"Crazy"
by Maisie (maisierita@comcast.net)
copyright 2000
(M/A, DM, J, 1/1, NC-17)
Disclaimer: I do not own these beautiful creatures. Not even a little bit. <sob>
Warning: This story theoretically falls into the slash-tease category. However, this particular installment is pretty straightforward m/f. I can't help it. I love the idea of Methos and Amanda together. So there. ;) Also, I'll admit it, I love to torture Duncan. ;)
Feedback: Please! Anything but flames gladly accepted at the above edress.
"Methos?" It came out as a gasp.
"Hmm?" He answered in a voice so deeply bass, it was almost too low for the human ear to hear.
Amanda moaned silently to herself. God, that voice. Those eyes. An aroused Methos was a sight to behold, one she had not beheld in far too long. Still, she felt obligated to remind him, "This wasn't part of the plan."
Efficiently, Methos flipped her over and, with one smooth thrust, entered her. His eyes gleamed. "Fuck the plan."
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"No, I am *not* going back there."
"But Joe-"
"Don't 'but Joe' me. My duties as a Watcher only extend so far. I've already seen more than I ever wanted to."
Duncan sighed. He sat glumly at the bar, swirling his whiskey around his glass. "I can't believe it."
"What, that they're having sex, or that they're doing it on your floor?"
"Either. Both." He frowned. "They don't even *like* each other."
Joe raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "You just keep telling yourself that, buddy. Maybe you'll start to believe it."
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"Mmmm." The moan, low and feral, was torn from his throat. Sweet and holy lorii, mothers of all life . . . oh, dear spirits it had been way, waaaaaay too long. Methos didn't even have to think about it. The curse of Immortal memory left him all too aware of exactly how long it had been since he'd last been intimate with someone, and how much longer still it had been since he'd been intimate with this particular someone.
And though in his long lifetime he'd been celibate for decades at a time . . . well, it went without saying that having sex was, on the whole, much better than not having it. And having sex with Amanda was better than having sex with nearly anybody else. In fact, Methos found himself hard pressed to come up with a name of someone who he preferred having in his bed. Even Rebecca, dearest Rebecca -- whom he'd loved honestly and deeply -- dear, sweet, beautiful Rebecca . . . even Rebecca hadn't made him feel the way Amanda did. Methos had never been able to figure it out, but there was no denying the truth of the situation. He and Amanda, in bed together -- or on the floor, or on a table, or up against a wall -- were electric.
He moved inside her smoothly, marveling how easily they came together, still, after all this time. Centuries fell away and they were back in that dingy little house they'd taken in the Italian countryside, she on the run after a string of successful burglaries, he doing nothing much of anything and open to everything. They'd stayed in the village for almost a decade, playing at domesticity, fucking like rabbits every night . . .
Amanda moaned softly, sharply, and bucked underneath him. She was sweat-slicked and flushed -- completely edible, Methos thought. He leaned down to nibble at her neck, biting the skin just hard enough to draw and taste blood, feeling the tingle against his tongue as the slight wound immediately healed. Amanda gasped and arched up against him, driving him yet farther into her warm, moist depths.
Methos was helpless to prevent the answering groan that was torn from his throat. She was hot against him, around him, and her legs hooked around his and pulled him closer still. "Gewydden brethen," he murmured, "beautiful woman" in some language long dead and forgotten and only resurrected when higher reasoning deserted him and he was forced to revert to the basics . . . but then Amanda thrust against him again and even that earliest of tongues was lost . . . he couldn't articulate anything more complicated than a moan.
Amanda heard the mumbled endearment and felt a familiar rush of heat course through her. She'd reduced to him to the language of his childhood -- this was Methos at his most desperate, most vulnerable, most wonderful. He groaned and thrust inside her, and bowed his forehead to hers.
Legs locked, bodies intertwined, hearts pounding in tandem . . . it was better than Amanda had remembered. Why it was this way with Methos -- and it was *always* this way with Methos -- Amanda had no idea. If only they didn't irritate each other so much, she'd have happily stayed with him forever. But as it was, ten years was about the most they could manage; ten years before the bickering got so bad that even the sex couldn't overcome it.
But now it had been centuries since they'd been together, several years before Duncan was even born, Amanda realized. Four hundred years and yet Methos still smelled the same, tasted the same, loved the same . . . and still possessed the same ability to reduce her to a panting, sweating mess.
