Special thanks to chelle for catching my mistakes and helpful suggestions and to Killa for hugs and final stamp of approval. 
 
 

A casual suggestion, made during a rare moment of quiet late one night when there was just the two of them left at the bar and Joe was busy closing out the register. MacLeod sat across from him with his legs up on the table, tossing a pack of playing cards back and forth between his hands. 

"So what do you say?" Methos asked, taking a quick swig of the last of his beer, perusing a tattered copy of the local free newspaper -- The Seacouver Reporter. "Should be fun, don't you think?"

"I guess."  MacLeod looked at him with amused disbelief, his eyebrows creased in apparent confusion. He was smiling, though. Not broadly, but that "where's the catch?" smile of his.

"Come on Mac. This sort of thing's just up your alley, isn't it?" Again, the little smile, this time with a slight eyebrow lift. Methos waved the empty beer bottle around for emphasis. "Sawdust and pigs, prized produce, food that comes on a stick." 

Methos expected a hasty exclamation of denial, a shout of indignation, maybe a rolling of eyes and a casual dismissal, all things Mac had done in the past when Methos teased him. But MacLeod just narrowed his eyes and it made Methos smile. Then, all of a sudden, MacLeod laughed, and shook his head, and said, "I don't believe you."

"What's wrong with wanting to go to a country fair?" Methos asked innocently. MacLeod stood, leaving the cards on the table and grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. Apparently the evening was over. Methos rose as well, shrugging into his coat. "Fine, I'll go by myself. Or with Joe. Hey Joe, want to go to a country fair with me?" Joe grunted, elbow deep in receipts and little piles of cash. "See, I'll go with Joe."

"'Bye Joe," said MacLeod. Joe looked up briefly, waving at them as they exited.

Outside it was fresh and cool and the night sky floated high and far away, a never-ending darkness. A few scattered stars pushed their way through to shine down, softly twinkling. Methos stared upwards, feeling MacLeod brush past him. Slowly he followed down the steps, eyes remaining on the dark heavens above. Fewer and fewer stars every year, he thought. 

Lost in thought and not looking where he was going, Methos bumped into MacLeod. He hadn't realized MacLeod had stopped or that MacLeod had been watching him, a curious expression on his face. The expression held his amusement, the same amusement that had been there most of the night, and something else. Something like kinship, or understanding, or maybe it was just the look of one friend to another, the one that said, "I know. You know. We know." Methos felt his cheeks become warm and he stepped away, looking briefly back up to the sky.  "Few stars." It was all the explanation he had.

Again that look, only stripped of amusement. MacLeod's eyes lifted upwards and he nodded. 

A strange moment. Strange, but oddly comforting. Methos walked MacLeod to his car.

"Where are you parked?" Mac asked, unlocking the driver side door.

"I didn't drive. I was with Joe all day."

"Get in. I'll give you a ride."

A nearby street lamp glowed above creating an island of light. "I was thinking I would walk."

The slight crease in MacLeod's brow returned. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I think so." Methos gave MacLeod an affectionate pat on the arm. "Talk to you soon." He walked away into the darkness, hands shoved into pockets. 

"Methos."

Methos paused and turned. MacLeod was outlined in light, shining despite his dark clothes. And Methos walked back, entering the sphere of light again because he didn't want to stand in shadow while his friend stood so brightly before him. He wanted Mac to see him.

"When did you want to go to that fair?"

"Oh, so now you want to go."

"I never said I didn't."

"Too late. I'm going with Joe, remember. You missed out," Methos said, as straight faced as he could manage, which wasn't very. He'd always claimed he was easily amused and everything about MacLeod amused him in an infinite variety of ways. Days of amusement, really. Days, weeks, months, years. Centuries. MacLeod gave him one of his many looks and Methos couldnât help it; he chuckled. "Whenever."

"Tomorrow?"

Methos made a show of looking at his watch. "Ah..."

"Methos."

Methos was delighted; he almost had Mac growling. "Tomorrow," he agreed, smiling. 

"Methos."

"Yes, Mac." Pause. Then a silence that was filled with the noise of a darkened city. Methos held Mac's eyes and everything softened and it was there again. That something from earlier, that spoke volumes in a language Methos couldn't quite hear, but, he realized, tasted distinctly like change.  "Yes?" he asked again.

"Noon okay for you?"

Methos nodded. "Sure."

Methos made himself wave goodbye and stepped away, back into darkness. 

There were several calls starting around 8:30 in the A. M. 

Ring.

"Pierson." 

"You're awake." It was Mac, of course. Methos smiled. 

"You sound surprised."

"Well, you know, it's early."

"And?"

"You're never up early."

"Says who?"

"Says you, when you sleep over."

"I sleep in once or twice and suddenly I'm a good-for-nothing lay-about? I'll have you know, MacLeod, I was awake at the crack of dawn," Methos said, still in bed, playing with the phone cord. His coffee machine came to life and started gurgling. He had woken up at dawn, for a minute or two.

Long pause.

"Riiight." 

Methos grinned. 

"Listen, I'm calling Joe, to see if he's coming or not."

"Okay. Sounds good."

"See ya at noon."

"Yup." Click. 

With a silly grin on his face, Methos got up, scratched himself in various spots, and padded over to the kitchen, taking his cordless phone with him. He stared at the coffee maker until it produced enough liquid for one cup. The phone rang.

"Pierson."

"Joe can't make it."

"Hm."

"He says to bring him back a stuffed animal."

Methos poured the almost ready coffee, took a sip, burned his tongue, cursed, and then put the cup down, adding sugar and milk. "Did he specify a color?"

"No. Should he have?"

"Well what if we got him a blue teddy bear or something when he really wanted a pink one?"

"I see your point."

