Trust
by Jennie and Dr. Ruthless
Disclaimer: We write for fun, we make no cash.
Rated: A slash
Pairing: Anson Greene/Methos
Series: Part 2 of Pierson's Folly, Prequel is The Old Man And The Thief
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Methos reclined casually on the couch assiduously ignoring Anson. The guy was going to wear a path in the carpet at this rate. He'd been pacing for what seemed like hours.
Years, maybe.
As the kid recovered from his gunshot wounds, he'd gotten progressively more agitated. Nothing seemed to quiet him. Except sex. But, unless they were in bed - or on the kitchen table - or on the couch - or even on the floor - actively fucking, Anson was pacing, fidgeting, sighing ... and he always had that look. The look of a dog expecting a swift kick.
Finally, unable to ignore the tense actions of the other man, Methos stirred and rose to his feet. "I'm gonna have a beer," he said quietly. "You want anything?"
Anson paused in mid-prowl, and looked at the Adam. Lounging on the couch in a determinedly relaxed attitude, his very relaxation had been driving Anson crazy. Now he had actually moved, Anson felt better somehow.
"A beer? Sure. Beer is good." Anson frowned. "How can you do that? Just sit there for hour after hour? Don't you ever think that you should be doing something?" He followed Methos into the kitchen, crowding him into the refrigerator as he stooped to retrieve two bottles of Kokanee.
"Come on, kid, back off a little. I'm starting to think that I'm growing a second head." Methos strode over to the kitchen table, gesturing for Anson to join him, and placing the bottle down beside a chair.
"What's eating you? You're buzzing around like a hive full of yellow jackets. Why don't you sit down and relax? Talk to me, Anson."
The restless young man made a little huff of impatience as he moved over to sit where Methos had indicated. Flinging himself carelessly into the chair, which creaked alarmingly, he picked up the bottle of beer and twisted off the cap before raising it to his lips and chugging.
A moment or two passed in silence. Anson continued to apply himself to the bottle, slouched in the chair, long legs stretched out before him. He was wearing only a pair of fleece shorts. They fastened loosely around his waist, held by a drawstring, and were skimpy enough to reveal that his wounds were well on the way to healing.
"What the hell beer is this, Adam?" His long throat bobbed as he swallowed the last drops, and then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Turning the bottle to examine the unfamiliar label, he shrugged. "It went down all right anyway." He rose and tossed the empty bottle in the trash then opened the fridge, grabbing another. "You ready yet?" He asked Adam.
"No, not yet," Methos responded, watching the younger man's agitated movements. "Anson, come here and tell me what's bothering you."
" I don't know why I'm so tense. Guess I'm wondering when I'm gonna be moving on, and where."
"Well," Methos drawled, "as I recall, we were going to see about your daughter."
Anson turned to stare at him in stunned disbelief. "You meant that? Why would you do that for me?"
Methos shrugged. "I told you; I've had children. I know how hard it is to lose one." He grinned at Anson, raising an eyebrow. "And didn't I just hear you say I should be doing something?"
Confused, Anson took refuge in a long draught of beer. What did this Adam want of him? Nothing came for nothing. He'd learned that long ago.
Methos sighed, recognizing the wary mistrust in Anson's eyes. "Look, kid, I can understand all too well how reluctant you are to trust me. I'm not asking for anything here but more time with you and I'm offering to help you see your daughter because I want to," he met Anson's gaze. "It is what it is, my friend. No more, no less."
The young man's face lit up as he heard Methos' words. There was something in the man's expression that was oddly reassuring, as though he wore the truth on his face. Anson had seen a fleeting glimpse of remembered pain as Methos had spoken of losing a child, and he could sense emotions from him that lay at variance with the calm, solid faade that he'd seen over the past few days.
"I think..." He searched for words, somehow aware that whatever he said right now would be a turning point, and that what was said would echo on past the here and now to color his future. "I do trust you, Adam. God knows why. I haven't trusted anyone for years, but I want to trust you." He studied the empty bottle in his hands, idly turning it end over end, and then beginning to shred the label off it.
Methos watched him for a few minutes, and then sighing, rose to his feet and moved to fetch another couple of bottles from the fridge. Handing one off to Anson, he grinned.
"Be careful. That's not your 'weak as gnat's piss' American beer. It has some life in it. Take it steady." He rooted around in one of the kitchen cabinets, coming up with a packet of potato chips. After tearing open the bag, he laid it on the table between the two of them. For a short while they munched and drank in companionable silence. When Anson finally spoke, it was unexpected, and Methos didn't at first take in what he'd said.
"Tell me about the child that you lost, Adam." The lushly fringed green eyes were fixed on him in a disconcertingly intense fashion, and Methos suddenly felt uncertain, as though the answer he gave might somehow affect the relationship that was building between the two of them.
"I...er... I don't quite know where to start," he improvised. "It was a while ago now. I'm quite a bit older than you, you know."
He'd known Anson would eventually ask. Had thought long and hard about exactly how to tell the tale. After all, it wasn't everyone who'd lost a stepdaughter to a vengeful ex-brother. Oh no, not a blood brother ... much worse, a brother *of* blood.
"When I was much younger ... several lifetimes ago," he began slowly, testing each word carefully, "I rode with a kind of gang, I guess you'd say. The times were ... different - very, very savage." He looked up at Anson's face and swallowed. "*I* was savage ... a barbarian."
Wincing from the memory of his years with Kronos, with the Horsemen, Methos shifted and stood. "I need another beer." Grabbing two more bottles from the fridge, he turned back, not quite meeting Anson's eyes. "Let's go in the other room. You might as well be comfortable; this is a long story."
"You don't have to -" Anson started to say, uncomfortable with the change in Adam's demeanor.
Methos raised a hand, staying the words. "Yes, I do. I need to tell it and you should hear it."
Rising to his feet, Anson stepped closer to Methos. With great daring, considering Adam's currently stone-like visage, he raised one hand to the other man's shoulder. "Really," he said intently, "you don't ... I mean, this is obviously hard for you and I -"
"Anson..." Methos met his eyes, trying to express his unfathomable need to tell his story. "I haven't ever told anyone about that time in my life; I want to tell you." He sighed and wrapped one hand around the nape of Anson's neck. "It was a long time ago, yes; but, the possibility always exists that it could come back to haunt me. If you and I are going to ... spend time together, you *need* to know something about me - about what kind of man I was." Resting his forehead against Anson's, he spoke softly, "about what kind of man I am."
"Okay, Adam."
That was all he said aloud. But his eyes ... Methos could almost convince himself that Anson would understood all that he was, all that he had been, and would accept him.
That scared him. He was not in the habit of confiding to anyone. No. One. Ever. But, there, in forest-green eyes, he saw possibilities. And, trust.
He owed this truth to both of them.
"Come on." He led Anson into the living room and over to the couch. "Sit down."
Frowning at the abrupt tone, Anson opened his mouth to say ... Oh, the expression in Adam's eyes was ... it tugged at a heart he sometimes doubted the existence of. He swallowed and sat down.
"Tell me," he said quietly.
Restlessly, Methos paced to the window. Drawing the curtain aside, he looked out at the street. But what he saw -
"The Four Horsemen we called ourselves." He shook his head, his mouth set in a hard line. "There was Kronos - oh, how that man loved to kill - Silas - he was a bit of a simpleton, but, I liked him ... I trusted him as much as I trusted anyone - and Caspian." His mouth turned down at the corners. "Caspian was a madman. Last I heard he was in a hospital for the criminally insane. Hopefully, he'll stay there forever."
Dropping the curtain, he turned to face Anson. "And, there was me ... my name was Methos, back then. I was the planner, the brains, if you will, of the gang. We rode together for many years. More than you'd ever think. And ... gradually I became aware that ours was not the only way. That there might be a life beyond all of the violence, the killing, the ... the depravity that was our life's blood."
