Title: Making It|
Author: Juxian Tang
Spoilers and timing: some time after Not To Be
Disclaimer: as usual
Summary: Mac is bedding Methos. No, really :-)
He was not alone. He woke up feeling the hardness of another body under his
blanket, the warmth of another scent enveloping him. He turned as noiselessly
as he could. The light behind the barge's portholes was barely changing from
navy-blue to gray - and he discerned the dark head on the pillow, the long
narrow arm, opalescent-white in the dimness of approaching dawn. The
recollection flooded him softly, bringing a faint helpless smile on his lips.
The man's face was buried in the curve of his elbow, only his soft short
hair visible - but it didn't bother Mac that he couldn't see him. He could feel
the naked body, the hard angles of its limbs pressed into him closely. And he
also felt his hand trapped in the moist firm ring of the long bony fingers. He
moved his hand experimentally, thinking that they both would have cramps after
the hours like that - but it only made him chuckle soundlessly. Without
releasing Methos' fingers he pulled their hands up carefully, placing them on
his chest, against his heart that thumped heavily and evenly.
He didn't feel sleepy any more. But he enjoyed lying like that, waiting for
the upcoming morning - with this huge repose lapping inside him, the calmness
he had thought he would never reach. As the air was getting lighter and more
translucent and he moved his eyes around the barge, the objects were coming
through the shadows - two coffee cups on the table, the misshapen forms of
Methos' boots on the floor, the dark heap of his coat on the sofa. Such simple
ordinary things - but their simplicity was deceptive - because yesterday they
had not been there - and that there were there now was the content of his quiet
exultance. They had the meaning - they were the evidences, the reminders of
what had happened.
He didn't need them this much, of course - when he had more than that - the
feeling of Methos, sleepy, heavy and warm at his side, his breath faintly
ticklish and hot against his shoulder, his sweaty hand in Mac's grip. But he
still strangely enjoyed looking at the things - for now, while Methos was
Yesterday in the evening everything had been different. He didn't know why
he should recall the bitterness he had felt then - maybe, because now this
feeling seemed so distant, as if it was not him but someone else who had
experienced it. But his mind remembered that pain - and feeling free from it
now inspired him.
The cold evening, the yellow sick light of the street-lamps on the
embankment, distorting his shadow as he ran under them. The clouds of white
coming out of his mouth with every breath. He didn't want to stop before he
would be tired enough not to think about anything else but a quiet evening with
a book on his lap. So that to have an excuse not to come out, not to do
You can't lock yourself in four walls, MacLeod, now when Amanda is gone. She
never demanded celibacy from you - the same as you never expected her to be
faithful. So what's the problem? Are you doubting your charms? Don't - you know
exactly where you can find what you need - you even know a few ones who will be
happy if you pay attention to them.
It's ridiculous to wear yourself out with running!
But he knew very well that his good intentions to go to a nightclub, to
entertain himself would come to nothing as soon as he let himself out. He had
tried. For some reason he would always finish at Joe's; as if it was the only
place in the world. Usually too late for any clients to be there. Except one -
who was there almost always. Except the one.
It was bringing him almost physical pain, the buzz inside his head, when
coming up to Joe's he sensed another Immortal inside - and he winced, entering,
as if unwilling, all so stiff and numb that it made Joe look at him in
bewilderment. And it made Methos look, too, of course - in his usual
unobtrusive way, quickly withdrawing into himself when he saw this cold shut
look in Mac's eyes.
Realizing it hurt and made him be dissatisfied with himself. Yet it never
hurt so much as it did when he came up to the bar and sensed nothing, when
Methos was not there. In comparison to it having coffee and cognac, reading an
old book while the wood crackled in the hearth - it was really better. It was
safe at last.
It was what he was planning to do, what he resigned to - when approaching
his barge, he felt the buzz - and at the first moment, involuntarily, the wave
of warmth flooded him. Methos! He didn't think it could be Amanda or someone
else, enemy or friend, visiting him.
Methos. He knew - it was the thing, somehow he knew. He met someone who said
that he could recognize an Immortal on the buzz - but he laughed at that then.
