Fading fast...

Here is my Highlander Holiday Shortcuts story. I wrote it for Pat, which was great fun since I think we have similar tastes in fic.

Thanks so much to Mackiedockie and Methos_Fan for beta duty. You were great help, and fun to work with as always.

I'm amazed that I have to explain this, but the slash between Duncan and Methos' names does mean the story was slash content.

Title: After the Fall
Characters/Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Rating: hard R
Wordcount: 5,260
Summary: Fourteen years ago, Duncan MacLeod and Methos had been lovers. While immortal strife ended the affair, their connection remained solid enough that they held onto the friendship. Cherished, but tucked away, Duncan remembers that period of time when his universe, if not perfect, at least made more sense with Methos at his side. What does it take to break the universe's Second Law that says all things fall apart?



His head hurt like hellfire with the devil slinging stones upside his brain. Keeping his eyes squeezed shut against the throbbing pain, he assessed his environment before opening them to discover into which level of Hades he had fallen. On the ground, yet a warm pillow supported his neck, while the rest of his freezing cold body ached with wet clothes clinging to him. Cedar scented air, copper tang of blood in his mouth, water rushing nearby. His pillow moved! He opened his eyes to discover that his neck support actually consisted of a jeans clad leg of a young man looking down at him.

"You never listen to me." The man spoke quietly with a melodic British accent. Kind green-gold eyes watched him.

Safe. This man is safe. "What?" Something missing.

"I told you, no falling today."

"Sorry. What ― what did I fall from? Damn, my head hurts!"

The man pointed toward a wall of water in the distance, and told him, "That's what happens when you land on your head."

When he struggled to get up, the man helped him ease into a sitting position, allowing him to rest against a strong supporting shoulder. He found that they sat in damp sand and gravel on the bank of a white water stream. Taking a better look at where the man had pointed, he blinked his eyes into focus, seeing the high waterfall. "I fell from there? I should be dead!"

"You probably were for a few minutes."

Non sequitur. He studied the friendly face so close to his own. "I should know you."

"Oh, dear lords and ladies! Don't worry, it'll come back to you soon."

"You're sure? I ― you ― I don't think I believe in angels."

The man smiled broadly at him. "Sure you do. But never fear ― I'm no angel."

"I can hear you singing that." So familiar, yet unknown!

"Ah, memory returning so soon? Too bad. I was going to have a little fun with you."

Something about the man's teasing smile spoke to him of an intimacy he should remember. "We're lovers?"

"No!" The man laughed, choked and sighed all in one gasp, then bit the corner of his own lower lip.

Not true. "You're lying." He knew, even without his memories, which scuttled out of reach with each attempt to grasp them. He felt trapped inside his aching head; still, he sensed a connection with this man.

The familiar stranger sighed. "Well, there was a time ― a very brief time."

"What happened?" He watched the man start to speak and stop several times, seemingly at a loss for what to say. He thought he saw a look of hopelessness flicker by along with a touch of exasperation and regret.

"My past intruded. You'll remember soon. Come on. You need to get dry and warm. I'm taking you to your cabin, it's a lot closer than Seacouver."

His apparent rescuer tried to tug him to his feet, but he resisted because he had thousands of questions and no answers. Seacouver. "I'm from Seacouver?"

"Now-a-days, yes. Originally you're from Scotland. It will come back to you soon. Come on, stand up, Mac."

"I'm Mac?"

"You're Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

"And you're a joker! Aren't you ― ? What's your name?"

The man hesitated before answering, his gaze directed toward the waterfall. "Adam. Adam Pierson."

No, not true. "And a liar."

"Stop that! You and I have a mutual non-mind reading agreement. Now help me get your cold arse out of the wet sand, MacLeod!"

This time he allowed the agitated man to haul him to his feet and rather roughly assist/drag him off the sandbar and onto a tree lined path. They seemed to be deep in a forest, cedar and fir trees all around, and no other people. The headache intensified once he was upright and forced into a bipedal gate. His head screamed that he should be no higher than on his knees, if not one with the earth, but he staggered along supported by the young man.

Rain fell softly on them, but he hardly noticed. Along the path they startled some mountain quail. The covey dashed off into the evergreen cover with jaunty topknot feathers dancing. After a few minutes stumbling along the path, they arrived at a graveled parking area. The man, who called himself Adam, helped him climb into a gunmetal blue Jeep and locked the seatbelt around his aching body.

He was reassured again, "You'll feel better soon and your memory will come back. Probably before we get to the cabin. I'll crank up the Jeep heater so you can steam up the windows."