"Then, something ... someone happened. A woman I took during a raid. She was different in some way. Or, perhaps she just happened along at the right time - at a time when I was finally ready to rebel against my brothers. I don't know," he shrugged and walked over to the couch. Slumping down into the cushions, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Anyway, Kronos noticed that I ... that I wasn't-" Rubbing at his forehead with one hand, Methos struggled for the right words. "He noticed that I didn't share her with him, as we had always done in the past."
Grimacing with distaste at the memories, Methos shifted uncomfortably.
"Hey," Anson spoke softly, moving a little closer, reaching out a comforting hand. "It's okay ... I'm not gonna run out of here screaming because you were a bad boy, Adam. Come on," he said, closing his hand around Adam's arm. "Tell me the rest."
With a self-deprecating shrug, Methos leaned a little closer to Anson. Sighed when Anson wrapped an arm around his tense shoulders.
"I helped her to escape, one night. Challenged his hold over me. It was never the same again. Kronos needed complete control, you see ... and I found that I could no longer give that to him. Eventually, I ran. I ran as far and as fast as I could. When finally I stopped, when finally I thought I'd escaped him; I settled in a small village. It was a good time in my life. A time of healing. I was ... happy. After some years had passed, I married."
With a heavy sigh, he leaned sideways, curling on his side with his head in Anson's lap. He stared at the opposite wall, and forced himself to continue the story.
"She was a widow. Her husband was a close friend. When he died, I offered to care for her and their daughter." He closed his eyes, picturing his first and always best-loved child. There had been so many over the years, through the centuries - but, none had touched his heart as that very first.
"Her name was Anya. She was the most beautiful thing ... the best thing I had ever had a hand in throughout my entire life. I loved her beyond imagining."
It had been too many years. Far too many centuries had passed since he'd allowed the memory of Anya to surface. The pain was incredible. As was the joy her memory brought to him.
"She was only a month old when I married her mother. And, for six years she was everything to me." Rolling to his back, he raised pain-filled eyes to meet Anson's concerned stare. Impatiently, he brushed an errant tear from his cheek.
"I was out hunting one day ... She'd begged to go with me," he whispered. "I said no. I'll take you next time." Shaking his head, he smiled bitterly. "Next time."
He closed his eyes, swallowed through the thickness at the back of his tongue. "Kronos found me ... found them. When I came home -" His voice broke and he turned to bury his face in Anson's stomach. "He took her, my Anya - I never saw her again. Never knew what had happened to her. But, I imagined ... I knew him well enough to know that my daughter suffered every moment of her life because of what I'd done. What I'd been."
There was a long pause. Anson sat, chilled by the very thought of the child about whom Methos had just told him. He didn't know what to say, and as he pictured the events, he felt his sinuses fill. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort not to tear up, and tentatively stroked Adam's dark hair as he lay, vulnerable and melancholy with his head pillowed on his knee.
"Jesus, Adam. Where are they? We could try and find her for you. This Kronos guy can't have killed her without you knowing, can he? We'll just go and find him and make him tell us." He was gradually working himself up, fist clenched as he pondered on the missing child. When he saw Adam flinch he uncurled his fist with a shamed-face.
"We need to get her back for you, Adam. What is she now? About eleven? Twelve?" Anson picked up his beer and took another drink, finding that the bottle was all but drained. Gently he stroked the man who still lay across him, a sad smile on his face.
"It's no good, Anson. It's way too late for that." There was a quiet despair in his voice as he spoke. "It's not too late for you though. We'll go and find your little girl. We'll make sure that she's okay and that will be a good thing, yes?" Methos sat up suddenly, slipping his fingers up over Anson's bare chest and around his neck. "Don't worry about it, kid, it's buried in the past. I'm over it."
Anson shivered. He was just not used to the kind of emotional sharing that seemed to be unfolding here, and he wasn't sure how he should act. He liked Adam, liked him a lot more than he actually wanted to but he wasn't good at this stuff. Without thinking, he upended his bottle, and dribbled the last few droplets into the neck of Methos' baggy sweater, snorting with amusement as the icy cold drops spattered his chest.
Methos' howl of discomfort triggered a wrestling match that was over far sooner than one might have thought. Anson was still a little stiff and sore though his wounds were healing nicely, and it was obvious that he really didn't want to win. As Methos bore him back onto the couch, Anson threw his head back in laughter, baring his throat for a gentle bite.
"Fuck! Anyone would think that I was a confessor. I'm not, you know." Suddenly serious, Anson pulled Methos to him and applied himself to kissing him until he was breathless. "I'm not a good person. You don't know what you've hooked up with here. Be careful that you aren't sorry later."
Methos laughed, a harsh, crack of a laugh that made Anson's eyes open wide. There was something in Methos' voice that worried Anson. Discarding the thought for the moment, the young man squirmed beneath the body that covered him, feeling the rough wool of the fisherman's knit sweater against his skin. He lay back, giving Methos a sultry look from beneath his lashes as he licked his lips.
Methos didn't fight it. He laughed again, an easier chuckle this time, and swooped down to apply his lips to Anson's, soft and pink and so willing. Anson opened to his kiss with a gentle sigh. There was always a way to feel better, and Anson was doing his best to help this man of whom he was becoming rather more than fond.
He reached beneath the loosely knit sweater to find the firm, wiry body of the man himself, and began to touch the places that he had discovered produced the most response from him. Slowly, his mouth traveled over Methos' face, and the hands slid the sweater up until he could draw it off, revealing the smooth skin of his lover. Skin on skin, Anson rolled until the two of them fell from the couch onto the richly colored rug that stood at its side. Now lying above his laughing victim, he proceeded to kiss him, kisses that grew harder and deeper as their passions grew. Anson could feel Methos' groin hard beneath him, his body trapped by Anson's weight advantage.
"I'll get you." Methos writhed against the increasingly aroused young man, and Anson chuckled, reaching for the old man's beer.
"Oh, yeah? Think so?" Drawing back a little, Anson tipped a little of the brown liquid over Methos' chest, stooping to lap as it ran down to pool in the concavity of his stomach. Methos swore.
"What did you say? Oh, no... That was a very bad word." The cold beer splashed from the bottle once more onto Methos' shrinking flesh and his tormentor proceeded to lick him clean amid schoolboy giggles. Unfastening the button of his jeans, Anson peeled back the blue fabric to expose the dark, curling fuzz and the sturdy, rose-colored penis that lay concealed beneath them. As Methos lay, eyes gleaming with humor, watching Anson at play, the kid took a deep draft of the still cold beer, and then, instead of swallowing, stooped down to envelop the stiff length of Methos's cock.
"Fucking hell!" The cold shocked him even as he felt the surge of pleasure. This was too much. He gave himself over to the ministrations of that tender mouth, relishing Anson's skill as the cold gave way to warmth, and then to heat as the young man sucked him.
He was bucking, beginning to lose control when Anson released him and stood up.
"Hey! Come back here, you!" Anson laughed down at him and swiftly shucked the shorts that were his only garment.
"Oh, just try and stop me!" He knelt to kiss Methos again, and then straddled him, sliding back to position himself over Methos's craving cock. With a grin that was cocky and infuriating, the young man sank back, sheathing Methos' length inside him. Methos almost screamed.
Anson set a rapid pace, seemingly determined to make this into a race for completion, and soon Methos was groaning as he felt himself losing it. Another minute and he tensed as the whole of his abdomen turned liquid and began to force itself out through his dick. Finally, he screamed. Anson had applied the chilly bottle to his balls as he came, and it seemed as though the top of his head had blown off.
"Still want me to come back?" Damn the kid. He was laughing at him.