It would make the Game too easy, wouldn't it? Now he thought he could recognize
Methos presence unmistakably. Only it was not by the buzz. Mortals recognize
each other by that, too.
It had been several days since Mac had seen him. It had been much longer
since Methos had come to him like this, letting himself in in his absence. But
Methos had done it before - there was no reason why he couldn't do it again.
Only one reason - that Mac did everything to make him believe he didn't want
it. He didn't want it. He repeated it insistently to himself, trying to get rid
of this absurd joy - and succeeding quickly, too quickly.
He didn't exactly know what expression he had when he came in and saw that
it was Methos, indeed. He was in such mess of feelings - but probably it was
rather unhappy when he glanced at Methos - so unhappy that it made Methos take
his feet off of the table quickly.
"Sorry, I know you don't like it."
He stared for a moment, without understanding, then he realized Methos
thought he minded his boots on the table. Good. Put the guilt where it belongs.
He turned away, hiding his eyes, pulling off his knitted cap.
"Ah, you were running," Methos said; there was a kind of relief in
his voice. "I thought you might come and I would be in a wrong time."
You can never be in a wrong time. You are always in a wrong time. Both were
true. He said neither. It was a hint in Methos' words, so, he asked:
"I mean, you could have come not alone... something like that."
"No," his answer was so abrupt that it was almost rudeness - and
he saw how Methos shifted uneasily on the sofa as if between standing up and
settling more comfortably. His hands were buried in his pockets as if he was
cold - with all this fire in the hearth - but for once Methos had taken off his
coat, dumped it on the sofa next to him. I need to hang it, Mac thought
suddenly, he never does it himself, never can put his things on proper places.
And he also was afraid that if the coat stayed so closely, it was too easy for
Methos to get up, take it and leave, right?
But he wanted Methos to leave! He needed him to leave, that was the thing.
Would Methos leave because of his rudeness? It was the point of being rude,
"All right," it was the only thing Methos said - and when he leant
back again on the sofa, it was both joy and fear Mac felt. It had to take more
to make Methos go away. He probably wouldn't be able to do more.
"I need a shower," he grumbled pulling the sweater up. What the
hell. If Methos came here, he didn't have to expect he would be treated like a
But he wouldn't leave, would he? Standing under the shower, the jets of
water so taut that they almost whipped like lashes, Mac tried his best not to
listening, even though the rustle of water was loud enough to cover any noise
on the barge. He was afraid to hear if Methos left. But he listened to it all
And when he did hear some movement at the bathroom door, his heart fell. His
heart fell twice - because part of him was afraid Methos wanted to say he was
leaving. And part of him ridiculously, absurdly thought what if he tried to
come in. What if? Never if.
"Coffee, MacLeod?" Methos asked instead, his voice clear enough to
"Yes," having coffee meant that Methos was going to stay. At
least, for a while. "Yes."
He came out in sweatpants and T-shirt, with his hair still dripping, and he
saw Methos with two cups standing at the table, his narrow figure in his usual
dark clothes like an ink drawing against the warm colors of the barge. His eyes
were like ink on his pale face when he turned to Mac.
Why can't I look at anybody else like that, he thought helplessly. No one,
not even Amanda. How - like that? With this devouring greed. Yes, it was the
word, he admitted it suddenly. Maybe, it was because he knew he would never...
Le fruit interdit. Maybe.
"I wonder why you are running in the evening," there was no smile,
just accustomed casualness in Methos' voice. He always speaks as if he cares
for nothing, Mac thought sharply, knowing at once that it was not true. There
were enough times when Methos showed how he cared. The last time - he
remembered it very clearly - their conversation on the barge before he went to
meet O'Rourke. Methos saved his life then.
Yeah, right - and he killed Methos then. It was what he hated to recall, he
couldn't stand recalling it. He never wanted to speak about it again, even to
Joe, not only to Methos. He couldn't understand. It was a dream, there was the
only thing he could repeat to himself, just a dream.
Once he complained about the dream to Amanda - she was looking through an
old book of dream interpretations and he asked her what it meant if you were
enemies with your friend in the dream. She checked briskly and informed him:
"A good sign."