He was murmuring something that may or may not have been words, and Amanda echoed him, mumbling in a language equally out of date. This was fast, incredibly fast, but that was all right. There would be time enough later for foreplay, time enough for slow and tender kisses that melted her from the inside out, time enough to learn again every way in which to make Methos moan. Right now there was only this: hot, furious thrusting that made her feel like little more than one of a pair of rutting animals. And that was all right, too, because she got to see Methos, he of the legendary control, entirely without it.
Amanda gasped and Methos groaned in response, tilting his head so that he could kiss her again. He moaned into her mouth; Amanda felt it rumble all the way through her. She *loved* his moans, loved the way his voice dropped down into the lowest octaves, loved the passionate and needy sound of it. Her body tingled, a heady sensation that swept through her and then settled down between her legs, building with each passing second.
"Methos," she gasped, "Caro, please . . . " She didn't need to articulate more than that. He knew what she wanted. He always had; that was part of what made it so incredible.
Methos obliged her unspoken request, pounding into her far harder than he'd risk with a mortal woman, not so much oblivious to the implicit violence of the action as much as heedless of it. Her nails raked his back, drawing blood, equally heedless of the violence, and drawing a gasp from him that was muffled by her mouth on his.
Harder, and faster, and harder still . . . Methos couldn't see for the sweat in his eyes and could hear nothing over the pounding of his heart, which beat a rhythm far too fast. Gods and goddesses, he wanted it to last forever but was afraid if it went on any longer he'd have a heart attack, immortal physiology notwithstanding . . . and then the sun went nova behind his eyes and he exploded into pleasure, crying out a wordless psalm of thanks.
God god god, Amanda thought, holding on for dear life as Methos shuddered above her, god oh god oh *god* . . . and then she was lost too, whimpering softly as the tides of sensation washed over her and carried her away.
She swam back groggily, vision clearing, to find herself on the floor, trapped under six feet of groggy, sweaty, pleasantly dazed Immortal. Still unable to form a coherent sentence, she settled for, "Wow."
Methos lifted his head from where it was resting on her shoulder, and gazed down at her, blissful satiation in his eyes. He raised a lazy eyebrow and repeated, "Wow?"
Amanda sighed happily. "Wow."
Grinning, Methos dropped his head down into her shoulder again, and began nuzzling her neck. Amanda felt rather than heard him echo, "Wow," and she mewled softly as he began to tongue the delicate folds of her ear. The beginnings of his renewed interest stirred against her leg -- ah, the joys of immortality -- and then he kissed her, and she had no more words or thoughts for a long time.
If either Immortal heard the phone ringing, they chose not to acknowledge it.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"They're not answering."
"Are you surprised? Considering how we left them . . ."
Duncan closed his eyes against the image that sprang instantly to mind: Methos on his back, on the floor, Amanda on top of him; the two of them kissing furiously, writhing against each other, tearing at their clothing in an obviously desperate attempt to get naked in as short a time as possible . . . no, that wasn't a picture he needed floating around his brain. <You don't like that one?> his subconscious asked merrily. <How about this one?> The mental picture changed, and Duncan groaned out load and dropped his head into his hands.
Joe raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Mac? You okay?"
"Fine. It's nothing." Nothing, no nothing at all. Just two buck naked Immortals in his head, vividly demonstrating that practice *does* make perfect. Oh, hell. "Strange, huh?" Joe mused. "Before this, I'd never have pictured the two of them together."
"Me neither." Which didn't seem to be hampering his subconscious any, as it ransacked Duncan's extensive mental library for images of Amanda au naturel, and did the same for Methos, imagination helpfully and eagerly filling in any details that couldn't be attested to from personal observation. He shifted miserably on his barstool. "It's *my* home," he groused fitfully. "I should be allowed to go back to my own home."
"No one said you couldn't."
Joe waited patiently for a rebuttal, but Duncan didn't offer one, opting instead to swallow his drink in one gulp. Joe hid his smile behind his own glass of whiskey, and waited some more.
Finally, Duncan heaved a martyr's sigh and frowned. "Do you think they're done yet?"
"If it were me, it would have been over an hour ago. But-" Joe paused meaningfully. "I'm not immortal."
