an hour or so ago had been a stranger, looked at him with a probing look.  There had always been a flash of humor in his eyes, but something deeper that had just revealed itself.  Duncan felt a hint of fear going down his spine.

“I guess all men have at all time . . .  None of us want to die.  We all want to make a mark in life. ”  Duncan had a lifetime of non-committal answers to that question often asked in bars after too much to drink.

“I’m talking about true immortality.  Physical immortality.  Living forever.”

“That could be a little difficult, couldn’t it?”  Duncan wasn’t sure what game this stranger was playing or if it was just the scotch talking.  He had already checked him for watcher tattoos and saw none. 

“It’s a game.  All life is a game, but eternal life is the biggest game of all.  You have control over your life, what you choose to do, who you choose to be . . .”

MacLeod thought about making a comment about “picking better aliases” but refrained.

“Wouldn’t it get a little sad, watching those you love grow old and die?”  Duncan commented.  If this man wanted to play, Duncan was ready.  It must be the scotch.

“Or waiting for them to be reborn.”  The look on the man’s face seemed to drift to a place where Duncan wasn’t invited. 

Puccini rose and talked softly to the man behind the bar.  He returned with a bottle of some cheap bar scotch and said to Duncan.  “I have a story for you Mr. MacLeod, a story that you will not believe.  But we need to go someplace private.  Can we go to your room?”

Duncan did not believe the man’s gall.  Expecting him to invite him to his place in exchange for a half bottle, as if he could possibly match his rate of drinking, of cheap scotch.  It was only then that he realized that his fondness for soft black leather and silk shirts have given Puccini the wrong impression about his sexuality.  Could this man have been trolling the museum for sexual conquests?  Of course, his current relationship with the ancient immortal, with which he was not totally comfortable, made him wonder just how wrong the impression he was sending actually was.

*  *  *  *

Methos had insisted, rather than staying in a hotel, that they rent a flat for the month visit.  Perry Puccini, or whatever his real name was, seemed duly impressed at the surroundings.   Duncan wondered what Puccini would have done if he had led him to a small hostel with only a bed to sit upon; then he realized that if he were interested in sex, just a bed might have done quite nicely.

As his guest settled comfortably into one of the two high backed wing-chairs, Duncan went to the bar and filled two crystal glasses with the fine single-malt scotch he had stocked for himself.  

“Here, if the story is as good as you think it is, you deserve to rot your mind on something better.”  Duncan said.

Perry took the glass, downed it in one drink, and smiled to signal he wanted another. 

“I’ll get the decanter; here give me your glass.” 

“I like the burn.  Your clansmen did a nice job with that, Duncan MacLeod.”

“Aye, we know how to make it and how to drink it, too . . .  slowly.”

“There are some things that are best done slowly, and others that are better when they are quick and rough.”  The man ran his large hand down the neck of the crystal decanter and then glanced at the bottle of cheap scotch.  “Everything in its time and place.”

“So what is the story you made me bring you here to tell, or did you just suspect that I would have better scotch?”

“Ah, the story . . . I was in love once.  Truly in love, Duncan, a love so deep and all consuming that it is impossible to comprehend.  I’d never known love until I met her.”  Puccini paused and downed yet another glass of scotch.  He had a far away look in his eyes, as if telling the story to someone other than Duncan MacLeod.  Duncan breathed a sigh of relief that he was talking about a relationship with a woman.

“You know that story they tell about love being like a butterfly, placing it on your hand and giving it its freedom.  If it is true it will fly away and always return to you.”  Mr. Puccini resumed his soliloquy. 

Duncan nodded his head.  He had had more than his share of impossible love stories and Amanda who kept coming back.

“It’s totally bull shit.  I gave her her freedom – I thought she would use it to conquer the world . . . and she used it for what she called the greater good.   Used sex to get what she wanted from other men.  She’d fall in love with these young girls and pretend that I wasn’t there.  She used her beauty, her sex, and her love to torment me. I gave up more than you could possibly imagine for her.  I wanted to keep her safe.  I wanted to keep her happy.  I wanted to have her love me. I fucking loved her so much and she died.”  He slammed the glass hard on the table.  Duncan hoped Puccini was not an angry drunk.

“Happens sometime.  I was in love with a woman who was killed in a senseless robbery . . . the life of a beautiful woman in exchange for a few dollars and the crap they buy.”  The thought of Tessa always brought tears whether or not they showed in his eyes.  He was sure Perry Puccini did not want to hear his story and equally certain he did not want relate any more of it.

“At one time during our negotiation . . . Can you believe we actually negotiated rules for our love and life? . . . we reached a compromise that she could do whatever she wanted in her current life, but she would be mine in the next.”  He reached down and refilled his glass.  Checking Duncan’s glass, which was not going down, he gave a slight smile.