Methos grinned and wrapped one hand around Anson's neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Just try to get away, bucko." He twisted, reversing their positions, and looked down at Anson, "I have great plans for you, Anson-love."
With a lithe move, Methos rose to his feet and pulled Anson up alongside him. "Come into the bedroom with me, little boy," he said with an evil smirk.
Anson hesitated, suddenly a little unsure. The look on Adam's face ...
"Hey," Methos cupped Anson's face in his hands. "You do know I wouldn't hurt you, yes?"
"I - " Anson studied Adam's face and relaxed when he saw the sincerely worried expression. "Yeah, I guess I do." He smiled and blushed. "I just ... I'm not used to ... trust is not something I offer to just anyone, so this is kind of new to me." He looked down shyly, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
"I can well understand that, Anson. Trust doesn't come easily for me, either." With a smile, he gently tugged Anson after him into the bedroom. "But right now, babe, I want to play. I'll make you feel things you've never even imagined."
Anson's heart tripped at the words, delivered in a silky tone he'd not heard from Adam before. Licking his lips, he looked at Adam and swallowed heavily. His cock was hard as a rock and he suddenly *wanted* to give control over to the older man.
Holding his arms out to the side, he lowered his head. "How do you want me?" He asked softly.
Moving closer, Methos pulled Anson into his arms and softly stroked his back. "I want you screaming with pleasure, sweating with passion, out of control, begging me to take you."
"Oh." A thrill of anticipation shivered up Anson's spine. "And, how are you planning to do this?"
"That," Methos whispered in one ear, "is something you find out very, very soon, love. How about stretching out on the bed? I'll just gather a few things I'll be needing while you get comfortable."
Anson went over to the bed and climbed in. Reclining against the pillows, he watched with nervous eyes as Adam opened a drawer and pulled out several silken scarves. Adam dropped the scarves on the bed and opened the bedside table drawer. Lube, a condom and a feather joined the scarves.
A feather? Anson's heart started pounding. What did Adam have in mind, anyway?
Sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Anson, Methos ran a gentle hand down along the line of his jaw. "It's just a game, Anson. I promise, you're going to love this." He met those brilliant green eyes and smiled. "Trust me?"
Blowing out a breath, Anson nodded. "Yes," he said, surprised at his easy admission. "I do trust you."
"Good." Leaning down, Methos opened his mouth against Anson's, falling into a passionate kiss. Damn, the kid kissed like he wanted to climb right inside of Methos and bury himself there forever.
With a reluctant sigh, Methos pulled away and reached for the scarves. "Playtime," he said. Carefully, he tied one scarf around Anson's wrist and pulled his arm up to tie the other end of the scarf to the bedpost.
Anson stiffened and almost protested. //He's gonna tie me up//
"Easy, kid," Methos soothed. "I'll tie you loosely. You can slip out of the restraints anytime. I don't want to scare you ... I just ... " He paused, thinking that maybe they weren't ready for such games yet. Sitting back, he looked at Anson seriously. "We don't have to do this, Anson. If you'd rather -"
Anson shook his head. "No ... no, I want to play. I really do." He looked at the scarf tied around his wrist and raised his arm up towards the post. "Go ahead, Adam. I'll be fine."
Moving around the bed, Methos tied both legs and Anson's other arm. After each limb was restrained, he stopped to soothe and caress and tease the younger man. He spent several lovely moments nibbling the length of Anson's cock with soft touches of his lips. When Anson started arching his hips up, in a silent plea for more, Methos sat up and reached for the last scarf.
"What are you gonna do with that one?" Anson asked apprehensively.
"I'd like to blindfold you, love." Anson's eyes widened. "Just think," Methos said huskily, "how very erotic it will be ... not knowing where I'll touch you next ... only able to concentrate on the caresses I'm giving you."
Seeing the promise in Adam's eyes, Anson wanted to have this experience. But ...
"You'll ... " he said somewhat nervously, "take it off it I can't handle it?"
"Of course I will, Anson. This is a game. Remember? Pleasure is the objective, not pain or fear." Smiling gently, Methos leaned down and kissed Anson's eyes closed. He wrapped the scarf over Anson's eyes and tied it loosely behind his head. "There, you can get out of that one easily, too."
Sitting up, he viewed the treasure laid out on his bed. "Damn, kid, you look ... You're a beautiful sight, Anson."
Pleased at the praise, although a little embarrassed at being so exposed and helpless, Anson licked his lips and shifted, trying to release his tension.
"A little scary, huh?" Methos asked quietly. One hand stroked Anson's smooth chest. "I'm going to take such good care of you, babe. Such good care."
"Oh god," Anson whispered. "This is ... this is ... I don't know how to describe it."
"I know," Methos soothed. "It's frightening to give over control to another. But, the rewards are endless. Wait and see."
Rising from the bed, Methos went over to the stereo and started up a CD. He turned the volume up and returned to Anson. "That'll cover the sounds you'll soon be making."
"Why don't you just gag me too?"
"Because," Methos stretched out along Anson's side, "that would defeat the purpose."
"What ... what purpose would that be?"
"To make you scream ... " He picked up the feather and ran it lightly down one side of Anson's face, teasing his lips with light touches. "To make you beg ... to make you need me as much as I need you." Suddenly, he attached his mouth to Anson's neck, sucking and biting.
"Oooh," Anson moaned.
Propping his head in one hand, Methos trailed the feather down Anson's neck to his chest. He flicked each nipple, gratified when Anson arched into the touch. Unable to resist a taste, he sucked one nipple into his mouth, nibbling lightly as the feather moved down. Avoiding Anson's weeping erection, he twitched the feather along the insides of his trembling thighs.
As Anson's breathing grew heavier, Methos grinned and tickled the younger mans sac, drawing the feather back and forth, up and down, until Anson was whimpering.
"God, please touch me," he begged breathlessly.
"But I am touching you, love. Can't you feel it?" Ever so lightly, the feather moved across Anson's cock.
"Not enough ... too much ... Oh shit." Twisting under the unbearably light stimulation, Anson groaned helplessly.
Sucking the lobe of Anson's ear into his mouth, Methos gave him a little nip, then soothed it with his tongue. Reluctantly, he pulled away. It would be so easy to give in to Anson's need ... So easy.
But no ... he'd promised to make the kid scream for him and, dammit, that's what he would do.
Whimpering at the loss of contact with Methos' warm body, Anson shook his head restlessly on the pillow. And, then the feather was back. This time trailing along the muscles of his arm lightly, making him shiver and moan. But, over the pounding of the music, he could hear the tenor of Methos' breathing, harsh and ragged and knew that he was not the only one in need.
"Please," he begged, "please, I need more."
The feather touched Anson's chin, tilting his head up. "Yesss," Anson breathed into Methos' devouring mouth. He opened wide, sucking on the invading tongue, arching up for more.
"No," he moaned when Methos withdrew. "Please, Adam."
Flicking the soft feather over and around Anson's hardened nipples. "Please what, Anson?"
"Your hands ... please touch me ... I need to feel your hands."
With a chuckle, Methos ran the feather down Anson's chest, across one hip, over the front of a thigh and down the inside of it to his knee.
"FUCK!" Anson screamed. "Touch me, Adam. Please! PLEEEASE!"
"That's what I've been waiting to hear." Dropping the feather, Methos wet one finger and lightly touched Anson's tightly drawn balls. "Tell me, Anson ... tell me what you want."
"God, Adam," Anson panted. "I want you ... your hands ... your mouth ... your cock. I want YOU."
Kneeling up on the bed, Methos straddled Anson's thighs and started stroking his chest. "Like this?" he teased as he lowered his head and sucked at one nipple.
"I want ... I want ... Fuck me, Adam. Please, please do it. I need to feel you inside of me."
Methos looked down at his lover and caught his breath in awed fascination. Thrashing in unbearable pleasure, sweat beading on his face and chest, reddened lips parted in an attempt to fill his lungs with air, Anson was just about the sexiest thing he'd ever beheld.
