The Old Man and the Thief
by Jennie and Dr. Ruthless
Disclaimer: Neither Methos nor Anson belong to us, but we believe that they ought to. We'd make them very happy.
Archive: NickZone only
Beta: Thanks to Terri for beta
Rated: A slash
Pairing: Methos/Anson Greene
Series: Part 1 of "Pierson's Folly", sequel is Trust
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7am. It was 7am, and not even light yet. Anson thought that 7 am ought to e prohibited by law as he rolled sleepily off the Greyhound and staggered around the side of the bus to collect his meager belongings.
Damn, he was tired. He hadn't slept since Seattle, and that had been four hours ago. Now a new day was dawning, and he was too fucking tired to appreciate it. Still, he thought, at least he had managed to get out of the States. Here in Canada he could rest and not worry that the Feds were going to be chasing him down.
He collected his bag at last, and staggered into the terminal. The MacDonalds was open, and he had a dollar or two left, so he ordered what was laughingly called a big breakfast and found an empty table where he could eat it in peace. He had to get some money soon. He was all but flat broke, and God knew he was tired. Sipping his coffee, he tried to turn his tired mind towards the vexed question of where he was going to find cash.
He felt in his pocket for the gun. He'd taken it off that stupid cop at the hospital, and had been carrying it ever since. He'd used it once or twice, and there were only four bullets left, but that ought to be enough, he thought.
Rising to his feet, he discarded the cartons that had held his meal, shouldered his bag and stepped out into the thin drizzle of a typical Vancouver morning in November.
Heading down Main Street and through Chinatown, Anson saw the brightly colored lanterns and flowery signs that announced all manner of ethnic delicacies. Crossing Hastings, he felt nervous. There were others of his kind there, lurking in the store doorways, measuring him and trying him, finding him slim pickings, for now. A junkie retched into the gutter, and Anson sneered, crossing the road in disgust.
As he walked down Carrall Street and into Gastown, he began to brighten up. Here were some possibilities. He began to plan as he passed a courtyard full of elegant tourist stores. There was a cigar and tobacco store, and then a liquor store. This was what he needed. There would be money there. He checked his watch. It was 8:30, and he would need to wait a while, but that was fine. At least he had a plan.
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Damned Scottish barbarian, Methos grumbled inwardly as he meandered his way up the street. Who the hell got up this early on a Saturday for god's sake?
Fucking Highland moron
He hunched his shoulders miserably. Of course, It would have to be raining... When did it ever *not* rain in this godforsaken place where Duncan MacLeod, bastardly-Scottish-Highlander-boyscout-moron- barbarian insisted on living?
Growling deep in his throat, Methos paused at the corner of Water and Abbott and waited for a car to get the hell out of his mother-fucking-way.
Dammit, he should have known better. Every time he let MacLeod talk him into sleeping on that bloody uncomfortable couch of his rather than walk home late at night, this happened. The sonofabitch would insist on rising - and shining, for fuck's sake - at an obscenely early hour. "
Up and at 'em, old man," he sneeringly repeated Duncan's habitual wake-up call, "time's a' wasting."
Well, this was it. No more. Never again. He'd sleep in the gutter before he heard that one again, by god!
Somewhat cheered by his decision, Methos raised his head and looked around the nearly deserted street. At least he didn't have to fight a crowd on the way home. Nope, no chance of that... The rest of Vancouver hadn't been foolish enough to sleep on Duncan MacLeod's couch last night. He saw a couple of employees arriving at various establishments along the street, but no one else.
Except for the fellow on the other side of the street there.
Well, maybe the poor sap had a friend that shared Mac's disgusting early-morning habits. Shrugging, Methos was just about to cross the street and make the turn for home, when he paused. There was something about that guy. Something very familiar.
Narrowing his eyes, Methos studied the features of the man across the street from him. Dammit, he knew that face. Who the hell?
Ah. The light dawned. It was Raines. Cory Raines.
Well, hell. He hadn't seen Cory in years. And years. Like, maybe a hundred years. Smiling at the thought of the trouble he and Cory had gotten into - and out of - together, Methos headed across the street to surprise his old friend.
And stopped in his tracks about halfway there. Frowned. Looked at the man again.
Definitely Cory's face.
Just as definitely, not Cory.
No buzz. Not even a twinge. At this range, Cory's quickening should be screeching through his nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
He shook his head in confusion. This was a definite mystery Methos hated mysteries.
Methos took his hands out of his coat pockets without even thinking about it. He'd learned early on that in a questionable situation, it was always best to have his hands free - one never knew, that precious second wasted pulling hands out of pockets, could be the difference between life and death in case of a challenge.
Shoulders still hunched against the insidious drizzle that defined Vancouver in his mind, Methos moved forward again. He stepped up on the sidewalk and meandered casually past not-Cory.
At the next street, he turned right and stopped as soon as he was out of the man's line of sight. Ducking down an alley, he worked his way back, passing behind the businesses that fronted on Water Street. Once he knew he was well past the building in front of which he'd seen the stranger, he ducked through a private parking area.
Ah, yes, this would do nicely. Peering around the corner of a restaurant, Methos was satisfied with the clear view he now had of the-guy-who-wasn't-Cory. Oddly, the man was still lurking near the liquor store. Interesting.
Methos settled in to wait.
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Waiting was something with which Anson was familiar. He'd spent most of his life waiting. He hung back, a nondescript figure, apparently studying the art deco furniture in a particularly glitzy emporium, and awaited the arrival of the person who would open the liquor store. Some of the stuff in the window was so outlandish that he was tempted to laugh at the idea of owning it -as if he'd ever again be in a position to own a place where he could put a coffee table supported by a naked woman on her knees. There was a bed in the window though. It was huge, and appeared to be set in an enormous seashell, and Anson would have given anything just at that moment to be able to throw himself onto that bed and sleep. He wouldn't need to hear the sound of the waves.
For a little while he dozed, damp and miserable, hunkered down in the doorway as he waited for deliverance. A sudden noise impinged on his senses, bringing him back to reality, as the man from the liquor store pulled up the shutters ready to begin his day. Anson took the gun from his pocket, concealing it in the folds of his checked workshirt, and shook himself briefly before he stood.
Goddamn! Old age was creeping in. He felt his joints pop, and stretched as well as he was able before moving. Slowly, he emerged from the protection of the doorway into the cold, damp air and looked around. Nobody seemed anxious to be out in the gloomy morning, and he could see no reason not to proceed. He drew in a deep breath, and strengthened his resolve.
As the proprietor finished pulling the shutters up and turned to enter his store, Anson traversed the street and sauntered casually up to stand at his back. When the man moved to go in, Anson was right behind him, his gun stuck firmly into the man's kidneys.