Duncan refrained from a comment on “next life contracts” a new concept even for him.  Surely the story about this dead lover was not so personal that they had to leave the bar.  Had it to have been a ploy to get to his room or be with him in private?  So far Puccini had come off as someone looking for a buddy with which to drink and tell stories about ex-girlfriends.

Still Duncan had been fascinated watching the man’s languid movements.  His body had to have been built of solid muscle.  What time Puccini didn’t spend working had to have been spent in the gym.   It was not until the man threw his leg over the arm of the chair, pulling the leather of his pants tightly against his groin, that Duncan’s thoughts wandered back to the doubts he had when they left the bar.  Except now, he was worrying that he might have been wrong about the Puccini’s interest in men.

Until his recent relationship with Methos, MacLeod had been more than satisfied to stick with women as sexual partners.  Except for a few meaningless orgasms prompted by isolation or wartime, he had never had sex with men.  Even though he sometimes found men attractive, he much preferred to have them paired with their own beautiful woman so that the two of them while naked together could concentrate  . . . maybe he and Puccini could go out and meet some Italian women.  Then they could . . . the scotch was messing up his mind.   His eyes seemed to be attracted to this handsome man and were unwilling to move even when he thought about picking up women.

“I’ve been waiting a long time, Duncan MacLeod, and I had to do something to fill up the time.  So I thought, why not create a game?  A game based on warfare, doesn’t that sound appropriate? She was my greatest warrior.”

The only thing Duncan deemed appropriate now was trying to avoid staring at the bulge in the front of Perry’s pants, but the other well-formed parts of his anatomy also served to tantalize and arouse.  The fly seemed to be backed with a gusset of soft suede that would allow the swelling flesh underneath to push it forward.  The trousers had to be custom made, with buttons for fasteners not the usual zipper. His own leathers were feeling that pressure, without the accommodation customized tailoring.

“I had all the time in the world and so I chose to be subtle.  I scattered the world with chosen warriors.  They, like me, would be immortal, but in exchange for this immortality they would have to entertain me. With games. With warfare.   I loved swords.  Mine gave me my power.  I made sure that swords would be their weapon of choice, in fact it is my doing that there are so many variations of this weapon and . . . “ the scotch droned on, telling a story with which Duncan was very familiar except for a unique personal twist.

Sweat poured down Duncan’s back, the room was too warm, his jacket was too warm, his shirt was too warm, and he wanted to be naked . . . but probably then his skin would be too warm.  He was also getting far too drunk.  He had only let himself get in this condition because he was certain that this strange man was not really an immortal and that he was safe from challenge.  Perhaps he was someone’s pawn.  Another real immortal could have followed them and be waiting outside to take his head while he was drunk and laid out on the bed when this attractive man who never shut up finally got around to fucking. . .

“They could live forever as long as someone didn’t cut off their heads.  That was how she died, my tribute to her.  When my immortals cut off the head of a rival, they would have this feeling that could be best described as an intense orgasm. Fire and lightning from the sky.  How is that for fun?”

Duncan swore Puccini had licked his lips when he made that statement.  He had beautiful full lips that had to taste like scotch.  Duncan thought of those lips all over his body, and needed another drink.  The good scotch was gone, replaced by Puccini’s rotgut, but by now he didn’t care at all.  Perhaps it was time for hot and rough.  Puccini was still sitting there, except for what Duncan perceived as tumescence, unaffected by the scotch.    It appeared he was willing to sit there all day, not make the first move, and allow Duncan to cave in or pass out, whichever came first.

“Was ah suppose’ ta ansa dat?”  Duncan’s lips and tongue had flushed to the point that he could barely talk.  He knew that Puccini was describing the sexual aspect of the quickening, something immortals rarely discussed, and he knew that any answer he could give now would border on the idiotic.  He needed to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers seemed stiff and engorged – exactly the same condition as his cock.

Puccini slumped back into the chair and spread his legs.   His fingers had no problem with the buttons on his fly, moving like a pianist on a keyboard.   Duncan dropped to the floor and slowly inched forward on his knees until his head was within Puccini’s grasp. Grabbing Duncan’s long thick hair, Puccini pulled Duncan’s head forward until his mouth found its goal. 

The next phrases about to how all immortals had a little bit of Xena in them and thus they were always bisexual and available, made no sense.  The sound of Mr. Puccini’s voice took on the quality of opera lyrics appreciated for their poetry and fit with the beautiful melody, but totally incomprehensible, even if you knew the language, unless you’d read the libretto.   Duncan usually knew the plot.  Today he didn’t care to know.

They never made it to the bedroom.  All of the acts they employed that afternoon could and would be performed on the two wing chairs or the faded Turkish rug on the floor.   Men at work or gods at play.   The sobering effect of adrenalin and endorphins was amazing -- almost as amazing the sexual feats of Perry Puccini.

