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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Incomplete
Author: Juxian Tang
Fandom: Highlander
Pairing: D/M
Rating: NC-17
Status: complete
Feedback: juxiantang@hotmail.com
URL: http://juxian.slashcity.net
Spoilers: Revelation 6:8
Disclaimer: They are not mine, etc.
Summary: After the Double Quickening Duncan is brooding and recalling some past.


He didn't stop seeing the explosions of white - fireballs and swirling straits - as soon as he closed his eyes. It seemed his eyelids burned with this light under them, the pain that lingered, without getting worse but without subsiding, too. He bit his lip making himself concentrate on the dark road, driving back to the hotel, and his hands went numb, so tightly he clasped the steering wheel.

But these things - the pain, the tension - they didn't matter, really. The enormous feeling beyond them was the relief. Everything was over. And they won; they stayed alive. All of them.

When Cassandra left, he came up to Methos who stopped sobbing, at least audibly, while Duncan walked towards him - and by the moment when he was near, even the shudders stopped. He stood over the kneeling man, silent; he felt so weak he was about to fall on his knees, too, and he gathered his strength desperately from crumpling down. Methos raised his face to him, looking very plain with his eyelids red and sticky eyelashes. Duncan saw him drawing in a breath that was more like another sob. There was some question in Methos' face, some fear and expectation - but all of it seemed dulled, as if buried. After a small pause he started getting up, unwinding himself from the submissive position. Duncan considered giving him the hand and decided against it.

They walked together to the exit, keeping the distance of some feet between them. He looked away when Methos stumbled once or twice; but he noticed, of course, he noticed. While he was unable to cover this distance between them in reality - it was not like that in his mind, even though he knew exactly that they both didn't want it now.

At the door Methos spoke at last.

"I can't talk about it now."

"It's okay for me," he shrugged.

But somehow the silence in the car was not oppressive. Duncan didn't stop being aware of Methos sitting near to him, sunk deep in the seat, his shoulders hunched, but he had no wish to communicate; not verbally at least.

When they came to the hotel, Cassandra was gone. He knew she would be. Later he would feel regrets, he thought. But not now. Now there was just too much to feel - so much that it blunted his feelings and he couldn't be sure what he felt, really.

He spoke to the receptionist himself, getting Methos the room on the same floor. There was no reaction from Methos to this and even though Duncan didn't know whether it was what he preferred himself - at least, he could mind - why, he could walk away simply - and he didn't. Duncan felt unnatural deciding something for Methos, even though it was such a small thing as to where he had to spend this night. But he didn't doubt the motive why he was doing it - to keep Methos as near as possible. It seemed strange to him but he knew it was what he wanted. He didn't struggle with this wanting. He didn't have strength for a struggle now, not with himself.

Shoulders lowered and hands buried deep in his jeans' pockets - the same as he kept them all the way to the hotel - Methos followed him upstairs. They could seem strangers if there was somebody to meet them, the thought flashed through Duncan's mind. But at no stranger he would stare like that, he reminded himself, as he stared at Methos who tugged the key from his pocket, unlocked the door; he didn't look back before entering the room but only when he was inside Duncan opened his own door.

He felt dizzy while standing under the shower. The lightnings again, as if they were imprinted on the crystalline lenses of his eyes forever. He thought it was going to drive him mad, it wouldn't let him rest - but as soon as he reached the bed, he sprawled on it and the darkness came to him, lulling and enveloping, carrying him away from everything so softly.

It was blissful, luxurious - and it went long and long - until, with a violent shudder of the contracting muscles, he was back. No, it was not physical. It would be good if it could be. He lay on his back on the bed, facing the blue-grey ceiling, and he remembered exactly the feeling of horror that yanked him out of blankness.

He hadn't have time to stop Cassandra. Or his voice failed, lacking the confidence that was necessary to make her put down the axe. He allowed her to decide that it would mend somehow between them if she did do it, that she wouldn't be unforgiven by him if she carried out the sentence. And, maybe, she was right. Maybe, some part of him sounded like that - that he could stand Methos dying - disappearing from his life - being free of him. Maybe, some part of him believed that it could do good to him.

He clasped the sheet feeling how sweat trickled on his fingers, soaking into the material. It was not true. He didn't fail. His breath calmed down little by little as he reminded himself that it was probably Cassandra he lost, not Methos. Would she forgive him for not letting her revenge herself? He thought that she, maybe, wouldn't. It was the risk he accepted.

The truth was - and suddenly he felt very appealing to admit it - it was easy to be honest with himself, like that, alone and in the darkness - that he could imagine his life without Cassandra. But it made him sick, like at a mad swing on Top-Spin, to think about all the days of his life, however many there would be, without Methos.