He turned and released the ties on Anson's legs and then fumbled for the lube. "All right, babe. Easy does it ... "
With shaking hands, he smeared lube on his aching erection, unwilling to take the time to use the condom. Settling Anson's legs over his shoulders, he pressed against that rosebud opening that called to him in need.
Anson grunted and pushed himself onto Methos' cock.
"Oh fuck," Methos groaned as he slid easily into the hot channel. "You feel so good, love. So hot ... so tight around me ..."
"Stop ... god, Adam, stop talking and fuck me already."
So, Methos did just that. Closing his eyes, he closed one hand around Anson's cock, pumping him in sync with his thrusts into that delicious ass.
"Oh yesss," Anson groaned. "That's it ... harder, Adam. Make me feel it."
His movements becoming erratic, Methos increased the pressure on Anson's cock and gasped for air.
"You're mine, Anson," he said hoarsely. "Mine."
"Yes ... yours ... Oh shit!" Anson's body stiffened and he screamed as his orgasm rushed through his nerve endings.
With a sob, Methos followed him over the precipice, losing himself forever in the pleasure of pumping his seed into Anson's body.
He slumped forward, draping himself over Anson. Sluggishly, he reached up and released Anson's hands, then pulled the blindfold down.
"Hey," he stared into teary eyes with concern. "You okay, love? I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Wrapping his arms around Methos, Anson sighed shakily. "'M fine, Adam," he said unsteadily. "I just ... never felt anything like that before."
Slipping to one side, Methos pulled the younger man to him and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you, babe," he whispered. "It means so much that you trust me enough to do this."
There was a pause, during which the pair of them dozed, and then Anson, as restless as ever, suddenly rolled over to loom over Methos, who was lying on his back, contentedly basking in the aftermath of their exercise, as close to purring as he could possibly be. Raising his eyelids a tiny bit, he surveyed his lover.
"Adam, you said that you were glad I trusted you..." The voice was framing a question. That much was evident. Methos frowned slightly. What the hell was coming now? He raised his lids the rest of the way, feeling a tiny flip somewhere inside as Anson's brilliant gaze burned into his.
"Babe, you have no idea how good it is to have you around. Yeah, I'm glad." Methos steeled himself. This conversation wasn't over yet, he could tell.
"Well, do you think that you could trust me? I mean, I need to go out, get some clothes. I've got a little money." Anson spoke in a rush, the words tumbling over one another as they raced from his lips. "There's an Army Navy store I passed. I can get me some jeans there and a T-shirt or two. Your stuff is just too darned tight on me to be comfortable. I don't need much, but I need to be able to fasten my pants!"
All this was true, reflected Methos. The kid couldn't stay in his apartment naked forever, no matter how cute he looked. He sighed. It looked as though he was going to test the bonds of affection any minute now. The old adage about setting something free if you loved it seemed particularly apposite at the moment. He wondered if Anson would come home, or if he'd take this opportunity to run again. It occurred to him just how little they'd shared about themselves in the past few days.
He thought again of the intimacy that they'd just experienced, and wondered if it had all been one sided. Time would tell, he supposed, and he certainly couldn't change that. Damn. If there was one thing he understood, it was the relentlessness of time.
"I suppose that a few clothes would be a good thing, child. It might help me to keep my hands to myself a little more when you're around. Your skin is altogether too tempting." He grinned, and slapped Anson's rounded rump as he rolled off the bed.
Crossing over to the dresser, he extracted his wallet and peeled off a couple of hundred dollars, returning to the bed to hold them out to Anson.
"Here. This ought to help get you kitted out. Get some good quality stuff for yourself, that way you'll be warm and comfortable." Anson regarded the money a little suspiciously. "What's this?" There was distrust in his voice as he eyed Methos. "Charity?"
Methos sighed. Sometimes relationships were a bitch. He caught himself on that thought. Was this going to be a relationship? He wasn't sure when he'd decided that he wanted one, but hell...
"Think of it as a loan if you like." Anson accepted the cash, and stood, gathering sweats and one of Methos's baggiest sweaters as he made himself ready.
"Thanks." The word was terse, and Methos looked at Anson with a little hurt in his eyes. Anson turned to him and caught his neck, pulling him in to kiss his mouth very soundly. "Hey, I mean it, thanks, Adam. Thanks for everything." With that, he was gone.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Why did the apartment seem so very empty all of a sudden? Dammit, he'd spent untold years living alone; he should be glad to have the place to himself. Still, the unsettling silence grated on his nerves. He crossed to the stereo and put in a T Rex CD. That should cover the uncomfortable quietude.
Determinedly, Methos set about working on his flood-damaged papers. He had plenty to do, after all. More than enough to keep himself busy while Anson was gone.
Gone.
He sighed and stared into space, recalling the unsettling look in Anson's eyes as he'd left. That 'Thanks for everything' had had such a ring of finality about it. He couldn't help but think that the kid was gone for good.
Was that such a terrible thing? After all, he'd spent so many years alone ... he enjoyed his solitude. The advent of Anson's arrival in his life had taken him by surprise. He'd never expected to have ... feelings?
Shit. Had he, against all of his instincts for self-preservation, gone and fallen for the child? Something in the loneliness and isolation and mistrust Anson evinced had wormed its way past his carefully constructed defenses. Anson's unwilling need to be cared for had gotten to him.
You're getting soft in your old age.
Shaking his head in disgust at the maudlin thoughts, Methos went into the kitchen and grabbed yet another beer from the fridge. Back in the living room, he slumped on the couch, letting his mind examine this Anson thing.
They had enjoyed great sex together, yes. He enjoyed Anson's playfulness, yes. Being needed had touched him, yes. And, damn, the kid was gorgeous.
Could a relationship come of it? Did he want a relationship?
Yes and yes.
He drained his beer and contemplated going for another. Decided that it was a good idea. Once again, he went to his desk and started working on his papers.
He could do nothing but wait now.
And hope.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Out on the street once more, Anson felt elated. He had money in his pocket for a change, and he was going to get himself a good time. He felt great. True, his side was still tender where the bullet had grazed him, and his thigh was a little stiff, but it was healing well, and the forced inactivity had become infuriating to him.
He hustled down towards Gastown, chilly in the clothes that he wore and anxious to replace them with something a little more serviceable. The drizzle that had annoyed and dispirited him so much on the day of his arrival had stopped, but there was a cold tang to the air that bit through the sweater and nipped at his flesh.
He wrapped his arms around himself and hurried down to the Army Navy store that he'd seen on his unfortunate arrival into town. Entering the store with some relief, he found himself a pair of Levis, some T-shirts and underwear, and then went searching for a jacket.
When he finally stepped out of the store it was into gathering dusk. He was now warmly clad, and had a new and bulging backpack with him, testimony to his utilitarian tastes. He'd lingered over the more expensive things that had been for sale, but had bought only basic items, with the exception of the sweater that he was now wearing. It was of soft cashmere of a mossy green, that made him look utterly delectable and had been irresistible
As he strode down the street towards Methos' apartment, the bright lights that advertised a nightclub caught his eye. He heard the faint pounding of music, and turning, he moved to go in without even thinking.
The Purple Onion, always packed with people, was alive with the sound of jazz, and the smoky air was filled with the sound of people having fun. Anson checked his coat and pack, strode to the bar and ordered a scotch, a double, knocking it back as he turned to survey the crowd.
He extracted a cigarette from the new pack he'd bought, and lit up, sighing with the pleasure of drawing smoke down into his lungs after days of enforced abstinence. This was bliss. Another shot of scotch went down fast, the bite of the alcohol stinging as it glowed warmth down inside him. He felt a flush of heat as he felt the booze kick in. Damn, he could do with a night out. Adam Pierson was forgotten as Anson ordered another drink and hit the dance floor.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
"Hell!" Disgusted with his morose thoughts, Methos gave up on meditation. Unfolding his long legs, he rose gracefully to his feet and crossed to the bedroom.