He muttered, "You've a positive attitude." His whole body felt bruised. Lucky to be walking tomorrow!

At first, the jostling ride aggravated his headache, but once they'd left behind the gravel road, the smooth paving of a highway began to lull him to sleep. Adam told him quietly, "You'll remember when you wake."

~.~.~
He awoke when the motion stopped. "We're at Lake Whatcom," Adam told him, with the memory? question on his face.

He shook his head, vexed, but glad that at least the pain in his head had receded.

The friend he knew, but could not remember, opened the Jeep door and offered an arm to assist, but he declined, able now to navigate on his own accord even if he was not exactly sure of the who, what, where, or why of it all.

A large forest lake spread before them, its water sparkling but gray with turbidity. The crisp windy air bit at their faces. Adam led him toward a small open boat that lay beached on the bank and chained to a fir tree.

"It's winter, isn't it?" He asked.

"Yes, December. Crazy weather for a boat ride to your island."

"Then why we are going?"

"A fantastic fireplace. It'll warm you fast, and the island is holy ground. A good place to recuperate."

"Holy ground? Am I religious?"

"Hmm. More than some, less than others."

"You make my head hurt."

"I do have that affect on some people. Let's get you over there and worry about the details later." Adam grabbed him by the belt to commandeer the cluster of keys hooked to his jeans belt-loop. He searched through them, quickly finding the padlock key for the chain securing the twelve-foot aluminum boat.

Adam's touch, even though fleeting, warmed him.

Together they pushed the boat to the water and launched the small craft onto the lake.

He jumped in with alacrity at the right moment, his body remembering how, if not his mind. His teeth chattered as they crossed the cold water. Adam kept glancing at him as he operated the ten horse outboard motor across the lake toward the forested island. Obviously Adam expected the boat ride to jog his memory. Nothing! Who am I? What am I? They crossed in mostly silence, Adam occasionally affirming, "You'll be OK soon." The calm assurances helped beat down the panic he felt squeezing his chest.

The log cabin impressed him, hand-hewn cedar logs with white caulking. This is mine! Feeling more than a bit dazed, he followed his rescuer around the outside of the cabin. Adam seemed to know the location of everything. He watched him start a diesel generator in a shed. After that they entered the unlocked cabin. The open floor plan interior had few auxiliary rooms, only a small bathroom and a closet, plus a loft reached by a ladder. Adam's first tasks inside the cabin included stripping off his own damp coat and boots, depositing them near the fireplace, then turning on the hot water heater, hidden behind a panel in the closet.

He looked around the cabin, hoping for the epiphany Adam insisted would come. The sparse furniture included an oak rocking chair and a leather recliner located near a massive rock fireplace. A bed covered with a patchwork quilt sat in the corner near the bathroom and a rough wooden picnic style table with benches occupied the kitchen area. One could sit at the table and easily talk to someone sitting near the fire or on the bed. Homey, but no bells of remembrance started ringing.

"In half an hour there'll be enough hot water for you to take a shower. Off with that wet gear! Wrap up in this blanket," Adam directed as if bossing him around was the normal state of affairs.

Accepting the dark blue Pendleton blanket that Adam handed him from the closet, he stumbled to the bed, placed it on the quilt, and quickly stripped off his soggy clothing. Then he wrapped himself in the woolen blanket and settled down in the rocking chair near the fireplace, exhausted and greatly relieved to be rid of the wet clothing.

Adam joined him in the sitting area and knelt in front of the fireplace to draw back the screen and open the flue.

He watched Adam working in front of the firewall of river stone. "What a beautiful fireplace."

"You built it," Adam told him. "And the cabin."

"I should remember."

"Soon. You're all healed now. Just in a bit of shock. By morning it will all come back to you."

All healed? How could... But he was. He reached up to touch the bash on his head to find not even a lump. As for his mental acuity, he still felt baffled and disconnected. Hugging the warm blanket around himself and gently rocking in the comfortable old rocking chair, he watched Adam build a fire.

Using the firewood stacked neatly near the hearth, Adam split fir with a hatchet, built a teepee with the kindling over crumpled newspaper in the firebox then lit it with a wooden kitchen match. Once burning, he gradually fed larger sticks of fir and finally a log of oak to the conflagration.

As he watched the slow fire building process he occasionally drifted off to sleep, then startled back awake from the crackle of the burning wood. Several times Adam turned to look at him. The young man did not immediately glance away when their gazes met, instead he smiled ― kind, warm, accepting; it was a smile that suggested a more complicated relationship than purely friendship. He felt a rush of desire for Adam.