"Just keep on walking, and nobody will get hurt," he gritted, crowding the man through the door. The man, a small, Chinese who looked as though he were too young to drink, let alone manage a liquor store, was plainly terrified.
"Don't please, don't," he said, as Anson shoved him through the door, and turned the latch to lock it again.
"Just shut up. I want money. Where is it?" Anson moved towards the counter as he was speaking, and gestured to the till. "Open it. Come on." There was a pause as the frightened little man hung in his grip. "Come on!" he shouted again, and shook his unfortunate victim a couple of times. The man reached to steady himself on the edge of the counter and then produced the key that would open the cash register.
As the drawer popped open, Anson released the man, and began to take the money that had been allocated as the day's float. There was around $150.00 in banknotes, and some loose change that he swiftly pocketed. Having collected the cash, Anson backed away, still pointing the gun, and when he arrived at the door attempted to push it open.
He'd locked it, and it didn't budge. Uttering a low-voiced curse, Anson turned around to grapple with the catch on the door, and that was the cue for his victim to reach under the counter and come up with his own gun. As Anson jerked the door open, the man took aim, and the only thing that saved him was the movement as he finally managed to wrest it open.
A bullet tore a furrow along his side as he emerged, and another ripped its way through the outside of his thigh, causing bright flowers of agony to blossom behind his eyelids as he ran from the store. Bleeding and in pain, Anson tore headlong around the side of the building and fell over a piece of masonry.
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Eyes narrowed, Methos watched as the stranger moved up behind the man opening the liquor store. This didn't look good. Not at all.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk and moved closer, not really sure why he did so. Obviously, the man was not Raines. Admittedly, Cory was a fuck-up of seldom paralleled talent; but, even he knew better than to rob a liquor store first thing in the morning. Christ on a crutch... hadn't the fool ever heard of night deposits? No responsible business kept the previous day's cash lying about.
Just as he reached the corner of the building, he heard gunshots. Shit! The not-Cory person came bursting out of the door and ran into the alley.
Don't get involved
A moment's pause to consider why in the hell he was even considering following the man...
Not your business, old man.
Thud
Well, shit. With a fatalistic shrug, Methos walked around the corner of the building. The guy was on the ground, apparently having tripped, and he was bleeding.
As Methos moved forward, the man rolled to one side and saw him. Impossibly green eyes widened in dismay and an all too familiar hunted look came over his face.
"I take it the store owner is alive in there?" Methos asked quietly.
A nod was his answer.
With a sigh, Methos held out one hand. "Then you'd better come with me, before the forces of the law arrive."
The man looked suspiciously at his hand and then up at his face. Methos recognized the desire, mistrust, and fear in those sinfully pretty eyes. The kid had been hurt... many times, he thought.
And still he fought to survive, in the only way open to him.
Methos knew how very difficult it was to continue on when life had kicked one down over and over. Admired the fire he saw lurking beneath the pain and fear.
"Come on, kid. I'll help you." He held his breath as wary eyes measured him. "My place is nearby," he said urgently, as he heard sirens in the distance. "Take my hand. Let me get you away from here."
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Anson's first reaction had been to scoot away from the tall, shrewd looking stranger. Groveling in the dirt seemed to be his thing lately, and even as his shoulders connected with the cinderblock wall he realized that he was behaving stupidly. The man had offered him shelter, and he was wet, cold, tired and sticky with blood from two painful wounds. Not only that, but he was, as the hawk-like newcomer had observed, about to be hunted by the cops. He was having a really shitty run of luck. How could things possibly get any worse?
Reluctantly, he pushed himself up to standing, ignoring the proffered hand and using the wall at his back to steady him. He stared, wild-eyed at the would-be Samaritan for a further moment before the sound of approaching vehicles made him nod sharply.
"Why would you want to help me?"
His voice, when it came, was a low, rough growl, and its tone was calculated to prick at the man who still stood facing him. When the other didn't answer immediately, Anson shook his head and laughed in disbelief.
"I can't believe I'm doing this. Okay, take me away from all this, bud, and make it snappy. I don't think there's a moment to lose." He took a step, and groaned as the pressure of standing caused the blood to flow with renewed vigor from the wound in his thigh. It hurt like a son of a bitch. As Methos led him back through the alley, away from the scene of his crime, he began to feel a little lightheaded.
"I... uh I don't like to bother you, but are we going somewhere close by?" He caught at the arm of his companion as he felt the world swaying around him. "I don't think," he could hear himself slurring the words, and made a supreme effort to articulate them so that he would be understood. "I don't"
His face was suddenly white, and he reeled, falling forward gracelessly.
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"Shit!" Methos grabbed Anson before he could hit the ground.
Now what?
With a groan, Methos lifted the kid in a fireman's hold and set off. Thankfully, his place was quite close. Cutting down alleys to avoid curiosity over his burden, he arrived at the rear entrance to his building a few panting, sweating minutes later.
Damn, the kid is heavier than he looks... or you're getting soft in your old age
He struggled to balance the limp body as he reached into a pocket for his keys. Once inside, he rode the freight elevator to his floor and quickly got into his apartment.
Dumping the unconscious body on his sofa, Methos crossed to the bathroom and rummaged in the medicine cabinet for supplies. Ah... sterile wash, antibiotic cream, bandages and gauze. He paused, debating, then opened the closet and got a bottle of local anesthetic and a syringe.
No sense causing pain when unnecessary. He rather suspected that this one wouldn't question him too closely about why he had such things on hand.
Juggling the medical supplies, Methos went back into the living area and put everything on the coffee table, then sat back to wait for his guest to awaken.
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There was a pain in his thigh, and his side was on fire. It stabbed and throbbed - a wasp, buzzing just below the threshold of his consciousness. When he opened his eyes, Anson found himself in a strange room. The man from the alley was sitting in a chair beside him, as expressionless as an old, stone idol, watching him.
"I guess it would be a clich to ask 'where am I'?" he whispered, with the ghost of a smile.
"You're right about that," said his rescuer, and stood, moving towards him with a purposeful gait that made Anson nervous. Anson felt his body's instinctive attempt to draw away from the menacing form, but he was just too tired, and ended up merely shrugging weakly, holding his hand out in a placatory way as he tried to assess the situation.
"Looks like I'm I'm bleeding on your furniture. Sorry." His attempt at jauntiness went somehow sadly wrong, and he felt the world shimmering around him once more. He gasped and lay back among the cushions, wondering what the hell was about to happen to him. "Shit! Hurts. Sorry."
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"Mmmhmm," Methos agreed absentmindedly. He prepared a syringe with anesthetic and looked at the man on his couch. "Bullet wounds have a nasty habit of being rather painful."