No, not even that. There were periods when he didn't see Methos for long time, didn't know where he was - and Duncan was aware that during all these absences something could terminate his life - and he wouldn't even know about it - and he could live with it. In any case, he lost his friends before. It was bitter, breaking - but he went on, he knew he could survive it. But he had never felt this dreadful feeling just at the thought of losing his friend. In fact, he had never feared losing his friend before it happened. There was just no point to think about it - and he didn't.

But - he again let the thought about losing Methos course through him, with its utter icy terror transforming into physical shivers - he didn't want to lose Methos. Didn't want to lose him so much that it made him arch his back in tension. The closeness of the death, it potentiality, brought by Cassandra reminded him about another time when he had thought Methos had been dead - just for a brief moment and he hadn't even had time to fully realize it; it seemed to him then that if he explained Gina that it was just a joke, then it would be okay and she would be able to undo what she claimed to have done.

Only his anger after he understood they ridiculed him was the evidence of how deeply he was scared. He felt like to slam Methos against the cabin wall, make him gasp in pain, wipe this teasing smile from his lips. Then run his fingers over his face slowly. Only Gina and Robert's presence made him shush this desire that was so powerful as he had rarely felt in his life.

Later he tried to revive this moment, when they were alone, but his consciousness hindered him, not letting him work himself into this state or joy and rage again - and without this overwhelming emotion he didn't dare to start, not as long as he could cope with himself. He could just wait, right?

And he got what he waited for - once after that. Once before that, once after that. His friend was his lover twice - too little to start thinking about him as about a lover, not just a friend. Too much because wasn't it what changed everything?

Was it? Duncan didn't know, even asking himself. He couldn't lose Methos not because they had slept with him at some time and not because he wanted more of it. But was it the push that made him not want to lose Methos so sharply, so painfully?

He didn't understand what turn of his mind made him suddenly plunge into recalling the first time. A couple of months after Alexa died. He just finished the things with Warren Cochrane - still feeling warm with the memories and sad with everything that was gone. He came to Methos' place and for once found him not composed, lively and ironical as always but bitter and brooding, curling up clumsily on the sofa in the cold room. Duncan stared at him briefly, said:

"Not a nice way to die - to freeze to death."

"Don't be silly, it is at least ten degrees above the chance of freezing," Methos commented.

"Anyway, I am not going to take the same fate meekly," Duncan smiled and there was no answer from Methos - but it sounded as the answer and it made Duncan look at him again. And then he saw such bare suffering staring at him from these dark-surrounded eyes that he made a confused sound.

He felt hesitant, shifting from one foot to the other, looking at his friend huddling himself, seeming so lonely in the shadowy room, his face especially pale and sharp-featured. Then with a sigh he made several steps towards Methos, sat down with him and awkwardly put his arm around him.

He was never cuddly with his friends; he knew perfectly well how to touch a woman, how to fill the touch with sexual undertones that she would enjoy even though it meant nothing. But he knew his arm was stiff on Methos' shoulder - not much of consolation, rather a parody to it. Well, it could be just a sign, just the thing that had to show his feeling to Methos, Duncan thought, not really the attempt to comfort him.

Then Methos suddenly shifted, getting very close - almost leaning to him, his shoulder against Duncan chest, his head settling to his shoulder. He tightened the embrace, surprised and glad that he was doing a right thing. He remembered the feeling of Methos' bony arm and his narrow hard body pressed to his, the prickly wool of rough-knitted sweater under his palm. The sweater was just a material but he could feel the heat of the body through it as well as he felt it through his own clothes where Methos' cheek and ear touched his shoulder.

The sweater was rough but Methos' hair was silky. Duncan felt it against his cheek, warm and light and slightly tingling, and when he squinted his eyes, he saw the bowed dark head and the familiar ghostly pale profile of the man who was his friend, who he came to love for this time.

"I am so tired of handling it," Methos said and Duncan nodded, not because he agreed but because he knew Methos would feel his nod and, maybe, it would be comforting to him. "Sometimes it seems it almost passed - but it doesn't go away. What if it never does?"

"You know it will," yes, they both knew. But there was no better answer he could give - and Duncan knew he really didn't need the answer. He sighed again, holding him, ready to hold him as long as it was necessary for the acute remission of grief to pass.

"Oh yes," Methos said almost in a whisper, quick and bitter, making Duncan nod again which made him brush his lips over his hair.

And suddenly his unconsciousness played a joke with him, making him do what he would do so naturally if it was his female friend he had in his arms but what he would never even think about applying to any of his male friends. He shifted so very slightly and pressed his lips to this soft short hair under him.