It made him chuckle. What kind of good sign did he need? He didn't need
good, good he could have. Good was not enough for him - and this not enough
turned his life into this misery of doubts. Even Amanda couldn't protect him
from it, even with all fun they had together. Yes, he used Amanda as his shield
- he had to admit it, as much unfair as it was. But she was gone - and he was
alone now - and facing what he was afraid to face.
For God's sake! Being spoken to was bad. Keeping silent was worse. He swallowed
looking at Methos who watched him, worried, hovering hesitantly with two cups
in his hands, and smiled forcibly, saying as honestly as he could:
"I run twice a day."
The thing was that it was the truth - but it took a strain of will for him
to say it. Because of the reason of it. And it was such a temptation to say it
exactly because of the reason. He knew he was on the shaky ground - but he
couldn't help it.
"Since when?" this time Methos smiled. "Since Amanda
"Yes," he said sharply and scowled at the meaning of what Methos
said. It made him look ridiculous. And it was all wrong. But if to think - it
was the best way, right? To make him think that. Better to look a horny
teenager, a boy-scout using the old good ways to cope with his hormones than to
let Methos think the truth. He turned away, unable to deal with self-loathing
and doubts. He always hated doubts tearing through him, it was what he never
liked to feel, he just was not in habit for it.
"Can't you help it?" Methos asked softly - and at that moment he
"Are you really so stupid or just pretending?" he turned back
abruptly pushing the cups out of Methos' hands with his elbow.
They were both lucky - it was just the carpet that suffered.
Shame immediately filled him, making him mutter confusedly:
"I am sorry."
"It's your place," there was mild humor in Methos' answer and it
was fine but it was not enough to stop him from falling. Maybe, nothing was
enough. He stood woodenly, the only last chance for him, as Methos took the rag
from the sink and started dabbing the coffee from the carpet. He felt his
throat clenching as he watched Methos at his feet, his pale long hand romping
on the rag, his head lowered.
He sighed wearily. Perfect! Now Methos is cleaning your mess. Both unwilling
and unresisting, he knelt on the floor and reached for the rag.
"Don't, I'll do it myself."
He pulled it away from Methos - and that was when the man's long-fingered
hand covered his. Cool and strong and so poisonously familiar from all the
times when he had touched it occasionally. But it had been long since it had
happened for the last time.
Sadness flooded him - because this touch was what he craved, what he could
enjoy so much - but couldn't because it was too little for him now, not enough.
He was going to make some abrupt movement again, to get up or to take the rag
at last - and then Methos' other hand reached to his face suddenly.
It was a light touch, fingers on his temple, the palm around his cheek - a
caress but not an obtrusive one - as one could caress a pet or a child - and
there was nothing superior in it, too, just very light. Methos' hand brushed
over the side of his face - more symbolic than physical, a sign of, possibly,
his friendship, his support.
"Oh Mac," he said softly. There was concern in his voice now - but
not only that. It was as if he said: whatever it is, I accept it.
And at this moment Mac understood he couldn't stand it any more. That if he
rejected it now, if he let his guilt and resentment rise up again, if he pushed
this hand away - perhaps Methos would never do it again - and he would never
forgive it to himself.
He turned his face slightly and pressed his lips to the palm. His lips were
very hot and Methos' skin very cool, calming down the flame. So soothing that
at last Mac felt he could look at Methos. Even if there would be
incomprehension in his eyes, or just too much concern.
He didn't make a mistake, did he? Friends do touch each other, Methos
touched him and he answered. He looked at Methos with it. And then their eyes
met only for a blink - and there was no time for him to brood and to wonder
what he could read in Methos' gaze - because at the next moment Methos suddenly
threw his arms around him, tugging him in the embrace so warm and tight and so
full of his presence that Mac stopped thinking. He stopped caring about
"Oh Mac," he heard the man sighing again hopelessly - and then he
was hugging Methos, clasping him in his arms, at once overwhelmed with
so-longed-for feeling of the slender hard body in his hug, the long bony limbs
and hard chest under the rough sweater, the hair so smooth and silky against
He was whispering something, too:
"Methos, Methos..." and it was funny that their names had to mean
so much and he laughed and was happy he could laugh again.