The stranger gave a quiet gasp and Methos moved to stand beside him. "First, we need to get your shirt and trousers off so I can take a look."
A suspicious glare was the answer.
"Listen kid - what's your name? I'm Adam Pierson, by the way."
"Anson," the kid responded. "Anson Greene."
"Okay, Anson. I'd say 'nice to make your acquaintance,' but under the circumstances, I think we can skip the polite formalities." He frowned when there was no answer. Anson just closed his eyes and winced. "Look, Anson... I was a doctor in a former life. Let me take a look at your injuries."
Reluctantly, Anson opened his eyes and nodded. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt before falling back against the couch with a groan. "I think I'll need some help with this," he said softly.
With a sigh, Methos reached out to give a hand. He stripped the bloody t-shirt off of the 'mortal' and unsnapped his jeans. Carefully, he worked the heavy material over the child's hips and down his legs. A moment to remove the boots that impeded his progress, and the jeans were off.
Steadfastly ignoring the rather attractive body that had been well-disguised by loose clothing, Methos bent closer to view the two nasty looking wounds that marred the man's otherwise perfect skin.
"Well, you were quite lucky, actually. Both bullets only managed to graze you," he said encouragingly. He picked up some gauze and the sterile wash. "I'll just clean away the blood and get you bandaged."
Anson gasped and flinched when Methos reached for the wound at his waistline.
"Ah," he paused and turned to grab the syringe he'd already prepared. "Local anesthetic," he explained. "It'll sting a bit going in but, in the long run, you'll think it's worth a moment's discomfort."
"A shot?" Anson's eyes widened in fear. "You're going to stick a needle in me?"
"Your choice, kid." Methos sat back on his heels, waiting. "Personally, I'd go for the shot, but then, I have a horror of unnecessary pain." He offered a grin. "In fact, I have a horror of any kind of pain."
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Anson made a face that wanted to be a smile, and relaxed a little as the would-be doctor approached, bearing his hated needle.
"Okay, doc, do your worst." He twisted his mouth as Methos deftly wielded the syringe, and sighed with relief when the pain subsided a few minutes later. "Are you gonna stitch that up?"
Methos was working methodically, bathing the wound in his side prior to securing it with butterfly bandages. Anson craned his head to watch for a moment, and then, obviously a little more secure in the awareness that his ministering angel knew what he was doing, he leaned back once more, looking a little green around the gills.
As Methos taped the dressing to Anson's smooth flank, he couldn't help noticing the strength of the body beneath his hands. Anson was well made, with a deep chest and sturdy build that spoke of hard physical work. He bore scars too, some old and white, and one or two still fresh, as yet unfaded, that stood out, stark and red against the pale flesh.
Methos turned his attention to the other wound. It was an ugly, gaping furrow, still oozing blood. He applied the local anesthetic once again and trailed antiseptic wash across the bloodstained thigh.
"This one is going to have to be stitched, my friend." Methos murmured as he worked. Anson grunted. He seemed to be about to pass out again, and Methos looked sharply at him. "Are you okay?"
Anson nodded. "It's just that I'm so tired. Haven't had any sleep for a couple of days, and it's warm here. Sorry. I'll get out of your hair, shall I?" He pushed himself up onto his elbow, and winced as he swung his legs around and off the couch. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he said again. "I've bled all over your couch."
He stood, staggering slightly, and then sat, dropping his head into his hands, the very picture of dejection.
"What's the matter?" Methos paused in his clean up to pass a worried glance over his guest.
"I think that you're stuck with me for a little while. My clothes" He gestured feebly at the pile of torn and bloodstained rags that were scattered on the polished hardwood floor. "I think they're past their best, don't you?"
Grimacing at the ruined clothing, Methos nodded. "I think you're going to have to stick around for a bit, Anson. You've lost a lot of blood... add to that your fatigued state and I'm afraid you'll need to rest before you head out of here."
Anson frowned and tried to straighten. His abused body was having none of that, however, and he fell back with a moan of distress.
"Hey," Methos rested one hand on Anson's shoulder. "Take it easy, kid. You're safe here." He shrugged. "If I wanted to turn you over to the cops, I'd just have left you in that alley. Now, lay back on the couch and I'll go get a suture kit."
After helping Anson into a reclining position, Methos went back to the medicine chest and pulled out the necessary items. He detoured through the kitchen on his way back and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the icebox.
"Here," he stuffed a pillow behind Anson's shoulders and offered the drink. "This should help a bit. Sip that slowly while I see to your leg."
A suspicious glare was the answer. Methos sighed. Damn mortal was stubborn as a herd of fucking mules, for god's sake.
"Look, you want to get better don't you?"
A reluctant nod.
"Good, then drink the damned Gatorade - you need to replenish your body's fluids and electrolytes. I'll sew up this wound and then you can sleep for a bit." He met the sullen green eyes with an uncompromising look. "Just do as I say. You'll be back on the street in no time at all."
Anson looked away, then sighed and took a drink. "Oh shit, what is this?"
Methos smirked. "One of those sports drinks. I have a friend who swears by the things." He pulled out the suture silk and bent closer to the injured leg. "I know it's nasty, but it'll help. I promise."
As he sewed the gash on Anson's leg, Methos couldn't help but admire the man's body. It had been a long time - perhaps too long - since he'd taken a male lover. After five thousand years, there were few pleasures he hadn't tried at least a time or two, and male sex had always been one of his favorite indulgences. The long clean lines of the body laid out before him woke his hunger ... made him remember why he enjoyed men so much.
Damn. Knock it off, old man, the child is hurt and just needs help
He firmly set aside his body's reaction to the young man, and finished stitching the bullet wound. A fast bandaging job and he was done.
"Okay," he said briskly. "All set." He shook a couple of painkillers and an antibiotic out of the bottles he'd carried into the room, holding them out. "Swallow these and let's get you to bed."
Pushing back a fresh wave of nausea and dizziness, Anson took the pills that had been offered, but he didn't immediately get up to follow Methos. Instead, he remained, half sitting and half lying, looking at the man who had been so kind, as he attempted to fathom just what his angle might be.
"Hey, not that I'm ungrateful. It's just that nobody does something for nothing, and I'm just wondering what you want. I don't have any money. I guess you could sell my body for the spare parts, but some of those have seen better days too." Anson wrinkled his brow as he spoke, and there was a small furrow of bafflement across the top of his nose. He looked for all the world like a little boy who had been caught out doing something bad.
Methos grinned, somewhat maliciously.
