Part of the Slash Advent Calendar of 2003 at
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2003
Beta: Julia and Uber-D

CHRISTMAS TREASURE

By McJude

Methos stretched out on the bed, clad only in his boxers, rested his head on his bent elbow and watched Duncan remove his clothes.  The Highlander was always methodical in undressing, especially when it was his formal attire, but so very wonderful to watch.  Methos’s clothes lay in a heap in the corner.  The tuxedo and shirt were going to have to go to the dry cleaners before New Year’s Eve anyway and Duncan had lots of other ties and cummerbunds for him to borrow.  It was much more fun to get intimate with the fine high-count cotton sheets and watch Duncan.

Sometimes he teased Duncan about his obsession with the accoutrements of fashion.  Tonight he had worn cufflinks and studs that had been fashioned from 200-year-old pieces of scrimshaw.  Eskimo women had worn the ivory labrets that now graced his cuff through their lips.  He could only speculate about the source and use of the pieces used for studs.

Duncan hung his tuxedo on a hanger and placed it beside his formal dress cape hanging on a rod across the door to the closet.  Tomorrow he would place it inside, but tonight he felt it needed to rest in circulating air to rid itself of the smoke and perfume it had picked up at the party following the concert.  Duncan folded his dress shirt and placed it on the pile of Methos’s dirty clothes.  It, too, needed to be laundered.

He pulled off his silk under-vest and placed it in the home laundry bin, stooping to pick up and add Methos’s T-shirt that had been dropped in the approximate area.

“I am a slob.”  Methos thought.  “And still he allows me to stay.  I must do something right.”  Then he giggled. 

*   *   *   *

Despite the fact that he had brushed his teeth, gargled and probably washed his face, Duncan still carried with him the scent of the places they had gone that night.   Methos liked that.  It was the smell of men and women of all ages.  The smell of the holiday season.  The smell of food and drink and smoke.  The smell of sex.   The look on his face as Duncan strode in from the bathroom, totally naked, penis beginning to harden, tube of lube in his hand, definitely brought out the best of the holiday season.

“Shall I just be a slut, or do you want to make me work for it?”  Methos asked.  He knew it always took Duncan aback when he said something like that.

“Lemme think.  It’s late, and we have a full schedule tomorrow morning, can’t sleep in, but . . .

Methos had already answered the “but” as he began running his hands down the big man’s chest.  His mouth followed with a trail of kisses.  He liked to outline, trailing his tongue around the delineation of Duncan’s chest, the curves of his six-pack abdomen and lower.  Duncan was passionate about his carefully orchestrated ritual exercises that kept him in top fighting shape.  They also made his body appealing in ways the ancient Orientals probably never thought about – or maybe they did.  

He had just planned to tease but the thickening cock was just too inviting.  He carefully took its full length in his mouth and tried to extract the essence of Duncan from the shower gel and skin cream.   He closed his eyes and carefully moved his lips up and down and wondered . . .

“If you want that I should fuck you, perhaps you should not suck with such vigor.  I hadn’t planned on been up all night.”  Duncan commented.  The Highlander accent came out when he was aroused.

Methos chose not to answer.  That would have required removing the cock from his mouth.  Instead he began a tongue movement that Duncan could resist for about 10 seconds.  If Duncan really wanted to sleep, Methos could wait for his orgasm until tomorrow.  It wasn’t like. . . then he remembered.  He had planned something special for Duncan tonight.  

He wasn’t sure what would be harder to overcome, the taste of semen or the taste of MacLoud’s cinnamon toothpaste.  If he stopped now?  If he stopped now Duncan wouldn’t be very happy.  He didn’t want to stop either.  Could it wait until tomorrow?  He was unsure.  Cryogenic storage probably had done a good job of retaining its prime, but still every hour at room temperature . . .

Duncan had realized Methos’s answer and placed both hands on his head, pressing Methos deeper into this groin and his cock deeper into Methos’s throat.  All thinking stopped as intense spasms of orgasm shot through both of them, so strong that Methos considered checking to see if MacLeod still had his head.