It felt strange. For a moment it was the only thought in his mind - how unfamiliar it felt to place the kisses on this short-haired scull, how unusual the smell was, not perfumed and gentle but manly, slightly spicy. He kissed the bowed head in front of him several times - as he would kiss a girl who would seek consolation in his arms - and then Methos raised his face to him.

Duncan cursed for himself. Nicely forgetful, wasn't he? What did he think - that Methos wouldn't notice, would think it natural? He just hoped Methos would be subtle enough to let it slip without speaking.

But instead of the surprise he dreaded to see - or the indignation - it was not even indifference in Methos' face. Instead there was such fervent hope in his eyes that Duncan gasped in shock. He would gasp again when the long thin fingers hooked into his hair at his temple - but the sound was caught when Methos pressed his lips to Duncan's mouth.

It happened so quickly that it didn't come to his mind to resist, even passively. Suddenly Methos' mouth was on his, lips joined with lips, and his tongue slid into Duncan's mouth, strong and urgent and seeking. Duncan drew in an audible breath - through the kiss, with surprise realizing that his tongue was meeting Methos' half-way, thrusting against it eagerly - and that he closed his eyes as if fully submitting to what was happening.

As if? Was it something else? Less and less chance of anything involuntarily was in it with every second he continued to kiss the face turned to him, the mouth that merged with his lips; the tugging of his hair - the cold fingers in them - was almost painful but he didn't have any intention to stop it.

He asked 'what am I doing?' with the delight and scary breathtaking feeling that is sometimes brought with plunging into unknown and impossible - but he didn't try to seek the answer. The question was like music in his head, chilly and joyful - until from 'what am I doing?' it became 'is it really happening?'

Methos let his lips go. It was the moment to stop everything, he realized. It was a good moment for it. Somehow he suspected that if they stopped now, they would be able to never speak about it - exactly as he wanted it to finish just a little while ago - to pretend that it never happened until it became such distant past that it could never happen really.

Then he understood he didn't want it to stop. So much that as long as there was a chance to go on, he was going to use it. He opened his eyes and closed them quickly because he was afraid they could exchange the looks that would make it impossible. He put his palms on Methos' face, cupping it - and with joy he felt as the fingers plaited in his hair tugged stronger.

They both shifted to be able to get closer - their lips locked in kiss again - and as he felt Methos' arm flung around his neck, he felt the bony leg driven between his thighs - and it made him inhale sharply. The knee was placed over his thigh, dangerously near - but instead of instinctively protecting his groin, he spread his legs wider, letting it touch him.

Since then he didn't think any more. No questions to ask himself. Just doing what he wanted, what his body urged him to do. Now he could open his eyes, it wouldn't change anything - and the sight of Methos, so close, his face like marble, frozen in passion, with his eyes half-closed, made him gasp.

He was so desirable! It was stunning. Not the fact that he was - it was too undeniable - but that Duncan had never thought about it before. As if he had been blind before, looking at his friend, at the familiar chiseled features - never realizing their - not just beauty, perhaps he knew Methos was good-looking, of course, he knew - but never feeling this sweeping delight, this shiver in front of something ravishing.

He ran his hands over Methos' shoulders, up and down, as if trying to get assured he was real - and sensing with surprise how Methos' body shivered with the eroticism of this touch, absorbing it like a caress. Methos tossed his head back, making his long throat look like a perfect arch - one of the most poisoning sights Duncan had ever seen. He couldn't resist it. He pressed his lips to this taut long throat - and Methos settled back on the sofa, bonelessly and languidly, pulling him with himself. During this liquid movement the knee brushed against Duncan's bottom belly, nearly touching his erection - nearly but not really. Duncan groaned in frustration briefly - but there was too much for him to perceive, to merge himself into - and at the next moment the hand passed along him until it pressed tightly to his groin.

"Yes, yes," he heard himself saying while thrusting into this close and still hand - and he heard Methos chuckling at these words. He bit the gracious neck almost cruelly, as if punishing him for this chuckle. But the truth was that while Methos made him beg - he had the same power over Methos, too. Duncan could feel Methos' hard cock pressed under his thigh - and he humped it slightly, awarded with a soft hiss that he caught in his mouth, kissing him again.

Cold? Did he ever think it was cold in the room? He didn't feel it when pulling his clothes off, his hands stumbling against Methos' as he hurried to help him. Yes, Methos' fingers were cold as Duncan felt them touching his bare chest - but not cold, rather like freezing flame, running under his collar-bones to his nipples, the vicious bony things, tweaking and pulling so cruelly and so sweetly. They hurried again, discarding Methos' clothes, Duncan feeling dry-mouthed as he looked at his friend naked - the long delicate body, usually hidden by jeans and long-sleeved sweaters, now stark naked,. white almost to the point of luminescence in the dim room.