"Don't worry about it. I'll think of something. Do you need help to get up?" Talk of selling his body had made Methos look at him more carefully. Those were the marks of a lash that criss-crossed the fine grain of Anson's skin, and some of the scars he bore were strategically placed. This man had been tortured by experts. Methos wondered if it had been consensual, or if he'd been made to submit to it. There was a small, amateur tattoo on Anson's arm, and Methos surmised that the man had been a Marine.
Again, the annoyingly mistrustful child struggled to his feet, spurning the hand that was extended to assist him, and staggered forward in the direction that Methos had indicated. He took a few steps, and then turned back, swaying a little.
"I guess it would be asking a little much of you" His voice died away, and he sounded almost embarrassed.
"Might as well try me," Methos smiled, wondering what could make this sullen kid unbend sufficiently to request a favor.
"Would it be okay for me to get a shower or something? I mean, I'm covered in blood and stuff, and I've been on the Greyhound for the past 5 days. I don't smell too good, even to myself." He gestured at the crusts of blood that had trickled down his side to dry, black against the fair skin. "Wouldn't want to mess up your nice, clean sheets, would we?"
Methos studied him, naked but for a pair of once-white briefs, now sadly grey. He was certainly a looker, but he would definitely improve with washing. Nodding, Methos turned to take the other man to his bathroom, hoping that he would be able to take care of himself, but knowing that he was being foolishly optimistic. He started the shower up, and sat down on the toilet seat to watch as Anson slid out of his unsavory underwear and stepped under the invitingly warm spray with a groan of satisfaction.
Anson picked up a bar of soap and half-heartedly ran it over his chest. It slipped out of his hand, and he bent over to retrieve it.
Not a good move.
He gasped and froze. Very carefully, he straightened up again and leaned against the shower wall, trying to catch his breath. Damn it all, anyway.
Methos sighed in resignation and stood. He pulled his sweater over his head and toed off his shoes. Briefly considered leaving his jeans on, but rejected the idea as foolish. Hell, the kid was half-asleep already. He'd probably never even notice Methos' incipient erection.
Down, boy.
His eager cock ignored the command.
Typical.
He shrugged, dropped his jeans and briefs on the floor and climbed into the shower.
"What?" Anson asked, startled to have company. "What are you doing?"
Methos picked up the soap and grabbed a washcloth from the towel bar. "Helping you, Anson. Just helping."
He lathered up the cloth and ran it over Anson's body, studiously not looking too closely at all that too, too naked flesh. Once he'd cleaned the man's chest, back and legs, he handed the cloth to Anson.
"Here, you can take care of the rest."
Anson stared blankly at the washcloth. What the hell was going on? Was this how the good doctor expected payment? A quick fuck in the shower? Well, he sighed, it could be worse, he supposed. At least the man - Adam - didn't seem like the violent type.
He turned his back, braced his arms against the wall and waited.
"What are you doing?" Methos was puzzled. He'd poured a dollop of shampoo into his hand and was preparing to wash that pretty hair when the guy suddenly ...
Oh shit.
"No, Anson," he finally said after a moment's horrified silence. "That's not why we're in here. Just... wash yourself, okay? I'll do your hair and then you're off to bed. Alone."
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The bed was large, clean, and impossibly soft. To a man who had been riding the Greyhound for almost a week without stopping, it was a luxury little short of heaven. The anesthetic was still working to deaden the pain in his wounds, and as he slid in between crisp cotton sheets, he felt almost human.
He still wasn't sure what angle the doc might have. He'd spotted the arousal in the other man, even though he'd been turned down in the shower. Truth to tell, he wouldn't have minded putting out for the strangely intense man who was even now closing the drapes in the bedroom and fetching water to place beside the bed. He was very attractive. His strong, lean body was wiry and well muscled, and shone with health. His face was chiseled with spare perfection, with a generous mouth that, at rest, seemed to quirk upwards at the corners in some private amusement, and a nose that should have been too large, but which spoke of competence and breeding. Anson sighed. It would have felt good, very good, despite his exhaustion, to feel Adam filling him up. It would certainly have allayed his fear of the unknown.
He sighed. That was the crux of the matter. This Adam Pierson was an unknown. Anson didn't understand what he wanted, and because he didn't, he was afraid.
Fear was something he had lived with for all of his life, and he was going to live with this too, but as he looked at the man who was preparing to vacate his own room after seeing that he was comfortable, he felt a wave of lust sweep over him.
Maybe when he awoke, he'd see about that 'alone' crack. He was too tired now to do anything worth a damn, but the man ought to know better than to turn down the offer of Anson Greene's ass. He smiled to himself, unaware of Methos' surreptitious study of his face, and called out, "Goodnight, mom."
A snort of laughter from the semi-darkness, and a response of "Goodnight, John-boy" was all he heard before the waves of sleep crashed down on him.
Methos, as he closed the door, was reflecting on that sudden, sunburst smile that he had seen. Attractive as he was in his sullen anger, when he smiled, he was devastating. It was as if the sun had come out. Even had he felt the quickening near Anson, he would have known that he was not Raines as soon as he'd seen that smile. This man was damaged, true enough, but there was an innocence in him that Cory hadn't seen for hundreds of years - if indeed he had ever known it.
Once again, Methos crossed to peek at his charge. Silently, he slipped into the room and watched the man sleep. Relaxed in slumber, the kid looked so very young. And, gods, he was a beautiful sight.
What the hell are you doing, old man? Mooning over a patient like a love-struck fool? Remember Hippocrates, why don't you?
With a quiet sigh, Methos crept from the room. He left the door open just a bit and went back to his work. A great many of his papers had been badly damaged in a Parisian flood earlier in the year, and he was trying to salvage what he could. What he couldn't save, he was copying. By hand. What a tedious fucking job it was, too.
Deeply involved in deciphering an ancient recipe for willow bark tea, he almost missed the sounds of distress coming from his bedroom. A low keening noise broke his concentration and he raised his head frowning in momentary confusion. What the hell?
Oh, shit ... his patient.
He went to the door and paused, undecided as to just how to handle this. The kid was tossing restlessly, and a low moan issued from his throat. Very much afraid that an abrupt awakening would send the skittish and suspicious Anson off into a severe fight response, he approached slowly. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed and rested one hand on Anson's shoulder.
"Anson," he said quietly. "Wake up, friend. You're okay now, it's just a dream."
Pulling sharply away from Methos' hand, Anson groaned and curled into a protective ball under the covers.
"Anson," Methos said softly, "you're safe here. No one will hurt you. Wake up now." He once again let his hand rest on Anson's shoulder. Gave him a slight nudge. "Anson? Wake up, child."
"No!" Anson's eyes flew open and he sat up, scooting away from Methos. "Don't touch me ... just ... don't touch me."