Once there, he looked at the bed and decided that sleep was not an option at the moment. He damn well knew that he'd toss and turn, thinking of his missing lover. Wondering ... remembering ...
Damn. This was pathetic. He'd helped the kid, gotten some great sex out of the deal. What the fuck was wrong with him? It wasn't as if he was really surprised that Anson had taken the money and run.
Was it?
He'd had enough sexual encounters in his life to handle the fact that Anson had decided that he didn't want to hang around. Methos was not some starry-eyed kid, thinking he'd fallen in love after a week of sex.
Riiight.
With an impatient huff of air, Methos changed into workout clothes. In the living room, he shoved furniture out of his way, leaving a reasonable amount of space for his intentions. Went through a series of stretching exercises, then crossed to the closet and pulled out his sword. Taking a position in the center of the room, he took a couple of steadying breaths, ruthlessly shoving all thoughts of Anson aside.
Well, he thought sarcastically, at last all of the time he'd spent watching MacLeod work out had paid off.
Closing his eyes in concentration, he started a kata. Found that by the fourth time through, he no longer had to picture Duncan's moves in his mind. By the sixth repetition, the moves flowed easily.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
It was not until the early hours of the morning that Anson started to think that maybe he should have phoned, or let Adam know somehow that he was not going to come straight back to the apartment.
He'd danced with a host of pretty girls. He'd sung, drunk, and partied, and turned down propositions that he'd have taken up on like a shot even two weeks before. He was a good-looking man, and knew it. People had flocked around him and he'd loved it. Gradually, as the night went by, he got more than a little tipsy, glowing in the sheer joy of the atmosphere. It was only when a tall, dark man had whispered into his ear that he wanted Anson to go home with him that he began to wonder just what the hell he was doing there, and he started to feel the subtle agonies of guilt.
Suddenly picturing Adam as he had last seen him, naked and sated in his bed after what had to be the best sex Anson could remember in his life, he felt an overwhelming sense of loss.
What the hell was he doing? Here he was, in a strange country, alone and penniless, and the kindest, hottest, sweetest guy was at home, presumably having second thoughts about ever having allowed Anson into his life.
"Gotta go." Anson shook off the man who was hanging around his neck, and stood up, clumsily. The man was reluctant to let him go, and Anson staggered, falling into the lap of a laughing woman who was seated beside him.
"C'mon, man. Time f'me to hit the road." His companion was clinging to him and he squeezed the irritating man's wrists as he pushed the restraining arms away. "Gotta go play Adam 'n Eve..."
Taking a deep breath, he began a careful walk to the coat check and fumbled for his ticket. Once his coat had been produced, he struggled it on and began to try and insert his arms into the straps of the backpack. It was not as easy as he thought it would be. After fruitlessly chasing the second strap around in a circle, he was almost ready to give up. He was beginning to feel somewhat less wonderful than he had earlier, as the cold night air started to make him a little nauseous.
His admirer had followed him out, and zeroed in on where he was leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lip as he contemplated the offending backpack.
"Need a little help with that?"
Anson frowned. He wanted to go back home to Adam, and this jerk was going to cause trouble, he knew it with a sixth sense that had been finely honed by his life on the edge, but pragmatics dictated that he should allow him to help get the backpack on, and he smiled his thanks, permitting the other to hold the strap while he shrugged it on.
"Thanks, guy." He was ready to go, and favored his admirer with a hazy smile as he lurched off in the direction of Methos' pad without a second thought.
Several hundred yards later and the annoyance was still with him. He turned to the man, intent on telling him he was wasting his time, and found himself pulled into an embrace, a slobbering kiss pressed to his lips. He swore.
A brief tussle followed. Anson found himself fighting for his virtue in a rather shocking fashion as the other tried to press him against the wall, groping him as he struggled. Finally, Anson aimed a punch at his assailant, knocking him off balance, and turned, beginning to walk again.
The man was still with him, plucking at his coat and arguing with him when he finally reached Methos' apartment and, holding his breath for fear that his lover might be angry enough to deny him entry, leaned on the doorbell.
When Methos opened the door at last, it was to reveal a furious, inebriated Anson, busily engaged in aiming wide, flailing punches at a man who was fairly obviously under the influence of alcohol himself.
Surveying the scene with a frown, he wondered what the hell was happening. He was in the act of closing the door again when Anson turned to him, appealing desperately.
"Bastard won' go 'way. Wants to fuck me. Tol' him I'm yours but he won' listen." With a sigh, Methos reached out, grabbed a handful of Anson's new coat, and hauled him into the entrance, closing the door on the staggering assailant even as he lurched after his object of desire.
The thwarted lothario hit the door with a thud that rattled it, but both men ignored it as Methos turned to study Anson, who was sitting on the floor where he'd come to rest when Methos had yanked him inside. He sat, making no attempt to get up, and looked at Methos with a sloppy grin on his face.
"'S'you I want. Decided that," he slurred, and began to try and shed the backpack.
Methos watched impassively as Anson struggled with the backpack. Finally, he sighed and pulled the damned thing off. "Come on," he said quietly, hauling Anson to his feet. Practically carrying the drunken man to the sofa, he dropped his burden and stepped back, surveying him with guarded eyes.
"C'mere," Anson coaxed, holding out one hand. Noticing that he still wore his coat, he looked confused. "We goin' out?"
Methos shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere, Anson. I live here. Remember? You, on the other hand, may do as you please."
"Wanna fuck." Anson grinned at him sloppily and tried to rise to his feet. With a surprised look on his face, the kid fell back onto the sofa and giggled. "'M drunk," he announced happily.
"So I see," Methos replied without expression.
A slight frown folded the skin between Anson's brows as Methos' tone registered in his brain. "Uh oh," he said in a sad voice. "You mad at me?"
Shaking his head, Methos started to turn away. "We'll talk in the morning, kid. You go to sleep," he said with finality.
He went into the bedroom and grabbed a pillow and blanket off of the bed, returning to toss them in Anson's direction. The child watched with an injured expression as Methos pulled his coat off and dropped it on the floor.
"Sleep," he said firmly. "I'll be in the other room if you need anything." Refusing to meet the sad green eyes, Methos stepped away and went back to the bedroom.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Methos groaned and rested his head in his hands wearily. He did not need this kind of shit. Finally, he flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling blindly.
What the hell to do? Should he kick the kid out, come morning? It's been fun, lover ... see you 'round.
Imagining the look on Anson's face if he said that, Methos sighed.
What the fuck am I going to do now?
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Anson lay on the couch in much the same position as he had been ever since Methos had removed his coat. Sleep came easily, but it wasn't a restful sleep. He was disgracefully drunk, and the alcohol hopelessly disturbed his sleep patterns in his system.
Methos invaded his dreams, stern as he pointed to the door, telling him to get out and back to the gutter. In vain did the dream-Anson plead and promise; he was put out into the night, freezing, sobbing and alone.
He awoke abruptly, freezing in truth, to find that his blanket was on the floor, and that he was uncovered. His head ached like a bitch. It was as if the contents had been dehydrated and were rattling within his skull. Groaning, he pulled the blanket around him like a cloak and stumbled into the kitchen in search of liquid to reinflate his brain.
Several glasses of water later, he leaned against the counter, his head still grindingly painful, and pondered his behavior of the evening before. Adam had been so mad at him. He hadn't said anything, but Anson had seen the set of his jaw, and the bunching of muscles in neck and shoulder. No, no words had been necessary; Adam's body language expressing his disgust quite clearly.