"All in the details, Mac."

Mac snorted. Then there was a long pause. 

"You were still in bed when I called earlier, weren't you?" Mac's voice purred in Methos' ear. Methos gulped another sip of his coffee, almost choking, taking note that his stomach had suddenly taken a nosedive and was currently somewhere below his feet. 

Beat.

"Maybe." Methos could almost hear Mac's slow smile spread across his face and he wished desperately that he could have seen it.

"See you in a few hours, Methos."

MacLeod cut the connection. Methos put the phone on the counter and stared at it while he finished his coffee. He whipped up a quick breakfast, eating absentmindedly, his eyes occasionally landing on the phone. He rinsed his dishes, poured himself another coffee, finally turning his back on the phone and taking his coffee with him into the bathroom. 

Ten seconds later he went back and got the phone. 

Some part of him registered the absurdity of his actions, but it was a very small part of him, one he ignored often, or rather when it suited him. Besides, it was unlikely Mac was going to call again, anyway. And it wasn't like Methos was going to take long in the shower, either. Of course, that didn't explain why he'd taken the phone with him into the bathroom. 

Somewhere between lathering shampoo into his hair and rinsing the soap from his body, the phone rang. This time not only did his stomach drop below his feet, it also did a flip-flop. He turned the water off, pushed the shower door open, reached for the phone and knocked it over in his haste. Ass in the air, hands on the floor, Methos chased after the phone, which slipped from his soapy hands twice before he had a good hold on it and managed to push the "talk" button.

"Pierson," he said, sounding as normal as ever.

"Joe said, and I quote, 'You bring me back a pink teddy bear and I'll disown your ass as my Immortal, got it. And for chrissake stop calling so goddamn early in the morning. Some of us work at night.' Then he hung up. I say we get him a pink teddy bear."

Two things occurred to Methos at the same time. The first was a realization of just how ridiculous he looked at that moment and the second -- Mac was in a playful mood. 

"That was rude of him." Methos carefully righted himself, sitting down in the tub. 

"I thought so."

"He's the one requesting teddy bears as gifts, after all."

"Exactly."

"He's lucky if he gets anything now."

Silence. Methos froze, extremely aware of his wet bum sitting in a shallow pool of water, soap drying on his naked skin. The showerhead dripped water above him. 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"Methos, are you in the bathroom?"

Oh shit. Methos carefully considered his answer. "Maybe."

Long pause. "Are you...You're not... Are you on the toilet?"

It took a lot of effort on Methos' part not to break down into hysterical giggles. "No."

Another long pause. "Shower?"

Oh damn. Methos swallowed. "Maybe."

In Methos' mind he heard the next question, Mac's voice curling around him. Naked? You're naked when you talk to me? Do you touch yourself, Methos? Are you touching yourself right now?

Methos' hand reached for his cock. 

There was only quiet breathing on the other end of the phone. Then, "I may be there earlier than noon."

"Okay."

It was like everything he had previously come to know and understand and take for granted was suddenly stripped of its apparently fragile little hold and he was left standing bare for all the world to see. The world being Duncan MacLeod. 

There were no more phone calls. Showered (finally) and mostly dressed (no shoes), Methos waited. He didn't have to wait for long. Presence shivered down his spine seconds before there was a knock at his door. It was 10:45 A.M. 

He opened the door. MacLeod stood in the doorway and they stared at each other for untold seconds. A small smile crept across MacLeod's face and he stepped forward, brushing close past Methos, and it was a blur of fabric, leather, and the smell of Mac's aftershave. The slight press of body heat. MacLeod stepped into the apartment. 

"Come in," murmured Methos. 

"I hope you don't mind that I'm early."

Methos shook his head. "Mind? Why should I mind, considering you woke me up at 8:30."

"So you admit you were asleep?"

Methos shrugged. "I'm not admitting anything. Coffee?" Methos retreated into the kitchen.

"Yeah, okay." MacLeod followed right behind him. Methos took several breaths, painfully aware of MacLeod's presence. "Please explain to me how 'you woke me' means you weren't asleep?"

"Are you really going to beat this into the ground, MacLeod?" Mug. Counter. Coffee pot. Pour, careful not to spill. Pay no attention to the man leaning casually against the doorway into the kitchen, hands hooked into his pockets. Pay no attention when he smiles and his eyes light up, and he laughs. Pay no attention to the way his white T-shirt stretches across his chest, how it contrasts against the darkness of his skin, or how it tucks into his jeans. Methos concentrated on the heat of the coffeepot in his hand and the smoothness of the counter. A slow breath in. And then out. Methos took hold of the mug and turned.

"He--." And there was MacLeod, not even a step away, surprising Methos who hadn't sensed him come close, so close Methos felt his heat from forehead to knees. Methos automatically pressed back against the counter. "Here," he tried again. "Black, right?"

MacLeod nodded, slowly, taking the mug from Methos' hand. Their fingers touched. Methos breathed shallowly, watching in fascination as MacLeod brought the mug to his lips, lips blowing a little air to cool down the liquid, lips parting and swallowing. Methos gripped the counter behind him. 

Impossibly, MacLeod stepped in closer and they still weren't touching. "Thanks," he said, and his hot coffee scented breath skimmed across Methos' skin and Methos turned his head slightly, exposing his neck. Tendrils of breath caressed him. 

MacLeod stepped away and Methos took a deep breath, realizing he was plastered against the counter, almost on top of it. After a moment, Methos looked at MacLeod.

MacLeod stood a safe distance away, with an unsafe expression on his face. He had a secret smile just on his lips, barely there, mostly hidden behind his hand and the coffee he sipped slowly. 