"Easy, now." Methos spoke quietly, attempting to convey by the sheer unhurriedness of his actions that Anson was in no danger at all. "You had a bad dream. Just a bad dream is all."
The young man was staring at him wildly, the pretty eyes looking beyond him, seeing something that made him shudder. As Methos held his arm out to soothe and gentle him, he could feel the kid's terror like a palpable entity. "Come on, now. You're safe here. Come on."
The words began to sink in. Gradually the man in the bed lost the expression of wide-eyed terror, though he still didn't relax worth a damn. Methos checked his watch. 5 hours had passed. He smiled a little wryly.
"Guess you could use another couple of painkillers about now, couldn't you?" As the young man nodded slowly, Methos rose and went to find them, returning with water and a bottle of capsules, two of which he proffered to Anson.
His guest was still sitting bolt upright in the bed, in virtually the same position he'd been all along. He extended his hand to receive the pills, and had the grace to look a little shame-faced as he swallowed them down gratefully.
"Sorry," he mumbled, almost inaudibly. "Didn't mean to disturb you." He handed the glass back to Methos, and put his arms around himself, hugging his chest protectively. "I get I get bad dreams occasionally."
Methos sat down on the edge of the bed once again, and tried to radiate calm to the obviously rattled young man.
"Would it help to tell me about it?" he asked, half wondering why he was bothering. "Sometimes telling a dream can break its power."
Anson didn't respond, although he seemed to relax a little as the painkillers began to have an effect. Methos had dosed him heavily, and the kid slowly lost the rigidity he had been displaying, and relaxed.
"Come on, kid. You'll be much more comfortable lying down." Methos prompted him, his hands pressing down on Anson's shoulders to encourage him. Slowly, Anson slipped down to lie with his head on the pillow once more. He was looking flushed, and a little feverish - small patches of brilliant red standing out on his cheeks although the rest of his skin was pale. From the strained face, the huge eyes glowed the color of moss, fringed thickly with curling black lashes that gave him an air of innocence. Methos wanted to touch the face, to run his thumb across the carefully molded lips, and bury his fingers in the sleek, dark hair. A sudden vision of himself, leaning forward to press his lips to Anson's mouth, forcing it open as he plunged his tongue inside to taste, made his groin tingle.
Giving in to one of his visions, he reached forward to lay a hand on Anson's sweat-damp forehead. The kid was hot. There was often a fever associated with gunshot wounds, but by his own account he had been living rough for a while now. There was no telling whether or not he was nursing a virus of some kind.
There you go, old man. You've managed to find yourself a sick puppy.
"Okay, friend. Now you're comfortable, wanna tell me about the nightmare?"
Anson closed his eyes and turned away.
"Believe me, child, it really does help. I've had my fair share of nightmares, too." He studied the younger man's closed-off expression. "I *am* a doctor, you know ... trust me on this."
After several minutes of silence, Anson opened his eyes and searched Methos' face. "I ... I've never talked about it."
After much internal debate, he spoke suddenly. "It's Annabel ... they're torturing her. Abusing her. And I'm restrained, forced to watch them do all of the things they did to me when I was her age."
He started to shake at the memory, shifting closer to Adam. "I feel so helpless ... keep screaming for them to leave her alone - take me instead. They just laugh at me."
Methos put a comforting hand on Anson's shoulder. "Who's Annabel?"
"My daughter. Haven't seen her in four years. And ... the longer they keep me away from her, the worse the nightmares get. If only I could see her ... see that she's okay."
Methos nodded in sympathy. "Do you have any reason to think that she's ... being abused?"
"No, not really. But, that doesn't stop the dreams. And, they seem to get worse with time."
"You said," Methos asked hesitantly, "that 'they' were doing to her what they'd done to you? Who are 'they'?"
"I ... my parents died when I was a boy. Grew up in a series of foster homes. Some of them were ... they hurt me, Adam. I can't stand the thought of Annabel going through what I went through."
"She's in foster care, then?"
"No ... no, she's with her mother. But what if ... " he paused, breathing heavily. "I can't stand not seeing her, Adam. She's such a sweet kid. I'm afraid that she'll end up like me, you know?"
Eyes suspiciously bright, Anson looked up at Methos. "I don't know what to do. I'm so fucked up ... and, I'm scared," he murmured. His last words were so quiet that they were virtually inaudible. " And so very lonely."
"Hush, Anson," Methos soothed. "You're safe here. And, maybe we can work out a way for you to see her."
"Really? Why would you do that for me?"
Beginning to understand how and why Anson was so defensive and suspicious, Methos shrugged noncommittally. "I've been abused, too. And ... I've had children. I ... I can well understand your need to see her."
"But ... there's a court order. I'll get thrown in jail if I go near her."
"Oh ... there are ways and ways," Methos said cryptically. "Let me think about it, and then we'll talk. Now, do you think you can sleep a little longer?"
Anson's eyes widened in fear. "No. No more dreams. I can't take any more."
"Well, how about if I sit here with you? I'll wake you if it looks like another nightmare is starting."
Anson licked his lips and looked away shyly. "Could you ... I mean, would you ... um, hold me? I think that would make me feel safe."
Surprised, Methos paused for a beat.
"You don't have to if you don't want to," Anson said quickly.
"I don't mind, Anson. Shove over a bit."
Wondering how he was going to control his reaction to this beautiful man in his bed, Methos shucked his sweater and jeans and climbed into the bed. Anson curled up against him, head nestled in his shoulder and sighed in contentment.
Oh gods, give me strength
Methos wrapped Anson in his arms and held him while he fell back to sleep.
Anson was substantially built; his sturdy body lay against Methos, hot and trusting. The young man himself seemed to have given up his suspicions and now lay as close to him as was possible, sleeping deeply. Methos held him in his arms -- unable to withdraw without waking his patient -- and watched him sleep.
It wasn't a hardship to look at Anson. He found himself wanting to lick along the line made by his charge's thick lashes as they lay against the creamy skin of his cheek. He catalogued the tip-tilted nose and the lush lips with their complement of strong, white teeth lying behind. The boy had high cheekbones, and the pure face of an innocent. Methos knew that he was not, could not be as child-like and innocent as he appeared, but still, the illusion was heart stopping.
After a while, he began to believe that this was torture. Anson lay peacefully, head cradled in the well of Methos' shoulder. Although he had drifted off to sleep lying in a defensive posture, once asleep he had relaxed considerably, and he now slumbered with his body half covering Methos, his arm flung over his chest, his knee raised to cover him. When Methos attempted to extricate himself, he felt his patient clutch at him spasmodically, and his heart sank. There was to be no escape unless he wanted to wake his charge in order to wriggle out of the grip in which he was held.
