"Oops, I Did It Again"
by Maisie
(maisierita@comcast.net)
copyright 2000
(M/A, DM, J, 1/1, NC-17)
Disclaimer: They all belong to R P/D. (I am too lazy to write it all out. I hope you know who I'm talking about!) I make, sadly, no money off of any of this.
Warning: Explicit het-sex. If you don't like it, go elsewhere for your fun.
Feedback: Please! Anything but flames gladly accepted at the above edress.
"Three hundred dollars, Joe."
Dawson threw Duncan a distinctly unsympathetic glance, and answered with forced patience. "It's not as if you can't afford it."
"That's not the point!" Irritation, aggravation and frustration warred fitfully for supremacy in MacLeod's voice. "It's not bad enough that they chase me out of my own home so they can . . . so they can . . . so they can do what they did, but they nearly ruined my carpet! Red wine, Joe. D'ye have any idea how hard it is to get red wine out of white carpet?"
"Apparently about $300 worth of hard."
"Exactly! And they left my bed a mess too, don't forget."
"How could I forget? You've been reminding me every day for a week."
"They had sex in my bed. *My* bed. They didnae even change the sheets!"
"Well, you did sort of chase them out of there."
"Chase them out?!? Joe, how can ye- did ye forget that 'tis *my* house?"
"Easy, Mac. Your burr is showing."
"My-" MacLeod looked down at his clothes reflexively, then tossed a miffed look in Joe's direction. "They should have at least changed the sheets."
"I'm not arguing with you, buddy. I'm just sayin'-"
"You've said enough." Duncan grumpily poured himself a glass of Glenfiddich. "I should make them pay for the carpet."
Joe snorted. "Good luck. I've been trying to get Methos to pay his bar tab for the last six years."
"He'd pay soon enough if you stopped giving him beer."
"And wind up with his sword at my throat? Sorry, Mac, I make it a policy not to piss off grumpy old men who carry big swords."
"I don't count?"
"Nah. You're not old." Dawson grinned at him lopsidedly and plunked down a whiskey. "You weren't this mad at me the time I dropped the pizza on the sofa."
"That's different. That was an accident."
"I'm sure they didn't knock the wine over on purpose."
"I'm not suggesting they did."
"No?"
"No. I'm just-"
"You're just complaining. Again. Face it buddy, what's bothering you is *not* the carpet."
Duncan heaved a sigh. "Not that again. Joe, I've told you-"
"I know what you told me. I just don't believe you."
"I am *not* jealous of Amanda."
"Uh huh."
"I'm *not*."
"Well, you sure seem jealous to me."
"*I'm* *not*." MacLeod didn't think it was possible to put any more emphasis on the two small words, and yet Dawson still looked unconvinced. "Drop it, Joe."
Dawson held up his hands in surrender and straightened up. "Fine. You might be interested in a little research I did last night, though."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. How much do you know about Rebecca Horne and Methos?"
"Amanda told me they were friends. I assume that's how she met Methos?"
"Wrong. That's how she met Rebecca."
"What? No. Can't be. Rebecca found Amanda after her first death."
"Rebecca found Amanda because Methos told her where to find her. At least, that's what Rebecca's Watcher speculated."
"But . . . "
"Mac, according to Rebecca's Chronicle, she and Methos were lovers for centuries. Before, during, and after the time Amanda was her student."
"But I thought Rebecca and Amanda were . . . "
"They were. Apparently it made for some interesting times at the Keep."
Duncan was silent for a minute, digesting the new information, and trying to fit it into his worldview. "Okay, so Methos and Amanda are old friends."
"More than that. Look, Methos's Watcher-"
"You had a Watcher on Methos back then?"
"No, we had a Watcher on an Immortal named Matthias Adams. Tall and thin, with dark hair and a notable nose. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, Mac, but it doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. Now, are you gonna let me finish?"
"Sorry."
"Okay. As I was saying . . . Methos's Watcher knew about Amanda *before* her first death." Joe paused briefly for emphasis. "Methos knew Amanda while she was still mortal, Mac."