Oh God. Methos knew he was in trouble. He'd been right -- MacLeod was in a playful mood. Despite his dire situation, Methos couldn't help his own answering secret smile, barely there, which he quickly hid, ducking his head. Mumbling something about getting ready, Methos left the kitchen in a hurry. 

"I'm ready to go when you are," Methos called from the relative safety of his bedroom. Down on his knees, he fished under his bed for his shoes, finding one but not the other. 

Head still underneath the bed, Methos stilled as footsteps approached. Fully aware that, for the second time that day, his ass was waving in the air. A hand touched him just on the small of his back, warm. 

"Looking for this?" 

Methos turned his head and found MacLeod leaning over holding his other shoe. "Ah, yes, thanks." Methos stood, then sat on the bed and started putting his shoes on.

He was grateful when MacLeod stepped back. "You still want to go?" asked MacLeod. 

Methos stopped mid-lace on the first shoe. "You don't?" He knew that slight edge of panic in his voice. 

MacLeod shrugged, coming close again. He dropped onto one knee, taking Methos' half-tied shoe into his hands and onto his thigh. Methos felt the pressure of MacLeod's hands, carefully moving the laces over the hooks and tying the bow tight and firm, making sure the hem of his jeans rested evenly. Finished, Mac placed one hand on Methos' calf and the other on his heel and placed the newly tied foot and shoe on the floor. Then he turned his attention to the other foot. 

MacLeod started by prepping the shoe, widening the mouth and pulling the tongue down. He took hold of Methos' foot. Through his sock, Methos felt Mac's fingers on his ankles, gentle and firm, reaching and applying slight pressure along the tendons of his ankle. MacLeod angled Methos' foot to enter the shoe. Tighten, lace, and tie. MacLeod arranged the hem neatly and then lowered the foot to the floor. A quick rub of Methos' calf and MacLeod was done.

Speechless, shaken, Methos caught Mac's gaze as his head lifted. What he saw there in Mac's clear brown eyes was what he'd seen the night before under the starless night sky. A nameless thing. 

No, he thought. No, I don't want to go. Let's stay here. I want to watch you. Doing anything. I want to watch you watch me. Look at me like that again. Speak to me while I lie naked beneath you. 

MacLeod gripped Methos' hands, leaning in. Methos' legs widened slightly; his breath hitched. 

Then MacLeod was standing, pulling Methos to his feet. "You're right. We should go. It'll be fun."

MacLeod flashed Methos a quick grin and walked out of the room, calling behind him, "Come on, let's get going."

Left standing in mild shock, it took Methos a moment to remember how to close his mouth. "Bastard," he said, adjusting himself before he followed MacLeod. 

Methos sat tense and still in the passenger side of the Thunderbird. He was taut with apprehension, wondering what MacLeod was thinking, what was going on in that head of his? Was he doing it on purpose? Why now? Today? Was MacLeod really just playing or was he serious? 

Long stretches of silence. They quickly left the city and its suburbs behind. Trees and rocks intermixed with secluded looking homes and the occasional field. Methos saw none of it, too busy not paying attention to every move that Mac made. The casual strength of his hands on the steering wheel. The way his legs fell open moving from the gas to the brake and back again and how his jeans creased over his crotch. 

Methos shifted in his seat.  He caught a whiff of MacLeod's aftershave, mixed with the leather of his jacket. Mac's fingers tapped out a rhythm on his jeans -- tap, tap, tappity tap. 

"Methos."

Leaves didn't turn very many colors here, but there were some yellows and reds amongst the browns and greens. 

"Methos." Methos jumped when he felt Mac's hand on his arm. 

"What?"

"You weren't answering. Everything okay? You seem a little... distracted."

"Distracted?" Methos repeated.

"Yes."

"I seem distracted?"

"Yeah, you do."

"Really. Wonder why that is."

"Methos?"

"Having fun, MacLeod?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." MacLeod was all feigned innocence. They exited the highway and entered a small town. 

Methos scoffed. MacLeod looked worriedly at him. They stopped at a red light. Methos scoffed again and then choked as MacLeod leaned over to search for something in the glove compartment. Methos bit his lip and looked anywhere but at MacLeod between his legs, concentrating on the small town scenery, the people walking, and oh look at that funny little dog. On their own volition, Methos' legs widened and brushed against Mac's chest. Mac, still searching, leaned over even more, placing one hand on the leather seat between Methos' legs. Methos gripped the armrest and his hips moved ever so slightly. 

"Ah," exclaimed Mac, finding a map and unfolding it. Cars honked behind them and MacLeod scowled into the rearview mirror. "You were saying?" 

Methos could only look helplessly in front of him, forgetting whatever it was that he'd been talking about. 

"Methos." There was something different in Mac's voice, suddenly lacking the note of playfulness that had been there since morning. It penetrated Methos' fog and he turned. It was just a simple smile, stripped of artistry, and an honest look of concern asking, have I pushed too much?

Methos blinked. No, he answered silently. He noticed the wind blowing and how MacLeod's hair escaped its clasp and how silly that looked. The tension in him eased somewhat and he breathed deeply. 

The county fair was only about thirty minutes outside of Seacouver and they soon saw signs directing them to turn left here and right there. It was way out in the middle of nowhere, where country fairs usually reside. Typically, the fair was packed and they had to park some distance away. They locked the car, grabbed their coats and swords, and joined the rest of the people all heading in the same direction. Perhaps sensing that Methos was close to exploding, and not in a good way, Mac played nice the rest of the way and kept his body parts at a safe distance. 

"Remember, we're in Lot I," MacLeod said.

They paid their entrance fees and started wandering aimlessly through the crowds of people. It was a sprawling affair, full of every sort of thing one usually finds at county fairs: milking demonstrations, tractor pulls, arts and crafts, pig racing, a Ferris wheel and other rides in varying degrees of decrepitude. 