Finished building the fire, Adam walked to the kitchen area. "I'll check the cupboards to see what kind of soup is on hand." Banging about with tin cans and a pot, he heated the soup on a propane camping stove. Once hot, Adam filled crockery bowls and motioned him to come to the table.

Wrapping the blanket firmly around himself, he joined Adam, sitting down across the table from him on the opposite bench. They ate in silence at first. He took the opportunity to study his former lover. Slender yet athletic, Adam seemed an intelligent, competent man, with a smile that helped calm the frustration of not remembering. We belong together.

When most of his soup had been devoured he asked Adam, "How long ago?"

"How long ago what?"

"Since we were lovers?"

Another loud sigh spent, before Adam answered. "Let's see, fourteen years."

He looked at the man who appeared to be at most in his early thirties. "Fourteen! You couldn't have been much more than a teenager!"

"No, I was already thousands of years old."

He frowned. He must mean he had a rough childhood. "What in your past did I object too?"

"I was one of the four horseman of the Apocalypse."

He shook his head at Adam's nonsense. "Why won't you tell me?"

Adam solemnly said, "After we finish the soup, I want to show you something that I think may jog your memory. I'm thinking we've gone past the point of simple organic amnesia."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're being pig headed."

He lost it then and shouted, "I want to remember!"

Eyes wide, Adam appeared startled by his outburst. "And you will, Mac, even if I have to run you through."

"What?" Adam only smiled at him. "You're daft!"

"Yes, I think I am, now finish your soup, then take a shower."

"I thought you wanted to show me something to jog my memory."

"Later. I'd rather not make things worse."

"What are you not telling me?"

"Quite a lot, apparently."

He growled in frustration at Adam's enigmatic responses. Dropping his spoon into his soup, he quietly muttered, "I feel lost, empty."

Adam sighed again, before speaking. Their gazes met cross the table. "Mac, your life is full and rich. You have lots of friends. I'm just one of many. In the morning you'll remember everything. In the meantime, we should avoid any extra melodrama."

He nodded, calm again, if no less frustrated. Now, ninety percent certain that there loomed some major oddity about his life that Adam felt unwilling to repeat, he suspected a hugely embarrassing secret. Maybe something he, Duncan MacLeod, would rather not remember for a little longer. Whoever the hell Duncan MacLeod is!

The soup, despite its humble origin, revived them both. When they finished, Adam washed the bowls in the kitchen sink, then set them to drain on a towel. During the chore he hummed an old song from the seventies that he must have learned from his parents.

The name of the song, popped into his head, Who am I? He grinned at Adam. Oh yes, I know this joker.

Adam chatted at him, "This is much easier since you replaced the old hand pump and put in the hot water heater. As I recall your list of future improvements includes solar panels to replace the diesel generator, and getting a new wood cook stove in, since the firebox on the old one finally gave up the ghost. You have a log raft stashed outside for moving that size of thing."

"I spend a lot of time here?"

"Not a lot, but quality time. It's a special place.

"There are probably clothes in that trunk in the closet," Adam said while pointing toward the closet door, dish towel in hand. "You can take that shower now."

He nodded and went to search in the round-top steamer trunk stashed in the closet. The stiff hinges of the old trunk required a bit of tugging to open. Inside, worn articles of outdoor clothing, wool socks, jeans and plaid flannel shirts all held the scent of cedar. Choosing the least disreputable items, he carried them to the bathroom, pausing briefly to watch Adam standing at a bookshelf in the fireplace-sitting area perusing the volumes. The sight of the young man choosing a book seemed meaningful.

Adam said, "I think we should stay the night here, even though we have a few more hours of light. I'd rather not take you back to the city until you've remembered...."

He nodded in agreement. He and the rest of the world were not ready for each other.

During his shower he allowed his thoughts to drift into the dark corners of his mind where he'd resisted looking into since his fall. He suspected that the walls blocking his recall were memories he didn't want for some unpleasant reason. And Adam knew what they were. The devilish man talked in riddles. The fall ― he should be dead. He ―. There ―. Almost. There be my dragons. Almost there.

Pulling on the worn comfortable clothing, my shirt, he glanced up into a small antique mirror hanging above the washbasin and wondered about the man he saw. A bit older looking than Adam. Fourteen years ago, what would that difference have meant? Good man? Bad man? Remember!