"That's not possible."
"Why not? Look, Methos would have known she was pre-immortal the first time he met her. He's never liked having students -- present company excepted -- and he was having a long-term affair with a very powerful female Immortal. Is it such a stretch to imagine that he'd ask Rebecca to take care of Amanda once she died?"
Duncan admitted it only grudgingly. "No." He didn't want to think about the implications; if Methos had known Amanda while she were still mortal . . . if he'd directed Rebecca to find her, and train her . . . then their relationship was much closer than he'd imagined, or been led to believe. He didn't *want* to believe it. "They would have told me."
"Why? What difference does it make now? This was a thousand years ago, Mac. Ancient history by anyone's standards. And anyway . . . "
Duncan waited expectantly for a comment that was not forthcoming. "And anyway, what?"
Dawson shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "And anyway, they might not have told you because they knew how you'd react."
"React? I'm not reacting. How am I reacting?"
"Like this. Jealous." Dawson held up a hand to forestall any protest. "Face it, Mac. The way you see it, Amanda is yours, and Methos is yours, and the fact that they've been lovers since centuries before you were even born is driving you crazy."
"You don't know that they've been lovers for centuries."
Joe rolled his eyes. "It's a logical inference. You think Amanda would have jumped on Methos like that last week if they didn't have some sort of history together?"
<It's been too long, caro.> Amanda's throatily whispered comment, not meant for anyone but Methos, skittered restlessly around MacLeod's head, setting up an interference pattern that made it hard for him to think straight. He shook his head firmly to clear it, and only succeeded in making himself dizzy. It was rather suddenly too much information to process.
Methos and Rebecca.
Methos and Amanda.
Methos and Rebecca and Amanda . . .
<Well, isn't that a pretty picture?> his subconscious whispered gleefully. <Why settle for two naked immortals, when I can give you three . . . > MacLeod's inner eye was immediately graced with an appealing and explicit vision of a trio of nude bodies intertwined and writhing gracefully. A moment later, as something of an afterthought, his subconscious threw in an enthusiastic soundtrack just for fun.
Duncan had long since given up arguing with his subconscious when it was in this sort of mood, so there was little for him to do but sit there and let the X-rated video play out, willing the rest of his body to ignore the mental stimulation. It was a difficult battle, and it hardly helped matters any when one of the principal players in his own personal peep show chose that moment to enter the bar.
"Duncan," Amanda trilled lightly, waving across the bar. She graced him with a brilliant smile and headed directly to his side, caressing his cheek with her own in a not-quite kiss. "How have you been?"
"Fine," he muttered, struggling with difficulty to banish the pornographic images in his mind's eye.
Amanda gracefully slipped out of her coat and took the stool next to MacLeod's, noting his discomfort. "You're not still upset about the other night, are you?"
Although he was, when faced with the question directly, Duncan found it impossible to say yes. Rather than answering in the negative and lying outright, he swallowed a healthy gulp of whiskey and let his silence speak for him.
"Duncan?"
"You spilled wine on the carpet," he finally said, grumpily.
"I know, darling. We weren't paying attention . . . were you able to get it out?"
At least, Duncan reflected sourly, she had the grace to sound a bit embarrassed. "I had to have it professionally cleaned."
"Oh. Sorry."
And that, as far as Amanda was concerned, was apparently that. Settling in on the barstool, she sipped at the white wine Joe had automatically placed in front of her. The short black dress she was wearing clung to her as if it had been painted on; Duncan wasn't even sure how she had managed to sit down. "You look nice," he understated, keeping his eyes off her legs with difficulty.
Amanda nodded, wordlessly accepting the compliment as her due. "I have a date."
"A date?"
"Mmm hmm," Amanda murmured. "Dinner and dancing."
Duncan was unable to stop the snippy comment from escaping. "Won't your boyfriend mind?"
"Boyfriend?" Amanda stared at him in legitimate confusion for a few seconds until comprehension dawned. She burst into giggles, laughing so hard that tears sprang to her eyes. "Methos?"
