This was written for a dialog challenge for Lady Kardasi, the same person who created the SLASH ADVENT CALENDAR. You can read the other submissions here. The story is set between Season Three and Four – still in Paris.
AND. . . .
April in Paris was highly overrated; but Duncan realized that this year there would be no May. He had purchased his ticket back to Seacouver – choosing to go back to the dojo and back to Ann. Even though common sense would dictate that, for her safety, he should stay as far away as possible, he wanted to be there for her when the baby was born. She was still his friend, and there was a part of him that still loved her . . . even if they couldn’t be a couple.
The soft mist that had not yet become rain hung in the air and seemed to highlight the tendency of French men to regard any junction of two plains as working urinal. Duncan glanced toward the Seine and watched some floating garbage. Some things had actually improved; it had been decades since a dead horse had floated by.
Duncan looked over at the ancient immortal, wearing a thin nylon raincoat two sizes too big for him, as he walked in silence. He’d given Methos several of his coats, insisting that just because he was a student he didn’t have to look like he lived on the street, but Methos would always forget and leave them somewhere. This coat, however, never seemed to get lost.
When he had told Methos about his travel plans, he had snarked some comment about Amanda being free to date. Duncan’s answer was that Amanda did what Amanda wanted but since he hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, she had probably left the city. Methos had mumbled something – most likely a profanity in some archaic language. Now they were headed to the barge, where Methos would drink a great deal of Duncan’s booze before falling asleep, probably in his underwear, on the couch.
"What's wrong?" Duncan asked, more out of politeness than caring.
"Do you want the socially acceptable answer or the truth?" The usual twinkle was gone from Methos’s eyes, he was really asking a question.
"The truth."
"I haven't had sex in a very long time, and you're really turning me on."
Duncan reached for his sword. Then decided that Methos had to be joking.
“And to what do I owe this particular pleasure?”
“I dunno . . . soft leather, silk. . . . the way your ass moves when you walk.” Methos’s hand seemed to unconsciously move and slowly brush across the front of his jeans. “The rise I see when Amanda walks into the room. . . the feeling I get when I watch you together.”
“You’re serious aren’t you?” He paused. Methos replied with a faint smile. “It’s just. . . the way you always comment about Amanda.”
“She’s not here to turn me on, you are. I’m not particularly fussy.”
“I didn’t know you were . . .” Duncan toyed for the correct word. Gay to him indicated dance clubs and pick-up gyms which he never had associated with Methos. Other names like queer and fag . . . fop or poof . . . he scowled and swore because language had forsaken him.
“Don’t tell me, I’ve shocked Duncan MacLeod to silence.”
“What’s I’m supposed to say? I know the words, but somehow they don’t fit.”
“You didn’t know I liked having sex with men. How does that fit? Duncan, I lived in Ancient Greece. I fought with the Sacred Band of Thebes, worked out in the gymnasium of Iolaus.”
“You . . . worked out?”
“I’m trying to be serious. I also served with some of your Celtic ancestors.”
Duncan was silent; humor having failed him, he had nothing to say. Fitz, one night when he was very drunk, and very horny, had tried to tell him about the ancient Celtics. He had ignored him and feigned sleep.
“And I suppose you were very popular in the 1970’s . . .” he knew it wasn’t the right thing to say, but it came out anyway; probably because he was nervous.
“No, I didn’t dance the hustle and visit glory holes, I seek orgasms, not life styles.”
Duncan tried to read the open, all exposed look on Methos’s face. It was like that night when they first met, when Methos placed Duncan’s sword at his neck and would have allowed him to take his head, to save his own life, to fight Kalas. He was never sure if Methos had been serious or taking another of his closely calculated gambles. He felt the same way tonight.
“And with all the men and women of Paris, how did I win the Power Ball?”
Methos’s face twisted as if he didn’t comprehend.
“The lottery. In the USA.”
“Oh, I thought it was a sex toy.”
“You would. Especially in the mood you’re in tonight. Let’s go get drunk.”
“And. . ?”
Duncan thought for a second. It was a dangerous choice, like returning to Seacouver. If he could still love a woman with whom he would never again have sex, why not have sex with a man . . . but he couldn’t say never . . . not when Methos was involved. He threw his arm around Methos’s shoulder, and his damp raincoat, and pulled him close.
“We’ll see. The night is long.”
“So am I. And hard.”
McJude
January 17, 2004