He was stormy then. He knew it but there was nothing he could do with himself;
he couldn't be refined. It was Methos in his arms, the realization was so
sweeping - and Mac dropped him on his back, his arms around the man softening
the fall - and he was over Methos at the same moment, covering his face with
swift devouring kisses. Methos was all angles and bones - but somehow these
angles melted into his body and Methos' pale skin flamed under his kisses as he
cradled the man in his arms. But not only that - it was Methos' mouth, so small
and hard usually, that caught his lips and answered to his kisses with the same
fervent greed, Methos' lips soft and moist and warm melting with his,
passionate and painful when he covered Mac's face with kisses.
He wished he could be slower, made all the things that make up the foreplay
- but this time it was beyond his control. Well, he knew somehow that Methos
didn't expect it. He felt Methos sliding away from his arms, pushing Mac on his
back as his quick hands tugged on Mac's pants, pulling them down. The flash of
air was icy on his burning cock for a moment, sending shivers through him - and
then there was the warmer breath over his shaft, almost the same hot as his
cock was - and Methos' mouth enveloped his cock-head tightly.
He wanted to scream. He did make some incoherent sounds, arching his back
and thrusting his thighs forward. His hands flew up and down as he wanted to
dig them into Methos' hair and at the same time wanted to stroke and pet him.
Then he pulled Methos up. His cock ached when it slid out of the man's mouth
but the need in him was more than just this.
"What?" he heard Methos' small voice asking briefly before he
pulled him to his chest, pressed them together, fumbling awkwardly with Methos'
zipper. He locked his lips on Methos' mouth, finding the man's hard cock and
freeing it from the boxers, and felt as Methos sighed out in his mouth. He
moved blindly, catching Methos' hand and putting it on his cock while his hand
stroked along the man's long hard shaft. At last Methos understood. His hand
slid easily in cadence with Mac's movements, so much in cadence that their
breath became simultaneous, rising to panting - until he felt Methos' cock
pulsing in his palm and creamy warm liquid covered his fingers. At the same
moment he started coming, too.
The floor was cozy but hard under him as he lay clutching Methos to his
chest, so tightly that his arm felt numb but he didn't want to loosen it, not
until Methos would want it - and Methos didn't. It was very quiet when their
breath got back to normal, just the cracking of burning wood. He thought
suddenly that this sound would always make him think about it.
He raised his head and conveyed what he could see - Methos in the ring of
his arm, his dark head on Mac's chest, his long body in rumpled clothes. He saw
Methos raising his head, too, looking at the same direction.
They thought the same thing, he understood it a moment before they spoke -
and it sent shiver of exhilaration through him. He had thought it would never
be like this.
"Boots," they whispered giggling and he added. "You even
didn't take them off."
"As if I had time."
"I am sorry," he really was not. Maybe, a little. He didn't know
how it could be going to go if he was not so hasty. But it was not that they
couldn't try. "I'll take them off," he whispered sitting up,
adjusting his sweatpants back awkwardly but without much embarrassment. It was
easy now. Suddenly everything was easy.
Methos pulled his legs up self-consciously and Mac caught his ankles,
unlacing the heavy boots deftly. It was so strange - he had never done it before
- he had never even dreamed about it, it was not even a part of his fantasies -
but suddenly he realized it was what he wanted all the time. To have Methos so
close on the floor in front of him and to free his delicate feet from these
There was a weird puzzled expression on Methos' face - his pink mouth gaping
slightly, his eyes wide - and Mac chuckled seeing it. He pulled the boots off
of him, suddenly reminded sharply about the day when he had found Methos on his
sofa, returned from Tibet - and how he had tried to take away his boots and
Methos had put them to the most inappropriate places. Perhaps he had wanted it
then, too. Not this sharply yet but... Well, now he had more than he ever hoped
"I need a shower again," he muttered smiling. "Will you go
"To the shower?" Methos' voice was hesitant as if he was not sure
he understood right.
"Yes. Will you?"