"Aye," Duncan growled. He hated being laughed at. It made him, impossibly, more irritated than he had been. "The guy yew slept with on my floor."
Amanda laughed again, wiping at her eyes ineffectually. "Heavens, darling, Methos isn't my boyfriend . . . and anyway, he doesn't *do* jealous." She giggled. "Boyfriend? Methos?" She clearly found it difficult to link the two words together. "Really, Duncan."
"The two of you looked pretty close to me," Duncan responded sourly.
She hit him lightly on the arm. "Stop pouting. It's not a good look for you."
"I'm not pouting."
"You most certainly are. He *is* pouting, isn't he, Joe?"
Joe smothered a grin. "Can I plead the Fifth?"
"I'm noh pouting!"
"Yes, you are. Don't tell me you're jealous! Just because I slept with Methos?"
"No." Against his will, his voice sounded noticeably petulant. "It's not as if it was the first time."
"No, it wasn't," she answered, suddenly thoughtful. "And you can't stand that, can you? You hate the fact that we have a history together. It's not jealousy at all . . ."
"Yes it is," Joe supplied helpfully. "Just not the way you think."
"*Joe*!" Duncan thundered.
Amanda arched one neatly plucked eyebrow. "Really? Now this sounds interesting." She rose gracefully from her stool. "I want to hear all about it when I come back." Joe reached to clear her glass, but Amanda stopped him with a gesture. "I'm only going to the ladies room, Joe. Even immortals need to pee."
Joe shook his head at her retreating figure. "She is a piece of work, MacLeod."
"Tell me about it." Then he stiffened, eyes sweeping the room warily. His posture relaxed, but only slightly, when he recognized the familiar figure at the door.
"Hullo, gents," Methos said cheerily, shrugging out of his overcoat and sprawling onto Amanda's recently vacated stool. "Beer, Joseph?"
Joe obliged with a grin. "You're certainly in fine fettle today."
"Yes I am," Methos nodded, taking a deep draft of his beer. His eyes glinted merrily in the bar's dim light. "Don't you love that word?"
"Which word?" Joe queried.
"Fettle. I just love the way it sounds. It's marvelous." He sipped his beer again. "You know, when I was in Persia, way back when, I knew an innkeeper whose name was Fettle. Spelled differently, of course. He had the best beer . . . no offense, Joe."
"None taken."
"He owned this totally decrepit little inn. The food was atrocious, except for this once vegetable stew that one of the wives made. And that was really only barely passable. But the beer . . . the beer made it all worthwhile."
Methos grinned in happy remembrance and Duncan was illogically irritated to see the other man in such a good mood. <Why shouldn't he be?> his subconscious whispered viciously. <He's been sleeping with Amanda . . . > Duncan glared at the older immortal, laughing, drinking his beer, and sprawled in utter satisfaction across the barstool, and was suddenly possessed of an irresistible and deep-seated desire to shatter the other man's good humor.
"Amanda's got a date tonight," he announced starkly.
"Bully for her," Methos responded cheerfully. "It's good to keep busy."
"Methos . . . " Duncan growled, irritated again. "Amanda has a *date*. Dinner and dancing."
"Sounds lovely."
"But . . . " Duncan was at a loss. It was impossible that he should be so irate and the other man not the slightest bit bothered. "Don't you care?"
Methos arched an eyebrow, slowly and deliberately. "Should I?"
"I would have thought so." He leaned in close and whispered spitefully, "She'll probably sleep with this guy, you know. She usually does."
"Lucky guy. Look, Mac, it's not really any of my concern who she sleeps with. Nor any of yours."
"But, you and she . . . I mean, the two of you . . . "
"Fucked. On your floor, then on the bed. Don't make it into something more than it was. I'm not going to get all jealous and possessive on her. That's really your domain, not mine."
"I am *not* jealous."
"Of course you are. Question is, of whom?"
"Don't *you* start with me."
"What?" Methos arched an eyebrow, innocence personified. "It just seems to me that you've seen Amanda with plenty of other men but have never let out so much as a peep about it. Now that it's me, on the other hand . . . "
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Why should I, when you do such a marvelous job of it?"