When he emerged from the bathroom he walked straight to the bed and collapsed on top of it. He studied the pattern of the patchwork quilt, and indulged in occasional glimpses of Adam, who now lounged in the recliner reading Don Quixote by firelight. He found himself appreciating the man's angular athletic form.

A sandman's dream beckoned, starring Adam and a book, his eye lids fluttered. He realized that he was falling asleep and resisted. "Are you going to wake me up every couple hours? I must have a concussion."

"Nope. I met Cervantes. Did I ever tell you?"

"I wouldn't remember if you had. And for the record, you make my head hurt."

The young man snickered.

"No, literally, when I walked into the room my head started to hurt again. By the way, Cervantes died centuries ago. Just so you know, Adam, you're crazy."

"No. Not now, anyway. Sometimes it seems like I'm the only sane person in the world."

"Rather existential of you. I thought we had agreed that you're daft." Adam gave him a toothy grin, but said nothing. He felt a rush of emotion that again included a jolt of lust in the mix. Lust for this confusing, appealing man, sprawled there in the leather recliner in what seemed an invitation. "Come to bed with me."

"No." Adam refused softly.

"Why not? I can see it on your face that you want to."

"I'm a guy! Of course I want to, but we're just friends now. I know that, even if you don't remember."

"Remember what! Some argument from fourteen years ago? I can still feel the connection between us ― even if you can't remember it."

"Duncan, if I had a heart, you'd be breaking it. Back off." Adam looked back down into his book, though they both knew he could not be reading.

He tried again, "It would help me remember."

"You have a one track mind, MacLeod, even when you're out of it. Go to sleep." Adam's voice had cracked then gone softer.

He stopped pushing and eventually drifted off to sleep, frustrated with the universe.

~.~.~
The next morning, when Duncan woke, he saw Methos sleeping in the recliner. The world righted, all of his memories returned, including his unsuccessful suggestions to Methos yesterday. And now his old immortal! friend would want to drive them right back to Seacouver. Fuck and blast!

Watching Methos sleep, Duncan sighed. Now he could remember that they had been exploring the ruins of an old grist mill in the national forest when he fell. Methos had wanted to check out the site for a possible field trip for one of the science classes he taught at Seacouver Community College, and Duncan had agreed to accompany him on the day trip. While Methos clambered over the mill ruins, he had climbed the path to the top of the falls....

His friend softly snored, the copy of Don Quixote lying on his chest. Methos aroused his desire, as always, and remained at the top of his list of regrets. He remembered, painfully, how the return of Kronos had ended their intimacy. That they had managed to repair their friendship after such a rupture spoke of the power of the connection shared. A strong rapport persisted even when one of them was unhinged. We belong together.

A thought, perhaps a wicked thought, occurred. If only his memory hadn't returned they would stay here in the cabin together for awhile longer. Just a little longer, please.

Duncan threw off the quilt that Methos had wrapped over him while he slept, and padded into the kitchen area in search of coffee, halting at the table when he saw what had been placed there during the night. Our swords, of course. A cleaning kit and both their swords lay on a towel, in the center of the table. Methos planned to show him this stark symbol of their immortality to crack open his memory.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he turned to see Methos watching him. Duncan very deliberately shook his head, no.

Methos groaned, remained lounged back in the recliner; slapped his forehead as if defeated by a great puzzle.

"Are you alright?" Duncan asked him.

"I'm fine. It's you that's broken."

Carefully keeping his face blank, Duncan replied, "And I'm sure it's just to devil you."

"No doubt," Methos replied, but with a smile. He climbed off the recliner, walked to Duncan's side and pointed to the swords on the table. "Tell me, without thinking, which is yours?"

Duncan reached out and allowed his hand to falter. "I want to say they're both mine."

Methos met his gaze, smiled. "In a way they are, but pick up the one that you carry. Let your hand do it."

Duncan allowed his hand to move over the broadsword, then to the katana. He paused then wrapped his fingers around the ivory hilt. After a moment he let go the sword and stepped back.

Methos nodded and said, "Good," then collected up the swords and tack, moving them to the fireplace hearth. He returned to the kitchen area where Duncan remained motionless. Methos shook his head at Duncan's stillness. "We need food." He walked to the kitchen area counter and retrieved a couple wrapped sandwiches. "I found these in your backpack. You made them for us yesterday morning; a little worse for wear, but still edible. Thank you for the Nutella, by the way. Here's a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich you made for yourself." Methos laid them on the table.

Duncan poked at the slightly squished sandwich. He just nodded. He knew he had an apprehensive look on his face and hoped Methos would interpret it incorrectly. Guilt crept up on him, but he told himself the deception benefited them both.