He was probably pressing, he knew it. He couldn't do anything. Now when it
happened, when everything came to him - how could he not believe that
everything would be exactly as he wanted? Nothing was impossible.
He never took his hands away from Methos as they got to the bathroom. The
mirror there was still slightly clouded from Mac's previous visit - and
suddenly it surprised him sharply. So little time passed. He had been so
unhappy looking at his face when taking the shower recently. And now everything
Methos was like a little boy, placidly letting Mac strip him. There was soft
indulging smile on his lips, as if he decided to allow Mac to do anything he
wanted - and really, what else could he do when Mac was like that again, so
overwhelming, unable to repress his wish to touch and to hold the man going
against the wish to get rid of Methos' clothes as soon as possible.
He felt drunk when he had Methos stripped at last. He had had sex with the
man right now but he didn't ever have him undressed, he held his cock in his
hand but he didn't see it. Now he saw it - limp, with the foreskin covering its
head, pearly, just a little darker than Methos' body. This pale long slim body,
so strong and fine-molded, not painfully angular at all as it could seem in
clothes, all its angles and curves smooth and fluid.
He gasped unable to resist the wish to hug Methos, to hold him at his chest,
naked to naked, and when he did it, he felt a small gasp coming from Methos,
his narrow hands sliding between them and lying on Mac's chest, fingering the
They were both too spent to get turned on so soon - but he found he liked
it, the absence of physical urgency, just the want that made him kiss and kiss
Methos' mouth, tasting the water from his lips, sliding his hands over his
body, not for washing him but for touching him.
"I like to see you like this, Mac," he heard Methos saying with a
new lightness in his voice. Such lightness - such contentment was in it that
Mac felt something jumping in his chest. "You are yourself again."
"Oh yes, I am," he couldn't help muttering, smiling helplessly.
He pulled out a fresh terry robe for Methos, the white one. It was natural
to do it - the shower, now the bed. He still remembered how he had wondered
whether Methos would leave, wanting and not wanting it, less than an hour ago.
But now it was such distant past that he could hardly believe in it. He saw
Methos' a little surprised expression as he pulled the covers on the bed away -
and his smile, so soft, so shy - he remembered suddenly when he had already
seen it. That was how Methos smiled to Alexa. He didn't think then that he
would be so happy to see this smile turned to him some day. He waited until
Methos got to his place, lay on his back - and then got to the bed, too. He set
on his elbow to be able to see Methos; he couldn't stop looking at him, didn't
want to stop.
He was not used to speak about his feelings, it was what Amanda always
chided him for - but suddenly there was such urge in him to complain about what
he had been through.
"I wanted it for so long. It was awful. That's why I was like that with
"Ooh Mac, for how long did you want it?" Methos' voice was easy,
playful again. "For last two weeks?"
"No..." he started almost petulantly, then stopped. The meaning
reached him and Methos' surprise and puzzlement and placidness found the
explanation to him suddenly. "No! Amanda... I love her. But it was... It's
not because she is not near! You can't think it," he finished abruptly.
Nope, he was not really good at explaining things, he'd better have not
tried. But he couldn't leave it now. He couldn't let it be like that, to let
doubts or bitterness interfere. He had had enough of it!
He continued to look at Methos even though it was difficult to stand it. For
some reason there was shame he felt - shame and pain that he could make Methos
think like that, that what if Methos thought that it was just getting his rocks
off what Mac needed. He shook his head with the thought it brought.
There was a short pause when Methos continued to look at him, a small frown
between his thin eyebrows. Then he made a small snorting sound.
"Are you really so stupid, Mac - or just pretending?"
Suddenly Mac knew. The truth was that he had known it - or he would never
dare to do what he did today. It was not just that he knew Methos could be with
a man - seeing his passionate face in the flashes he got from Kronos and Byron.
It was that he knew - he was loved. All the time. He had been afraid to believe
it and sometimes this knowledge had been unwelcome - but he knew.
"You have such funny eyes now," Methos said suddenly, his smile
getting broader and more certain - and unreasonably Mac felt relief flooding
him, even before Methos turned on his side towards him and passed his thin
fingers over Mac's eyelashes. "Feathery," he whispered quietly.