"Very funny. Anyway, I've seen you with other lovers."
"All mortal. And none of them quite as intriguing as Amanda."
It was a challenge, but a whisper of Presence swept over them before MacLeod could formulate an appropriate comeback. Methos smiled expectantly and turned his head toward the back of the bar, and Duncan was filled with a resentment that was quickly becoming all too familiar. Amanda's warm return smile -- directed at Methos first, Duncan noted glumly -- swept over them.
"You stole my seat," she chided gently, gesturing to the stool Methos had appropriated.
He rose gracefully and made a show of wiping off the seat. "My apologies. You look lovely, Amanda."
"Thank you," she accepted, settling comfortably on the stool and reaching for her glass of wine. "You're not looking so bad yourself. It's nice to finally see you out of those awful sweaters."
Methos laughed. "You know, it seemed like a good idea ten years ago. Grad student, sweaters, sweatshirts, the whole bit." He shook his head ruefully. "If I have to wear one more cable knit, I will go completely insane."
It was only then that Duncan noticed Methos's outfit. Black jeans - - no particular surprise there; black boots -- again, no surprise, although they were a bit trendier and a good deal more expensive than Duncan would have expected; and a deep black brushed silk shirt. Button-down, no less. Now that *was* a surprise. MacLeod's eyes unwillingly followed the line of buttons down to where the shirt disappeared into the belted waistline of Methos's jeans . . . and the belt was another surprise in and of itself. Methos didn't wear belts. Especially not expensive leather ones, with silver clasps in the shape of . . . a snake? A lizard? What the hell *was* that, anyway?
"Duncan." Amanda's voice purred into his ear. "You're staring."
MacLeod jerked his head up to find himself the object of three very amused and speculative glances. He reddened.
"It's a basilisk," Amanda volunteered. "Hand-made in Italy." She cocked her head to the side. "I suppose it's an antique now."
Methos nodded. "It does well as a belt buckle, don't you think?"
"It was too heavy for a cloak clasp," Amanda agreed. "I told Guiseppe he should have used a lighter metal, but he insisted on silver . . ."
"Because he could charge you three times as much," Methos countered. "He was as much a thief as you were."
"But not nearly as good at it," Amanda cooed, batting her eyelashes outrageously.
"That goes without saying."
MacLeod sat back, grumpy again, as Methos and Amanda lapsed into an old dialect of Italian, laughing and flirting flagrantly. <The worst of it is>, he brooded, <they're not even doing it on purpose.> No, though they had clearly been trying to goad him into some sort of reaction with that little fiasco the previous week -- and had succeeded brilliantly, if the way he found himself acting was any indication -- this was too natural, too easy. If they'd been trying to provoke him now, they'd have been speaking a language he could understand.
Somehow, this was actually worse than seeing them tearing each other's clothes off on the floor. *That* had been for show . . . well, he was pretty sure it had been for show . . . while this was quite real, from the looks of it. Which didn't make any sense, because even though Methos and Amanda had apparently been lovers once <*Are* still lovers, you imbecile, or don't you remember the stain on your carpet?> they weren't *dating*.
That was just ridiculous.
<You think so? I don't.>
"Shut up," he muttered, and winced when he realized he'd said it out loud. His subconscious was rapidly getting out of control. It was embarrassing. Fixedly ignoring the bemused stare he was getting from Methos, he downed the rest of his drink in one too-hasty swallow and checked his watch.
"It's almost seven o'clock," he announced, more to change the topic than because he really cared. Anything to get Methos to look somewhere else . . .
"Seven? Damn!" Amanda checked her wrist and frowned. "My watch must be running slow again." She shook her wrist petulantly. "I just had it fixed, too."
"Steal yourself a new one," Methos suggested blandly, still sprawled comfortably across his stool. He looked mere minutes away from sprouting roots.
She stuck her tongue out and stood up, reaching for her coat. "I'm getting a cab. Pierre doesn't hold your table if you're late."