"I was going to make some coffee. Is there a can in the cupboard?" Duncan asked.

"Bound to be." Adam opened the food cupboard, and pushed the cans around until he located the ground coffee, then set it near the camp stove.

Duncan searched through the small collection of kettles and pans for the old Revere Ware percolator coffeepot he knew was there, taking his time to locate it. He filled the pot with water and used a section of paper towel as a filter for the grounds.

Methos pumped up the propane canister on the camping stove and lit the burner.

As they worked side by side preparing the coffee, he wondered what wheels turned in Methos' mind.

Their hunger helped them devour the travel-worn sandwiches quickly, but they lingered over the black coffee. Once he had finished his second cup, Methos used his iPhone to text his grad-student assistant, alerting her that he, 'need care ill friend, pls teach Mon classes'.

"I should text Joe too, though he seems to have either a philosophical or technological objection to text messages."

Both, Duncan thought and almost said aloud. Careful.

Methos went on speaking without seeming to notice. "Lets walk back down to the lake. I can get enough signal there to actually get a call through and talk to Joe."

They slipped on their hiking boots and grabbed their coats, which Methos had dried next to the fireplace overnight. They walked out into the crisp December morning; the air so cold their breaths appeared as misty puffs. A delicate layer of snow covered the fir and cedar trees with postcard beauty that would soon melt in the sun.

"In the spring, the ducks and geese on the lake are as noisy as the trumpets of hell," Methos told him, prompting a response. Duncan stopped himself from nodding.

When they reached the lake shore Methos telephoned Joe. "Hey, Joe! .... Yes, I know it's the butt crack of dawn. I just wanted to inform you that MacLeod and I are hanging out at his cabin for a few days. And to ask please don't send the militia out after us. I promise we'll stay put. .... Yes, yes! I'll write it myself. No worries. Later." He sighed deeply, turned to Duncan. "I doubt that worked, but we will see."

Duncan blinked with what he hoped was a mystified look.

Methos reached over and touched his shoulder giving him a reassuring pat. "It's going to be alright." Then with both hands he shoved Duncan into the lake.

He fell on his backside in the shallow, frigid water with a small splash and shouted, "Methos!"

Methos stood calmly, smiling, looking down at him.

Duncan realized he'd shouted the ancient name that Adam hadn't shared with his amnesiac self. "Oops."

"Yes, oops." Breaking into some serious laughter, Methos reached out to help him. Duncan took the hand offered and tugged Methos down into the shallow water with him. "Hey!"

Duncan wrapped a hand behind his friend's neck and pulled Methos to him, delivering a rough insistent kiss, stopping the protest.

Methos passed through laughter and outrage quickly enough to respond with enthusiasm for all of ten seconds before pulling away. "You have the devil in you, MacLeod!" His laughter was now tinged with chattering teeth from the cold dunking. "And I'm out of mmy mmmind!"

Of one mind, they jumped to their feet and sprinted back toward the cabin. Arriving quickly they tussled with the heavy wooden door, Methos attempting to shut Duncan out, but was rapidly muscled aside, both still laughing with joy. Inside they dashed to the fireplace shucking wet boots and tossing them near the hearth to dry again.

"When did you know?" Duncan asked as they removed their wet gear.

"The swords. You didn't react enough."

"You didn't need to toss me in the lake."

"True. I was seriously considering running you through."

Duncan's smile slipped. "Your forbearance is appreciated."

"Your memories returned when you woke up this morning, didn't they?"

"Yes." Duncan admitted with a guilty grin.

Once stripped down, Methos headed for the closet and its steamer trunk full of clothes. But before he could open it, Duncan grabbed his arms and pivoted him around, shoving his back against the door.

"Let's not be too hasty with the clothes," Duncan said as he leered at his friend. Angled back from Methos, with his hands on the door on either side of Methos' head, he gently mated their foreheads. They remained close enough to smell/taste the coffee, peanut butter and hazelnut of breakfast. Duncan waited. And waited.

Finally, Methos lifted his mouth ...ah.... This kiss felt warm, despite the rest of their bodies feeling shockingly cold, too cold to catch up to the destination their thoughts had traveled. Duncan leaned in enough to lightly touch, skin to skin. Methos gasped, Duncan's tongue took advantage of open lips, gently scouting for resistance, finding none.

At the natural end of the kiss, Duncan rested his head over Methos' heart, listening to it pound, waiting for the panic he expected. Two minutes passed without protest. Good.