"Fuck!" The expletive was heartfelt, but didn't make him feel any better at all. He turned and pounded the worktop. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
How could he have been so damned stupid? How come he sabotaged himself so regularly? Damn his stupidity. Adam was kind, gentle, and it didn't hurt that he was drop-dead gorgeous either, and he had made love to him - not merely fucked him, but made love to him. He'd made Anson feel wanted, worth something after all, so why had Anson run away?
He couldn't fathom it out. He'd always been a self-sabotaging jackass, but this was beyond a joke.
What the hell could he do to redeem himself? At that point, he thought of the warmth of Adam, and the comfort of lying in his arms, and made up his mind. He slowly stripped off his new clothes, wrapped himself in his blanket, and stole into Adam's room. He would make the man forgive him, he would!
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
A heavy fog surrounded him. He could feel the presences surrounding, all of them ... all of the lovers and loved ones he'd ever allowed past his defenses. Desperately, he squinted, trying to pierce the blinding fog.
"Poppa," a small voice spoke from his right, "why weren't you there? He hurt me, Pa ... he hurt me so much."
Falling to his knees, Methos reached out to his daughter. "Baby," he whispered, "I'm so sorry. I tried ... I'd have done anything to-"
"Ah, brother," said the well-remembered voice of Kronos. "Don't you understand? You were never a stupid man, Methos. Until you left me, that is." The scarred face of his most hated and best-loved enemy appeared in front of him, smiling grimly down at his kneeling figure. "I am going to take them all, brother ... take and take until you admit to yourself that I am all you need ... all you'll ever need."
Kronos stood, and Methos watched in horror as faces from his past surrounded his brother. Several wives, shield brothers from various wars, Darius, Byron, Anya and her mother, Alexa ... MacLeod.
"Oh, brother," Kronos whispered, "They're all mine, now ... It shall continue, Methos - I will take every person, mortal or immortal, until you're alone ... until you understand."
"Understand what?" Methos finally managed to whisper in dread.
"You, my brother, are mine. You shall always be mine. And," Kronos smiled a kindly, knowing smile, "until you accept that, all you treasure will be taken from you ... even your new pet."
Kronos stepped back and held out one hand. "Come here to me, Anson."
"Gods, no," Methos moaned in horror. "Not him, too. Kronos, please ... I'll send him away. He's but a momentary diversion ... an innocent."
"Do not bother with your lies, brother ... I know you better than any other living being. You care for this one and he - and you - must learn."
Kronos laughed, and turned away. "Let me know, brother. Whenever you're ready to once again take your proper place at my side, I'll be waiting with open arms." He gave Methos a patently false look of concern. "Too bad it'll be too late for this one!"
The dream figure drew his sword and took Anson's head with such a lack of expression that Methos drew back in horror. He watched helplessly, as Kronos turned away, herding before him those Methos had loved and lost.
"Remember, brother ... I am your future as well as your past. I own you," Kronos called as he disappeared into the fog. "Always remember ... you cannot escape me. Come home to me ... you know you belong with me ... Search your heart, brother ... know the truth, the inevitability."
"Never," Methos screamed. "I'll never be yours again. I've changed ... I've changed."
Kronos' ghostly voice laughed.
Crawling over to Anson's mangled corpse, Methos cradled the headless body close and howled his pain. "Gods, Anson ... I never thought ... never imagined he might ... Please forgive me. Please," he pleaded brokenly. "Love you, kid. Love you. I'm so sorry ... so sorry."
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Anson could hear harsh breathing and muffled murmuring as he entered the room, and as he drew close, he could make out the shape of Adam's body, tossing beneath the covers as he moaned.
"Love you, kid..." The words pierced the fog of his hangover as, just for a moment, he wondered what the hell to do. Then he climbed in beside the sleeping man and squirmed until he was holding him securely against his chest. This, he thought, is a turnabout. He's helped me through so many nightmares.
"Adam," he said, his voice a mere velvet ghost against the backdrop of the distressed sounds that Methos was making. "Come on, Adam. It's a dream, man. You need to wake up. Wake up for me."
He pressed a kiss against the sweat-shiny forehead and another against the still mumbling mouth, and at last it seemed as though Methos was beginning to emerge from whatever terror had him in its clasp. Anson felt the change in muscle tone as Methos came awake with a start. He continued to hold Methos tightly against him, stroking his shoulders and soothing with words that made no sense, but were merely calming platitudes.
Inside, his feelings raged. There was gratitude for the man he was holding, and joy that he was able to contribute in some small way to his well being. Allayed with that was a sense of dismay that the man who had helped him, been there for him and seemed so strong was vulnerable after all.
You have feet of clay, he thought, and in some ways the concept felt good. He had felt so inadequate beside the man until this moment. He'd felt like the child he'd been called. Somehow this redressed the balance between the two of them. That thought made him feel weak with the heady joy of equality. He would make all of this better, because he owed Adam, and because he wanted to.
Aloud, he said, "You okay now? It was a dream. Just a dream." He ran his lips over the still clammy skin of the immortal, feeling the rasp of whiskery nightgrowth against lip and tongue with sensual delight. "Anything I can do to help?"
Methos had finally become aware of his surroundings, but the memory of the dream was still fresh in his mind, and the thing that scared him most was the fact that he feared that somehow he and Kronos were linked together.
He was afraid that the voice in his head hadn't merely been an abused subconscious playing on his fears, but a hideous and real invasion of his dreams by a man - remember, only a man - who had lived too long, and who knew him far too well.
"I - I don't think so," said Methos, weakly. "Guess it's your turn to hold the basin, speaking metaphorically."
Pulling Methos even closer, Anson chuckled. "Turnabout, y'know?"
"Yeah," Methos mumbled, settling himself more firmly into Anson's comforting hold. "I don't do this often, love. It was just ... a combination of talking about Anya and my reaction to your disappearance tonight." He shifted again and raised his head to look into Anson's eyes. "Silly, I know ... but, I don't want to lose you, kid. I ... I'm growing to care for you."
Anson shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't ... I can't make any promises here, Adam," he finally said in a low voice. "It scares me - caring for you ... needing you. I suppose that's why I ran." He laughed at himself. "Didn't get far, did I?"
"'M not asking for promises, kid. Only that you give this ... give us a chance."
"So, you're not angry with me any more?"
"I wasn't angry, Anson. At least, not with you ... with myself, maybe. I didn't expect to care for you and it frightens me ... I've not let anyone mean so much to me for a very long time." With a sigh, Methos tucked his head into the crook of Anson's neck. "My feelings for you could very well put you in danger, you know ... Kronos is still out there - if he found out about you ... "
Shivering at the thought of what his 'brother' might do to Anson, Methos pulled away from Anson's arms. "Maybe you had the right idea; run as far as you can as fast as you can."
There was a pause. Anson was thinking only sluggishly, but his belly felt cold at the idea of leaving Adam's side. He tightened his arms.
"Who's this Kronos guy? He sounds like something out of X-Men. Why can't you just tell the cops? I mean, I've never been in a position to have the cops on my side, but you're one of the good guys, and this jerk is stalking you from the sound of it." He ran his fingers over the smooth, hard muscle of Methos' shoulders.
Methos licked a little pathway along the elegant throat of the man who was holding him.
"Trust me, Anson, you don't want to know who Kronos is. He's cruel, sadistic and controlling. He's pursued me through more years than I can count, and if he finds us, he could well end up killing you for the sheer pleasure of seeing me weep for you." Methos spoke slowly, the words appearing dragged from him. Anson cradled his cheek in the palm of his hand, lowering to kiss him softly on his eyes, his nose, and his cheeks.
"Adam, you keep on dropping these hints that you aren't who you appear to be. I respect that you have secrets, hell, I've done things myself that I never, ever want to have discovered, but I want to stay with you. I don't want you to send me away. I... " He paused, unsure what it was that he'd been going to say.