"You're going to Pierre's?" Joe whistled. "Your guy must be rich."
Amanda raised her eyebrow delicately. "Rich enough."
Methos looked thoughtful. "Maybe he'll buy you a new watch."
She snorted. "I doubt it."
"Oh, c'mon. Just bat your eyelashes at him a few times. It might work wonders."
"And pigs might fly." She waited a heartbeat until Methos grinned back at her, and finished buttoning her coat, bending slightly to give Duncan a kiss on the cheek. "Have a good night. Don't drink too much, all right?"
"Yes, mom." A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye revealed Methos rising to his feet and pulling on his coat in one smooth motion. "You're leaving?"
Methos nodded quizzically. "Do you have a problem with that?" He checked his glass for any last vestiges of beer, as if that was the only conceivable reason to stay.
"I just thought you might want to grab a pizza."
"As lovely as that sounds, I'm afraid I'm otherwise engaged. Coming?"
The last was addressed to Amanda, and Duncan blinked slowly as the two other Immortals linked arms and headed towards the door.
"I thought you said you had a date."
Amanda smiled sweetly at him. "I do."
Duncan blinked again, more rapidly this time. "With Methos?"
"Yes."
"You're going to dinner together?"
Methos clucked impatiently. "As impossible as it may be to believe, Highlander, yes. Amanda and I are going to dinner. I'd invite you to join us, but . . . " Cool hazel eyes trailed slowly over his body. ". . . you're really not dressed for it. Sorry, Mac."
They left the bar, arms still linked. MacLeod could hear snatches of the conversation. ". . .says you'll probably sleep with . . . "
"Only if you're lucky, caro."
Methos's answer was lost to the wind as he held the door open for her, but Amanda's bright laugh rang clearly through the door. MacLeod saw their shadows through the frosted glass window, huddling close until they disappeared into the blurry yellow outline of a taxi.
His subconscious whistled innocently. <I hate to say I told you so, but . . . >
"Shut up."
<It's just that->
"Shut *up*!"
Joe eyed him pityingly. "You're really losing it, buddy."
"Tell me about it."
"You *are* jealous, you know."
Duncan groaned wearily and dropped his head into his arms. "Oh god, please don't start again . . . "
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
This was not part of the Plan.
That the Plan's mere existence was due to an ill-conceived and overlong bout with cheap whiskey, Methos did not forget for an instant. Drinking games were best played with strangers, those who didn't know the right questions to ask, or who at the very least couldn't tell when you were lying. It had been a Very Bad Idea to drink with Amanda, one of the people who knew him best -- come to think of it, she probably knew him better than anyone, now that everyone else from the old days was dead . . . which was a thought entirely too depressing and best forgotten.
Regardless, it had in retrospect been a patently idiotic idea to play a drinking game with Amanda, since with nothing more than an instant's hesitation on his part in response to a question that hit just a bit too close to home, the cat had been let squarely out of the bag. She'd been merciless then, and he'd been too drunk to even try to lie to her . . . an activity which he had in any event never been able to master. (Never mind that she thought he could lie to her. He couldn't.) So she knew, and she'd been devilishly insistent that all he needed was a Plan, because Methos was the master planner, and "it's what you do best, caro."
So they'd conspired and plotted and schemed, and devised quite a lovely plan. Nothing overly dramatic, nothing fancy. It was just a simple little seduction, hardly the storming of the Bastille.
It had been a pretty little plan. And this had no part in it.
He was not supposed to be here, sheathed inside her, feeling her breath hot on his neck and wanting more than anything to get utterly lost in her. He wasn't supposed to be enchanted with her scent, sweet cinnamon and cloves and unbelievably enticing. He wasn't supposed to be remembering how good they'd been together, how good they still were, god . . . *so* good; he could barely think, could only really focus on how it felt right *now*, and only Amanda had ever been able to do that, make him live completely and utterly in the moment, and with 5,000 years of moments weighing him down it was a gift he treasured . . .