He didn't want to do that. His body had given in to this seductive warmth, and his groin ached with the need to feel Anson against him. He knew that he was behaving foolishly, and that he was setting himself up for a whole heap of trouble, but still, there was something about the boy that spoke to him. Sighing inwardly, he set himself grimly to the task of relaxing, hoping that he would lose the troublesome erection that was making him feel so darned uncomfortable before Anson woke up and began getting totally the wrong idea about his interest.
His response in the shower had been like a slap in the face to him. This kid had never been given anything for nothing, and it showed. He wouldn't use him the way he was expecting to be used. He'd been there himself, and wouldn't contribute to the degradation of another - not in that way, anyway.
Still, the fact remained that he wanted this kid who was sleeping so trustingly against him. His face was achingly beautiful; his voice was velvet that whispered over his skin, raising the fine hairs as it promised intimacy.
He concentrated on making his own body relax, and was beginning to succeed against all the odds when Anson suddenly tensed against him, and cried out, gripped again by whatever night hags rode his sleep.
"No! Oh, no, please" The still sleeping man had tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and sweat had begun to bead his face. Methos tightened his arms and found that Anson was trying suddenly to burrow into him, little frantic movements signaling a world of distress that seemed to be growing worse with every moment.
"Come on, Anson." Methos found himself clutched with a strength that was staggering. The kid's body was tight against him, and all the good work he'd done towards achieving a relaxed state went out the window as their groins came together. He felt as though he would burst his shorts as the shocking heat of Anson's body suffused him. "Come on. Snap out of it. It isn't real."
Dazed eyes were suddenly fixed on his, glassy and confused. He didn't know why, and he had no idea how he could help. He merely allowed himself to react, and leaned forward to apply his lips to Anson's trembling mouth.
It was intended in a way to be comforting rather than sexual, but the shock that ran through his body was anything but comforting, at least to Methos. Anson parted his lips as Methos' mouth joined them, and the kiss suddenly became a shock, heat, and silk, and desire rushing to his groin in a heart stopping flood that carried away reason and left only the need to keep on kissing. Dimly, Methos heard small, needy noises coming from Anson. The man was clinging to him with surprising strength and frightening need. He broke the kiss and pulled back a bit.
"Anson," he panted, "take it easy, friend. You're injured ... I don't want you to hurt yourself."
Anson shook his head and pulled Methos closer, taking his mouth in a desperate kiss. He moaned and wrapped legs and arms around Methos, as if he were the only safe place in the world. His hips ground against Methos' groin as he pulled the older man atop him.
"Whoa," Methos said softly. "I'm not going anywhere. We have plenty of time for this when you're better. You're gonna hurt yourself at this rate."
"No," Anson moaned. "Need you ... need you now!"
"Anson ... " Methos soothed. "Take it easy, friend." He gently tried to extricate himself from the man's hold. He recognized all too well Anson's need to escape the horror of his dream and, while he didn't want to hurt the kid by rejecting him, he also didn't want to hurt him by allowing this to evolve into the fast and furious fuck the man was asking for.
"Please," Anson begged in a broken voice, "don't leave me ... I need you."
Methos sighed. Withdrawal at this point would only hurt the man more. "Okay, kid. Calm down. I'm not leaving. Not rejecting you either. But, I refuse to cause you any more pain. We'll do this my way, you understand?"
Dazed green eyes stared at him in confusion. "Your way? What..."
Methos cupped Anson's cheek. "Carefully.... gently.... softly."
Anson frowned and Methos wondered if the man had ever been made love to. Obviously he'd been fucked - but Methos suspected that no care had ever been shown for his pleasure.
"I don't ... I mean..." Anson stammered.
"Shhh," Methos hushed him. "Let me show you."
He slid to one side and Anson clutched at him frantically.
"Easy, babe. You've got a nasty wound on your side. Let me move over a bit so that I'm not hurting you."
Reluctantly, Anson loosened his hold and Methos settled against his uninjured side. Leaning closer, he laid a line of soft nibbling kisses down Anson's face.
Aware that the man beside him was trembling, and not wholly with need, Methos put his palm against Anson's cheek, gently drawing him around to meet his eyes.
"You're a beautiful looking man, you know that?" he said softly, brushing his lips over the roughness of Anson's unshaven chin, and placing a row of tiny kisses closer and closer to his lips. His fingers moved from the other's cheek to stroke the length of his neck, down over the virtually hairless chest to find a nipple and pluck at it. Anson had closed his eyes again, but as he felt Methos caress him he drew in a sharp breath and Methos found himself gazing into a pair of thickly fringed green eyes that seemed to be pleading with him.
Dipping down, he laid his mouth against Anson's again, tasting his fear, washing it away as he explored the depths of his mouth. One hand slid behind Anson's neck to hold him as the other traced the lines of his body, sweeping down from nipple to navel in teasing strokes, discovering the fine down of the treasure trail that arrowed down to merge with the crisply curled fur at his groin.
Methos' fingers mapped out the smooth, fine grained skin and the hard muscle that lay beneath it. They trailed over the man's thigh, carefully avoiding the area of injury, and slowly traveled along his genitalia, cupping his balls as they drew in to lie close against his body, tickling the loose skin for the joy of feeling it creep into furred, corduroy ridges. His mouth worried at Anson's, and he could tell from the acceleration of Anson's breath that his caresses were beginning to produce the desired effect.
Drawing away, just for a moment, he smiled down at the young man.
"You like that? Hmmm? You'll love this." He buried his face in Anson's neck, sucking at the skin, his hand working its way slowly up to trace the length of his penis. Anson threw back his head and groaned, and Methos' own cock throbbed, a dart of lust passing through his body at the thought of how the two of them would shortly be.
Muttering a quiet curse, he pulled away again, and Anson clutched at him convulsively, eyes wide again as he went from relaxed to terrified.
"It's okay, kid. All I'm going to do is get these shorts off before they seriously constrict something vital. They're not designed to withstand someone like you." He indicated his plight as he rose from the bed. His cock was pressed flat against his belly by his boxers, and the tip was showing rosy above the elastic of the waistline. Anson's eyes dipped to take in the view, and he grinned.
At the sight of that grin, Methos felt his insides perform some truly exotic aerobatics. Everything seemed to flip and melt down. Damn, the kid was gorgeous when he smiled. He slipped out of the uncomfortable boxers, giving a sigh of relief as it allowed his cock to spring free.
Gently turning back the sheet that covered Anson, he laid him bare, drinking in the sight of him lying in his bed, naked and erect.
"You're gorgeous." Anson's voice stroked over him, husky and sensual, and he shivered. "Come on back. I really, really need you."