Duncan sighed miserably, and poured himself another drink.
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"Amanda?" It was muffled.
"Hmmm?" she asked dreamily.
"Would you mind . . . "
Amanda's eyes flew open suddenly and she relaxed her legs, freeing Methos's head in the process.
He rubbed his neck and grinned. "Thanks."
"Sorry, caro. I got a bit carried away. Here, let me do it." She flipped him over onto his stomach, and straddled his back so she could rub at the tense spots, admiring his physique while she was at it. "You know, I can't *really* have forgotten how good you are at that. I shouldn't be so surprised."
Methos chuckled into the pillow. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was. You know, you should get a license for it."
"For what?"
"Your tongue."
Methos chuckled again. "I'm not that talented, Mina. I just play better to an appreciative audience."
"Oh, don't be so modest. You've got a true gift." Amanda paused thoughtfully. "You know, no one's called me Mina in four hundred years."
Methos rolled over halfway, neatly dislodging her so they lay side by side on the bed, and looked at her with equal parts affection and amusement. "Did *anyone* else ever call you Mina?"
Amanda smiled warmly. "No."
Methos grinned and rolled over the rest of the way, draping himself across her. "Good." He burrowed his head down into her neck, hunting for the one spot guaranteed to make her moan, and found it.
With difficulty, Amanda pushed his head up. "Caro, wait. We should-"
"No."
"But-"
"No. We'll talk later. Right now-" He traced one finger lazily between her breasts, and down her stomach to the neat little triangle of hair between her legs. "-I have other things I'd rather be doing."
"But-"
"*Mina*. Be quiet."
"But I just think-"
"If you're thinking at all, I have definitely lost my touch."
Methos delicately teased opened her moist folds with a practiced finger, and Amanda swallowed a moan. "You haven't." Sighing contentedly, she surrendered to his full frontal assault.
When the phone began ringing sometime later, Methos threw a pillow at it.
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"No answer." Duncan hung up the phone a little harder than necessary.
"I guess they're not there."
"I guess not."
"It's been three hours, MacLeod. They've probably gone home."
Vehemently, "I *hope* so." He stood up and reached for his coat.
"On the other hand . . . " Joe said thoughtfully.
Duncan froze with the coat half on and half off. "What?"
Joe shrugged. "They might still be there. Just . . . too busy to answer the phone."
Sigh.
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"Do you suppose that was Duncan?"
"Probably."
Amanda bit her lip. "Do you think he'll be very angry?"
"Probably."
"This is all your fault."
Methos chuckled next to her. "*My* fault?"
"It was your idea."
"No, the *dancing* was my idea. Fucking on MacLeod's floor was not part of the original plan."
"Uh huh." Amanda's voice dripped skepticism.
"Hey, you're the one who threw me to the floor."
"Well, you *kissed* me. With your *tongue*."
"Only because you were doing that thing with your hips. You know what that does to me."
Amanda paused. "Yes, I guess I do."
Methos smothered a laugh and rolled her over, tracing his hands down the familiar curve of her back.
Amanda sighed and settled into his embrace, wrinkling her nose at the scent wafting up from the bed. "We're going to need to change these sheets, caro."
"Why?"
"They stink."
"They stank before we got into the bed. MacLeod should hire a maid."
"Methos-"
"Well, he should. He's going to need that carpet cleaned, too."
Amanda flushed. "I told you I didn't see that glass of wine."
Methos chuckled. "The wine is the least of his problems." His hands, still wandering, gently probed her buttocks.
"Mmm. Methos?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you remember Edinburgh? 1322? When we tried-"
"Yes." He was silent for a minute, shifting position. "Like this?"
"No, it was more like-"
"This?"
"Yes." She groaned throatily and arched her back. "*God*, yes."
This time, it was Amanda who threw the pillow at the phone.
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"There's still no answer."
"Give it a minute."
"Now the machine's picking up."
"Good. Leave a message."
"You want me to leave a message for myself?"
"No, I want you to leave a message for *them*, if they're there."
Duncan frowned, but did as Joe suggested. "Hi. Methos, Amanda, in case you're still there, I just want you to know I'm coming home now." He glanced quickly at his watch. "It's about 8:30 now, and I'm at Joe's, so I'll be home before 9." He hung up the phone and looked at the other man. "All right?"