She moved underneath him, closed herself around him, and it was searingly hot liquid bliss. He ached in every pore with the need to finish it, to bring this unbearably exquisite agony to an end, because surely if it kept on he'd shatter, no one could feel like this and expect to live through it . . .
She cried out, eyes closed and head back, body surging with his, and what words he could hear were in Italian, old Italian, but he couldn't make himself understand them. He was back before Italian, before Latin, before Hebrew and Phoenician and Sumerian . . . back to that language he only ever spoke with her, even though he knew she couldn't understand it . . . and then he was back before even that and the only word he could remember was her name.
He cried out to her then, or thought he did, and it didn't really matter because she was past hearing, just as lost in the ecstasy as he was. Her nails raked down his back and he shivered as the blue fire danced across his skin, healing the gashes before the blood could really begin to flow. She scratched him again, then again and again and he loved it, loved her, loved making love to her and never wanted to stop but gods it was going to kill him if it didn't stop and he wasn't sure he believed that beheading was the only way to kill an Immortal; surely you could be fucked to death, couldn't you? Of course you could. He could feel it happening, could feel his Quickening spiraling through him, 5,000 years of power surging and twisting and spiraling in preparation for release and it would be a hell of a way to go . . .
Gods, oh gods . . . but that was wrong, and the gentle voice that played in his mind was one out of memory so distant that it was nothing more than a dream, really . . . "It is the goddesses who gift us with pleasure, Matios. Curse the gods for your pain, but thank the goddesses for the joy." His own voice in answer, soft and not yet deepened by age, "Yes, Father." In deference to the dream voices, he did thank the goddesses, in half-remembered words and prayers, but cursed the gods too, for as much as this was pleasure, it was also pain, the unearthly torment of knowing it would end too soon and not soon enough, and sweet lorii, please let me breathe just one more time. . .
And then everything he was poured out of him in a torrent of heat and fire, and Amanda bucked beneath him and reached for his lips with hers. She cried out into his mouth, but he could barely hear her over the roaring of the lightening as it danced around them, lifting them up into the air as easily as feathers on a breeze. It was a melding of souls as much as Quickenings -- sometimes he pitied the mortals that they would never know this unity.
They settled to the bed as the lightening died; Amanda bucked underneath him again and he was lost as another kind of storm took hold of his body, one much more mundane but none the less intense for that . . . and this time he was the one who cried out into her mouth as he came.
It was only later as they lay together, a mess of tangled limbs and blankets and hastily discarded clothing, that he remembered his plan and cursed himself for twenty different kinds of a fool. He'd been crazy to think he could dance with her without wanting to hold her, crazy to think he could hold her without wanting to kiss her, crazy to think that he could kiss her without wanting more. And he'd been flat out delusional to think he could make love to her without falling in love all over again.
This was no part of the Plan.
Shit.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"You're not."
"I am."
"MacLeod-"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because you'll be better off on the couch."
"I hate sleeping on your couch."
"At least let me call you a cab."
"I'm not drunk, Joe."
"You drank an entire bottle of whiskey."
"I'm Immortal."
"You're a drunk Immortal."
"I recover quickly."
"Not quickly enough."
"The *keys*, Joe."
"No. I mean it, MacLeod, you take a cab or you sleep here. I am not letting you near your car."
"This is definitely interference," Duncan grumbled.
"So sue me. Now, you want me to call a cab, or should I pull out the spare sheets?"
MacLeod inhaled peevishly. Joe couldn't really keep him from the keys, they both knew that, but that wasn't the point. He glared angrily at the offending and exceptionally lumpy couch, then back at the offending and relatively unlumpy mortal, who appeared remarkably unfazed by the scrutiny. "I'll take a taxi."
Joe's smile was blindingly sunny and altogether too chipper for three a.m. in the morning. "Good choice."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"Methos?"
"Hmmm?"
"You asleep?"
"No. Just resting."
"Mmm."
A brief and companionable silence filled the room.
"Methos?"
"Hmmm?"
"Does that ever . . . "
"No."
"Never?"
"Only with you, Mina."