Methos lay down again, one arm behind Anson's neck, the other free to roam over the silky expanse of skin. With light, almost teasing strokes, he ran one finger down the center of Anson's chest, following the line of fine hair down to his weeping erection. Nibbling at Anson's reddened lips, Methos' fingers carefully mapped the shape of Anson's hard cock.
All for me.
Smiling inwardly, his lips moved across Anson's cheek down to his neck. There he paused for several delicious moments, licking at the salty skin. When Anson moaned and tilted his head back in a silent plea for more, Methos opened his mouth and started chewing and sucking at that sensitive spot just at the juncture of neck and shoulder.
With a gasp, Anson clutched at him, pulling his head closer. "Oh god," he moaned. "That's so good."
Continuing his downward trek, Methos attached his mouth to one hardened nipple, teasing with his tongue, and then biting down lightly.
"Mmmm," Anson moaned. "Please don't ... don't..."
"Don't what?" Methos asked teasingly. "You want me to stop?"
"Fuck," Anson hissed. "If you stop now I'll die."
"Ah, well we can't have that, now can we?" Switching his attentions to the other nipple, Methos gave it the same loving care.
Anson arched into his touch and tossed his head in an agony of pleasure. "Adam.... please touch me. Please."
"I am touching you, babe."
"No ... I need more ... Please Adam... you feel so good. You make me forget. Make me feel whole."
Head tossing, sweat beading on his face, Anson was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Methos paused to kiss those soft lips once more, and then clasped his hand around Anson's erection, reveling in the delighted gasp that resulted.
"Damn, you're gorgeous like this, Anson." He smiled at the younger man and then, without warning he scooted down on the bed to take Anson's hardness into his mouth.
Anson screamed and thrust up into that welcoming warmth.
Methos was heat, and silk, and soft, delicious suction. Anson felt the world narrow down until it was a pinpoint of pure fire sizzling between his thighs as Methos continued to draw his cock in and out of his mouth, tormenting him. He parted his thighs to let Methos' knowing hands creep between, and the air filled with his soft moans and cries as he clenched his hands into the sheet.
The taste of Anson was salty-sweet and perfect on Methos' tongue. For a moment he contemplating continuing to suck at the quivering cock until it burst, but listening to Anson's cries, he found himself wanting more, wanting to make this experience something better than a hurried fuck.
He drew back, pulled away, smiling at Anson's pleas, and when the young man put his hands to Methos' head to try and force his head back down, he seized the fine wrists, and pressed them back down against the pillow, smiling down at the flushed face.
"Oh, no, kid. It's not going to be that easy. You said that you wanted me, and that's fine. I want you too. You're beautiful, you must know that, but I want to make you feel good. I want to make you feel better than you've ever felt in your life, and that's going to take a little work, so I'm not gonna let you blow it all on a quick fuck. When you come, you're going to see the face of God, and his features are going to be mine." He dropped a kiss onto the end of the absurdly tilted nose, and slowly drew his hands back, tracing the bunched muscles of Anson's shoulders. "So, beautiful one, be patient, and accept my gift to you. I'll try and make it worthwhile."
Methos set to work then, with lips, tongue and teeth, nipping and worrying, lapping and sucking at the smooth skin and soft mouth of the young mortal he'd somehow rescued. He was normally taciturn, but he'd noticed that Anson's pulse rate surged when he was telling him what lay in store for him, and so he began to describe to him in great detail the things he was doing to the body beneath his hands, trying to ignore his own mounting desire as he made love to the man he had captive.
It began to fascinate him that he could induce little gasps and whimpers simply by announcing to Anson that he was going to touch him just so, or bite right there. When he delved down between Anson's wide spread thighs and slid down to bathe Anson's anus with his tongue, the kid actually began to babble.
"Please, Adam. Please fuck me, please I'll give you anything, do anything" Methos was happy. He would make this kid understand that sex wasn't just about taking. With a little chuckle, he stabbed inward with his tongue, breaching the tight circle of muscle and beginning to loosen it. By the time he put his cock inside him, Anson would be speaking in tongues.
Anson was writhing and moaning in a most satisfactory manner. His begging increased in volume and intensity, and Methos reluctantly withdrew, afraid that the man would come just from being tongue- fucked. That would not do ... not at all. He was determined to make this the most intense sexual experience of Anson's life.
Grinning, he lifted his head and slid up to lay along Anson, their bodies plastered together from shoulder to knee. Raising himself on one elbow, he studied the younger man. His eyelids were at half-mast, heavy with passion, mouth opened to gasp for air. A sheen of perspiration gave him a glow that highlighted every muscle in his body. His hair was dampened with sweat and adorably mussed. Truly a sight to behold.
"Adam," Anson whimpered. "Please do something ... anything ... I need you so much."
Methos smiled and bent down to kiss those luscious lips. "Don't worry, friend," he murmured. "I'll give you what you want ... in due time."
"Now, Adam," Anson begged. "Please, now."
"Mmmm," Methos soothed him, running one hand down Anson's smooth flank. "Easy does it, babe. My way ... remember?"
"I don't... I can't ... " Anson's voice was trembling with need. "Never felt this way ... never needed like this ... Please, Adam, I'm begging you ... fuck me now."
"Okay, Anson, just let me -" Methos rolled to one side, reaching for the bedside table.
Anson clutched at him frantically. "No!" He begged. "Don't leave ... you promised ... "
"Hey," Methos paused to press his lips against Anson's forehead. "I'm just getting lube. Not going anywhere."
He stretched out one long arm and opened the drawer, scrabbling around for the new tube of slick he'd purchased just the other day. Quickly, he moved back against Anson, pulling him close. The man was actually trembling - apparently afraid Methos had changed his mind.
"Anson," he whispered in one ear, "I want you ... I want you very much indeed. Stop being afraid. I'm not going to leave you."
He opened the lube and squeezed a generous dollop onto his fingertips. "Lift your leg over my hip, Anson. I'm going to get you ready for me. Going to fuck you with my fingers until you're crying."
"Oh fuck," Anson hissed. Draping his leg over Adam, as requested, he panted in anticipation. "Hurry, Adam ... I'm so ready. So ready."
Methos' hand moved down between Anson's legs, one finger rubbing against the puckered opening. Opening his mouth against Anson's neck, he licked and suckled the salty skin as he slowly worked his finger past the tight sphincter.
"Oh, god," Anson whined, as his hips moved down trying to impale himself further on that wondrous digit. "Yesss .... Oh yeah, that's good."
Damn, the man was like a furnace inside. Methos caught his breath and closed his eyes. Slowly, old man ... slowly. He carefully added another finger, reaching ... searching for that spot ... ah, there we go -
"Shit!" Anson's body tightened and arched off of the bed. "Do that again ... oh god, please ... do it again."