Methos was content to follow Mac's lead and they visited all corners of the fair, pausing for five minutes to watch the Native American dance show and five minutes at the petting zoo, and five minutes in the vegetable tent and then the chainsaw artist. 

It was all very pleasant and Methos was lulled into a comfortable state of safety. MacLeod was always there, close enough for Methos to smell him, to feel him in brief exchanges of almost touches, but it wasn't the maddening frisson of arousal from before. The sun shone down and there was a light breeze. MacLeod smiled warmly, his eyes brown and golden and Methos was pleased. This was, after all, his idea. And if he stared a little too hard while MacLeod ate a corn dog (on a stick) no one seemed to notice. 

It was over by one of the staged arenas that things changed, abruptly. With unspoken agreement they stopped to watch, intrigued by the crowd that had gathered. At first glance Methos thought it was a Maypole, only it wasn't the right time of year and there weren't any gaily-clad young maidens with brightly colored ribbons. Instead of maidens there were several young boys and a few girls of various ages lining up with some purpose Methos couldn't quite figure out. One of the boys stepped up and started shimmying up the pole only to slowly slide back down again. 

"What are they doing?" asked Methos. 

MacLeod stepped close to the fence circling the arena, a curious unreadable gleam in his eyes. "I haven't seen one of these in..." he paused for thought, "over fifty years. That's a peeled poplar pole greased with lard. The boys try to climb up to the top to get the dollar bill." He pointed to the top of the pole where Methos saw a bit of green waving.  "Although I'm sure it's more like fifty or a hundred dollars these days."

"What an absurd thing to do." Methos looked with befuddlement as the next kid, a girl this time, approached the pole. Her parents hooted and hollered from the sidelines, obviously thrilled that their child was about to climb a 12-foot phallic symbol. 

"Oh, I don't know. That's a lot of money for a kid. And it's just a little grease." 

Methos gave MacLeod a perplexed look. "If you say so."

"Oh come now, Methos." MacLeod stepped close and a hand came around and pressing Methos against MacLeod and their bodies touched all along one side. MacLeod leaned in and Methos shivered, feeling MacLeod's deep rumbling whisper and the back of his neck prickled. "You're telling me you've never had your hands on a greased pole before? Now why don't I believe that?" The hand at Methos' side moved down his front and pressed firmly into Methos' crotch while at his neck he felt the quick nip of MacLeod's teeth. 

Methos gasped. He pushed against the hand at his crotch and he dropped his head to one side, but the hand was suddenly gone and there was just a slight dampness left on the skin of his neck. Oh God. Methos looked frantically around but no one paid him any attention. All eyes were on the girl who was just reaching the top of the pole. Wild cheering erupted as she grabbed the money before sliding all the way down to the bottom. 

"Well, are you coming?" MacLeod stood a distance away, having the audacity to look impatient. 

Methos could think of several different responses to that question but not at all sure of his verbal skills at the moment, he settled for an angry glare, marching past MacLeod who just grinned placidly at him. The nerve of him, thought Methos. Who does he think he is anyway? If he thought Methos was just going to put up with this, this, whatever it was, then he could just, he could just--

Marching past the old barn that held the antique tractor show, Methos was ambushed from behind. A hand clasped over his mouth and an arm grabbed him around his middle, pulling him into an abandoned lean-to. Turned around and pinned to the wall Methos looked into the face of his attacker. 

"Mac--" 

"Methos," purred MacLeod, pushing Methos into the wall. 

Methos' heart hammered in his chest. Everything became crystal clear. Every sensation an isolated universe: the wall of the lean-to against his back, the way Mac's hands held his arms above him, their chests pressing against each other and the rise and fall of their breathing, the smell and heat of MacLeod's trapped arousal pressing into his thigh, the rub of jeans against jeans. MacLeod surged closer, his thigh pressing hard between Methos' legs making him gasp and arch. 

With labored breathing Methos watched MacLeod's lean in, watched his lips slowly find his own. MacLeod growled and Methos opened his mouth and whimpered. Tongues thrust into wet heat and Methos' arms were suddenly let go and they fell naturally to the back of Mac's head. Fingers in Mac's hair and on his neck and Mac's hands sliding down to his chest, his thumbs rubbing nipples through fabric.

Mac thrust against Methos, hard, once, twice. Yes, yes, just like that. Do that again. Methos met the thrusts, gripping Mac with viselike fingers, so close. Mac grabbed Methos' head and turned it, first licking then biting his exposed neck. Methos cried and bucked and--

It all stopped. 

A quick press on just the right spot, a fast adjustment of clothing, and Methos was whisked back out into the slow moving throng of the country fair. 

Barely able to walk, it was a few moments before Methos figured out which way was up and which way was down. Where was he again? What was he doing here? What was his name?

He thought about getting mad and decided it was a good idea. "Don't. Touch. Me." Methos bit the words out slowly, shaking Mac's hand off his arm, much to MacLeod's amusement and the raised eyebrows of the few passersby. 

MacLeod held his hands up in a gesture of peace. Eyeing him warily, Methos wondering how the man could show no signs of strain, especially after that last bit in the lean-to. The place on his neck where MacLeod bit him throbbed. 

Then he noticed all of MacLeod's little tells, the tightness of his shoulders. The way he breathed in slowly, through his nose and then back out again. How MacLeod moved, with all of his attention outside of him, away from his trapped erection which Methos saw clearly outlined against the fabric of his pants. He looked into MacLeod's eyes, and there it was again, piercing him straight through and like all the times before Methos was laid bare. 

Methos swallowed and shook his head, not quite believing he was letting all this insanity play itself out. A tentative hand on his arm and Methos turned. The hand dropped away.