"I always wondered how it would feel."
He couldn't resist.
"For how long?" he drawled in a silly voice.
Methos pushed him on his back.
This time it was messy and not with any refinement, too. The robes went on
the floor as they rolled on the bed. He spasmed coming to Methos' soft
welcoming mouth then changed places with him under the soft warm mountain of
"Hey, did you do it before?" there was some hesitation in Methos'
"No," he said. "But you'll heal."
He was so contented when he switched off the light at last. It was so cozy -
being in the darkness. It meant Methos was going to stay all the night with
him, for all these hours. Where he belonged. Where Mac possessed him.
Then he felt Methos' hand finding his hesitantly under the blanket - and
gripping it tightly when he clasped his fingers around Methos' reassuringly.
It was hours ago. The last hours were happiness. And all what had been
before then didn't matter now, right? It only mattered because he was so
stupid, because he let it go this long - this pain, this being apart - for him
and for Methos. How could he be so cruel, so... blunt? He pressed slack fingers
in his hand slightly, brushing Methos' hand against his chest where his heart
felt sore with the tenderness.
Please don't let me hurt you again. Don't let me hurt myself again.
"You are not sleeping, are you?" Methos' voice was sleepy mumble
as he raised his head from the pillow and looked at Mac, his puffy eyes
peering. Suddenly this sight seemed heart-piercing to him. He knew this
expression of Methos, he used to find it funny - but never before it was so
intoxicating for him. And it would be from now on. From now everything what was
Methos' was his, had to do with him, went right into his heart.
"Sleep," he whispered softly. "It's early."
He felt Methos' wiggling his hand and let it go but Methos only shifted
closer, putting his chin on Mac's chest, looking up at him, his eyes clearer
now and wondering.
"No!" it was so wrong that he almost cried out. "Not at
"Good," Methos lowered his face and Mac squirmed feeling the teeth
nibbling his skin achingly.
"Methos," he started, unsure if he could say it, if it was not
obnoxiously obtrusive - oh yes, MacLeod, it was. But he knew he had to ask - to
be able to secure his peace. "You will have to go soon? You have lots of
things to do today?"
He knew he sounded as a capricious child but he couldn't help it. He
desperately wanted to be reassured.
The dark head rose from his chest.
"What answer are you waiting for?"
"No, I don't," he said obligingly.
"No, I don't," Methos said.
"Will you stay for today for the whole day?"
At least for today!
"Yes, I will."
Then he knew he didn't have to hurry any more. He could do everything as he
wanted to - to have Methos' soft lower lip between his, sucking it gently, to
kiss his chest, so smooth, the small nipples so hard under his tongue and to
enjoy the soft small sounds Methos made when he squeezed them between his teeth
- and his hands wandered over the clean hard lines of Methos' narrow body, to
the warm moistness between his legs, the curls so soft and fluffy there but the
shaft in them hard and straight. He lowered down to it and kissed it and ran
his tongue over it, so slowly, delighted with the feverish movements Methos
made with his hips, his peevish hiss at the delay - and then a moan when he
circled his tongue around the round cock-head.
Methos' face as Kronos and Byron had seen it had been haunting him in his
dreams and daydreaming - the reason of his resentment that he didn't dare to
call jealousy even for himself - the object of his longing. But now it didn't
matter - it could fade away - because he had his own memory imprinted forever
in his Quickening - Methos' face swept with passion for him, so pale and
flushed, dark eyes misted, the rapture on it one of the most beautiful sights
he had ever seen.
He looked at this absorbed smiling face as he entered Methos' body, smoothly
and slicky into the tight passage, facing him, Methos' legs pressed to his
chest - and Mac looked back and smiled, too, his strokes deep and slow and taking
part of his heart, every of them. And then Methos started to speak - and it was
not an endearment or something like that - and Mac listened to him, not missing
a stroke but thrusting deeper and more fluent, merging, making one.
"I knew it would be like that," Methos was saying. "You are
like that, Mac, that's why I couldn't help waiting for you. If you give it, you
give it all. If you are with anyone, it's where you are all."
Yes, I am, he thought, I am.