This is more or less a prequel to Confessions Of A Devout Moon. The song is an oldie, sung by The Shirelles.
May 28, 2000Tonight you're mine completely,
He makes a snuffling sound. It isn't a sound of distress, but nevertheless I brush my lips across his neck reassuringly, my arms tightening around the lean chest. I feel something in him relax, and I spoon closer, knowing he won't awaken. That was the first gift he gave me. Absolute trust. In my presence, he sleeps fully, the wariness with which he deals with everyone else giving way to his trust in me. He trusts that I will not harm him. He trusts that I will protect him. How many times in his millennia of existence has he given that gift? Not many times, I fear. What I fear worse is how many times that gift has been betrayed.
He's been hurt. He doesn't admit it readily, and when he does, he brushes it off as an "unavoidable consequence of life." But I see it in the slight hesitations, the calculations that accompany his every action. Sometimes there's a flash of bitterness in his eye, a tiny jump in his pulse, a deliberate second glance, and I know that he's not reacting to the present, but to the past. If I could, I would go back and hurt those who deliberately hurt him, but I know the futileness of such thought. Not only are most of those people dead, but I'm sure he had his own methods of dealing with them. Yet, the scars still remain.
I'm responsible for some of them. As my fingers flutter over his heart, I know there's damage there, and my name is scrawled in the blood. He spent years trying to make me see him as just a guy, but I was blinded by the mystery of five thousand years of existence, and I put him on a pedestal that no man could possibly stay on. When he fell, I blamed him, although I knew the mountain had been of my own creation. Battered, bruised, and unsure of his support, he'd dusted himself off and saved the world from an evil he was once an intimate part of, a brotherhood he had cradled and protected with all that he was. A terrible, heart-rending sacrifice for the greater good.
And he calls me a hero.
How we got from there to here is more a measure of his patience than anything on my part. I asked a lot of him in the intervening years. I asked him to judge me. I asked him to kill me. I threatened his life when all he was trying to do was protect mine. But instead of growing disgusted with my bouts of immaturity and leaving me to my own rose-colored devices, he stayed by my side, guiding me when I allowed it, comforting me when the world proved gray, and not the clearly defined black and white I wanted it to be.
Is that what tonight was about? Was it mere comfort and not the love I want? Three years to this day, I killed my student, the man I considered my son. That I was tricked into it by a demon I subsequently vanquished didn't diminish the pain of the action, nor the lasting ache of the memory. He had been a continent away, in the middle of finding some Chronicle he'd lost during the tumultuous times of a world war, yet when I thought I was going to drown in a wash of "if"s and "maybe"s, he'd appeared at my door, offering what I wanted most in the world. Him.
But do I have him, or is this just a loan to get me through a time of need?Is this a lasting treasure,
He's just a guy. I know that now. But I also know he's much more. Earlier, he'd sauntered into the loft, an impish twinkle in his eye, and a broad grin on his face.
"So, have you missed me, Highlander?" he'd asked, throwing himself on my sofa, his body sliding into a slump that should have looked painful, instead of sensual. But all I could do was look at him, and think of a cat sunning itself in the heat.
"Aye, you old goat. I thought you were in Germany, looking for your lost past."
"Germany was just an unnamed forest in my lost past, MacLeod. I was just looking for an article from my remembered past," he corrected.
"What's it like?" I'd asked, handing him a beer and folding up my long body in a corner of the sofa. "To forget." Most Immortals have eidetic memories, useful for long pasts, but annoying when there were things you really wanted to forget.
He'd shrugged and sipped the beer. "Is that what you want to do, MacLeod? Forget? Forget the way he laughed, the way he looked up to you, how much he loved you?"
"I want to forget I killed him."
"That's the thing about forgetting. The good is lost with the bad." Long lashes dipped to block my sight of his peculiar eyes. Some would call them hazel, but I'm not sure there is a word to describe the constant play of colors in their depths. "I know that something devastating happened to me in my distant past. But I also know there had to be some good times, too. Those were lost when I forgot the other. You don't want to lose Richie. That would be a bigger disservice to him than taking him with your sword."
"You think I'm being foolish, don't you? Hell, I think I'm being foolish. Rationally, I know that what's done is done, that agonizing over Richie's death serves no purpose. Bad things happen to good people. In my head I know this."
"But the pain doesn't originate in your head, but your heart." He'd reached out and placed his hand over my offending organ, his warmth sinking through my sweater as if it didn't exist. "No, I don't think you're being foolish. I think you're being human."
I'd grabbed my head with both hands. "God, it hurts, Methos. It hurts to hear his name, to think about him, to think about what I did."
"But does it hurt as much today as it did that day? Does it hurt as much as it did last year?"