MacLeod smiled, entirely himself, charming and strong and gorgeous. "Ready?"

Unbelievable. "Yeah, yeah." Methos gave Mac a dark glower before walking back in the direction of the rides and games and other vendors. 

Methos kept at least an arms length between MacLeod and him at all times, not at all trusting after the lean-to incident. But that didn't prevent him from being ambushed two more times, once behind Mr. Bungles' Ring Toss, 

tongue down his throat so fast he couldn't think couldn't breathe kisses that kept moving and changing like the stars like his eyes brown and golden and bright and

then again in a blind spot between the Apple Bobbing and Mrs. Fishy's Fish Pond;

fingers tangled together leading him slowly burning eyes and soft lips and he couldn't get enough couldn't ask for more couldn't stop don't stop just there and there and wet worshipful kisses along his jaw and down his neck and 

the claptrap jingle jangle sounds of the various rides and games added an extra element of the absurd and Methos was certain he would lose his mind soon.

If he were totally honest with himself, and Methos tried to be honest with himself at least once a day, he knew no one walked knowingly into an ambush. Then it wasn't an ambush. He watched MacLeod surreptitiously, breath catching if MacLeod so much as stepped an inch closer or glanced at him or turned his head in just the right way. 

If he were honest with himself Methos would recognize the sweet ache in his chest for what it was, remembering how the harder you fight the harder you fall. The arm distance slowly closed. 

"Which one do you think?" asked MacLeod, peering at the multi-colored array of teddy bears, puppy dogs, unicorns, dolls, dinosaurs, unrecognizable creatures displayed at the Wild Wild West Shooting Gallery. "That one?" Mac touched Methos on the shoulder and pointed to a pink and green pony. 

"What about that one?" Methos leaned into the touch, thinking they should stick to the classic teddy bear and pointed to a nice purple one with a pom-pom necktie.

MacLeod shook his head. "Nah."

"Just pick one, then."

"Well which one do you want?"

"MacLeod."

Immortal presence whispered across the back of Methos' neck and he stiffened and looked around. The fair grounds were crowded and filled to overflowing with harmless mortals, laughing and yelling and having a good time. 

"There." MacLeod placed a hand on his arm and Methos followed his gaze. About twelve feet away stood a man advertising his Immortality with a long dark trench coat, standing still as the crowd swarmed around him. 

"A friend of yours?" Methos asked. MacLeod shook his head no, moving in the direction of the unknown Immortal. Methos halted him, grabbing his arm. "Mac."

Methos held Mac's eyes, knowing the struggle he saw written on his friend's face.

You don't have to do this. You don't have to confront him. Let it go, Mac.

Mac looked at the intruder and then back at Methos; the unknown Immortal started making his way towards them. Methos saw the moment MacLeod made his decision.

"Come on." MacLeod pushed Methos behind the shooting gallery and they double backed through the games and rides, losing their mystery Immortal in the crowds. Heading straight for the exit, they left the fair and started the long trek back to car. 

Methos kept silent, seeing the stormy expression on MacLeod's face. He'll get over it, Methos thought hopefully, quietly mourning the loss of the day. And it was going so well, too. He looked behind them but saw no pursuer and began to relax a little. They passed a sign that said "Lot G". Almost to the car. 

"I'm sorry, Methos." 

Methos looked aghast at MacLeod. "Whatever for?" He spotted the T-Bird fifty paces away. There was no one around. "It's not like you invited that guy along."

"I know, but -- I just..." MacLeod grabbed his arm and they stopped.

Stormy eyes to match his face, hesitation and longing. Methos opened his mouth to speak, tasting the sun burnt air -- the taste of change -- and he shivered and found no words. He returned MacLeod's grip, hand to forearm, relying on the language of touch. MacLeod's eyes widened and then smiled. 

Methos took a deep breath and spoke. "It was time we left anyway. No telling what you would have done next."

"I was going for public scandal."

"I could tell." 

MacLeod chuckled and swooped in, planting a kiss on Methos with a loud smack. Dazed, Methos followed MacLeod back towards the car. 

It happened quickly. Immortal presence followed closely by the Immortal jumping out from between two cars. Methos just had time to see the gun pointed at his chest before the floor rushed up to meet him and the world darkened and then winked out.

Rising from darkness, Methos gasped and opened his eyes, arching against the pain of revival. Through the rushing blood in his ears he heard the sound of clanging swords. MacLeod. 

Crouching as he stood, Methos followed the noise to the edge of the parking lot where the ground dropped off into a deep ravine. A loud crack echoed through the air and lightning arched towards him as he rounded the edge. Pushed down by the force of the quickening fire, Methos shielded his eyes from the glare, his heart pounding in his ears. Down at the bottom of the ravine one man stood receiving the gift of his efforts. 

A last lightning bolt pinned MacLeod down and he staggered and fell to his knees. The smell of charred grass and ozone became overpowering. Methos scrambled down the side of the ravine and over to MacLeod's side. MacLeod looked up at him, rising unsteadily to his feet. 

A moment of hesitation. MacLeod looked down and placed his hand over the bullet hole at Methos' chest. Methos breathed and touched MacLeod's shoulder and neck and they fell into a hug.

"Come on, " said Methos, stepping back. "Let's get out of here."

Together they managed to get the dead Immortal out of the ravine and into the trunk of the T-Bird, conscious of people returning to their cars. They worked quickly. Methos was of the mind to leave the body at the bottom of the ravine, but the proximity to the fair made that a bad idea. They were lucky no one had witnessed the quickening.

"I'll drive." Methos held his hand out for the keys when the gory job was finished. He was exhausted and his neck, shoulders, and back ached from strain and stress; he knew quite well how much worse MacLeod was feeling. MacLeod's jaw tightened slightly but he nodded and gave Methos the keys to the car.

