SITTING OUT THE STORM
Methos built a cabin in the middle of a darkly thick forest high on the side of a mountain. He stocked it with non-perishables, his favorite books, and a stack of blank journals. One night he left a note for Joe, jotting down something about a thousand years of rage leaving a dry well no matter how strong the thirst, and fell off the mortal and immortal radar.
He read his books, ate his food, and wrote down his thoughts. Some were brilliant, others wistful, still others...painful. Grown used to his own company after a long while, he was startled to feel the thrill of another. He looked up as Duncan MacLeod crashed through the doorway, sword held familiarly in his hand, his stride determined. Methos, extremely comfortable on the leather recliner he couldn't bear to leave behind, turned another page in his book.
"The Gathering is upon us," MacLeod snarled. "Stand up and fight me."
Methos sighed and slid a bookmark into place. He stared solemnly at his friend. "No."
"Then die where you sit, coward!" The sword flashed forward and stopped, its edge balanced surely against the soft skin of Methos's neck. "Fight me!"
MacLeod shuddered and took a step back. Methos took this opportunity to stand, and he padded barefoot to the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of beer out of the pantry, opened it, and started making dinner. Without electricity, things took longer.
"What are you doing?" MacLeod cried, his knuckles white around the hilt in his hand.
"Back when I was living in New Orleans in the States, I observed that as soon as it started thundering and lightning, most slaves just stopped whatever they were doing and got really quiet. One day my curiosity got the better of me and I asked one of the mammies what was going on. She just smiled at me and said, 'Th' Lord's done gone to work now, chile. Ain't nothin' we can do to compare to dat, so we's just sittin' out the storm.'" Methos stuck a piece of kindling into the big, black stove. "There's a few bottles of something in the pantry. Not much; the stuff makes me a bit too maudlin."
MacLeod spent the rest of the day with a liquor bottle in one hand, his sword in the other. He paced the interior of the cabin as if stalking strange prey. Offers of food were ignored, and by the time Methos blew out the candles and went to bed, he'd never seen MacLeod take a potty break. He thought that interesting.
He woke under a full moon, saw MacLeod standing over him, bottle gone but sword still in position. "Don't be cruel, MacLeod. If you're going to do it, don't let me go to the trouble of waking up completely." He closed his eyes and kept them closed, even when he felt Duncan move away.
In the morning, he was alone again.
He read his books, ate his food, and wrote down his thoughts. A few were brilliant, more than the majority were melancholy, and the painful ones touched on deeper, visceral wounds. Grown tired of his own company after a long while, he was startled to feel the thrill of another. He looked up as Duncan MacLeod crashed through the doorway, sword held familiarly in his hand, his stride determined. After a brief glance, Methos turned another page in his book. However, he didn't see the words. Instead he saw MacLeod with his hair greasy and wild about his shoulders, the dark spots with dried bits upon his remaining clothing, the rust blossoms on his bare chest and arms which told of close calls and battles upon battles. The only thing clean about him was the shiny, but severely knicked blade at his side.
The fore-mentioned blade rose, and with a roar, MacLeod snatched the book from his hands, pulled him out of the chair, and sliced downward. Methos didn't flinch as the sword descended, but he was surprised as the blade sliced only through his clothing. The surprise turned to understanding, then resignation as Duncan yanked the rent clothes off and bent him over the chair arm. As they rutted in the living room, Duncan taking him dry and bitterly, Methos wondered what he should make for dinner.
After a bath, MacLeod spent the rest of the day with a bottle in one hand, his sword in the other. He paced the interior of the cabin as if stalking strange prey. Offers of food were ignored, which was good because Methos never knew from minute to minute whether he'd be cooking or shoved against some surface, his body assaulted and invaded by a MacLeod who never uttered a sound, even when he was coming. By the time Methos blew out the candles and went to bed, his immortality and a wet washcloth had removed the physical traces of a very long day from his body. Too bad immortality could do nothing for the broken furniture. He mourned the loss of his recliner.
He woke under a full moon, saw MacLeod standing over him, bottle gone but sword still in position. "Don't be cruel, MacLeod. If it's my arse you want, just get it over with. If it's my head you're after, don't let me go to the trouble of waking up completely." He closed his eyes and kept them closed, even when he felt Duncan stay where he was.
In the morning, he wasn't alone. MacLeod was on him and in him, spearing him with his cock and untrimmed nails. Grunts and curses fell against his ears. Spit and snot and tears rained down on his neck. Fury had taken physical form and it rode him hard, punishing him for sins he owned, sins of others, and sins committed not by self but by nature. The Gathering had been destruction, devastation, and desolation. Fury wrote the description upon his body, a living journal that could be erased and written upon time after time after time.
The bed went the same way as the living room furniture.
Time moved on and still he wasn't alone. MacLeod spent hours in the yard, attacking wood to fashion into usefulness and later attacking Methos to fashion rage into something less than. Rutting became sex. Rough, often violent, but no blood thanks to spit and rendered fat. Under a full moon, Methos woke to find MacLeod staring at him, no bottle, no sword. "Don't be cruel, MacLeod," he said. MacLeod leaned over and kissed him. Methos closed his eyes and kept them closed, even when he felt MacLeod's head rest upon his shoulder.
Nights became longer, the days waning early. MacLeod brooded and hunted with Methos's rifle, an eerie light appearing sometimes in his eyes as he dressed the meat and smoked it. Methos watched him at will, but mostly just read his books, ate his food, and wrote down his thoughts. None were brilliant, more than the majority were hopeful, and the painful ones he let MacLeod fuck away.
Comfortable with the company he had, he looked up as Duncan MacLeod came through the doorway. The sword was long gone and the cocky stride was a hesitant walk. Methos turned another page in his book.
Something dropped in his lap. It was a jar of their homemade lube. He looked up and MacLeod's bare arse was presented to him, animalistic in a way, devastating in another. He led Duncan to the hand-crafted bed, prepared him with a trembling hand, then entered him with a caution reserved for royal virgins. Later he found himself wrapped up in Duncan as the Scot gasped and wept against his chest. The full moon shone down and Methos's vision, hindered by a watery film he refused to name, conjured a rainbow in the starry sky.
In the morning, Duncan was dressed and packing a bag. He tossed another on the bed. "Let's go visit Joe," he said with a smile, a thorough wash and immortality making translucent, but not transparent, the remains of lingering clouds. "And I know a great place to buy a recliner."
Methos smiled and nodded. He carefully closed up his cabin, filling his bag with his favorite books and the journals of his thoughts before slinging it over his shoulder, and reaching out for Duncan. Hand in hand, they walked out of the forest, a brilliant sun guiding their way.
That night, a full moon shone down on two swords left on the bed and a big black stove grown cold.