'Love you?' Is that what this is? How can I love him? He's a guy, and...
He fastened his lips to Methos', trying to lose the sense of unease his own vulnerability was instilling in him. Rolling to cover Methos, he sank himself into a kiss, probing with his tongue to swirl around within the other's mouth as he pressed his groin against him.
Don't leave me. Don't make me go. I need you. More than that, I love you. Anson closed his eyes against the realization that he did. He did love this man.
Methos tightened his arms around Anson for a beat, and then pulled back. Rising to support his upper body on one elbow, he looked down at Anson. One hand reached out to caress the younger man's face gently.
"It's time," Methos finally said sadly.
Heart pounding with sudden dread, Anson swallowed and met Adam's eyes. Such sadness, terrible fear and crippling regret were evident in mossy green eyes; Anson felt a deep and overwhelming terror that tightened this throat and made his breath grow short.
Adam was going to kick him out ... just as he'd dreamed would happen.
Fuck.
Turning his face away from Adam and heaving a sigh, Anson pushed the blankets back and started to rise. "Time for what?" He asked bitterly. "Time for me to leave?"
"No!" Methos grabbed Anson's arm and pulled him back against the pillows. "Not that ... never that, I hope."
Searching Adam's face for a clue, a hint of what had his lover in such a state, Anson frowned in confusion. "Then what? What's the matter, Adam?"
"Methos."
"What? You said that used to be your name," Anson said slowly, confusedly.
Smiling grimly, Methos nodded. "So I did ... and so it was. Adam Pierson is an ... alias, if you will. I created him and shall use the identity for several years yet. Then, when Pierson is no longer useful, I'll kill him and create a new persona."
Anson chewed on his lower lip as he studied Adam's ... Methos' words. Suddenly, he understood. As scared as he had been of being kicked out, so was Methos of watching Anson leave.
Reaching out with one hand, he lightly touched Methos' shoulder. "Hey, whatever you call yourself ... you're still the man I ... " Pausing, Anson moved closer to his lover's side, "the man I love."
Methos groaned and pulled Anson into his arms. "Don't ... don't say that until after - I have to tell you some things. Things that will be difficult for you to believe. Just, please, give me a chance."
Recognizing the fear in Methos' voice, Anson snuggled closer, offering comfort. "Tell me," he said simply.
"Actually," Methos said slowly, "I need to show you something first."
Rolling to the side, he reached under the bed for something. Setting the item on the bedside just out of Anson's view, he leaned over to turn on the lamp.
"Now," Methos held up the mysterious item from under the bed, "I need you to stay calm, Anson."
Whoa. Anson tensed at the wickedly sharp knife Methos now held in one hand.
//Calm, he says// With an audible gulp, he nodded, waiting to see what would happen next.
Swiftly and altogether too casually for Anson's taste, Methos ran the edge of the blade across his own chest. A thin line of crimson grew in its wake and Anson gasped at the sight.
"Jesus, Methos," he said hoarsely. "Why?"
"Easy, babe," Methos whispered. "Just watch."
With one corner of the sheet, Methos wiped the blood away, nodding down at his chest. "Look at it, Anson. See what happens."
Reluctantly lowering his eyes to Methos' chest, Anson wondered what the hell he was supposed to see ...
Holy shit! His eyes widened in stunned disbelief as what looked for all the world like small electrical charges flickered over the cut. Within seconds, the injury was gone, the chest as smooth as it had been only moments before.
"What the fuck?" With careful fingers, Anson reached out to touch Methos. He looked up to meet the other man's eyes as he traced the nonexistent cut. "How did you ... I mean, what was that?"
Methos shrugged. "That was my body healing itself. I can recover from almost any injury. Not always so quickly, mind you, but I do heal."
"But ... How? Why?"
"How? Well, now ... that's a complicated question. And, why ... no one knows that, Anson. There are others like me ... quite a few of us, actually. But, none of us knows what we are or why we are." Methos blew out a breath and made a sound that might have been called a laugh. "I'm the oldest of our kind, Anson. I expect that if anyone would know, I would be the one."
Oldest Anson closed his eyes, pressing closer to Methos' warmth. Our kind.
"You've made several vague comments about your age, Methos." Anson raised one hand to touch the other man's face. "Just how old are you?"
"Very."
Impatient, Anson rose to glare at Methos. "Don't fuck with me, man. How old?"
Drawing a deep breath, Methos looked at the younger man sadly. "I am five thousand years old, kid. Give or take a century."
Mouth agape, Anson stared at Methos, searching for any sign of humor, of deception ... of madness.
All he found was a sadly expectant expression. Methos thought he'd laugh. Or leave.
"Five thousand years, huh?" He finally said wonderingly. "Then, you can't, uh, die?"
"Oh no ... I can die." Methos snorted. "I die like a champ. But then, I come back, you see. Over and over."
"And Kronos," Anson asked, "he's like you?"
"He's almost as old as I am. We ... we parted three thousand years ago."
"So ... you've been hiding from him all that time?" Anson couldn't imagine, couldn't comprehend the sheer awfulness of it - of what it meant to have such an enemy for so very long.
"Not exactly hiding, Anson. It's just that I discovered there's more to life than pain and blood, but he never has. I don't want to spend my days causing pain. Hell, I've even tried to help people from time to time, but whenever he finds me, he hurts the ones around me... The ones I love." Methos' arms tightened around Anson, an involuntary movement as his recent nightmare arose again within his mind to float before him. Anson stirred restlessly within the circle of his embrace, and Methos released him with a sigh. "I'm sorry, love. It's safer for you to leave. I'll understand."
Anson sat up with a snort.
"Are you kidding me? You think I'd just... just dump you?" He turned to pin Methos down, his hands on the supine man's shoulders. "You deserve for me to beat you for even suggesting it." He lowered his head to kiss Methos roughly, forcing his mouth open to plunder it with a tongue that delved and flickered. For a moment there was silence, and then Anson raised his head once more.
"If he kills you, kid, you'll stay dead. I'll be left to watch you die, and then live on with the guilt." Methos' hand was stroking the feathery hair on the nape of Anson's neck, almost as though he were unaware of his need to touch. "I've lost so many..."
"Hey, I hear you." Anson's voice was husky, sugar in gasoline, rasping against Methos' ears. "We've all got to die some day. Even this Kronos guy will kick the bucket some day." Intense green eyes held fast to apologetic hazel. "You want to spend your life in misery because some asshole is blackmailing you? That's what it is, you know? It's blackmail. I wouldn't want to live forever if I couldn't have any fun. Live a little, Adam...ah... Methos."
Methos laughed a little unsteadily. Anson was adorable, but he wasn't really understanding... or maybe he was. Maybe he was right, and he should learn from this young and life-damaged mortal.
"You know, kid, you're right in so many ways that it's impossible for me to count them." Methos pulled Anson's head down, and this time he led the kiss, hands clutching desperately for the firm flesh of his lover's buttocks as he wrapped himself around him, arms and legs and hot sweet mouth all working to hold him. Again they were silent save for muted gasps as pleasure washed them. Finally, Anson drew away for a second, and laid a finger against Methos' lips.
"A... Methos?" The immortal sucked Anson's finger into his mouth, and merely signaled that he was listening with a flick and dip of lush lashes. "Do me a favor?" The widened eyes gave him the cue to continue. "Stop calling me kid, willya? It drives me nuts!"
When Methos started to laugh, it was in gusty bursts, as the strain of the previous little while began to release itself. Anson lay propped up on one elbow watching him with a grin on his face that was partly joyful, and partly predatory.
"Anson, I'll try. I can't promise, but I'll try." Methos' hand moved down to clasp and stroke Anson's half-hard penis. Anson thrust gently into the warm hand, but his face was abstracted.