"So you're telling me I will eventually forget the pain?"
"No," he'd said, a shadow veiling his features. "The pain will always remain. It just-- retreats. New pains will push it back into one of the convenient nooks and crannies in your brain, and--"
"Most people in this situation would be trying to make me feel better, Methos," I'd chided with a faint smile.
"But then, I'm not most people, am I, MacLeod?" His smile was wry, secretive. "Besides, if children were raised not to interrupt their elders, you might think I'm like most people."
I locked my eyes with his. "Never."
He blushed. I couldn't keep the grin from my face. I'd made a five thousand year old man blush. The pain dimmed as other feelings intensified around it.
"I was going to add that with the new pains there would be new joys," he said patiently.
"Will you be one of those, Methos?" I asked, leaning forward, invading his space just enough to let him know my meaning.
"That's your decision. Joy is a personal revelation."
"What kind of revelation would it be to you?"
"I experience joy just by being in your presence; how could more bring me anything less?"
Damn. His words were as sensuous as he is. I kissed him, hesitantly at first, then more fully as he relaxed beneath my lips. My hands found themselves skimming his lean body, taking in the corded muscles, the power hidden beneath the soft, pale skin. I pulled away from the kiss in order to pull his sweater over his head, desperately finding my place again as soon as the fabric was out of the way. The taste of him was intoxicating, a drug that I craved. When my lips left his mouth, they found his neck, his shoulders, the tight nipples beaded on his hairless chest. My fingers fumbled at the button on his jeans. His hands settled on my shoulders and urged me back.
"Be sure, MacLeod," he said, his hands coming up to cup my chin. "I do not wish to be a joy tonight, and a sorrow come morning. This, too, will be unforgettable."
"I will not wish to forget this night, Methos," I vowed, skimming out of my own sweater. I was tired of feeling his touch through cotton. I wanted his warmth on my skin. I held out my hand, and with the trust he'd given me so many years ago in Paris, he allowed me to lead him to my bed.Tonight with words unspoken,
I remember every caress, every kiss, every sigh. I remember the taste of his navel as I dipped my tongue inside. Like a blind man, I mapped the contours of his body, sometimes with my hand, but mostly with my tongue. I know that sucking his big toe makes him gasp, that putting a hickey on his inner thigh causes his cock to strain, that putting my mouth on that cock was even better than it had been in my dreams. I also know that sheathing myself in him was a coming home for me. We had shared a quickening in Bordeaux; here, we shared a melding of body, of mind, of soul. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I felt-- something-- leave my body when it was in his, and it was more than just my seed. It's still there. It connects me to him. Although he's here in my arms, I know that I'll be able to find him wherever he goes.
There's the problem. I know he goes, and I don't think what he feels for me is strong enough to keep him at my side for any length of time. Does he love me? Yes, I'm sure of that. Is he in love with me? That's a trickier question. We've flirted since we first met. We've loved others in the interval. Our passion, our lust, for each other is evident in the stickiness of our bodies and the damp sheets I'd savagely tossed in the corner before spreading a fresh one out for us to cuddle on. But I'm selfish. Now that I've had him, I want him. Not for a quick fuck, not for a convenient distraction, not for a "I'm in town. Do I sleep on the sofa or in the bed?" I want him forever. I want his heartbeat to be my nightly lullaby. I want those crisp British tones to soothe my sorrows, share my joys, and be my companions through ordinary days. He is already my rock; I want him to be my world.
I want him to love me in all the ways it's possible to love.I'd like to know that your love
It's morning. I'm not really sure when it arrived, but he's still in my arms and he's looking at me in a way that says he sees clear through to my soul. He should; he is it. "Are you reading my mind, Methos? I haven't even asked you a question."
"The question doesn't matter, Duncan. Whatever it is, the answer is yes. It will always be yes to you."
He says it so matter-of-factly that I hesitate to put voice to my thoughts. But I need to know. "Do you love me?"
"Are you in love with me?"
"Will you love me tomorrow?"
"Will you love me forever?"
I lower my head to nuzzle his neck. "Will you throw your bottle caps into the trash?"
"Don't push your luck, MacLeod."
I laugh and rest my head on his chest. He holds me, stroking me as if gentling a fractious child. Maybe that's what I am to him. Maybe that's all any of us can be to him. I've learned my lesson about putting him up on a pedestal, but I still can't buy into the tale that he's just a guy. Sheer age alone has made him more, but...there's something else. I know I keep repeating myself, and I really wish I could label what it is that's so different about him, but it's nothing I can point out. I can't say that he does this or that like no other, because he tries really hard to appear ordinary. But he isn't. He's not like us. I know this.
But it doesn't matter. Whoever he is, whatever he is, he loves me.
Tomorrow. And beyond.
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