At that moment he thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful before. And it felt so true then that he realized he was about to come just from looking at this body under him. He dropped his head on Methos' shoulder, waiting till the flood was over. He didn't want it to be over so quickly. Not before he got everything he could. The smell - he got full lungs of it, lying against Methos' chest - the mellow musk, the human warm aroma, faintly familiar since he used to feel it when Methos was around - but never so winning and sweet. The way his satiny skin felt on the sharp points of his shoulders and clinging against his ribs. He wanted all of it, explore, memorize - and he did, wondering at the strength of the sensations. He bravely stuck his hand between Methos thighs and his gasp sounded in cadence with Methos' as he sensed the fluffy nest of warm hair and the hard pole of his cock, so hot and wet at the same time where the pre-cum was weeping over it.

He slicked his palm with the liquid, starting to stroke the shaft up and down, in deliberate fluent motions - and in revenge for this slowness the fingers twisted his nipples almost cruelly. He leaned very close to the face that seemed almost blank in passion and whispered:

"Look at me, Methos, look at me."

The dark eyelashes flew up - and there were these lucent ever-changing eyes looking at him, opening for him not just with the eyelids opening but from inside, letting him in. Shining eyes. And looking in these eyes, Duncan moved his palm taking his own cock together with Methos' in his hand, causing a joint shudder as their cocks touched. He stroked them together, locked with his eyes on Methos', his own expression mirroring what he saw in them - the smile, the passion, the relief.

His orgasm came just a second after he felt the creamy liquid spurting on his hand from Methos' cock - his palm sliding slicky on his own cock once and then he shivered when coming, long and exhaustively sweet. It left him faint, falling over the angular body under him - and he could feel how their sperm was cooling and getting from slick to sticky on his hand.

There was more that day - after they lay for a while, resting, chest to chest on the narrow sofa. Now it was cold again - and there was a quilt folded under their feet - but they never got to reach for it. Instead their hands started roaming on their bodies again - and they didn't need cover any more.

In the hotel room Duncan pressed his fingers to his temples recalling how Methos looked, kneeling on front of him on the sofa, ready to lower on his elbows - the exemplary submissive pose, the narrow body so breathtakingly beautiful. Duncan slicked his fingers abundantly, applying it around his anus, eliciting a slight hiss when two of his slippery fingers got inside Methos. He lingered a long time spreading the lube inside him, not wanting to hurt him as it was possible, even though his cock throbbed and trembled in impatience.

The penetration was stunningly smooth - like pushing into velvet and Duncan gasped feeling the tight ring of Methos' sphincter passed by his cock. He froze, fully embedded inside the body in front of him, the shock coursing through him, the amazement of how his cock felt inside Methos, stretching and deep. He felt minute shudders of the man in front of him and wrapped his arms around Methos' flat narrow belly, pulling him closer and comforting the pain, if there was any, at the same time.

The time seemed to stop for him. His cock was on fire - wonderful fire, not angry one - but at the same time he was not sure he wanted to move, to change their position, to unlock the arms around the thin body. Then he shifted a little.

"Here... can you?" he pulled Methos up gently, ready to stop with any shadow of resistance - but the man eagerly followed his wish. Duncan sat him up, on his lap, pulling his back to his chest and felt how Methos' chest fluttered when his cock penetrated him even deeper.

Very gently he pushed him up, showing him carefully what he wanted - and Methos easily followed his way, grasping what was wanted at once. The friction against Duncan's cock was delicious as Methos rose from his lap almost until all Duncan's cock left his body - and then slipped down again, his ass settling on Duncan's thighs. It was that! Duncan felt like crying out - and like stifling this cry with the bite on Methos' shoulder. But he did none - because the new wave of feelings swept him - and Methos slid up and down faster and faster, until Duncan lost the track of what he felt - except for the utter, overwhelming delight that was flooding him, body and mind.

Till their next meeting Duncan felt hesitant how he would have to behave now with his friend. What was it, anyway? The momentary need for human touch Methos felt after losing Alexa? Anyone would do, not just his old Mac? Or were they going to... ugh, repeat it? He couldn't imagine how he would have to clarify it.

But it turned out that he didn't need to clarify anything. Methos was the same capricious, childish and easy-going when they met again - so much the same that if Duncan had had a little weaker mind, he would have supposed he just dreamed of everything. Methos slipped on the previous tracks of friendship so easily that Duncan himself needed only a brief moment to re-adjust himself.