"There must be a way to kill him so that he stays dead. Tell me about it, Methos." His was a sultry whisper that tickled the fine hairs on Methos' nape. This child he was caressing was as innocently deadly as any cobra. More so, because he was beautiful, and looked like an innocent until you looked beyond the purity of the lines of his face, and into the eyes that had seen too much, too soon and been unable to avoid the consequences.
"If he were beheaded, that would mean his end forever. It's not as easy as it sounds, k... Anson. Come on. Forget it. We have today, and that's all we can handle." His stroking fingers gave a little twist to the stiffness he held in his hand, and he licked his lips, hoping against hope that Anson would drop the subject. Seemingly he had, at least for the time being. With a groan he rolled onto his back and spread his thighs, offering access to his most private parts to Methos.
Supporting his weight on one elbow, Methos looked down at Anson. "You're so beautiful, love," he said softly as he stroked the smooth chest. "Sometimes it hurts just to look at you."
Shifting uncomfortably under the intense gaze, Anson reached up and pulled Methos down to rest atop him. "Then don't look ... touch me."
Methos tightened his hold on Anson and rolled them over, reversing their position. Meeting the surprised green eyes, he grinned. "I want you, Anson."
Tracing the line of Methos' lips with one finger, Anson smiled and settled his weight more firmly against his lover. "Well, here I am ... how do you want me?"
Raising his knees so that Anson lay between his legs, Methos reached down and grabbed his firm ass with both hands. "I want you to fuck me," he said, pulling Anson's hips down to grind their erections together.
Swallowing heavily at the thought, Anson looked into Methos' eyes searchingly. "You ... you do?" He finally asked in a wondering tone. "Are you sure? I mean we haven't..."
Wrapping his legs around Anson's hips, Methos sighed with pleasure. "Yes, love, I'm sure. I want," he arched up against Anson, "to feel you inside of me."
"Oh god," Anson groaned.
Kisses followed, deep, slow and wonderful. The two men writhed together, mouths locked and hands clutching to expose flesh. Anson seemed somehow transported, his face set in a greedy mask of desire as he kissed and caressed the immortal, seeming to need reassurance that he'd meant what he'd said.
Finally, gasping and beside himself, Methos jerked his head away from Anson's demanding mouth to whisper hoarsely, "Do it. Do me, please."
Anson gave a strange little whimper, and began to slither down to kiss Methos' genitals, reaching with shaky hands for the bottle of slick that lay beside the bed. Methos handed the tube to hand to Anson, who took it in nervous fingers and immediately managed to let it slip from his grasp, causing a frantic search and some muffled giggling that seemed to settle him a little.
Stroking on the cool gel, Anson's fingers still trembled, and Methos, who had a slight idea what the problem might be, ran gentle hands through the young man's hair.
"What's the matter, Anson-love? Where's your mind at?" Methos spoke kindly, but his voice was tense. Damn, he wanted this.
"It's just that I've never... " Anson gazed helplessly up at Methos, willing him to assist.
"It won't hurt me. Don't be shy, love. You know how it feels." Methos began to direct Anson's hands, pressing them down, forcing them against his puckered opening, and finally inside, murmuring encouragements. Anson's eyes were fixed on Methos' face, his expression first avid as he tentatively moved his hand, and then greedy, predatory as Methos threw back his head with a groan to arch his pelvis up into the touch.
Methos was hot within, and Anson's cock was almost harder than he could bear. As he slicked himself up, Methos kept up a low commentary, telling Anson just what he was doing to him with his touches. Finally, Anson swallowed, positioned himself, and began trying to and insert his cock into the sweet space that he'd been loosening.
Slowly, he sank into the oiled velvet that was Methos, beads of sweat standing on his forehead as he concentrated hard on keeping himself together long enough to give Methos what he needed. It was easier than he'd thought that it would be to slide home into his slick heat. Methos had relaxed himself so thoroughly that there was no effort. Soon, Anson was buried up to his balls within his lover, and there he paused, praying for control.
Tiny movements brought the growing tension down his spine and through his thighs until he had to bite his lip to stop himself from screaming. Tendrils of pleasure wove themselves around his tightly encased cock and crawled along his belly. He pulled out, only to be sucked back in again until he could go no further. Words fell from his lips - "Love... I love... Oh, God! I love you!" and then he was plunging in and unable to stop, while Methos writhed, not cool now, wanting more as this youngling pierced him, claimed him and made him his own.
When Methos came, spurting white between the two of them, he shouted, strange words in a language that had been forgotten eons ago. Anson didn't even notice. He was wrapped in bliss and so close to his own nirvana that all he could do was whimper, and then he was lost, the tide flowing through him like a storm.
Breathing heavily, Methos held Anson close. "Gods, love, that was just ... perfect."
"Yeah?" Anson asked hesitantly. "I did okay?"
Carding his fingers through Anson's soft hair, Methos huffed a laugh, "More than okay ... It was ... I was ... " he paused, gathering his thoughts. "I don't do that often, Anson. But, I needed you tonight. I needed to give myself to you ... I love you, you know."
Anson drew in a deep breath, tightening his arms around the older man. "You mean that, Methos? I mean, you don't have to say -"
"Yes," Methos gently stroked Anson's face, "I do mean it; I love you. I don't say that often or easily but you're special to me."
Anson rolled to one side, draping himself over Methos' lean body. "Methos ... I owe you an apology for last night. I just ..."
"Hush," Methos soothed, "I understand ... you were scared. And, I suspect that flight is your first best defense. Running is something I've perfected over the years, to avoid caring, to avoid involvement. You've not," he said slowly, testing his words, "had much experience of love, I think."
"Annabel is the only person I've ever truly loved ... until you. I've disappointed so many people in my life. I think I was afraid that, once you got to know me better, you'd decided I wasn't ... You could have anyone, Methos. You're a beautiful man. I can't help but think that you'll find someone better than me ... that you'll leave me."
Methos snorted. "I'm a five thousand year old man, Anson. Believe me, when I let someone get past my defenses the way you have, I hold on to them with all that I have. Mortal life is so fragile, love. I ... I want to spend as much time with you as I can."
Rubbing his head against Methos shoulder, Anson sighed. "I like that. But," he raised his head to meet Methos' eyes, "I can't promise not to freak and run again. I tend to be a little, ah, self-destructive."
Smiling gently, Methos pulled Anson to him for a kiss. "Just try to talk to me about it first next time, would you? I was so ... I thought you were gone for good last night, love. That scared me."
Anson looked down at Methos apologetically. "I'll try. It's just that I've never been ... no one's ever cared for me the way you do. It scared me shitless." His eyes lowered and a faint blush rose in his cheeks. "You really love me?"
"Yes, I do. And, if you need to go away for a bit, if I overwhelm you, just tell me. As long as you come back to me, I'll be okay with that. I don't want you to feel trapped or owned. I just want you to feel loved."
"I'm not sure I know how to do that, Methos. I ... I've been alone for so long and hurt so many times ..."
"Just give me a chance, Anson-love. You won't be alone and I promise not to hurt you."
A strange warmth spread through Anson when he heard Methos' words. Was this safety? Could he believe that this time it would be different? He huddled closer to Methos' side and grinned to himself. Maybe he'd stumbled into an actual relationship - maybe this man could be taken at his word.
A huge yawn caught him by surprise and Methos chuckled. "Let's sleep now, babe. Tomorrow we have plans to make."
"We do?" Anson asked foggily. "What plans?"
Settling himself more comfortably on the bed and arranging Anson's length against his own, Methos pressed a kiss to the top of Anson's head. "We're going to find your Annabel, Anson. Make sure she's safe."
With a happy sigh, Anson closed his eyes and relaxed against his lover's body. "Tomorrow," he mumbled as sleep took him.
End
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