Methos said quietly, "I would like to rescind the no-mind-reading accord."

"Eh?"

"What the hell are we doing, MacLeod?"

"Just now? Gathering our strength. Later on we will be over on that bed renegotiating our détente."

"Sounds serious."

"Aye." He hooked an arm around Methos' waist and marched with him toward the bed.

"I'm cold!" Methos wrapped chilled arms around him, turning the march into a stumble.

"It'll be warm under the covers. We could have done this without the swim," Duncan mentioned, knowing it invited conflict.

"If you hadn't lied about remembering this morning, I'd ― !" At the edge of the bed they tipped over onto the rumpled quilt, halting Methos' harangue.

"I wanted more time here at the cabin. With you."

"You could have asked," Methos said as they burrowed under the quilt and settled face to face, heads propped on palms.

"I did!"

"No, you ― ."

Duncan cut off the arguing with his mouth. This kiss demanded, pleaded and persuaded in the most ancient of languages. He climbed over Methos who struggled briefly until Duncan soothed him with a full frontal caress, sliding, igniting, no longer cold.

Methos keened, panted, struggled and finally demanded, "Duncan! Duncan, stop!"

"What!"

"We forgot something!" With great effort Methos flipped their positions. Now looking down on Duncan he lowered his voice to a gravely whisper. "You've been very naughty."

Duncan's stomach fluttered and his already heavy cock slid against that of his once and future lover, ready.

Methos moved off to his side and ordered him in a stern voice, "Roll over, Duncan."

"Woof!" Insolent, but compliant, he rolled. He had been bad.

Methos gently rubbed a circle on the nearer butt cheek. "Five." Slap. "Four." Pat. "Three." Slap. "Two." Pat. "One." Slap!

Duncan almost came, light exploding behind his closed eyes, but he stilled with great effort, triumphing over his body. He rolled to his side, gathered Methos to him, spoke into his ear, "Thank you, love. I'm going to fuck you now."

"Hey! I'm in charge here!" Methos laugh/gasped the words as Duncan squeezed him close.

"Of course you are ― hold that thought!" Duncan pulled away, leaned over the edge of the bed and searched for a small wooden box he knew should be tucked under there. "Ah-hah!" He sprang back to bed level with the box, blew off a bit of dust from the lid and opened it to retrieve a half full bottle of scented oil.

Methos laughed and gleefully shouted, "Boyscout!" He massaged Duncan's back and neck muscles as the Highlander attempted to slide the lid back on the box.

Duncan stashed the bottle under one of the pillows and tucked the box back under the bed, before rolling to his partner. Draping an arm and leg over him, he drew Methos close. He moved his hand gently down his partner, touching his arm and flank. "So, you knew I had my memory back when you made arrangements for your classes tomorrow."

Methos smiled and nodded, combed his fingers through Duncan's hair. "I did. I always want you, Duncan. But I'll be damned if I start something while you're out of your ever lovin' ― oh never mind, I'll be damned anyway." Leaning in eagerly for another kiss, his soft lips touched Duncan's; his unshaved face met its mate, the scratching creating shivers.

They moved in closer still, skin touching from chest to toe, both groaned when they slid together.

"I always want you too, Methos." He reached under the pillow for the small bottle and without asking proceeded to splash the sandalwood scented oil on his fingers, then slid them down down Methos' spine, cleft and center, entering; unraveling all resistance.

Methos moaned, sensory overload too close. "Duncan, hurry!"

Duncan removed his fingers and soothed with words, "Shh! there you are!" then kisses.

Methos drew his legs up over Duncan's back, trapping him.

Duncan paused a moment for control, then slid into place, one long slow stroke. The noise coming from Methos, loud and joyous, quickened Duncan's body and spirit. He thrust against Methos several times, then his lover came undone, shouting, almost crying. Such a sight! He watched the rapture and little death, allowing Methos to catch his breath before he started to thrust again, slow then faster, building passion, and finally coming, coming.... Shattered.

~.~.~
Much, much later when his thinking ability returned, Methos asked, "Do you remember how you fell?"

"Yes. I was watching you from the top of the falls."

"Just watching me?"

"And taking pictures."

"Of me?"

"Yes, I guess I was moving around to get a better picture. Not watching my feet."

"Not like you."

"You distracted me!"

"So sorry," Methos said but with a contented smile.

Duncan leaned in for a kiss, gentle and sweet. His warm lips now swollen and tender, tingled with life. The world had finally righted itself. When the kiss ended, Duncan sighed, content with the universe. At last.

(the end)