Methos drove quickly, riding the edge of recklessness, especially considering the dead body in the trunk. MacLeod sat silent in the passenger seat, waves of tension rolling off of him. Neither man spoke but all of Methos' thoughts rested on MacLeod, replaying events backwards and forwards: MacLeod on the phone, in his bedroom, hot hands and desperate kisses. Wind whistled between them, a sorrowful note of separation. 

They dumped the body by an abandoned pier not far from the loft, weighing it down first with a handy cinderblock. Methos watched the body disappear, sinking bellow the dark oily waters. 

"Methos." Methos turned and MacLeod reached for him, pulling him in to an embrace. "Methos," he repeated, kissing Methos' neck and cheek, arms tightening. 

Methos' hand went to MacLeod's waist, up to the hard muscles of MacLeod's back and shoulders, feeling the barely restrained quiver of tension. He dug his fingers into the tight muscles and Mac grunted softly into his mouth. 

"Let's go home, Mac. I know what you need and I can't give it to you here." 

"Oh." A lascivious grin. "And what do I need?" Methos felt himself blush. MacLeod began to walk backwards towards the car, pulling Methos along by his coat lapels. 

"You want a list?" asked Methos. MacLeod frowned. Methos smiled. He placed one hand on Mac's cheek. Mac turned his face into the caress. 

The sun set behind them. Wordlessly, they separated and entered the car. Methos drove home, to the loft.

"Why don't you take the first shower," offered Methos. They slipped into awkwardness, standing aimlessly in the loft, realizing how much their relationship had changed in just one day. How much more it was about to change. 

MacLeod nodded, grabbing and kissing Methos fast and deep before entering the bathroom with a wicked grin and an eyebrow waggle. 

What had he gotten himself into? Methos didn't know whether to laugh or cry or follow MacLeod into the shower. 

After a moment or two of dumbly staring at the bathroom door, Methos began to prepare a few things. He retrieved a relatively undamaged and new exercise mat from the dojo and placed it between the bed and the couch, laid a cool crisp sheet over it. He rummaged through the contents of the bedside table. The bathroom door opened and Methos froze and looked at MacLeod, thankfully dressed in a robe. MacLeod looked from Methos to the mat on the floor. 

"Hi," said Methos. 

"Hi." A question in his eyes.

"I thought I'd give you a massage."

Mac's face lit in delight. "Okay."

Beat.

"Okay, ah, do you have massage oil?"

"Yeah." MacLeod took over rummaging, stepping close to Methos who didn't move from where he was standing. MacLeod was damp and his hair fell in loose wet strands, smelling of shampoo and scented soap. He radiated heat. "It's in here somewhere. Ah, here--." MacLeod stood and caught Methos staring at him. Methos breathed in slowly and raised his hand, brushing an errant strand of hair from MacLeod's face. MacLeod swallowed, whispering, "Here it is. Methos."

From one breath to the next was all it took and they were kissing, fierce, unyielding, immovable kisses.  MacLeod ripped Methos' shirt off; Methos parted the robe. Skin against skin; MacLeod growled and unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed Methos down onto the bed yanking his pants off, cursing as they jammed against shoes. 

Shoes off. Robe off. Underwear and socks off. Methos lay naked underneath MacLeod, his hands on the broad chest above him, their legs tangled together. Frantic thrusting upwards into MacLeod's warmth, their cocks becoming slick, seeking friction. MacLeod stared down at him, his weight entirely on his arms, moving in undulations. Methos gripped Mac's backside, a hand on each cheek pulling them apart, pulling MacLeod down. 

"Feel me, Methos. Do you feel me?"

Oh God. Methos nodded. 

MacLeod moved faster and faster. Thrust. Thrust. Arch. Gasp. Groan. A tongue down this throat, his cock against Mac's. Methos turned his head and MacLeod bit his neck. He cried out and came, a shattering explosion. MacLeod shuddered and followed a heartbeat behind. 

They lay panting as they were. As heavy as MacLeod was Methos was happy to bear the weight, feeling the steady beat of MacLeod's heart against his chest.