The coming of darkness went unnoticed until a flick of a switch filled the room with light.  Duncan was on his knees being fucked from behind, not like a dog but more like a mare with Puccini biting his shoulders until they bled and not being surprised that they healed almost instantly.  The light was blinding and filled every embarrassing corner of the room.

“I guess I should have known better than to leave you home unattended?”  Methos’s voice had none of the anger one would have expected and almost a hint of a laugh.

Puccini pulled out quickly and turned to face Methos.  His penis was still erect and impressive.  Duncan searched for words but found none that he deemed appropriate.  He scrambled to return to his feet and find anything resembling clothing.  Methos had quietly folding his arms in front of his chest and was of the verge of being overcome by giggles. 

“Dr. Adam Pierson.  Are you going to shake my hand or do you expect me to . . .” Methos offered an introduction.

“Yea, Methos, how’s it going?”   The two men grabbed each other in a hug both laughing uncontrollably.

“You know, same old, same old.  I spend my time reading documents I wrote centuries ago, just to remind myself what a buffoon I used to be, and you come by and fuck my lover.”  He stepped back and surveyed the naked man.  “Has been a while though hasn’t it.”

Duncan pulled on a pair of loose cotton pants that rode low on his hips.  He noticed that Methos had been watching Perry the entire time and was totally devoid on any judgmental glances his way.  Methos always seemed to understand.

“You two . . . know . . . each other?”   Now Duncan realized that it was the sex and not the scotch that was fogging his brain.

“Ah, we go way back.  Back to the days before . . . “ Methos picked up the two empty scotch bottles from the floor and deposited them in a trash receptacle.  “Back when you had to rely on opium poppies and fermented goats milk to get a buzz like this.  Seems like you had a very good time, Duncan.”

“Time!”  Puccini had been slowly dressing as Methos talked about the ancient relationships.  Duncan was grateful that he was able to identify his own clothing amidst the tangle of similar items. Suddenly he glanced at the grandfather clock and became frantic.  “Damn, sorry, hate to drink, fuck and run, but I have to check out this opera singer giving a recital tonight.  She’s from New Zealand and from what I hear, there’s a chance . . . “

“She’s probably not, but . . . “ Methos was not at all reassuring.

Duncan realized that he had a ticket to the same concert, but wasn’t going to make it tonight.  He watched in amazement as Methos threw his arms around the taller man and kissed him with all the passion and tongue that was usually reserved for him.

“If it doesn’t work out, we’re here until Twelfth Night, stop by sometime.”

“Probably will, if my luck holds.   It’s been a while, Methos.”

“That it has.”

Duncan swore that he never saw the door open or heard it close; the man was just gone.

*  *  *  *   *

When Duncan awoke he was curled on the bed next to a fully clothed, except for shoes and socks, Methos who was watching the replay of a soccer game on the television.  A bottle of beer was balanced on his knee.  A slight stir and Methos’s free hand was entwined in Duncan’s hair, fingers slipping through it effortlessly.

“I’m sorry, Methos, I was in the museum looking at bronze castings and the next thing I knew I was having lunch with this strange American.  He sure liked to talk, and we just kept drinking.  I drank way too much scotch.”

“So the bar explains the smell of garlic and smoke, and the scotch probably explains why you ended up here with . . .”

“What is his real name?  The alias he gave me was too cheesy even to repeat.”

“I don’t believe it.  You have no idea who you fucked.”  Methos was laughing again.  Duncan was more than a little embarrassed.

“Some guy I met at the National Museum of the Terme, you seem to know him a lot better than I do. All I know is that he drinks like a fish and fucks like a god.”

“Considering your claim of impaired mental capacity, you powers of observation seem right on target.   He comes by his talents naturally.  That was Ares, Greek god of war.”

“Excuse me, please?”  Duncan sat up on the bed and stared down at Methos.

“Ares.  Greek.  God of War.  What part don’t you understand?”

“I didn’t know . . . I was wondering about what happened to the Greek Gods when I was in the museum. . .  No wonder he looked familiar. . . I didn’t know whether they were real or just figments of the ancient imagination.”

“Yes, they existed.  Don’t have much power now, but.”

“Then those stories he told me, about creating immortals, starting the game, they’re true?”

“Hell no, I told him those stories back when we met in ancient Rome.  We used to . . . as I said. . . get stoned and fuck a lot.  He’s very good you know.  But likes to talk way too much.  Usurped my stories and inserted his godlike self into them.”

“Tells them well though.  Almost believable.”

 Methos unbuttoned the waistband of his trousers and opened the zipper in one fluid motion.  His erect cock sprang through the opening of his blue boxers.  He guided the Scot’s head to his desired destination.  “Show me what you believe, Highlander.”  He commented as he closed his eyes and lay back with a smirk on his face.

 McJude

September 14, 2003