Do Not Disturb
by Lanning Cook
from 101 Ways To End Up In A Canadian Shack
Duncan shouldered through the door, strode to the fireside and thrust the severed head into Methos' field of vision. "Where's the rest of him?"
Methos glanced up from his seat on the hearthrug, then continued polishing his sword. "Back, are we? What's for dinner, then?"
"Goddamn it, Methos, I leave you alone for four hours--"
"Six."
"--and you kill somebody!"
"Your point being?"
"My point?"
"Put it back where you found it. It's dripping on my clean floor."
"I won't have a man's head on a stake at my door!"
"It's a hell of a do-not-disturb sign, MacLeod." Methos put aside his sword and drew his sweatshirt over his head.
Duncan restrained the urge to either run Methos through or fuck him senseless. "Where's the rest of him?"
Methos considered the question. "I ate him." He tossed his sweatshirt aside and pulled off his shoes.
"You did not eat him!"
Methos licked his lips provocatively and plucked off his socks. "I did, you know."
"Methos--"
"Succulently simmered over a low fire with potatoes, carrots and basil--"
"So help me God, if you--"
"With just a hint of wild sage--"
"Where is he?" bellowed Duncan.
Methos looked up at him through seductively lowered lashes as he undid his fly. "Are you sure I didn't eat him, MacLeod?"
"Yes," snarled Duncan. "I'm sure you didn't eat him."
"Sure of anything else?"
Duncan paused and raised the severed head, looking at it closely for the first time. He recognized the face. "Keane?"
"Bright boy." Methos slithered out of his jeans.
"What the hell was he doing out here?"
"Making the same mistake twice." Methos began stroking himself.
"He challenged you?" Duncan heard his voice squeak and sternly called his rebellious body to heel.
"MacLeod, can you think of nothing you'd rather be doing?"
"He challenged me," Duncan snapped, managing to stir enough indignation to ignore his swelling erection.
"Me. You. Us. What difference does it make?" Methos lay back against the pillows he had purloined from the bed, continuing to stroke himself hard. "New subject. I bore easily." He moaned shamelessly.
Duncan closed his eyes. Get thee behind me, Satan. Methos was moving. Duncan could imagine the sensuous abandon, the firelight licking that fair skin, and riveted his attention on the gruesome object that dangled from the wet hair clenched in his hand. "This was my fight, Methos."
"I said new subject! I've spent six bloody weeks freezing my arse off in this hovel--"
"We're going to bury him."
"--listening to the moose bellow all day and the wolves howl all night--"
"It's the decent thing to do."
"--and I'm not going for decent, here, MacLeod! Fuck me, or I'm not telling you where he is."
Duncan opened his eyes. "Tell me where he is, or I won't fuck you." He met Methos' gaze squarely.
Methos' eyes narrowed, his hand stopped moving, he looked away. "Boy scout," he snapped petulantly.
"Where. Is. He."
"Out the back door. You can't miss him, he's hanging from the eaves."
"Sweet Jesus."
Methos shot him a baleful look. "Well, you will have two doors to this pencil box, won't you? I do not wish to be disturbed."
"Despite your wishes," said Duncan between gritted teeth, "you are profoundly disturbed."
"Put the sign back on the door, Duncan." Methos started stroking himself again, smiling.
Duncan glanced from the severed head to Methos and back again, then turned toward the door. Oh, hell. The decent thing could wait a few minutes. Hours. Days.
Smiling, Duncan opened the door and slammed the head back on its stake.