"*Never* with anyone else?"
Methos sighed softly and shifted a bit. Amanda's weight settled comfortably into his arm. "Once with Rebecca."
"I thought so. I can feel her in you." She pressed her head into his neck and kissed him gently. "Anyone else?"
"Byron. Once, right after his first death." He chuckled softly. "He thought Immortal sex was always like that. I hated to have to tell him otherwise."
"I'm sorry Duncan killed him, caro."
"Me too." His voice was gently wistful in the darkness. "He'd grown tired of living, though. If it hadn't been MacLeod, it would have been someone else."
Amanda sighed softly. "I don't think I'll ever grow tired of living."
"I know. It's just one of the many reasons I love you."
"You don't."
"I do."
"Not really, you don't. You love him."
"I love you both. It does happen, you know."
"I know, but . . . "
"I won't say it if it bothers you."
"It doesn't bother me. It just complicates things."
"They're complicated anyway. It doesn't matter whether or not I say it out loud, Mina."
"I know." She sighed again and snuggled deeper into his embrace, wincing as his arms suddenly gripped her too tightly. The buzz only hit her a split second later. "Who-"
"MacLeod."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. Shit. What time is it, anyway?"
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"Methos!"
"Duncan."
"What are ye doin' out here?"
"I live here."
"It's four in the mornin'."
"Yes, I know. It's no time for you to be skulking about outside my apartment. Either come in or go home, but stop wandering in and out of range like that. You've been driving me crazy for the past 40 minutes."
"Sorry. I didn't know you could feel me."
"I'm a sensitive guy. Are you coming in?"
MacLeod hesitated. "Is Amanda inside?"
"Yes." Methos rolled his eyes at MacLeod's dejected expression. "She's asleep. You can have the couch. We'll talk in the morning."
"I don't want to put you to any trouble."
"It's not any trouble. Come on, Duncan. You're not going to find another cab on this street at this time in the morning.
"I gave him the wrong address. I meant to go home . . . "
"I'm sure you did."
"I *did*."
"I believe you, Duncan. Now come on inside before I freeze to death."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"Methos?"
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. Not really. The bed's too cold without you."
"Sorry." He slid under the sheets and pulled her close. "Better?"
"No!" She slapped his hands away. "Your hands are freezing."
"It's cold outside."
"Obviously." She burrowed a little deeper under the covers, the flimsy negligee scant protection against the chill. "Is he asleep?"
"Passed out, I think. He smells like a distillery. I'm going to have to have a little talk with Joe. What if some other Immortal had come along?"
Amanda giggled. "I'd still give good odds on Duncan, even drunk."
"Yeah, well, that's not the point."
She snuggled a little closer. "Does he know I'm here?"
"Yes."
"He didn't want to come in?"
"He didn't want anything one way or the other. He passed out before we got two feet into the apartment."
"Oh." She giggled softly. "You have to admit, he's a very appealing drunk."
"I admit nothing. Hey! No tickling! Amanda . . . *stop*!"
"Say 'uncle' . . . "
"No, I . . . Mina . . . I . . . stop it!"
"You need to warm up."
"You . . . you'll wake . . . wake him up . . . for god's sake, *stop* it!"
"I forgot how much fun this was. You're so . . . *hey*, let me go!"
Methos panted raggedly, struggling desperately to catch his breath. He gripped her wrists tighter and pushed her down farther into the bed. "I think not."
"Methos-"
"Oh, no. It's time to pay the piper, Mina."
"But-" She gasped as he settled without warning between her legs and slid smoothly home. A breathless laugh escaped her as she bucked up to meet him, wrapping her legs tightly around his still-sweaty back. "You have the strangest reaction to being tickled, caro."
"As if you didn't know it?"
"I didn't say that. I just . . . mmm . . . " She bit her lip against the moan threatening to escape. "I thought you were worried about waking him up?"
"We'll just have to be quiet then, won't we?"
His mouth on hers muffled any further commentary she might have made, and they took special care to be as quiet as they could. It was almost quiet enough.
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