Doing it again was not a problem. Doing it slowly and methodically brought a stream of desperate pleas and half uttered curses from the mouth of the young man who writhed in his arms. Minutes passed, molasses slow as he systematically tormented Anson, relishing the sound of the increasingly inarticulate cries he was issuing.
Anson lay against him, pressed back onto him, the firm roundness of his buttocks pressed into Methos' groin. It was getting to the stage where he was becoming so excited himself that he was going to have to give in to Anson's begging or come too soon.
Anson was sweet and sexy, his voice a raw appeal to Methos' senses. He'd long since given up words in favor of moaning, and he was spread sluttishly across Methos, his cock steadily oozing fluid while Methos finger-fucked him. The wriggle of his ass had begun to drive Methos insane, and he knew that he had to call a halt to his teasing before it was too late.
He slowly withdrew his fingers, knowing that the loss of them would distress Anson, and placed his lips next to the kid's ear, whispering hoarsely, "Hold on there, babe. I want to put something better than that inside you."
Anson had arched, chasing the fingers, but at Methos' words, he relaxed, snuggling back against him again. Grabbing hold of his own cock, Methos parted his needy lover's cheeks and began to slide himself in past the loosened muscle he had been stretching. Anson's lashes drifted down as he felt Methos enter him, and he turned his head to capture Methos' mouth with his, his tongue sneaking out to stroke and to titillate.
Methos felt the shock of the slick hot velvet closing around him as he slid home. Anson's tissues clasped him, sucking at his cock with the intensity of a furnace, threatening to bring him to climax far too quickly. Anson thrust backwards, and Methos gripped him so tightly that he thought he would break him in half in an effort to hold him still until the feelings had receded again.
Time passed, sparking against his sensitized skin as though pleasure were electric. After a while he felt the crisis fade, and knew that he would be able to move inside Anson without losing it straight away. Nipping at the young man's neck, he breathed, "Let's go, babe." And began to fuck him.
Slowly, Methos pulled halfway out and paused before sinking back into that delightful heat. Grinding his pelvis against Anson's ass, he moved in a circular motion. Impatiently, Anson pushed back against him, so Methos tightened his hold on slim hips determined to draw the pleasure out as long as possible.
"Hold still, kiddo," he said huskily, "let me do the work."
A distressed moan was his answer.
Methos grinned and pulled out again, stopping when only the head of his cock rested within Anson's body.
Anson whimpered. Methos held him tightly in place, teasing them both with short thrusts, only allowing an inch or two of his cock to penetrate the furnace of Anson's asshole. When he judged that the man might just hurt himself further with his thrashing, Methos pushed forward strongly, burying his aching cock to the balls in Anson's body.
"God!" Anson sobbed. "Yes .... yesss. More. Please ... more. Fuck me, Adam. I need you to fuck me."
Methos shifted his hips a bit, searching for Anson's prostate. Was gratified when Anson screamed in pleasure as he hit his target. He thrust steadily now, enjoying the sounds of extreme pleasure that resulted every time his cock stroked that oh-so-sensitive nubbin.
He reached over Anson's hip, grasping the man's erection in one hand.
"Are you ready, babe?" he asked, voice thick with a passion that he couldn't recall having felt for - hah, - hundreds of years. This unexpected encounter almost made up for the irritation that Duncan MacLeod seemed to delight in causing. It was unalloyed pleasure to have the beautiful young man in his arms, bliss to know how badly he was needed, and ecstasy to meet that need, driving in and out of Anson as he drew closer and closer to his own orgasm.
He could feel the tendrils of tickling pleasure twine like thread around his balls, flushing along his upper thighs and stabbing through from the base of his spine as his hips kept their rhythm. He began to slide his hand over Anson's cock, squeezing and stroking as he drove into him.
Anson was rigid now, neck arched and head flung back as he spasmed, and Methos redoubled his efforts as he felt the man tip over into his climax. He gave a long, low cry, and thick white gobs of sperm began to spatter the two of them, coating the fingers that were working his cock and flying up to glisten like pearls against the pale skin of Anson's chest.
"You " gasped Methos. "You're so beautiful. Gods, but you're beautiful." He gave a last, spasmodic lunge as the pleasure, white hot and piercing, swirled over him, tingling his skin and loosening flesh from bone as he melted to pour himself into Anson.
For a moment they were locked together, neither capable of moving. Then slowly the world began to turn again, and the two men relaxed to lie limp and sated as the pleasant aftershocks coursed through them.
Eventually, Methos stirred. He needed to get them cleaned up ... didn't he? He pondered the question for a moment, then sighed and rolled away from Anson.
"No," Anson clutched at him. "Don't go ... stay with me."
Methos ran his thumb across Anson's lower lip. "I'm just going to get a washcloth, Anson. I'll be right back."
"No," Anson begged, "hold me, Adam. Just hold me for a minute."
Unable to resist the needy, almost frantic plea, Methos settled back against the pillows and pulled Anson close. "Okay, babe. I'm here ... not going anywhere."
With a heartfelt sigh, Anson snuggled close. He couldn't ever recall feeling this safe .. this secure. He closed his eyes and burrowed his head into Adam's shoulder.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Lying, cradling the young man who was at the same time not only strong and sturdy, but also somehow one of the most vulnerable person people he had ever encountered, Methos reflected on what had happened.
It had been mind blowing, and unexpected. He couldn't recall offhand when a casual lover had made him feel this good, this protective. He liked it. He pulled Anson closer, chuckling at the little 'huff' of air that ensued, and laying kisses, first on the young man's hairline, and then down over the small snub of a nose to graze the full, soft lips.
Anson was smiling now, mouth wide and eyes glowing with an expression that almost seemed to speak of worship. His smile was like the sun rising. It lit up his face and made it glow. Methos felt the perfect trust inherent in that smile as though it were a punch to his gut.
Damn! He did not need a stray. He didn't need a lover, and he sure as hell didn't need a down-at-heel, small-time fugitive from the law.
This being the case, how come he was feeling so contented to lie here with this bundle of human flotsam in his arms?
"I must be losing my mind," he said to himself.
"Hmmm?" Anson's husky voice was drowsy, sleep-clouded, and it was plain that he would be out like a light within the next few moments.
"It's okay, baby. Sleep now. I'll be here if you need me."
"Need you" The voice hung on the edge of sleep, and Methos suddenly realized that it was too damned late. He'd been caught in spite of himself. He cared about this young man with the fear of being alone, and his huge, brilliant eyes. Sighing, he closed his own eyes and drifted off to sleep, uneasily wondering what sort of trials he'd be forced to undergo because of his newfound vulnerability.
He knew that it wouldn't be long before he found out.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
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