"Christ, Methos." MacLeod started moving, as if to sit up or perhaps slide off. Methos brought a hand around to the back of MacLeod's head, resting it there, fingers threading through the damp hair. MacLeod stilled and relaxed back down, his lips finding the pulse at Methos' neck.

~~~~~

"Lie still." 

MacLeod was being anything but cooperative, refusing to lie down on the make shift massage table, stealing kisses and hiding the massage oil, and generally being horrifically adorable. 

"Like this?" MacLeod lay on his back, bending his legs and spreading them open. 

Methos closed his eyes, counted to five and then slowly said, "On your stomach." He closed MacLeod's legs shut and swatted him on his flank. "Over."

"Ow." MacLeod rubbed his injured leg and then flopped over, his half erect cock bobbing as he made a big production of getting comfortable, fixing the sheet, moving the mat, lying down and then getting up to take a sip of wine. 

"Down." Methos sat on MacLeod's bum and flattened MacLeod with his hands on his back. 

"Ah Methos, are we going to wrestle or are you going to give me a massage?"

Methos choked, which is what happens when you accidentally swallow your tongue trying to hold back laughter.

"I'm waiting." MacLeod wiggled his bum beneath Methos. Methos pinched said bum. "Ow." MacLeod flexed and relaxed the muscles in his rear end. 

"Behave," he said through clenched teeth. Methos began to doubt the wisdom of this endeavor and considered bypassing the whole massage thing and going straight for his cock being buried in MacLeod's ass. He was in position already, he reasoned. He looked down and saw his cock erect and straining and MacLeod's ass nestled between his legs, round and golden. Methos began to sweat. 

"Methos," prompted MacLeod, voice muffled.

"Right. Stay just like that." He reached for the massage oil and poured a generous amount into his hands, dribbling some on to MacLeod's back. 

He was methodical and thorough, working the arms and the muscles down MacLeod's back. For all of MacLeod's playfulness, his back was tied up in knots and Methos patiently worked each one into submission. He centered the spine, knowing all the ancient pressure points, shivering as MacLeod rumbled in pleasure/pain, occasionally jerking as Methos found all his sensitive spots.

More oil and Methos kneaded the swells of MacLeod's previously misbehaving behind, making the skin glisten and glow. Methos caught glimpses of MacLeod's anus, dusky rose and puckered, following the perineum down to the ball sack, just visible. He breathed deeply through his arousal, nearly giving in to the urge to massage the entrance and have it open for him. What did it feel like inside MacLeod's body? Was it smooth? Was it hot? Tight?

He worked down each leg, taking time with the calves, making sure not to tickle MacLeod's feet. Methos' arms and hands began to tire, but he didn't stop. When he finished with MacLeod's legs, he went back to the top and passed his hands over MacLeod, dispersing the energy. 

"Turn over," he murmured softly in case MacLeod had fallen asleep. After a moment MacLeod turned and lay on his back, his eyes closed. MacLeod was still half-erect, his penis falling sleepily to one side. Methos would get to that later.

First the face and neck, and Methos was glad to sooth the lines that lived there. More oil and then arms again and chest. His fingers passed through chest hair, gently teasing nipples to hardened points. MacLeod's breathing deepened; his cock lengthened and the head peeked out of the foreskin. 

The legs were next, strong thighs, hard muscles, and sensitive skin. Methos worked the muscle groups, slowly, nearing the end. 

Not losing contact, Methos skimmed his hand up over MacLeod's leg and thigh, stopping where leg met hip. His thumb passed over the crinkled hair of MacLeod's groin. MacLeod seemed to understand and there was a bare nod of his head. Yes. 

Pouring more oil, Methos took MacLeod's cock in his hand. Using both hands, Methos built the stimulation slowly, using more than simple up and down movements, cupping Mac's balls gently. Mac's breathing hitched and he thrust into Methos' hand. Methos moved one finger down to Mac's anus, letting it simply rest there, at the entrance into Mac's body, remembering how it looked and matching that to how it felt. 

He watched MacLeod, seeing how he breathed and how his legs fell open, making sure MacLeod didn't undo Methos' hard work by tensing. Methos pressed his finger in and MacLeod was smooth, hot, and tight. He pushed in further, finding the cluster of nerves.

MacLeod groaned and his cock jumped in Methos' hand, spilling drops of come from the head. Methos added a second finger, moving them in and out, working MacLeod's cock with his other hand. His own cock ached. Sweat trickled down the small of his back. 

"Methos." Methos looked up, suddenly aware that MacLeod had his eyes open and was looking at him. "Come here."

Methos' heart jumped. He looked down at his hands, one wrapped around Mac' glistening cock, the other disappearing into MacLeod's ass. He swallowed and withdrew his fingers slowly, dropping his head and kissing the head of Mac's cock before crawling up and claiming Mac's mouth in a blistering kiss. 

He slid his body over Mac's. Mac clutched at Methos, spreading his legs over Methos' thighs. He was slick and slippery, and Methos entered him in one smooth push. MacLeod breathed in and arched his neck back, bearing down on Methos' cock.

It almost overwhelmed him, being inside MacLeod, holding him while his cock pulsed inside silken heat. They stared at each other. Duncan. Duncan. Duncan, thought Methos, mouthing the name silently. 

Mac kissed his nose and then his cheek, his other cheek, his jaw. Mac's hands stoked down Methos' back. He kissed Methos, opening his mouth, touching tongues. 

Methos pulled out and pushed back in; MacLeod groaned into Methos' mouth and gripped Methos closer. Again, out and back in. Methos angled and brushed against MacLeod's prostate, admiring the way MacLeod threw his head back and how he groaned, beautifully. Loving how MacLeod felt when Methos was buried all the way in, feeling MacLeod surround him, entirely.

Thrust and counter-thrust. "I'm going to come," MacLeod whispered in Methos' ear. Methos nodded, mesmerized, feeling MacLeod's breath change and MacLeod's cock, trapped between their bodies, jump and harden just a bit more. Methos quickened his pace and MacLeod gasped, holding Methos tight, coming in waves, jerking, squeezing around Methos' cock. 

Methos let go, losing any rhythm he might have established and his orgasm crashed over him. He poured himself into MacLeod. 

Seconds ticked by. Methos withdrew slowly, massaging MacLeod's legs as they unfolded. Pity, he thought, hoping MacLeod hadn't cramped. MacLeod tugged at him and Methos moved up to lie next to him, letting MacLeod's arms encircle and hold him. 

"No more moving," said Mac, his chest rumbling beneath Methos. "See, I knew I was right."

"About what?"

"You and greased poles."