"Fine, I guess" Joe said with a grin. "Of course, that message isn't going to do much if they're still doing their thing."
Duncan scowled. "They'll stop. Won't they? If they know I'm coming home?"
"Having an audience didn't seem to bother them before, MacLeod. What do *you* think?"
Duncan sighed.
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"I'm going to throw it out the window."
"Methos-"
"I *am*."
"You can't just throw his phone away."
"Watch me."
"*Methos*." He turned, snarling, and Amanda let herself admire his nude physique for a lascivious minute. "Forget the phone, caro. Come back to bed."
"He's coming home."
"No, he's not. Not if he thinks we're still here. Trust me." She lifted the sheets invitingly.
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"It's ringing. This is ridiculous, Joe, they've probably gone ho-" Duncan jerked the phone away from his ear as he was treated to a sudden blast of Gaelic invective that was profane enough to make him blush to the tips of his ears. "Methos, I-"
"If you don't stop calling, MacLeod, I am going to send your prick back to the Highlands. Via FedEx. Without you."
Duncan winced. One hand instinctively drifted downwards. "I just wanted-"
"I don't care what you wanted! I-"
Duncan heard muted sounds of a scuffle, and then Amanda's voice, sensually breathless, floated over the wire. "Duncan, dear, you're irritating Methos. I think you should stop calling." Then, muffled as if by a hand over the phone, "Relax, caro, I'll take care of it."
Methos's answer, irate and in Latin, was also muffled, but Amanda's merry laugh came through clearly. She was still giggling when she got back onto the phone. "When did you say you were coming home?"
"If I leave now, I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?" The sound dimmed briefly as Amanda consulted with Methos again. "Why don't you have another drink, darling?"
Duncan sighed. "How much time do you need?"
"Forty-five minutes?" There was burst of energetic Greek in the background, and Amanda amended hastily, "An hour."
"Fine," Duncan agreed grudgingly. "But you owe me. Both of you."
"Oh, we know, darling," Amanda cooed. "See you soon, Duncan."
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"If that phone rings again I am going to flush it down the toilet."
"He won't call again."
Methos snarled. "He'd bloody well better not."
Amanda cocked her head to the side, examining him. "You do British marvelously, caro. You were never so convincing as an Italian."
"I don't recall anyone mistaking you for a native either, Mina."
"My accent was better than yours."
"Your accent was appalling."
"No one ever complained."
"They were too busy looking down the front of your dress."
"And you weren't?"
Methos grinned suddenly. "Of course I was. It was such a lovely view." He reached out and stroked her breasts appreciatively, and Amanda arched into his touch, purring softly.
"We only have an hour," she said breathlessly.
"Then we'd better make the most of it, hmmm?"
They did.
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"That's it. I'm going home."
"All right. Have fun."
"You're not coming?"
"No way. This one's all yours, Mac. And MacLeod . . . "
"Yeah?"
"Don't take their heads, all right?"
"No promises," Duncan muttered darkly, and stalked out of the bar.
Joe sat back down on the barstool and poured himself one more drink. That was the problem with Immortals. You never knew when they were kidding.
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He lay atop her, fingers loosely intertwined with hers, heartbeat rapidly returning to its normal steady rhythm. Master strategist, hell. This had *not* been on the menu for the day. And though his pretty little plan was in shambles, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Plans change. Friends and lovers die. He was unutterably glad that this one hadn't. Goddess, how he'd missed her. He simply hadn't realized quite how much.
He lifted his head from the crook of her neck, and looked down into her eyes, seeing a confusion there that rivaled his own. "Amanda, I-"
"Shhhh, caro." She stopped him with a finger to his lips, and sighed softly. "I know you do."
He dropped his head back down, her throat warm against his lips. "Things just got complicated, Mina."
"They always were, caro. They always were." She lay quietly for a long minute, running her hands through the short bristles of his hair. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?"
It took him longer than she expected to answer, and when he did, his voice was barely audible. "I don't have a clue."
Amanda sighed again. "I thought you always had a plan."
"I do. Right now it's very simple. We get the hell out of here."
"What about the sheets?"
"The hell with the sheets. Do you really want to be here when MacLeod gets home?"
Amanda shuddered, and jumped to her feet. "No."
They made it out with five minutes to spare.
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