Been here, done it? He hadn't sleep with men before but in this century, it was almost shame, so, now he had the full right to admit that he was as broad-minded as the next guy, he teased himself. He found himself in the bed with a beautiful blonde woman soon after that. And he could believe that the thing with Methos was just dusty past - if not these outbursts of flamboyant desire he sometimes felt.

Touch him. Have him in his arms. Crush his lips with kiss and melt again in this sweetness, this skillful pliancy. He stopped dead when feeling it, scared and insecure. It seemed that everybody could sense what was going through his mind. Then, on the barge with Gina and Robert, he felt dead sure that they clearly suspected what he felt.

He knew he was wrong, of course. The same as he knew that there was one person for whom these surges didn't go amiss. He knew Methos knew what he felt. Every time he caught these long narrow golden eyes on him - smile in them, ironic and kind at the same time, so eloquent. He bit his lips thinking why Methos had to make him go through it, wasn't it cruel if he knew? But meeting these eyes he couldn't be angry any more, he felt so docile, he felt he was ready to fall and rise again like a marionette in these patrician hands of Methos - just to be touched by him, just to share it again.

His petulance, his bewilderment was washed off and forgotten at once when at last it happened again. This time there was no spontaneity in it, nothing accidental. They went out of city with Methos, just a friendly camping out-of-doors, strangely lovely event, so simple and unexpected, making him wonder why they didn't do it more often, why people neglect such easy and available way to make themselves contented.

They sat at the fire, speaking quietly, and not at all unexpectedly their conversation got some mellow sexual implication in it. Duncan was aware of it, wondering how the simple talking could possibly work him up so much. But it did - and he could see the same in Methos' eyes.

It happened naturally that he moved to Methos eventually and the man leaned back on the ground, beckoning him to follow and suddenly spreading his legs in almost obscene, unmistakably inviting movement. Duncan would call it obscene - but with Methos it seemed sweetly charming, poisonously attractive - and he fell under this charm happily, leaning to the body in front of him, drinking every sensation it could give him.

He resigned when he found only a friend in the morning again - the same as he resigned to the sweeping outbursts of desire descending on him now and then. He thought it was somehow right - to be away, to share so rarely. He wouldn't be able to handle Methos too close in his life, wouldn't he? The same as Methos was apparently unable to have him too close - and the man was more experienced and smart to get it at once and not to let them try.

But he looked forward to the next occasion when it could happen between them; he believed it would happen, he didn't even allow a thought in his mind that it wouldn't. Then all the times when he felt the flashes of desire and had to drown them would be redeemed.

Last time he felt it when they went with Methos from the TV studio, he realized suddenly. Methos was babbling unceasingly, walking in his easy gait at Duncan's side - and when turning around the corner his hip bumped against Duncan's. He knew it was pretty accidental - but he couldn't help it. The desire washed him, hot and cold, catching his breath. He didn't show it, even his voice didn't fail - but it was there - and he secretly relished the desire he felt to his friend, he learned to welcome it.

Then the buzz of another Immortal around reached them.

He sat up sharply on the bed, grasping full hands of his hair, tugging at the strands self-obliviously. How simply it had come to their life! How out of blue. And destroyed everything. What was now? Would he never feel the same about Methos again? Wouldn't be able to - because every time when looking at him he would recall the Horsemen of Apocalypse, the havoc they brought to the world and were going to bring again, Cassandra's pain and Methos' betrayal.

He made an 'oh' sound when the tug on his hair became unbearable and looked in bewilderment at the strand that was left in his hand. His head hurt where he had torn it off - but it was such a little pain to calm him down.

He couldn't judge Methos; not because he wouldn't want to. It was too painful, he just couldn't stand it. He had to put up with the way it all was, to be happy with one thing that was right - as he had been happy when driving away from the submarine base. That they stayed alive. That Methos stayed alive. Being alive made everything possible. Nothing was incorrigible for the alive, only death was final.

Even parting was bearable. He could stand it if they had to - and something told him they had, at least for a while. They would speak tomorrow and after that they wouldn't have to speak again until the things stop hurting too much. It would work out somehow. Would work out.

He lay down on his side, pulling his legs to his chest - like he had done when he was a child, finding some weird comfort in feeling smaller and having the blanket shielding him. His scull still smarted where he had ripped off a strand of hair, even though there was not possibly any trace there. No reason to torment himself with thinking, he lulled himself diligently, hoping that darkness would bring the sleep back and glad that he didn't see the lightnings any more. No reason.


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