Methos lifted his head and found MacLeod grinning at him. Cheeky bastard. Methos narrowed his eyes. MacLeod started chuckling, utterly pleased with himself, shaking them both with the force of his mirth. Methos couldn't maintain his facade of annoyance, not when Mac looked like that while in his arms. My God, he thought, watching MacLeod totally lose it. He was beautiful happy.

MacLeod's laughter trickled down to silence and then he was just looking up at Methos, lying in his arms. He raised his hand and touched Methos' face, his eyes shifting and changing. There were no words between them.

They stood and as if in mutual agreement they remained silent, putting away and cleaning up after their adventures in massage oil. They worked closely, close enough to touch, to smell, to catch each other's eyes in small moments of devastating realization.  And still there were no words. 

They showered together, holding each other under the spray of water, passing kisses back and forth. Methos gripped MacLeod tightly, his knees buckling as MacLeod worked his cock and he came, the water immediately washing away the evidence of his orgasm. 

They dried each other, smiling awkwardly in their new understanding. 

"Will you stay the night?" 

Their silence shattered. Methos looked at MacLeod. He hadn't even considered otherwise but with the question suddenly before him he became unsure. "Would you like me to?"

"Yes."

The unseen band around Methos' heart eased. "Then I guess I'll stay."

MacLeod smiled and nodded. Methos followed him to the bed and they climbed in, both choosing to remain naked. MacLeod switched the light off. "I warn you though, I have to get up early tomorrow."

"Hm. I guess that means you're going to be very quiet and not wake me."

"Oh, absolutely."

"MacLeod," warned Methos. MacLeod snickered in the dark and pulled Methos into his arms. 

Two days later, Methos found himself walking home again. Dusk approached and the light began to shift, distorting both near and far. 

It had been a long day of doing nothing in particular and he was beat and looked forward to a quiet night at home. Just him and a good book. Maybe a cup of tea. Or some television. 

A part of him, an increasingly vocal part of him, told him to cut the crap and just admit there was no way he was going to make it through the night without calling MacLeod. If MacLeod didn't call him first, that is, which had pretty much been standard procedure for the last two days.  They'd been playing it cool, but only because MacLeod's one early appointment had turned into two and then three and then it evolved into a sudden trip to New York for appraisals and delicate negotiations and in the middle of all that he and MacLeod kept missing each other. 

Just as well, thought Methos. A little distance was good. Right. Methos' increasingly vocal inner self wasn't buying it. Neither was Methos. 

Immortal presence insinuated itself into Methos' awareness and he turned, seeing the T-Bird drive up and coast next to him. Methos continued walking, his heart and stomach doing jumping jacks of joy and panic simultaneously. 

"Hey," said Mac. 

"Hey."

"Went by Joe's. He said you'd just left."

"Yeah. I wasn't in the mood."

"Hm."

Methos continued to walk. MacLeod continued to drive slowly next to him. 

"I was hoping to see you." Methos said nothing to that. MacLeod was obviously seeing him now. "Do you have plans for the night?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yeah, you now, I'm a busy person. Lots of--"

"Methos, get in the car."

Methos got in the car. 

"So I take it you're free again," Methos asked, nonchalantly. 

"More or less. Miss me?"

"Not really."

"Oh. I missed you." MacLeod spoke softly, glancing at Methos with a sad smile. 

Methos blinked. He was a fool, he thought. 

They drove, leaving Seacouver. The evening descended and the sky darkened. Methos saw familiar sights passing.

"We're going back?"

MacLeod looked at him briefly before returning his attention to the road. "There was something we didn't get to do last time."

"Really, MacLeod. I think Joe can live without a stuffed pony."

Mac grinned. "That wasn't it."

Methos became nervous, thinking of the lean-to. "You're not thinking of... you know... finishing, in the lean-to, are you?"

MacLeod quirked his lips. "Why, are you?"

"Ah, no." Methos' cheeks flamed. He looked quickly out the window.

MacLeod chuckled. "No, that wasn't it, either."

It was fully dark by the time they reached the fair. This time they were able to park close by the entrance. MacLeod paid both their fares and they entered. 

MacLeod obviously had some higher purpose in mind, but he kept Methos in the dark, silently leading him through the remaining throng of die-hard country fair attendees. Music from one of the stages filled the air. 

"This way," guided MacLeod, passing under a sign that read "Hay Rides. 5$." There were a few people lined up waiting for the next wagon to come along.

"A hay ride? We came back for a hay ride?"

"Yeah." MacLeod smiled, turning to say something to one of the staff members. The young man nodded and looked at his clipboard, pointing to a waiting wagon full of bales of hay.

Methos was completely taken off guard.  MacLeod had called ahead and reserved a hayride, for just the two of them. He stared at MacLeod. MacLeod stared back at him, amused but Methos saw the underlying note of uncertainty.   "Why?"

"You'll see. Come on." 

They climbed on top and a few minutes later their driver took the reigns and they started to move. The hay, packed into bursting bales, was hard and prickly, poking Methos through his shirt and even through his jeans. The wagon rattled and jostled Methos around. It was pleasant enough, he guessed, but he still didn't understand why MacLeod had gone to all the trouble.  He was never one for nostalgia and being bandied about by a rickety old horse drawn wagon was low on his fond memory list. 

MacLeod spent a few minutes arranging the hay around to some specification that escaped Methos' understanding. The fair provided a blanket and MacLeod spread it out, finally lying on top. He indicated that Methos should join him.

The sounds from the fair receded and the clop clop of the horses' hooves filled the silence. There was no light, only the inky blueness of night. Okay, this was nice, thought Methos lying next to MacLeod, even if it made Methos feel somewhat juvenile, thinking this was the stuff of makeout sessions and high school antics. They were barely touching but it was still nice. MacLeod's hand found his. 

"Look up, Methos. What do you see?"

Methos looked up and saw dark tree branches and moonlight shining through. Trees, he thought. I see trees. Then the trees stopped and the sky opened up, infinite and vast, and there were stars. Millions of stars shining down, some dim, some bright, all twinkling. Methos made a small sound. "Oh." 

His throat closed up and he had to swallow several times before he could talk. He looked over at MacLeod. MacLeod was not looking at the stars, but was looking at Methos. Looking at him with the light of wonder and a sigh of gladness. Methos rose up onto his elbow, leaned in, and kissed MacLeod on the lips. Their tongues touched and then parted. Lying back down, Methos moved closer to MacLeod, holding his hand and staring up at the stars.