*  *  *  *

Methos knew that Duncan would not just roll over and fall asleep.  The man was thorough.  If he had wanted it Duncan would have provided him an orgasm with his hands or his mouth.  It was just that Duncan’s recovery time was a little slower than he would like.  Methos would laugh and blame it on his getting old.

“Do you want me to . . .” Methos realized as Duncan ran his hands down his sides that he still had on his boxers.   At least that would make the dash to the kitchen that much quicker.

“I need something.   Can you stay awake a few minutes more?”

“Sure.”  Duncan nuzzled his head into Methos’s chest and pulled the waistband of the boxers.

“No, not that Duncan.  I have something I want to share with you.  It will be better tonight than tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

“Something I have that I want to share with you.  I thought tonight after the Christmas cantata would be the perfect time.  I had everything planned out, I just didn’t expect you to be so damn hot.”

“I’m sorry.”  Even in the semi-darkness with only lights from the moon and the street, Methos noticed Duncan’s pout.

“I’ll only be a second.”  He jumped out of bed and hurried out of the room, only to slip and fall on one of his patent leather dress shoes that he had left in the doorway.

“Good thing I left my katana in the living room.  I’d hate to have you lose your head in a fall.”

*  *  *  *

 Duncan had propped himself up on the bed pillows and lit a candle to illuminate the room.  Methos returned carrying a small wooden tray with two glasses and a small plate covered with a silver dome.   He placed it between them and reclined next to Duncan.

“I haven’t eaten lying down since Roman times.”

“I suppose now you are going to tell me another orgy story.”

“Not tonight.  Drink this. To cleanse the palate.”  He handed Duncan the glass and downed his in one gulp.  Duncan did the same.

“Wha. . . t?  You don’t cleanse the palate with hundred year old scotch.”

“You do when it is something exceptional.”

“Somethin' exceptional?” 

Methos lifted the silver cover.  On the plate were two small pieces of something brown.  It looked a little like hashish. 

“What are we going to do with this?” Duncan asked.

“Eat it.”

“It’s hard, and dry, and a little moldy.”

“Eat it.”

“It’s not going to give me visions of monsters, gods and demons is it?”

“No, just visions of sugarplums.  Eat it.”

Duncan popped it in his mouth.  It was as it looked.  Parts crumbled on his tongue and other parts almost broke his teeth as he chewed.  He tasted suet and sawdust.  He tasted the drying of the honey and sugar that once sweetened it.  He tasted the exotic, dare he say medicinal, taste of black walnuts and the tartness of fenberries that hadn’t been harvested for centuries.  Some of the flavors were those illusive things you talk about when tasting wine . . . the hints of quince or persimmon . . . as if anyone actually knew the taste of those fruit.  There were other memories of his youth, the moldiness and rancidity of food kept too long but eaten because you were hungry.  He wasn’t hungry now and was about to spit the morsel out when he realized it was also the taste of food eaten because it was treasured.  He was certain that this was what it was to Methos. A treasure.  He swallowed and smiled, the same way Methos had done now . . . and earlier that night.

“Was that what I think it was?”  Duncan asked. 

Methos nodded his head.  Methos, drunk one other Christmas, had told him a story of a fruitcake, perhaps the first fruitcake, given to him by a woman lover.  He had stashed it in the wall of a cellar and was surprised centuries later to find that it was still there.  Only a man who had lived for five thousand years would have considered this fruitcake too precious to discard and had taken the heroic step of cryogenic storage to insure its preservation.  Duncan had joked that it should be on display in a museum.  Now it was in his stomach.

“You didn’t have to, Methos.”

“It’s special, you’re special.  I wanted to share it with you.  But don’t worry, there’s still more of it in storage . . . we can enjoy it another 50 years from now when some of the flavors have blended better.”

“That, Methos, might be promise enough to go out and try to get my head chopped off.”

He scowled, leaned over and blew out the candle.  The night’s ending might have been totally different if Duncan had not taken Methos hand and placed in on his groin.

“It does seem to have a wee bit of a quickenin’ property.”  Duncan laughed. 

“Don’t you have to get up in the morning?”

“An immortal doesn’t need sleep.  And I am up.  Roll over.”

McJude

November 24, 2003